The Sword

by Bryan M. Litfin

  “They arrive here later today?”

  “No, not here.”

  There was a moment of strained silence while the men looked at each other, until the priest realized he would have to offer something more if he wanted to continue the conversation.

  “You’ll meet at your little theater in Vingin then?”

  “It’s a place that provides me a certain freedom.”

  “You’re aware we disapprove of this, yet you continue the practice,” the priest said through thin lips. Teo remained silent, giving the man no excuse to continue. He did so anyway. “There’s no need for you to go clambering around in herders’ villages on the remote heights. Your task is to serve your king by respecting his appointed religious experts here at the University.”

  “As I said,” Teo answered, irritated by the pompous cleric, “I find my hillside retreat to be a place of freedom. I can immerse myself in ancient scripts without unwanted intrusions.”

  “Unwanted intrusions? Yes, indeed, I’m sure that’s exactly what you want! But try as you might, you haven’t escaped my notice, Professor Teofil. I’ve had my eyes on you. You pretend to be so patriotic, but I’ve seen how you turn up your nose at religion.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play games with me! You sneer and mock during our cere-monies, then sneak off to some hidden corner with Professor Maurice. Neither of you is submissive to the gods. I’ve seen you having subversive discussions. I’ve overheard you ridiculing the true faith. You possess that most impious of vices—independence.”

  Teo rolled his eyes. “Independence isn’t a vice. It’s a stimulus to learning.”

  “Is that so? I believe we of the priesthood are best positioned to understand the nature of learning and the means of its attainment.”

  “The only thing you’re in a position to understand is rote obedience to a religious system run by bossy priests.” Uh oh. That might have been too much.

  The Elzebulian stiffened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes narrowed. “Give consideration to your career advancement, young professor. Your free thinking doesn’t bode well for you. Such rebelliousness will be counted of little esteem by those in the ruling orders.” The priest tapped his pointy fingernail on the table to emphasize his ominous prediction. He leaned toward Teo, the black robes of his order hanging about his neck like the wattle of some grotesque cockerel. “The gods be over all,” he whispered. When Teo didn’t respond with the traditional reply, the priest whirled and marched off.

  With distaste, Teo watched him go. Finishing the last slab of bread, Teo gathered some parchments and dropped them into a leather satchel. They were his notes for the history lecture he would give later that day. Normally he would have walked to his classroom at Vingin, but considering his knee injury, he decided to ride.

  Teo paused on the way out the door and glanced around the dining room at his fellow professors. Maybe the old Elzebulian was right when he suggested Teo didn’t belong here. The other professors spent their time performing experiments and trying to solve man’s practical problems. They dutifully cooperated with the religious authorities, then carried on with their academic work. For some reason, Teo found it much harder to be submissive. At times he regretted his involvement with an institution as hidebound as the University of Chiveis.

  During Teo’s teenage years at the orphanage, his sharp mind and facility for language quickly became obvious. The warders shipped him off to the University at Lekovil, where he was taught to value practical knowledge, the kind that could benefit mankind in concrete ways. He excelled at school, funding it with a military scholarship from the Royal Guard. Because of his intellectual aptitude, the University offered him a part-time lectureship when he wasn’t deployed on field assignment with the Guard.

  As an aspiring young scholar, Teo did his best to meet the University’s expectations of obedience and pragmatism. Even so, he knew many of his academic colleagues viewed him as strange, for he openly wondered about things better left unsaid. His other career as a wilderness scout already made him something of a maverick. He certainly didn’t need to exacerbate the problem by antagonizing the clergy. Yet when he was confronted by the kind of arrogant tyranny he had just encountered from the Elzebulian priest, he couldn’t help but stiffen his neck. Knowing this about himself, Teo had purchased a plot of land near the pastoral community of Vingin. His private outdoor classroom on the mountainside gave him a place to study at his leisure—and to escape any disapproving eyes. He limped across the courtyard to the University’s stable and called for a horse, hoping the short ride up to Vingin would distance him from the oppressive dogmatism so often found in the halls of academe.

  The steep walls of the Maiden’s Valley did not rise directly from the valley floor to the mountain summits. Instead the cliffs ascended to green terraces on either side, where sloping pastures of wildflowers and meadow grass provided ample forage for cows, goats, and sheep. The pastures ended at the glacial tongues and loose scree beneath the inaccessible peaks. The village of Vingin lay on one of these lush terraces, home to the herders whose livestock grew fat on Chiveisian grass. It was an out-of-the-way place, and that was just what Teo wanted.

  His horse picked its way up the steep trail to the terrace on the eastern side of the valley. Soon Vingin’s dark brown chalets, with their wide eaves and their window boxes overflowing with geraniums, came into view. Because it was midsummer, the cows were in the high pastures, feasting on the abundance of clover. Teo felt Vingin was, in many ways, his true home.

  On a slope above town, the little theater quietly awaited the return of the students and their teacher. Teo tied his horse at the adjacent cottage and contemplated his open-air lecture hall. It was impossible to know who had first carved the stone seats out of the mountainside. The annals held no record of it. From its architecture, it was clearly Chiveisian, not Ancient. Beyond that, what more could be said?

  The theater formed an intimate semicircle of stone risers that wrapped around a stage. The students sat in a curve above him as he paced back and forth on the platform. The only problem Teo could find in this arrangement was the incredible mountain vista at his back. It had a tendency to induce daydreaming.

  Teo meandered among the seats of the familiar place, pulling a few weeds that had sprouted in the hairline cracks. Stretching out in the sun on one of the risers, he propped his satchel under his head and began to look over his parchments until the first students arrived.

  Shaphan the Metalsmith hoped to lose his name someday. Though skilled in the art of steelmongery, this wasn’t the career he had in mind for himself. The hard metal was rare in Chiveis because the mountains lacked the necessary iron ore to make it. Traders in iron used to visit the kingdom, but much of the steel the Chiveisi possessed came from scavenging the remains of the Ancients. Those clever people had devised the means to forge steel implements that could resist rust over the centuries, and be reworked by smiths such as Shaphan. Precious little of it remained today, and what did survive was in high demand for the blades of weapons or for precision instruments such as clockworks. In fact, steel was so valuable, the coins of the realm were made of it. Shaphan knew the ways and habits of all metals. Yet he longed to leave his metallurgy behind and become a university scholar like Professor Teofil.

  Shaphan was a well-built man of twenty-one years, with olive skin and wavy black hair that few Chiveisi could claim. On this hot day, he mopped his forehead with a rag and continued his hike up to Vingin from the valley floor. The teacher had summoned his students, and Shaphan wanted to be the first to respond. Perhaps he could engage his professor in a scholarly discourse before the rest of the students arrived.

  It wasn’t meant to be. As Shaphan neared the theater, he was disappointed to find several of his schoolmates already seated there.

  “Where’s the professor?” he asked a young woman who spun wool as her trade.

  “He’s in his cott
age, studying. He said he’ll begin class when the sun touches the western ridgecrest.”

  Shaphan took his seat on the front row of the theater and settled in to watch the sun make its way down Astrebril’s dome. The orb hardly seemed to move, but Shaphan knew this impression was only because he was anxious to dig into the history lesson his teacher would soon provide.

  At last the appointed time came. “Gather yourselves, students,” called Professor Teofil as he emerged from his cottage. Shaphan readied his quill and parchment.

  The day’s lecture was titled “The Remains of the Ancients.” Professor Teofil explained the three prevailing theories about what had happened to the buildings and artifacts of the people whose Great War of Destruction had wiped them from the face of the earth. Shaphan copied furiously as Professor Teofil explained the War Theory (that the depredations of the great war had obliterated everything), the Decay Theory (that time and weather had taken their toll), and the Scavenger Theory (that the Chiveisi had, in the intervening centuries, dismantled the remains for their personal use). Shaphan noted that the professor believed all three factors were responsible for the disappearance of the Ancients’ handiwork within the boundaries of Chiveis.

  Professor Teofil paused and glanced up at his students. “Of course, in the Beyond things are somewhat different,” he said. Immediately a hush fell over the class. Quills stopped their scritching; ears perked up. Perhaps the professor was going to discuss the mysterious realm outside of known lands. His words carried great weight, for everyone knew he was a guardsman who sometimes set foot outside the kingdom’s borders.

  “In the Beyond, there are more remains of the Ancients than here in Chiveis. In fact, certain intriguing accounts in our earliest annals tell us that long ago the Chiveisi traded with wanderers in the deep forest. Those wanderers reported that great cities of the Ancients still exist—intact but entirely uninhabited. It’s unlikely we’ll ever know whether these reports are true. Personally, I doubt such cities exist.”

  Shaphan’s gaze wandered over the professor’s shoulder to the stupendous view of Chiveis’s peaks and valleys. From his seat in the theater, he could see, far below, the wispy veil of water that plunged into the University’s courtyard in Lekovil. And beyond that scene, what else? What could be found over the jagged horizon? Who had built those haunted cities of the Ancients? What inner spirit propelled them, just as Chiveis was now driven by its own citizens’ turbulent desires? He lifted his quill, signaling his wish to speak.

  “Yes, Shaphan?”

  “Professor, you raise a fascinating topic when you speak of lost cities and ancient civilizations. I can scarcely comprehend such a thing. My question is, what abiding principles led those people along? What were their beliefs? How did they conduct their lives? I’m sure you can speak of this, if anyone can.”

  The professor didn’t respond right away but gazed toward the far mountains. Then he turned and looked directly at Shaphan. “I can speak of no such thing,” came the unexpected reply. “Let’s not inquire into things that can’t be known—or things that are of no real value. You’re a metalworker, so I ask you, can you make a better clock spring because you understand the Ancients’ beliefs? Would an awareness of their philosophies help you hone a finer blade?”

  “But—”

  “Mankind has few basic needs, Shaphan, and the more efficient we become at meeting them, the better it will be. That should be our goal. It’s enough.”

  “But . . . but, Professor . . . perhaps how to live is more important than these things?”

  Shaphan discerned an intense struggle taking place within his teacher as Teofil leaned on his lectern. His lips were pursed, and he fiddled with his parchments. Finally he looked at the class, gesturing with both hands. “Students, you tell me, can you find any practical benefit in what your classmate is asking?”

  No one dared to answer, not even to say no, for none wished to become the object of the professor’s criticism.

  “Can you get ahead in life through ancient mystical ideas?”

  Again there was silence. A large black bird soared on the thermals overhead.

  “The reason for your silence is apparent. The doctrines of the Ancients bear no relevance for us today.” Professor Teofil collected his parchments into a stack. “And now, students, we’ll bring our investigations to an end, for it’s growing late. I will expect you here tomorrow when the dawn rises above the eastern ridge.”

  The students gathered their materials and began to drift toward the taverns of Vingin or perhaps back to Lekovil. Only Shaphan lingered in the surrounding woods, fidgety and uncertain. Gathering his courage, he went to knock on the door of the professor’s cottage.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me . . . Shaphan.”

  There was a pause. “Alright. But make it quick.”

  The door opened, and Shaphan stepped into the square room. A brazier stood in a corner, unlit, for the summer evening had not yet grown chill. A cot was there too, with a straw mattress. But most of the room was occupied by cupboards full of scrolls and parchments and books. A bright lantern hung from the ceiling, and beneath it, the professor sat at a large desk. He pointed to a stool, and Shaphan took a seat.

  “As you know, Professor, I didn’t pay your end-of-term compensation last time around.”

  “It’s excused, Shaphan. You’re a man of humble means. To be honest, I’m more concerned about your ill-advised questions today than your tuition payment to me.”

  Shaphan offered an apologetic smile. “I’d like to see if I can rectify both shortcomings.” He reached into his rucksack and removed a bulky object wrapped in a cloth. “I have something for you.”

  As Shaphan unwrapped the gift, he was gratified to note the immediate interest his professor’s face displayed. The object was a left-handed war ax with a blade of good steel and a large gemstone set in the handle. At the end of the handle was a strange little cup.

  “That’s a very fine battle-ax,” the professor said, becoming a warrior again. “It’s exactly the kind the Guard uses for parrying and counter-attacks.”

  “Yes, I know—I’ve made many such axes for the Royal Guard in my work as a smith.” Shaphan held up the weapon with a flourish. “But never has a guardsman had one like this!” He could see he had Professor Teofil’s complete attention. “Step outside with me, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  In the waning light, Shaphan led his limping teacher to a tree. “I’ve put a cylinder inside the haft. It can be loaded with metal balls. When you press this gemstone, it moves a ball into position, and you can throw it.” Shaphan pointed to a hole in the ax’s end, where a ball had appeared in the cup. He cocked his arm and snapped the weapon forward. The ball bounced off the tree with a loud crack.

  Teo picked up the ball, about the size of a cherry. “A weapon for near-range battle! To debilitate an enemy before he can engage.”

  Shaphan admired the way Professor Teofil immediately recognized the combat advantages such an ax would provide. “Yes! That was my intent! There are six balls inside. A spring pushes them up, so there’s always one ready.”

  He handed the weapon to his teacher, who experimented with five different motions and postures. Each time, the whipping action of his arm sent the balls careening off the tree trunk.

  “You’re a natural! It took me days of practice to get the motion down. When you do it right, that ball’s coming out fast enough to break a bone.”

  Teo regarded his pupil with an appraising eye. “Shaphan, your line of questions today led us down a rabbit’s hole, but you’ve more than made up for it with this fine weapon! I’ll be sure to acquaint myself with its use over the coming months. Go now to the alehouse with your friends. And, Shaphan—don’t let your drinking dull your senses tomorrow and cause you to ask any more foolish questions.”

  The professor turned to retire to his cottage, so Shaphan hoisted his rucksack to his back. He was immensely pleased that the ax had been so well
received. During the hour’s walk down to Lekovil, not once did the broad grin leave his face.

  After finishing the morning lecture the next day, Teo dismissed his students with enough work to occupy them the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. He rode down to Lekovil and entered the tranquil courtyard of the University. Limping to the pool, he sat on the stone wall that edged the water. The moist coolness of the waterfall’s spray offset the heat of the midday sun.

  Teo’s spirit was troubled. He had rebuked Shaphan yesterday for his inquiries into the Ancients’ beliefs. Everything in Teo’s academic training told him they were foolish questions, the answers to which held no tangible benefit to mankind. Yet Teo had known Shaphan was right when he observed that learning how to live well is more important than pragmatics. Now that the idea had been stated so plainly, Teo was forced to wrestle with the implications. It meant that a scholar should be interested in spiritual insights, not just practicalities. Until now, Teo had always viewed religion as an oppressive set of rules handed down by domineering gods and enforced by pushy priests. With sudden clarity, he realized things didn’t have to be that way. What if the Ancients had a religion that was attractive and easy to live by, one the Chiveisi could adopt to amend their ways? The fact of the matter was that the Ancients’ beliefs were entirely unknown to the average citizen. Maybe the Ancients had something to offer with respect to religion—and if so, Teo realized it was his duty as a scholar to convey it to the masses. The notion excited him, arousing two of his most basic drives: intellectual curiosity and altruism toward the less fortunate.

  Teo decided to test his radical new hypothesis. He crossed to the far side of the plunge pool where the cliff was dry because it lay beyond the waterfall’s mists. A door was recessed into the cliff face, and an old man sat asleep on a stool in front of it.

  “Hey, wake up!” Teo gave the man a jostle. He awoke with a shudder.