The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  ‘This is Amchan,’ said Lahkali. ‘A wild place.’

  The crowd on deck came to a hush, enchanted by the calls of wild things issuing from the shore. The women sidled closer to their men.

  ‘Amchan. Does that have a meaning?’

  ‘Amchan is an ancient place,’said Lahkali. ‘No men live here. That is what the word means to us — the wild place.’

  Lukien leaned forward in his chair. ‘I can hear them, the wild things. What lives there? Birds?’

  ‘Birds and everything else,’ said Karoshin. ‘When I was a boy, I came here to hunt and to see the rass. They are all through these woods.’

  ‘Rass? Like the Great Rass?’ asked Lukien.

  ‘No, the Great Rass is special,’ said the priest. ‘The Great Rass is unlike any other. But yes, there are rass here of every kind and colour. They thrive here because there are not men to frighten them.’

  Lukien laughed. ‘Frighten them!’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ said Karoshin foxily. ‘I had forgotten that men where you come from fear the rass. But here the rass are revered and keep to themselves, mostly. They are wise enough to avoid people.’

  ‘Not like the dumb ones back home, eh? Thanks, but I’ll go on fearing them if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Should you fear them? Is that what you want to teach Lahkali?’

  ‘Call it respect, then,’ said Lukien.

  ‘She must slay the Great Rass, not run from it.’

  Lukien rolled his eyes. ‘You know what I mean. You know what she’s up against.’

  Lahkali, who was in the middle of their argument, held up both hands. ‘Enough now. Karoshin, Lukien knows what he must do to teach me.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lukien, though truthfully he was not quite sure. Fighting a rass wasn’t like fighting a man or even an army. He watched Amchan thoughtfully as its groves drifted by, wondering just how he could ever teach Lahkali to slay such a monster.

  ‘When will you teach me the katath, Lukien?’

  Lukien looked up at the girl. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The katath! You haven’t even started teaching me to use it. You won’t even let me touch it.’

  ‘Oh, the katath.’ Lukien smiled to taunt her. ‘There’s time for the katath.’

  ‘Yes, but when?’

  ‘Soon, my lady.’

  ‘How soon?’

  Lukien shrugged. ‘The katath Niharn was using to teach you was too large.’

  ‘So? We can make another! I am tired of training with sticks, Lukien.’

  ‘Sticks are weapons, too, Eminence. The katath is just a stick with a knife tied to it.’

  Lahkali grew flustered by his evasiveness. She said sternly, ‘The clouds around the mountains will thunder soon, Lukien. When they do the Great Rass will come.’

  Karoshin added, ‘She needs to be ready, Lukien.’

  ‘She will be,’ said Lukien. ‘Soon.’

  By late afternoon, the feruka had berthed near a muddy beach of palm trees and sun-baked rocks. Far from the villages they had passed on their way, the beach contained a small, pretty harbour off-limits to fishermen and the other peasants of the riverland. Instead of modest homes, a plain but impressive home had been built near the shore, a sort of retreat for the Red Eminence and her royal family, springing up out of the green grasses and surrounded by swaying trees. Tonight, according to Lahkali, they would all spend the evening at the tiny palace, where servants had spent the day preparing for their arrival.

  Lahkali exalted in the sight of the retreat. Far from the rigours of Torlis, here she could escape most of the advisors who plagued her, enjoying the quiet of the river and its shore. As usual, she was first to depart the feruka, excusing herself from Lukien and telling him that the staff of the palace would see to his needs. Lahkali was anxious to get away, and after greeting her servants she escaped from Karoshin and Lukien, heading toward the back of the grand home where few ever ventured. Here, a tributary of the river diverted into a sandy stand of trees and rocky outcroppings, where newborn fish gathered in a shallow pond. Whenever she came to the palace on the river, Lahkali always went to the pond to see the fish and tadpoles. This time, though, she discovered something else.

  Jahan did not hear the Eminence approach. Instead he stared into Lahkali’s pond, oblivious to her. Lahkali paused behind a palm tree, her footfalls hidden by the sand beneath her feet. Jahan looked contemplative, and grossly out of place. While the others had gone to feast, he stood alone. For a moment Lahkali considered leaving him, sure that he would prefer the solitude. But then she remembered her conversation earlier with Lukien, and the things the knight had said about Jahan. She watched him, intrigued by him, wondering what had drawn him to the pond, away from everyone else, even Lukien, his friend. He was an enigma to Lahkali, this simple man from an unnamed village, with peasant ways that delighted some and invited scorn from others. The way the sunlight dappled his face flattered his kind features. In his long, tied-up tail of hair, Lahkali decided he was handsome.

  Jahan knelt down next to the pond and began speaking, not loudly or clearly enough for her to hear. Was he addressing the fish, she wondered? She inched closer, revealing herself from her hiding place, trying better to discern his words. So far, Lahkali had led a sheltered life. Despite being the great ‘Red Eminence,’ she was but a youngster and well aware of her short-comings, and she had never ventured far enough from home to get to know the many villages like Jahan’s that dotted the countryside. Jahan continued speaking, then finally dipped a hand into the water, cupping a single tadpole. The creature wringled out of his watery palm and splashed back into the pond. Jahan laughed with delight.

  ‘Hello?’ Lahkali ventured.

  Startled, Jahan jumped to his feet. He blanched when he saw the Eminence.

  ‘Jahan, it is all right,’ she told him, careful to speak softly and slowly. Their dialects were nearly the same, but without Lukien’s odd magic to translate she was unsure they would understand each other. ‘Do you hear, Jahan? It is all right.’

  ‘Yes, Eminence,’ Jahan replied. He wiped his wet hands on his pants. ‘I will leave. .’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Lahkali quickly. ‘This is a good place to come and think.’ She went to him, smiling to put him at ease. ‘You can eat with the others, you know. You do not have to stay here alone.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, I know this,’ said Jahan. ‘Later, maybe, I will eat.’ His eyes shifted uncertainly.

  ‘So you came to be alone,’ Lahkali ventured. ‘Like me.’

  Jahan nodded. ‘Yes.’

  His silence made her awkward. ‘They are safe here,’ she said, looking down into the pool where the tadpoles played. ‘That’s why they come, too, to get away from the big fish. You and I are not big fish, either. Maybe that is why we both found this place.’

  ‘No, Eminence, you are a great fish. The greatest fish.’

  ‘But I am a girl,’ she reminded him. ‘How can a girl be a great fish?’

  Jahan puzzled over the question. ‘I do not know. But you are the Red Eminence.’

  ‘But not what you expected?’

  ‘No,’ Jahan admitted. His brow wrinkled as he worked the problem. ‘None of this is what I expected. You are all just. . people.’

  Lahkali laughed. ‘Yes.’ She dipped her hand into the water the way she had seen him do. It felt cool on her painted fingers. ‘And I can’t control the rass the way my father could or his father before him. Maybe that’s what it means to be a girl. To be weak.’

  ‘No, Eminence, do not say so. If my wife heard those words she would scold you!’

  ‘You are married?’ asked the girl.

  ‘To Kifuv. To the greatest wife in my village.’ Jahan flushed with pride. ‘Kifuv let me come to Torlis to meet you. She made me promise to tell her about everything I see here.’

  ‘This is a great journey for you, isn’t it?’ asked Lahkali. She stood to face him. ‘Lukien told me this about you, that you came
to meet the Red Eminence and to see Torlis for yourself.’

  Jahan seemed embarrassed. ‘This is true, Eminence.’

  ‘And you came to protect Lukien, because you owe him a debt.’

  ‘Also true.’

  Lahkali manoeuvreed toward a palm tree, where she leaned against its peeling bark. They were alone, the two of them, presenting the perfect chance to get her questions answered. As though waiting to be dismissed, Jahan kept his eyes to the ground.

  ‘You are welcome here,’ said Lahkali. ‘You must know that by now. Even if I am not what you wanted to find in Torlis.’

  ‘Yes, Eminence. Thank you.’

  ‘And Lukien needs you. You trouble him with your silence. He is a stranger here, just like yourself.’

  ‘He needs my help to find the sword. I have promised him that.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Lahkali gently. ‘But it is too much for him to have to worry about both of us, Jahan. You must be strong for him. Can you do that?’

  Jahan finally straightened. ‘I can. But sometimes I hear my village calling. Sometimes I want to go back to them.’

  His loneliness struck Lahkali. ‘I understand. I miss my family, too. My father mostly. But we both have things that we must do, yes?’

  Jahan nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He turned from her and went back to staring into the water. The still pond replied with a wavy reflection. Curious, Lahkali followed him. She knelt down next to the pond and looked at her own reflection. The two of them stared. He was not so different from her, Lahkali supposed. They were both outsiders, surrounded by people who thought little of them.

  ‘Look at our faces,’ she said. ‘See how alike we are? Is that what surprises you so much, Jahan?’

  Jahan studied his reflection in the water, then shifted his gaze toward the girl’s. Lahkali watched his brow knit.

  ‘In my village, we talk about Torlis like it is a place of gods,’ said Jahan. ‘We believe the Red Eminence can do anything. I told Lukien to come and speak to you. I told him you would know where to find his sword. And you do know. You just won’t tell him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lahkali. ‘I cannot. That’s why you’re here, Jahan — to help him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jahan. His tone grew determined. ‘You are right.’

  ‘He is a quiet one, Lukien. It is hard to know his heart. But he speaks to you, Jahan. You must be a friend to him.’

  Jahan nodded. ‘Lukien needs a friend, yes. He mourns.’

  ‘Mourns?’

  ‘For a woman. A beloved.’

  Lahkali leaned back on her heels. ‘Tell me about this.’

  Jahan shrugged. ‘I do not know much of it. She was his woman, and now she is gone.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Dead, yes. She has gone to the next world.’ Jahan retreated a little. ‘Do you have another world, Eminence? Is that what you believe?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lahkali. ‘It is only Lukien and his kind that do not seem to believe.’

  ‘Lukien believes. He did not always believe, but now he does. He has spoken to his beloved. She has come to him.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘Like a spirit,’ said Jahan. ‘That is what he told me.’

  Lahkali rose. She had not known that anyone beyond Torlis could speak to the dead. She puzzled over this, wondering how much more Jahan knew.

  ‘That is why Lukien is so dark?’ she probed. ‘Because he mourns?’

  ‘Yes, Eminence. I have thought about it, and I think he hates the amulet that keeps him alive. He would rather die, I think, and be with his beloved.’

  A frown crossed the girl’s face. At last, things were making sense. ‘That’s why he saved your child from the hooth. .’

  ‘No, Eminence,’ Jahan insisted. ‘Lukien is brave. He was not afraid of the hooth.’

  ‘You’re right, Jahan,’ said Lahkali darkly. ‘He’s not afraid of anything.’

  A man who wished for death wouldn’t be, Lahkali supposed. Saddened, she knelt again in the damp sand, watching as the tiny fish darted through the water. Jahan had been more enlightening than she’d intended. How had Lukien spoken to his beloved? She was dead, and only the people of Torlis could speak to the dead.

  That was the one great gift Malator had given them.

  25

  Aliz Nok lived on a busy street, but he was mostly forgotten by the people of Torlis. For five decades he had remained in the tiny house with the shop at the back, even after the death of his wife. He worked in solitude, without helpers of any kind, seeing only those few customers who came to his shop to sharpen their knives or reminisce about the old days. At nearly seventy, Aliz Nok was the oldest blade maker in Torlis, a skill that had long ago given way to quicker, modern methods, leaving Aliz Nok’s quaint shop quiet, the hearth and hammers rarely used.

  In his youth, Aliz Nok had been renowned, forging blades for the royal family and its many generals, patiently working long nights in his smoky shop while wide-eyed apprentices watched and learned. The apprentices were gone now, as were his customers, but Aliz Nok had never forgotten his skills or let them decay from disuse. Though no one seemed interested in his fine blades any longer, the old man continued to refine his ancient methods, finding better ways to harden steel and sharpen the edge of the blades he made. He did not stamp out blades the way the modern makers did, with their dies and machines, producing inferior blades in such great numbers that the rulers of Torlis forgot the slower, better ways. Instead he worked patiently with fire and forge, making the metal bend to his will.

  Aliz Nok’s bald head glistened with sweat. The stinging heat of his firepit spat sparks and embers into the air, lighting his shop like fireflies. A hammer trembled in his hands, its soiled handle worn to a perfect fit by his strong fingers. Slowly, slowly, he folded the metal over itself, hammering it smooth. Already he had completed one of the blades for the katath, and now its twin took shape on his anvil. He had worked tirelessly on the weapon, honoured by the commission. The one-eyed stranger would soon come to claim it. Aliz Nok did not let his deadline hurry him. Precisely, he hammered out a paper-thin fold of the metal, and when it was perfect bent it back over the countless other folds. Soon, he would encase the blade in clay, leaving only the edge exposed to the air while the blade tempered in his firepit. From there the core would slowly cool, hardening it, making it unbreakable. Aliz Nok smiled, pleased with himself and the tricks he had learned. He had seen the brittle blades his competitors made, so useless, so easily snapped. Not so with his kataths. His kataths never shattered, and this one would be the greatest of them all.

  ‘It will be perfect,’ said Aliz Nok as he hammered down the fold. He could see its perfection taking shape. His white robe soaked with perspiration, he licked his lips to wet them. So thirsty, yet to rest now would ruin his work. He needed to be disciplined, always, for perfection to take shape. His shop had no windows, and Aliz Nok knew not the time. It had been daybreak when he’d begun, and now it was long past sunset. His stomach screamed for food, but he had already eaten once today and that was enough. Lost in his work, the old katath maker ignored the needs of his body, thinking only of the blade.

  Would the one-eyed man come, he wondered? He would bring gold for the commission, but that did not matter to Aliz Nok. He would not accept payment for such an honour. Just being remembered was enough for the old man. The stranger had come from Niharn, he’d said, the great fencing master himself. To think of this made Aliz Nok swell with pride. Niharn had remembered him and his craft. The world was not hopeless after all.

  ‘Work,’ he told himself. ‘It is for her.’

  Because she was a girl and only slight of build, the katath had been a challenge. It could not be tall, nor uselessly short. It needed weight, but could not be heavy. But most of all, her katath needed blades that could pierce the hide of the Great Rass and puncture its twin hearts.

  And that was why Niharn had sent the one-eyed man to Aliz Nok.

  Th
e old man worked tirelessly that night, forging the blade until morning, then carefully encasing it in the clay he had made, leaving the edge exposed so that it would heat and cool quickly. If not tempered this way, the core would cool too quickly, making it brittle. Not so with the edge. To hold its sharpness, it needed to cool fast. Aliz Nok worked hunched over his filthy table, laying the clay lovingly across the curved blade. Already he had made the shaft for the blade and its twin, drying and splitting the bamboo so that it whistled when twirled through the air. He had spun the shaft on one finger to test its balance. Soon he would tan the leather to attach the blades, then carve the shaft with powerful runes. He looked forward to this, for he had long ago mastered the runes of Sercin and was sure that the God would appreciate his handiwork.

  When at last he had covered the blade with clay, Aliz Nok went to his firepit to stoke the flames. The hearth roared as he fed it air and coals, lusting for the blade. Patiently he waited for the heat to build, feeling the skin of his face tighten with pain. Then, when the fire was right, he slid the blade off its paddle and into the burning coals, sending up a shower of sparks.

  The katath maker waited.

  He watched the flames engulf the blade, searing and hardening the clay around its core. This was the time that always made him anxious. He found his stool nearby and sat down, and his thoughts drifted like smoke toward his dead wife in heaven. He was ready to join her, he decided. Thinking of her made him smile. She was proud of him, he was sure, looking down on him from the realm of the dead, watching as he made his last great blade.

  ‘It is a blessing to do this work,’ Aliz Nok whispered to himself. ‘Thank you, Sercin. Thank you for sending the stranger to me.’

  At last the blade had fired, and the old man took it from the flames with pincers, placing it directly into the urn of waiting water. The water hissed and bubbled, sending steam into his eyes. He turned his face from the spitting urn, counting to himself as the blade cooled. Soon the boiling subsided. Aliz Nok stopped counting. He withdrew the blade from the bath and set it down on his work table, studying the edge and the clay-covered core. The clay had hardened perfectly, without a single crack or blemish. He knew without opening it that he had succeeded. Smiling, he took his hammer and gently smashed away the clay, brushing the dust away to reveal the blade beneath.