Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons)

by Jacobs, Teddy

  Kalle looked at me, and I nodded, slowly. “Ok,” I said.

  “I’ll put a sphere around all of us so none of them escape,” said Kalle.

  He started speaking words under his breath, a long stream of sing-song that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I had so much left to learn.

  A blue sphere surrounded my parents, and Kalle nodded as he continued his incantation. I reached my hand down to the sword and again Carolina took control of my voice, and a melodious green light poured out of my mouth, and lit up my father, or what was left of him. My father’s skin glowed where the green light touched it, and there were little popping noises as the tiny pimples burst, rejecting the demon seed.

  Kalle was right. This was much easier, but disgusting. It really turned my stomach. Worst of all was the ripe rotten egg smell that grew more pungent as each of the pimples popped and the demon spawn inside died.

  I was filled with mixed feelings. Killing the little beasts was disgusting but satisfying. If only they weren’t on my own parents!

  I let my mind wander. I tried to think nice thoughts, but my mind kept coming back to these pimples that weren’t pimples, but instead demon parasites tucked into my parent’s skin. It made me think of when I had lice, when I was 6, after playing with some of the village children.

  My parents had been furious, and my mother had spent hours picking them off my head, popping each louse and nit between her fingernails. Finally, exhausted, they had given up, and shaved my head. I had worn a green beret then, until it was in tatters and I had a new head of thick black hair. My mother used to say that shaving my head had made my hair even thicker and more unruly.

  That was what these demons made me think of, lice.

  Sucking not only blood, but also the life force, the aura of my parents.

  It was a long time before I was hungry again.

  Chapter XIII

  The next week passed quickly in a whirlwind of spellwork, hand to hand combat training, and bladework. I barely saw my parents, which was nothing new; what was new, of course, was their condition.

  I tried not to think about it now. It just made me feel sad. They were unconscious under a spell so powerful that only killing the wizard who had cast it would free them.

  I still had very confused feelings about killing. Nightmares about killing the keiler haunted me, and even the death of the two demons kept me up at night. Killing a person? I didn’t even want to think about it. But that’s what I knew all this was coming to: war, assassination, and other forms of bloodshed.

  The dark lord’s army was marching towards the lost city. I knew this, in the back of my mind; I even felt it, when I let my mind wander; but most of the time I was too busy now to daydream, too busy to be sad, and almost too tired to have nightmares.

  Unfortunately, they still came, but when I woke in a cold sweat, I fell quickly back to sleep. I had never been this tired in my entire life.

  Perhaps the best thing to happen to me that week was making a friend. He was a baker, and his name was Karsten. He had long blond hair, which he hid under a cap when he was cooking, and an infectious smile, that cheered me every time I ran into him.

  We had started talking a week ago, at first just a few words at breakfast — he’d ask me if I’d liked the rolls, and when he had, told me he’d baked them — we had talked about food, and I’d told him about a bunch of dishes he’d never even heard of. Now I looked forward to finding him every morning, here in the dining room, and after practice in the evening.

  It was good to talk to someone, especially someone around my age; Karsten was 18, but only a few inches taller than me. We were both working hard — Karsten in the kitchen, baking rolls and cooking amazing stews, me in the practice field, swinging a sword until I was ready to drop. I had never worked my body so hard in my life.

  Today for instance I had woken at dawn, and Kalle had taught me for several hours the Kriek art of hand to hand combat. There were all kinds of holds to learn, and ways of flipping your opponent over your back, and using their weight against them. Except if I made the slightest mistake, it all backfired, and Kalle crushed me against the ground.

  Then we were up again, circling each other. We would practice each hold and flip for dozens of times, until I could do it while reciting a poem, or singing a song.

  It felt ridiculous, singing a song while attempting to trip Kalle, but Kalle would take no argument. “You need it to become subconscious,” he said. “Only then can you use it effectively against an enemy. You won’t have time to think about what you’re doing in a combat situation.”

  This was war talk and it reminded me of my old blademaster. I missed him terribly. I hoped one day soon I would see Giancarlo again.

  I made another hold on Kalle, grasping his head in a headlock and trying to swing his weight over my shoulder, but fell again heavily instead, Kalle slamming into my chest and knocking the wind out of me. The dirt was packed so hard that it was almost as unforgiving as the stone circle where we practiced bladework.

  Kalle stood up and grinned.

  “I am worthless at this,” I groaned, still on the ground.

  “No you aren’t. You’re doing quite well. And with bladework you’re excellent. You had a great teacher, and you have that sword in your hand, and the pixie within it. But you must learn to fight with your own hands too. Not everything can be beaten with a sword, and you won’t always have a sword handy.”

  He held out his hand to pull me up.

  I felt like one of my ribs were cracked, but I felt like that every day, and every day Kalle and a healer examined me and I was fine, just bruised and battered.

  So I stood up, wincing, and I began to sing an old song, a song I dimly remembered, more a melody than a song, more humming than singing, something my grandmother had sung when I was a baby, or maybe it was my great-grandmother?

  All I knew was it was in my blood, too, and it felt good to sing it, not silly anymore, and that was when it happened.

  I reached out, and instead of fumbling my hold, I got Kalle right where I wanted him. Instead of falling down, with Kalle on top of me, it was Kalle who sailed through the air to land hard on the ground. Kalle lay there, and for a moment I was worried that I had really hurt him, and I stopped singing.

  The feeling of confidence and goodness left me, but I remembered the tune.

  I waited, looking at Kalle.

  He didn’t move, looking at me, waiting. I held out my hand, and Kalle took it. Then he was up again, and we were circling.

  Kalle taught me one more hold, and I managed to throw him once more, but not nearly as hard, and this time Kalle jumped right back up. Kalle had thrown me several times, and my body now was a testament to our workout, covered in bruises.

  Lying in bed later, I remembered exactly how I’d held Kalle and how it had felt as Kalle sailed through the air. I remembered the dull thud of the hard-packed earth as Kalle hit the ground. Try as I might, however, I could not remember the tune. There was something elusive there. I thought the song might be the key to newfound power and self-assuredness.

  If so it was a key that I wouldn’t find again that night. Instead I closed my eyes, and fell into a fitful sleep, filled with my parents, and a tall green-eyed man in a dark cloak, his aura glowing fiercely red, smiling at me, calling me Neffe.

  I woke up hungry; and although part of my body tried to convince me to stay in the warm bed and get some more sleep to make up for all the tossing and turning, the other hungrier part won the battle. I stood up with a groan, and dressed quietly in the early morning air. The air was crisp and clean and cold here, and I shivered as I quickly threw on outer clothes and a light jacket.

  I knew the cooks got up before dawn, to be able to have food ready for the early risers. I was always one of the first to get to the dining hall, although sometimes I caught sight of one of my trainers in there as well. The hard work of bladework, hand to hand combat and defensive and offensive spellwork just made me an
d my teachers all the more tired, and all the more hungry.

  The smell of baking bread and rolls made my stomach clench in hunger and my mouth water in anticipation.

  I ate quickly but not hurriedly, letting myself enjoy the food. The rolls were delicious, and there was goat butter, but the best, although not the tastiest, was the hot cereal. It seemed to calm my stomach and relax the rest of my body.

  I tried to sort through my dreams. Who was this man, with the green eyes, who called me neffe? Didn’t that mean nephew? The man of my dreams was obviously some powerful dark wizard, so why was he saying neffe to me?

  All I knew about my own uncle was that he had left when I was still a baby and that my parents refused to talk about him. Which wasn’t much, really, since they hardly ever talked about anything with me. But they had been particularly closed-mouthed about my uncle, even when I would ask questions. Obviously I couldn’t ask them anything now. It was just one more frustration.

  Could my uncle be some kind of evil wizard? Perhaps even in league with the dark lord? I shook my head.

  It was just a dream, wasn’t it? It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  But then I felt myself break out in a cold sweat.

  What had the keiler called me? And the demons, too?

  Herr.

  I didn’t feel like eating any more. Was I related to some great dark wizard, perhaps even to the dark lord? Was that why the dark lord’s followers had pledged me allegiance before dying? What could it all mean? Good thing I had already finished my porridge and bread, because now all I wanted was answers to a bunch of questions. But there was no one to answer them.

  I needed to talk to someone.

  I looked around the dining room. Karsten smiled and walked over. I was happy to see him, until I remembered my problem.

  His smile faded when he saw the pained look on my face.

  “Your skin looks good, my friend,” he said. I guess he was trying to cheer me up.

  “Goat’s milk,” I said. “Kara convinced me. And some charcoal soap that Jona found me.”

  I didn’t say anything then, but Karsten could already read me like an open book.

  “You look like something is troubling you, Anders.”

  I shrugged. “Dreams.”

  His face lit up. “My mother is a great witch, and her specialty is the reading of dreams. She trained me in her art, and wanted me to follow in her path, but I followed another.” He smiled and pointed to the rolls in the bread basket. “I was very gifted, my mother said, but there came a point where I realized my heart wasn’t in it. I know now I prefer to reach people’s hearts through their stomachs, and that I was born to be a cook.”

  He sat down across from me. “But tell me about your dreams, if that will ease your mind. I’ll tell you what I can. You can meet my mother as well, if I can’t help you.”

  I frowned. “I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

  Karsten shrugged. “I’ve been baking since three o’clock this morning. I’m as entitled to a break as the next baker.”

  I sighed. “You think talking about it will help?”

  Karsten nodded. “In my experience, talking about a problem always helps.”

  I nodded, and told him about the green-eyed man with the dark cloak, who had called me Neffe.

  “Did you dream with your third eye, as well?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see his aura?”

  I nodded. “It was dark red, almost the color of blood.”

  Karsten had lost his smile. “Have you told anyone about this?”

  I shook my head.

  He brought his voice down to a whisper. “Blood-red, you said?”

  I nodded. “I’d never seen anything like it.”

  Karsten spoke quietly but clearly, so no one else could hear. “I hope you never will again. There is only one man in the whole world with a blood-red aura.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Karsten shook his head. “No, this is nonsense. You have enough on your mind without giving heed to dreams and adding more worries to your plate. That’s why I became a baker instead of a dream reader: to nourish instead of causing anguish. Forget the whole thing.”

  He was going to stand up, but I grabbed his arm. “Please. Even if it upsets me, I have to know. I always remember my dreams, and they often seem to be true. I need to know everything I can before we face the dark lord.”

  Karsten’s face went white. He nodded. “Very well. You ask who is the only one who has a blood-red aura. A man, or once a man, with green eyes, who wears a long dark cloak that covers most of his features.”

  I nodded. “That’s him!”

  Karsten turned away. “That is the dark lord.”

  “That’s not possible!” I said.

  “I would agree, but it appears many impossible things have proved possible for you lately. You are a young man of many mysteries and many abilities. Perhaps there are more mysteries in you than you realized.”

  I felt a horrible sense of panic. “But he called me Neffe!”

  Karsten shrugged without making eye contact. “I can only read your dreams, not explain them. Perhaps it’s only a manner of speaking.”

  I shook my head. “It was a word of magic, that cannot be spoken falsely. He called me nephew! You’re telling me that the Dark Lord is my uncle?”

  Karsten looked horrified.

  “Anders, lower your voice. People will hear.”

  I looked around. There were few people in the dining hall, but I did catch one set of curious eyes. Perhaps the man was just wondering why our voices were raised. I stared him down, and he went back to eating his porridge and hot buns.

  “You have to tell Woltan. And your friends Kalle and Kara.”

  “I wish I could talk to my father and find out what this is all about.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I lost my father when I was three years old. He fell from the roof of one of our highest buildings, and neither magic nor medicine could mend him.”

  I controlled myself and looked Karsten in the eye. “Thank you. I know I shouldn’t complain. At least my mother and father are alive. If I can free them from this curse, then maybe we can find out the truth.”

  “The truth is mighty difficult sometimes when magic and dreams are involved,” Karsten said. “Just keep your mind clear and focused on the task at hand. You have a lot to learn and a lot to do, once you’ve learned it. And once you learn everything the Kriek and our people can teach you, you still need to meet with the merpeople.”

  I nodded. I could almost smell the sea, when Karsten spoke of the merpeople. My people.

  I smiled painfully at Karsten.

  “Thanks for helping me, Karsten. I value your friendship even more than these rolls.”

  Karsten smiled too. “We need friendship as well as food to sustain us. Friendship nourishes the soul. Look, Anders, try not to worry. Just go straight away and tell Woltan what you dreamt. Perhaps he has some other take on it, but I don’t want to give you false hope. Although I’m not a dream reader, my mother trained me well.”

  “Could you take me to her, to your mother I mean?” I said instead.

  Karsten looked embarrassed. “I can’t right now. We are short-handed in the kitchen and there are many mouths to feed.”

  Now I felt embarrassed.

  “I’ve kept you too long as it is.”

  Karsten shook his head. “Look, this is what I’ll do. I’ll give you directions. Go straight across the city until you come to the square. There you can ask anyone for Marga the witch, and tell her Karsten sent you. She will read your dream and scry your fortune too, if you want.”

  I nodded. I looked at the food still in front of me.

  “Take the rolls with you,” Karsten said. “The porridge I’ll give to our goat. My mother will calm you, and when you’re hungry again, you can eat. No matter how upsetting you find what she reads in her ball, or in your dream, she has a
way of relaxing people while they are in her tent. Eat the rolls over there. Tell her that her son Karsten baked them, and share them with her.”

  I nodded, and stood up.

  Karsten gave me a slight slap on the back. Later I would remember that last contact before everything changed.

  “You’re a good person, Anders, remember that. That has nothing to do with who you’re uncle is or isn’t.”

  I thanked him and walked out of the dining hall.

  There were more people out now in the streets but I couldn’t say they were really crowded; Karsten had told me the only time there was a big crowd was when they had festen, the big holiday, and all the people, young and old, partied together in the old square, with face painting, and music, and dancing, and spells of light and music.

  There would be a festen soon, but I would miss it.

  I followed Karsten’s directions as best I could, but when I came to a dark shady street that I didn’t remember, I had to ask my way once again. I looked back and forth on the blue cobblestones and saw no one.

  Wait, there was someone. A little boy, perhaps 6, or 7, sitting on a circular stone, his legs crossed, his face calm, as if asleep. But his eyes were open, and when I looked at him, the boy smiled.

  Anders.

  Do I know you?

  No, but I’ve been watching you ever since you came to the old city. My name is Elias. Do you need help?

  I nodded.

  The boy opened his mouth and looked at me. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a witch, who tells fortunes and reads dreams. Marga is her name.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Marga is my auntie! Come on, follow me. I’ll take you there.”

  I followed the boy into a small alley that you could barely see from the street. The walls to either side glowed so strongly with magic that they lit the alley even with my third eye closed. I tried closing my eyes and found I could see just as well with my third eye.

  Elias must have seen me close my eyes.

  “The walls here are as full of energy as the ground we walk on,” he said. “When I feel tired, I just reach out and grab some of it. Sometimes I forget to eat.” He gave a little chuckle.