Broken World Book Two - StarSword

by Southwell, T C

  "Give me fire."

  The weapon burst into flames, becoming a pillar of hot blue fire that toasted his face and burnt his hands. Retreating a little further, he turned his face away and basked in the glorious warmth. The sword burnt steadily, humming with power, its warmth imparting new strength and hope. For a while he rested, glad that at least the cold was gone. Remembering Chanter's explanation of the sword's powers, he knew that it could not aid him with his thirst. When he was warm enough, he ordered it to stop, and it returned to its inert state. He plucked it from the sand and held it before him, point up.

  "Guide me to the First Chosen, the one I seek."

  Kieran’s hope dwindled as he waited for what seemed like a long time. Perhaps the sword could not help him in this way. The blade leapt from his hands, making him step back with a startled oath. The weapon fell flat on the sand, spinning. It slowed to a stop within the smooth circle it had formed, the tip pointing ahead, a little to the left. He gathered up the weapon and sheathed it, then struck off in the direction it had indicated. All he could do now was put his trust in the blade and hope that it would guide him to his goal. The sword warmed his thigh, helping to ward off the freezing wind.

  Talsy woke on the big, comfortable bed where she had lain down the night before after her fruitless search for an exit. Every window and door was barred save the one that led into the hall, where two soldiers stood guard. Rising, she went to splash her face in the water bowl on the table in the corner, dabbing at the raw sides of her mouth. Daylight showed the room to be furnished with rich, but drab furniture and dull green curtains. The bed cover mirrored this in shades of brown and red, and the room had a dingy, musty atmosphere.

  A maid entered with a tray and deposited it on the table before hurrying out, head bowed. Talsy sampled the rather tasteless meal, taking more interest in the hot tea. She nibbled a cake while she contemplated her situation. Since escape was impossible, she could only wait and see what Chanter would do.

  The door opened, and Prince Tyrander entered, his eyes sweeping the room and coming to rest on her. "I trust you've been comfortable?"

  Talsy noticed the bandage around his neck and wondered at it, not bothering to answer his insincere question. Tyrander wandered around the room before settling on a chair.

  "Your Mujar failed to beat me in a magical battle last night," he stated, looking smug.

  "He did?" Talsy raised her brows, unimpressed. "I doubt that he was trying very hard."

  "But he was!" Tyrander retorted. "He tried to steal the Staff of Law, and failed."

  "I don't believe you." She put aside the tasteless cake. "Mujar are all powerful."

  "I'm more powerful than him. I have the staff."

  "I doubt that. What can it do?"

  Tyrander smirked. "Many things."

  "Such as?"

  "It created the oasis and this castle at my bidding."

  That explained the faint frisson of Dolana she had sensed when she had entered the castle. Everything here had been formed, and was held in place by the staff.

  "Yet it cannot defend you against the Hashon Jahar," she pointed out. "For that, you need a Mujar."

  "But it has given me the means to get a Mujar."

  "You mean me?" She shook her head. "It won't work. If it told you that he would come and protect you to save me, it was wrong."

  "It didn't tell me that, I figured it out for myself. He'll never allow the fate of the world to be changed by letting you die."

  "Yet he has not rushed here to save me, has he?"

  "No." The Prince frowned. "But when the Hashon Jahar threaten this castle, he'll have to."

  Talsy was struck afresh by his resemblance to Kieran in all but character. Chanter might try to save her, but he would never be blackmailed into protecting Tyrander. She wondered how he would overcome this problem. What was the significance of the Staff of Law? Could it be pitted against a Mujar? What powers did it possess? From what she knew of this world, it had to be benign. There were no weapons of power here. Yet Tyrander's assurance and smugness sent shivers of apprehension through her.

  Kieran gazed down at a lush valley of green fields and trees, totally out of place in the bosom of this arid land. The sand was now a deep blood red, glowing in the newly risen sun's rays. Since the first time he had asked the sword to guide him, he had cast it into the air twice more, and it had pointed unerringly here. He did not doubt that Talsy was held prisoner in the tall grey castle that rose distantly above the trees. Stumbling down the dune, he toiled towards the beckoning greenery and its promise of water. The sword bumped against his thigh, imparting its warmth and the reassurance of it presence.

  Reaching the first trees, which grew impossibly in the red sand, he stepped onto harder ground and soft grass. The landscape was dream-like in its unnatural fecundity. Creeping red dunes thrust between the trees, furred with new grass. Soon, he came to a crystal pond set in a border of sand so dry it should have sucked the moisture down. As he slaked his thirst, he wondered what magic sustained the impossible greenery. Had a powerful Trueman mage captured Talsy? A renegade Mujar? Both ideas were equally impossible, and he glanced about, unnerved. The warm air was as unnaturally still as the trees.

  After filling his flask, he rested beside the pond for a while, regaining some strength to face whatever strangeness might lie ahead. When he set off again, he encountered a red path that wound between the trees towards the castle. The terrible quiet and daunting atmosphere pressed in on him like a cloak of sorrow. The trees were too evenly spaced and the grass too short and green. Every aspect of the place was too perfect and orderly, marring its beauty. He passed glimmering pools at even distances along the path, each perfectly round and brimming with clear water.

  The first house he passed, a pretty log cabin, was surrounded by cultivated land in which a crop of beans and potatoes grew. The bare red sand between the plants was devoid of weeds, and the farmer who sat on his veranda smoked a pipe with an air of deep boredom as he watched Kieran pass. The further he walked, the more the unnatural order struck him. White cattle grazed the velvet grass, and spotless sheep bleated in their rich pasture. No one took any undue interest in him. They did not seem to care, or were too sunk into the orderly grind of their lives to notice him. This place was utterly tame, and its calmness slowed his steps. Shaking off the creeping apathy, he marched on towards the castle.

  The tall wooden gates, bound and embossed with shining brass, stood open, and he walked unchallenged between the two guards who leant on their spears. Their armour was identical to his own, which explained the lack of challenge, but puzzled him. Within the massive courtyard, grey walls towered over him, topped with crenulations. The structure was clearly the figment of someone's imagination, for, while beautiful, it was impractical. Kieran headed for the nearest doorway, but stopped when a tall, brown-robed man with dark eyes and a hooked nose filled it. Kieran stepped back, gripping his sword hilt. The stranger made a pacifying gesture, his eyes flicking over Kieran with what looked like delighted recognition.

  He bowed low. "Welcome back, Prince Kieran."

  Kieran frowned, dumbfounded.

  The man smiled. "I'm Ardel, chief advisor to your brother, Prince Tyrander."

  "I'm not a prince," Kieran said. "Nor do I have a brother."

  "But you are, and you do. Come to my study, and I'll explain it all."

  Kieran hesitated, suspicious. "How can you say with such certainty that I am who you think?"

  Ardel chuckled. "I just had to look at you, Highness. No one can mistake you. How else do you think you could walk in here without being challenged? Of course, your brother will not be pleased."

  Kieran caressed the hilt of the Starsword, whose powerful presence soothed his reservations. As long as he had it, no one could lock him up. He nodded, and the advisor led him into the castle. They traversed two corridors populated by apathetic people, then Ardel opened another brass-bound door and led him into a book-lined room. An olive l
ounge suite and a low polished table stood before a hearth full of ash. Brown curtains framed the windows, and drab portraits sneered on the walls. Ardel bowed and gestured to an upholstered chair, and Kieran scanned the room before settling upon it.

  Ardel took a chair opposite, offering a cup of wine and a bowl of fruit. Kieran accepted them, eyeing the balding man. Ardel folded his hands and smiled.

  "I can't begin to tell you how glad I am to see you, Prince Kieran. Your brother has ruled your people with an iron fist since your father's death, and I fear that he has put us on the road to destruction."

  "First tell me how you knew I was coming."

  Ardel's eyes sparkled. "Word spread before you, Highness. Your people recognised you immediately. Ten minutes before you arrived, a man came to tell me that you were coming. Of course, at first I found it hard to believe. Most believed you to be dead or lost to us forever. But the moment I saw you, I knew."

  Kieran frowned, plucking a grape. "You see a family resemblance?"

  "Resemblance?" Ardel chuckled. "My Prince, you and Tyrander are identical twins."

  Kieran coughed, almost choking on the grape, and gulped the rich red wine to wash it down. He stared at Ardel, who nodded, apparently reading the dozens of questions that flashed through Kieran's mind.

  "At your birth," he explained, "there was a great commotion. For the Queen to bear twin boys was a disaster, for them to be identical was even worse. The eldest male inherits the throne, naturally, but when there are only minutes between their ages, this is difficult, and can lead to fighting between them. Within hours of your birth, even your dear mother could not tell you apart, nor did anyone know who was older. Your father, in his wisdom, made the great sacrifice of giving you to a retiring soldier with instructions to take you far away, raise you well and never bring you back."

  Kieran stared at the fruit bowl, the beloved face of the man who had raised him flashing through his mind.

  Ardel continued, "King Shantar was your father, and Kamish is your mother still. The only mistake your father made was in his choice of who to keep and who to send away. Now that you have returned..."

  "What? You think I'll challenge Tyrander for the throne? I want no part of your problems, and I didn't come here for this. As far as I'm concerned, Jossa was my father. Even if he didn't sire me, he raised me from a baby. I owe nothing to the man who gave me away. I came here to rescue the girl your Prince kidnapped, nothing else."

  "But Highness..." Ardel gazed up at him in dismay as Kieran rose to his feet. "You can put an end to his evil ways, free your mother..."

  "I want no part of it. As soon as I have the girl, I'm leaving."

  "Please, My Prince, at least hear me out."

  Kieran shook his head. "Why should I? The moment I arrive in this bewitched place, you tell me some outlandish tale and expect me to believe it? I come from across the sea, from another continent. I cannot be who you think I am. More likely, you wish to lull me into a false sense of security, then spring some diabolical trap." He held up a hand as Ardel opened his mouth. "I don't care whether or not it's true, it doesn't concern me either way. Just tell me where the girl is and I'll be on my way."

  "Highness, the armour you wear is your father's, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  Ardel looked desperate. "Then that proves he was the soldier you were given to as a baby, for the armour is King Shantar's."

  "It proves that my father, adoptive or not, was once in your king's army, nothing more."

  Ardel rose to his feet. "You cannot spurn your birth right, you must claim it. If you're not Tyrander's twin, then how did I know your name? Shantar named you before he gave you to Jossa."

  Kieran made an angry gesture. "I don't care. Your king made that decision a long time ago, and he chose Tyrander to be his heir, so you're stuck with it."

  Ardel's eyes narrowed. "Very well, Prince Kieran, deny me if you will. But you'll not get the girl without meeting Tyrander, and he won't let you take her without a fight. If you're wise, you'll accept who you are and lay claim to those soldiers within these walls who wish to follow you, otherwise you'll be alone in your struggle."

  "I'm used to fighting my own battles. I'll manage."

  Kieran started to turn away, but Ardel stepped forward to grab his sleeve. Kieran swung back with a scowl and the advisor retreated, bowing his head.

  "I beg pardon for laying hands upon your person, My Prince. To lose you now would be a disaster for your people. Let me muster a few men to stand by you, that's all I ask. There are many good people here who deserve a chance to be free of Tyrander. Only you can give them that, even if you renounce your birth right."

  Ardel seemed genuine, but Kieran had no wish to become embroiled in a royal dispute.

  "If I grant you this," Kieran said, "will you take me to the girl?"

  "Your Highness, I will obey any order you give, whether or not you grant my wish."

  "Obviously you're not very loyal to Tyrander."

  Ardel studied his clasped hands.

  Kieran made an impatient gesture. "All right then, go get the men, but hurry, I wish to find the girl and be on my way."

  The advisor slumped. "Thank you, Highness. May I also ask you not to act in haste? Allow me to show you to a room where you can rest, eat and refresh yourself. Tyrander doesn't know you're here, and the girl's in no danger, I assure you. He waits for the Mujar to rescue her."

  "Is there no end to your advice?" Kieran rubbed his brow, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Although he had not slept for two days, the sudden sleepiness alarmed him.

  Ardel backed away. "I took the liberty of adding a sleeping draught to your wine, Highness. You need to rest if you are to win, and I need you to win."

  Kieran reached for the Starsword, but before he drew it halfway from its scabbard his knees buckled and the world faded to black.

  Ardel stared at the senseless Prince, stunned by what he had done. For five years, since becoming Tyrander's chief advisor, he had hoped and prayed that the lost Prince would return, as had so many others. He had served Tyrander since King Shantar had died, and been privy to the Prince's increasingly violent mood swings and penchant for inflicting pain and humiliation upon his subjects, having taken the brunt of it himself on many occasions. This morning, when he had heard the rumour that a man had appeared from the desert who looked exactly like Tyrander, his heart had leapt with hope and joy. It seemed too good to be true, yet here he was.

  The fact that Tyrander had a twin was supposed to have been kept secret, but, upon Tyrander's ascension to the throne, albeit as a Prince due to King Shantar’s forbidding his coronation, the Queen had finally admitted the truth about Kieran. She and Shantar had realised that Tyrander should not be allowed to rule, but, without other sons, he had remained the Crown Prince. Mystery shrouded Shantar's death seven years ago, and most blamed Tyrander for it. The fact that he had imprisoned his mother shortly thereafter seemed to confirm people's suspicions. Shantar's deduction that Tyrander would be a cruel and unjust ruler had been proven correct, which had not surprised Ardel. Tyrander had been a horrible child who had grown into a sadistic man.

  Ardel clapped his hands to summon the two menservants who waited outside the door, then directed them to put the Prince on the bed in the adjoining bedroom. At Ardel's orders, they stripped off Kieran's dusty armour and dirty clothes, placing his scabbarded sword on a table, and bathed the Prince with warm wet cloths and scented oils while he snored. Ardel hovered, awaiting the arrival of the officers he had summoned.

  Captain Roth arrived promptly, accompanied by two lieutenants. A stocky, powerfully built man of medium height with a square-jawed face and bluff features, Roth had served King Shantar since his youth. Grey sprinkled his cropped, dark hair and lines of weariness and worry furrowed his brow and framed his sharp brown eyes. He had risen through the ranks by dint of brawn and brains to acquire his fairly lofty status in his middle years. After becoming disenchanted with Tyrander's tyrannical rule an
d fits of rage two years ago, he continued to serve him only so he could aid in his downfall. He glanced at the man on the bed before turning his astonished gaze upon Ardel.

  The advisor nodded. "Prince Kieran."

  "So, it's true. He's returned," Roth muttered. "What have you done to him?"

  "A sleeping draught, that's all. He was exhausted, in no state to challenge Tyrander."

  "Will he, though?"

  "He wants the girl, so he'll have to. I had to buy time to let you gather the men to defend his back." Ardel smiled. "He can depose Tyrander. Even the judges cannot deny his right to the throne, and our queen will be freed."

  "What makes you think he'll be any better than Tyrander? They're twins, after all."

  "He can't be any worse. Besides, he has no wish to take the throne."

  "Then who will?" Roth demanded.

  "When the Hashon Jahar get here it won't matter. At least with Tyrander gone, those people who can will be able to join the Mujar and be saved. The girl he stole is the First Chosen, that's why Kieran came here. He's one of the chosen too. Tyrander's plan to blackmail the Mujar stands no chance of success, but in his madness he will kill the First Chosen and doom everyone. Our only hope is Prince Kieran. If he can challenge Tyrander and beat him, we will be free."

  "And if he fails?"

  Ardel shrugged. "We're dead anyway."

  Roth glanced around. "Is this his sword?" He walked over to the table where the Prince's sword lay.

  Ardel followed, nodding. "A strange looking blade, I must say."

  Roth picked up the weapon and tried to draw it, but the blade remained in the scabbard as if glued there. The captain frowned. "I find it hard to believe that the Prince carries a sword that is rusted into its scabbard. What kind of swordsman must he be?"

  Ardel looked worried. "He'll need to be a good one to defeat Tyrander. Are you sure it's rusted there?"