By Ways Unseen

by Daniel Dydek

  “Even though just one more spell would keep us from sitting up in this crevasse for another night, you would not use it?”

  “We humans are funny creatures, Geoffrey,” Sarah replied. “The lessons that eventually stick with us are the ones hardest to learn at first. Too often we look for the easy way out, and spend our lives in luxury and relative ease. But then when unavoidable hardship does arise, it nearly kills us. Perhaps if we had not rushed out of the difficulties of life, we would be better people, don’t you think?”

  Geoffrey smiled in the darkness. “With all my heart, Sarah,” he replied.

  “Can I go to sleep now?” she asked.

  Geoffrey chuckled quietly. “Of course.”

  “Geoffrey?” Sarah whispered.

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  There was a pause. “Don’t tell Haydren yet,” she said finally. “If he knows we go to fight Lasserain without a magic user, he may despair more than is necessary.”

  “As you wish,” Geoffrey replied.

  He returned to his seat nearer the edge of the crevasse; below, the Roc still patrolled on rustling wings. As the moon rose and glittered on the rapids below, the Roc turned once more and sped northward, leaving the valley in peace.

  The next day, they led their horses back to the path and continued south. By After-Noon, Julian once again led them off the road and up a ridge; when they crested the top, in a broad bowl below them, surrounded by the jagged rock rim of the mountain’s peak, lay Deewan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TEACHERS

  “So, after eleven years…”

  “He took the long way around.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “He must survive the next weeks, first.”

  8 Halmfurtung 1320 – Autumn

  With barely a pause, Julian led them down a path through a patch of trees and into the village. Almost immediately a group of children gathered around them, curious at the new visitors.

  “Hey, that looks like Aver’s,” one of the children said, pointing to Haydren’s scabbarded sword. “Only a little different.”

  He glanced sharply at them. “Whose? Is he here?”

  “He is,” rumbled a deep voice ahead of them. Haydren looked up to see a large man in leather and fur standing before them.

  “Killik Ik Tal, this is Haydren, Geoffrey, and Sarah,” Julian said, pointing to each in turn. “All, this is Killik, head of the village of Deewan.”

  “Come with me,” Killik said. “Your coming to us now is not a coincidence, and we must see and hear what your designs are.”

  They dismounted and followed Killik further into the village, to a three-floor log building near its center with two chimneys rising from its tiled roof. Inside, the lower floor was one large room, with fires raging in hearths at either end. In the center of the room was a long table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Already, a group of men filled many of the chairs near one end. One of them, his back to the door, had a sword belted at his waist that was nearly identical to Haydren’s.

  Killik gestured to some of the seats before taking his own at the head of the table. “We have little time for introductions,” he boomed as the three companions and their guide took their seats. “But it is important to know who the newcomers are, and for them to know Aver, a trader from Gintanos, who possesses Skyalfamold, the Sword of Earth. Haydren possesses Aerithion, the Sword of Fire. That two swords have come so near one another cannot be an accident, when the other two remain hidden. Tell this council, Haydren, what your designs are.”

  “We are on a route through the mountains to face Lasserain, and to kill him,” Haydren said simply.

  The other men glanced at one another and whispered in a language neither Haydren nor his companions could understand.

  “That is a difficult task,” Killik said finally, when their conversation had ceased. “Why have you undertaken this mission?”

  “Lasserain has caused the death of my parents, and the destruction of Sarah’s city,” Haydren replied. “As well as untold destruction all throughout the northern provinces. Thus far no one has undertaken an effective effort to stop him; with Aerithion, I hope that I shall.”

  “You cannot simply approach Galessern and sneak in and kill him,” said one of the men at the table. “What exactly do you intend to do?”

  “I do not claim the wisdom of those at this table,” Haydren said, bowing his head humbly. “But without intent I have slain both the Cerberus of Kalen and the dragon Paolound, and have destroyed the Northern Forest. My only help was my companions, all but two of whom you see here, and my sword.”

  “And the two we do not see?” Killik asked.

  “One was slain in Jyunta, defending against an army of thousands sent by Lasserain for the attempted destruction of the city,” Haydren replied. “The other stays now to lead in rebuilding the ruined town.”

  “Your victories thus far are no less than impressive,” said one of the men respectfully.

  Killik turned to Aver. “And will the trader from Gintanos go with them?” he asked.

  Aver shifted uncomfortably. “My fortunes are somewhat less than Haydren’s,” he replied in a thin, high voice. “I was nearly killed innumerable times upon reaching Burieng; my wagons were lost, and all supplies stolen. I have no such reasons to go after Lasserain as this man does, and far less motivation. My only goal was to find out about this sword, while I was in the area, as it were.”

  “But they will need much help!” one of the older councilors said in a wispy voice. “Skyalfamold would be most useful!”

  “Even so, I am of little use dead,” Aver said in a whining voice.

  “Good gentlemen,” Haydren spoke up, “I would ask no one to come with me who fears death, for I see little hope of life.”

  “Then why do you go?”

  “Someone must do it,” Haydren replied. “And it may be that while we wait for someone to step forward who is more capable, Lasserain may strike against the north again. I cannot have seen Jyunta and Quaran destroyed, and allow another to face the same fate while I may have the power to stop it.”

  “I had seen Quaran,” Aver said quietly, shaking his head. “I foolishly went there to seek trade – I found it just as you had, Haydren.”

  Haydren’s eyes burned at Aver. “And yet you do nothing?” he asked.

  “But we may raise an army,” Aver responded. “Can we not send an army after him, instead of just a few men?”

  “And how many mothers must lose sons to this man?” Haydren returned. “No; if it can be done with a few, it must be done with a few. I and my companions have a better chance of slipping in than an entire army, which Lasserain would surely simply destroy.”

  “Very well,” Killik said, rising. “You have shown that you will not be easily turned from your mission. I will have a man take you to Tikiko, whose family smithed your sword; he will teach you its magic. Then you may stay at the Huckleberry Inn, and we will supply you in the morning with food and counsel. And may the gods speed you on your way, Haydren, Geoffrey, and Sarah.”

  The friends departed, not remaining to see what the elders would say to Aver. Outside, a man named Grithwier instructed Haydren’s companions to wait at the Inn, while Haydren went alone to meet Tikiko. He led Haydren to the forge where a burly man in a singed leather apron was hammering furiously.

  “Tikiko!” Grithwier shouted over the ringing. “Aerithion has returned!”

  Tikiko ceased his hammering, and came over to Haydren. He gripped Haydren’s hand with iron fingers. “Come this way,” he said. “Away from any listening ears.”

  He took him outside the village, deep within a crack in the mountain. “This is a most powerful secret,” he said. “Most dangerous for anyone to learn. Take off your sword-belt.”

  Haydren did as instructed, and handed it to him. Holding it reverently with both hands, he held it up to the light. “When the blade is pulled out only a little, the crystal reveals the lettering,” he said, h
olding it so Haydren could see. Indeed, within the etchings on the crystal mouth, lined up now with marks on the blade still inside the sheath, there formed an angular script that Haydren could not read.

  “It is Kesten,” Tikiko said solemnly. “And it is badly worn; yet, I will try to read it.” He turned back to the blade and gazed at the lettering. “The command for harmful magic is thus: ‘Dragonsbane, strike the foe, help my urgent need. Dragonsbane, light the way, and lend me all your speed.’”

  He flipped the sword and sheath over and squinted at the other side. “The command for healing magic is thus: ‘Dragonsbane, healing flame, a grievous wound I bear. Dim your fire, calm your ire, give me healing care.’

  “You must be tactful,” he continued, handing the sword back to Haydren. “The magic weakens the Bultum for a time when it is used, and the sword will not allow itself to be summoned more than a few times in one day. Once does not weaken to the point that a man might break it; but summoning twice too soon would weaken it so. Use it wisely.”

  “I thought Bultum was made to be magical?” Haydren asked. “Why would using it weaken it?”

  Tikiko gazed at him quietly a few moments. “I sense you are on a great mission. There is something none but the Keste have known for centuries, Haydren. You understand this secret?”

  The entire forest seemed to grow quiet, and Haydren swallowed. He did not want to break the silence, and only nodded.

  “The words of magic are not written on the Bultum,” Tikiko said.

  Haydren blinked, and somewhere a bird called once. “Well I know it’s not, you just…” Tikiko’s gaze finally caught his attention, and Haydren’s breath caught. He glanced down at the sword, at the Cretal flames running its length. “Tikiko,” he said. “If I had a dagger that was likewise not made of Bultum…”

  “I would not lose that dagger for ten lives,” the smith replied.

  Haydren glanced up. “You said I must speak those verses to summon the magic,” he asked suddenly. “How is it that, before, I needed only to call its name and the magic came?”

  “How did you learn its name?” Tikiko asked sharply.

  “It’s a long story,” Haydren muttered. “But it came to me in a dream.”

  “And you used it?”

  “Twice.”

  “Thus it is worn,” Tikiko said, shaking his head. “Too many more times, the writing would have been gone. But it should not have been; speaking its name alone does nothing.”

  “The magic in it is of fire?” Haydren asked, thinking of an old man in red robes.

  “Of course.”

  Haydren buckled the sword around his waist slowly. “Thank you, Tikiko,” he said. “It will help me greatly on the last part of my quest.”

  Haydren returned to the village with the blacksmith, bidding him farewell at the forge before returning to the inn to find his friends. The inn, true to its name, was surrounded by huckleberry bushes, and a bush speckled by blue dots was carved onto the sign that swung over the doorway. As Haydren entered the common room, a familiar form turned to look at him.

  “Runacron!” Haydren said with a grin. “You left without saying goodbye.”

  “And now you meet me again without saying hello,” the dwarf growled, though a grin crept onto his face. “Do you blame me for leaving quickly? You stayed one night, after all. That dratted Dasillion wouldn’t keep his mouth shut for anything.”

  Haydren laughed as he sat next to the dwarf. “We were in such a hurry to get back to Frecksshire, we didn’t stop in to say hello to him.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” Runacron replied. “He followed me here! Said after you three were gone there was nothing left for him, and he decided to take my lead. I can’t keep away from that yammering mouth of his!”

  “Dasillion’s here? In Deewan?” Haydren asked incredulously.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear him talking while you were still down by the river!” Runacron said. “But I’m sure you’ll see him tonight, at the fire.”

  “Are they singing tonight?” Haydren asked. “I had hoped to see that.”

  “They sing almost every night, Haydren; especially with Skyalfamold and Aerithion in their village at the same time,” Runacron said. “You’re sure to hear many songs about the swords, tonight.”

  Haydren leaned back, remembering their last conversation together. “Did you find your dreams?” he asked quietly.

  Runacron’s grin blossomed to a full smile. “Aye, lad; I did,” he replied. “I’ve been made Scout Major, recently; I seem able to look at a rock and see what’s behind it. It seems sometimes like it speaks to me.” He paused for a glance at Haydren, then pulled himself a little more upright. “But look at you, now! Finished the Earl’s mission with valor, I hear; and you’ve made your way here to learn about your father’s sword.”

  Haydren grinned distantly. “It seems I have. I’m not sure I would have called those my dreams, though.”

  Later that night, they were indeed treated to many ballads concerning the magical weapons. The three companions sat with their guide, and with Runacron; about halfway through the night, Dasillion finally spotted them across the fire and came to speak with them. They talked much, in between the songs, of events after they had parted ways. Dasillion was greatly intrigued to hear of the companion’s exploits after leaving his house, and was especially distressed when he heard about their ordeal at Faschek’s farm.

  “He seemed like a decent enough man, when I used to talk to him,” he said. “Strange, very strange; but he would help out, if it was completely necessary. He didn’t seem to appreciate company the way I did, for sure; but he never denied me anything when I asked for it. And he tried to kill your friend? I can’t believe that.”

  “Well, it was not actually Faschek,” Haydren said, suppressing a grin. “But someone else, claiming to be Faschek.”

  “Yes! That’s right,” Dasillion replied, bobbing his head. “Faschek would never do such a thing, not to anyone he had accepted into his home. He was a bit odd, sometimes, but he never denied me anything when I truly asked for it. I haven’t seen your friend, the archer; I’ve learned some bits of Cariste I was hoping to try out on him.”

  Haydren’s lips pressed into a tight grin. “He fell, Dasillion; in Jyunta.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry Haydren; I didn’t know,” Dasillion said, laying a hand on Haydren’s arm. “Was it the war Runacron had spoken of?”

  “It was,” Haydren replied. “I was so concerned with helping them, I didn’t even think of Pladt.” Dasillion gave him a quizzical glance, so he continued: “I thought briefly of getting Pladt back to Werine, where he belonged. He was better equipped for helping with their problems than my selfish ones.”

  “Oh, Haydren, we don’t get to decide that,” Dasillion said. “If Pladt stuck with you in a countryside that didn’t often speak his language, he probably wouldn’t have left you when things got rough either. Sometimes the best we can do is take from such things what we can.”

  “It’s given me a lot to think about,” Haydren agreed. “And in its own way, it’s part of what has brought me here. What that might mean...” He trailed off, still uncomfortable thinking about what lay ahead; many hoped he would succeed, but few would say his plan was a good one.

  “Well, what we think a thing will mean and what it ends up meaning are rarely the same,” Dasillion replied. “Too many people try to force understanding and knowledge; that’s something that has to come to you, not be given by you. Now you take this one day, when I was still out on the Moors…”

  Haydren grinned and shook his head as Dasillion kept talking until the villagers near him shushed him as the next singer began.

  The night wore on, and just as the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Killik rose and stood beside the fire. He began singing in his deep voice, the words rolling across the village and into the mountains. Women began gathering their children as he sang this song:

  “The sun is resting on th
e peaks. The sky is fiery red.

  Sleep is all the weary seeks upon a feather bed.

  Dwarves are working in their halls,

  and in the mountains, night falls.

  “Daylight’s fading on our fire. The east is starry black.

  Overhead the birds soar higher; their young ones call them back.

  Air is filled with owl calls,

  and in the forest, night falls.

  “Clouds are wisping on the ridge. Shadows are far-reaching.

  Fish are dancing under bridge, to their young ones teaching.

  Gurgles sound on waterfalls,

  and on the river, night falls.

  “Sparks are flying in the sky. The moon is shining white.

  Wind caresses with a sigh, and drifts toward the light.

  Horses whicker in their stalls,

  and in the farmyards, night falls.”

  By ones and twos, the women started returning, now. Killik continued to sing:

  “Lamps in windows burning low. The fire is waning too.

  Streets are laden thick with snow, the world is faded blue.

  Children safe within our walls,

  and in our village, night falls.

  “Nighttime creatures start to wake. Crickets start their singing.

  Water’s tranquil on the lake, waiting for day’s bringing.

  On the floor the baby crawls,