by Andrew Rowe
I glanced around, groaning and pushing myself slowly to my feet. I wobbled a little due to all the blood loss and the sense of cold still spreading across my chest, but I managed to keep my grip on Dawn’s hilt.
With no other attackers focusing on me, I managed to smack the next arrow out of the air with my free hand, just barely. Then I turned toward the source of the arrows, finding the archer in the trees. I glared at him. He fell out of the tree.
I felt pretty good about that.
I walked over to him, finding him stuck in a bush, and punched him right out.
When I found Reika, she was dragging another attacker out of the trees — one I’d never even seen. He didn’t have any weapons on him by the time Reika tossed him to the ground in the middle of the clearing, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t already dealt with them.
“Think that’s the last of them.” Reika frowned. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... No, there should be eight.”
I scanned around, trying to think about all the attackers. A few of them were still conscious on the ground, but none of them looked like they were in any condition to keep fighting.
In some cases, I’d barely hurt them, but Reika must have followed up while I’d been distracted with my own fight.
...Except in one case. I’d broken the sword of another swordsman at the beginning of the fight, and then punched him out.
Unfortunately, unconsciousness often didn’t last very long, and now he was gone.
“Think we’ve got a runner,” I grumbled. “Also, I think I’m leaking rather badly.”
“Leaking...?” Reika took a look at me again. “Oh. Oh! Those are arrows. That’s bad, Keras. You shouldn’t have those!”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
I found myself sitting. I don’t remember making the decision to sit.
I patted Dawn on the hilt. “You did a very good job back there, Dawn.”
“Gods, I don’t think so. Reika, how deep are those arrows?”
“Uh, I don’t really do arrows. How do I judge that?”
I groaned. “Is the whole metal part inside my back? And if so, can you tell how many inches of wood are stuck inside?”
“Hold on.” Reika walked around behind me. Then I felt a sharp yank. “This one wasn’t very bad. Let me check the other one.”
“Wait—”
Yank.
My vision went red for a moment.
“...One was a little bit worse, maybe a few inches of wood in there. I got the whole thing out, though!”
I shuddered on the ground, face in the dirt.
Pulling an arrow out like that is one of the worst possible ways to handle the injury. If I’d been handling it myself, I might have been able to use metal sorcery to reshape the arrowhead to make it easier to remove. A doctor might have widened the wound to make sure that the arrowhead didn’t slip off the arrow and then carefully extracted it.
Reika was, I will remind you, definitely not a medical professional.
I was very fortunate that my body was reinforced with plentiful stone mana. If the arrow had pierced deeper and she’d tried to “help” me in the same way, her ministrations might have been fatal.
“You must be really tired.” Reika sounded sympathetic. I think she might have even patted me on the arm, but I was so numb that I couldn’t tell for sure. “I didn’t get much sleep either. I think we should probably figure out what these guys were here for, though.”
“Mmrm,” I managed. “Bandages.”
“Oh! Yeah, the bleeding, right. I’ll help.”
The next several minutes were sort of a blur. Once or twice, one of those servants of the Tails of Orochi tried to get back up. Reika hit them a bunch, then they stopped trying.
I wasn’t capable of paying much attention at that point. I’d already been injured pretty bad, and Reika had extracted the arrows from my back in what was probably the worst medical procedure in recorded history.
Her attempts at bandaging were, mercifully, somewhat better. She’d apparently taken my previous instructions into account, and she used both the actual bandages and the ointment in my bag.
Even with that, though, I’d lost a considerable amount of blood. I didn’t know if I’d survive going to sleep in that state even if someone else didn’t try to finish the job.
I’d been injured enough times that I had a pretty good idea of what my body needed. After Reika finished her bandaging job, I reached into my bag and pulled out my water, drinking deeply. Then I tore into the remains of my salted beef, which always seemed to help replenish my strength.
“Are you okay?” Reika leaned down, meeting my eyes. I think she was finally starting to process the severity of the situation.
“No,” I admitted. “I...think I’m hurt pretty badly. This should help, though.”
“What can I do?”
I groaned. “Keep me awake. Make sure I eat, and that I don’t choke. And don’t let any of these guys kill me.”
“Okay.” Reika nodded seriously. She glanced at one of our attackers who was doing a poor job of playing dead and seemed to be eyeing one of the fallen weapons near us. “They keep getting back up...should I...?” She made a gesture of drawing a finger across her throat, then a sad expression.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. One of them already escaped, so their leader is likely to be warned in any case.” I grimaced. “I think you may want to get out of here.”
“Okay.” Reika nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”
I tried to command my legs to move, but they refused. “Uh, about that.” I frowned. “I don’t think I can.”
“Well, I’m obviously not leaving without you.”
“Okay. Then, uh, I think you’re going to have to carry me for a little while.”
“Oh! No problem. You’re actually pretty light.”
“...And we’re going to need to make some distance quickly.”
Reika leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “You want me to do the big dragon thing, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Sorry. I don’t mean to presume—”
She grinned and poked me in the nose. “You’re so silly sometimes. All you needed to do is ask. Buuut...I think I should get us out of sight first. Don’t want these strangers knowing what I can do.”
“Fair. Also, maybe check if they have better medical supplies than we do?”
“Sure!”
I don’t really remember the next few minutes. They mostly involved Reika shaking people and demanding that they hand over medical supplies, food, and finally, any novels they happened to be carrying.
I do remember that she was very disappointed by the lack of books, and that she poured something on one of my arrow wounds before I realized what was happening. She didn’t even bother to take off the bandages first.
I felt a brief burning sensation, and then it felt better. Not fully healed, but better.
“That was a healing potion,” Reika explained. “One of them was carrying it. You feel any better?”
“Not much. Still badly hurt,” I managed.
One of our attackers shouted something, to which Reika replied in the same language, sounding embarrassed.
“Uh, I guess I should have let you drink some of the potion. More effective at treating any internal damage that way. Oops. Anyway, lessons learned!”
Then I was being carried.
“Don’t...forget...other...sword...” I motioned weakly at the shelter where we’d been sleeping.
I blacked out not too long after that.
Interlude I – Sword of Hope
Any time I’ve been separated from the Sae’kes, it’s given me a degree of panic. For the most part, it’s a burden and a reminder of my weakness, but it’s been a part of my life as long as I can remember
.
As I mentioned, it’s a sacred artifact. I was raised to believe that it would be a symbol of hope for the followers of the Tae’os Pantheon, a sign that their gods are still present in the world — especially Aendaryn, the God of Blades. He’d been missing for years when I was born.
You’re probably thinking that the Tyrant in Gold killed him. You’re probably right.
But let me take a step back and give you a bit of context behind how the Sae’kes has been a part of my life, as well as why I was so reluctant to use it.
***
I grew up near the city of Selyr. My parents — that is, the people who raised me, not my biological parents — were a rethri couple. I was handed off to them by an old wizard — yes, the same old wizard that sent me to Kaldwyn. You’d think that the first time he’d abandoned me somewhere would have been a clue that I should have avoided him, but apparently, I’m not very good at dealing with wizard schemes.
When I was given to them, they were also given a legendary sword. They were told that the Sae’kes was my inheritance, and that I should be given the weapon as soon as I was old enough to use it.
I grew up thinking that the Sae’kes was going to be an important part of my life. I wasn’t wrong about that part. I was, however, seriously mistaken about what the impact would be like.
One of my clearest memories comes from when I was about four years old.
It was the middle of the night, and I was having trouble sleeping. That wasn’t uncommon, but usually I’d content myself to finding a book and reading. Like Reika, I found reading soothing, even at a young age.
That night, though, I had a plan in my mind.
I slipped out of my sheets, as silent as a child untrained in stealth could be, and made my way to my parents’ bedroom.
The door creaked as I turned the knob and pulled it open. I winced, but they didn’t wake.
I slipped forward in the dark, banging my foot on a shelf. I winced at the pain, but controlled my urge to make any sound.
I was on a mission.
I crept forward, watching closely for any sign that my parents were aware of my presence. They seemed to be sleeping soundly. That was good.
I crawled under their bed.
My parents were never great at keeping secrets. Maybe that came from mother’s penchant for knowledge sorcery — she preferred sharing information, not hiding it.
Unfortunately, that meant they’d made it entirely too obvious where they’d kept the magic sword I wasn’t supposed to touch until I was older.
There was a lock on the small hatch under the bed. That might have stopped an ordinary burglar, but not me.
I touched the lock and concentrated.
Reshape.
The lock trembled for a moment, then slipped free.
I couldn’t suppress a giggle at my success. I covered my mouth afterward and went dead still.
No sounds above me, save the quiet rhythm of my parents breathing.
I flipped open the hatch.
And there it was. A sword of legend.
I marveled at it. The silver wings outstretched like those of a bird in flight. The glowing blue crystals set into the middle of the crossguard and the pommel. The white leather scabbard lined with metal and etched with dozens of protective runes to keep the blade from tearing through it.
With the utmost care and reverence, I slipped the sword out of the hatch and escaped the room.
The door to my parents’ room creaked again as I shut it. I heard a groan from inside, momentarily freezing in panic. Had I woken them up?
It didn’t matter.
I had the sword, and I was going to try it out, even if they caught me and I got in trouble.
The weapon was larger than I was. If it wasn’t abnormally light, I don’t know if I could have even carried it at that age. As it was, I had to brace one hand against the scabbard just to pull it out.
I marveled at the shining silvery aura around the blade as I pulled it free, turning it upward to get a better look at the seven gleaming runes on the surface.
I didn’t do anything to suppress the sword’s aura. At the time, I didn’t know it was necessary, nor would I have known how even if I understood.
That was when I first learned that the sword’s aura stretched well beyond the blade.
The silvery pattern that I’d been admiring tore through the roof of the house, disintegrating wood and stone.
I gasped, then winced at the damage.
I am going to be in so much trouble in the morning.
But I couldn’t resist taking just one test swing before I put the thing away. I’d been waiting for this too long to give it up.
I braced myself, putting both hands on the hilt, and pictured myself as a hero of legend. The son of the god of swords, finally claiming his birthright and preparing to fight a battle against a terrible beast.
I swung the blade, and it sang as it tore through the air.
I very nearly cut our house in half.
My parents woke to their bedroom ceiling collapsing on top of them. I heard them scream, and I panicked, sheathing the sword.
Fortunately, they weren’t seriously hurt, and they were more concerned about me than anything else.
We moved to a different town shortly thereafter. I didn’t understand why at the time; it didn’t seem like our house would be that hard to fix.
“You must not do that again,” my father explained to me. “You could have seriously injured someone.”
I glanced to my mother, still wearing a cast from where a collapsed part of the ceiling had broken her right arm. We were fortunate she knew a competent healer that was able to treat her injuries quickly, otherwise it might have been far worse.
I can’t tell you how ashamed I felt that day. I still feel ashamed. If we hadn’t been lucky — extremely lucky — that first swing could have killed both of my parents.
My parents took the sword away. They were right to do so.
I still snuck into their room in our new house regularly to try to find it. You might think that shame should have stopped me, but no, a child’s curiosity isn’t so easily stopped by sentiment. Even at five, I thought I could somehow “do it right” next time. I was horrified that I’d hurt my parents, but I vastly overestimated how much I could have improved in a short time.
I was eight when my parents finally let me draw the sword again, this time under their supervision, and with several precautions in place. We were outdoors, and my father laid down defensive spells to protect each of us and prevent any serious collateral damage.
Then my training began.
First, my mother taught me to focus on the destructive aura and try to constrain it. I had very little success at first.
Next, my father encouraged me to use my talents at metal sorcery — which had manifested years earlier, and which I’d already been practicing — to try to alter the weapon. I think his intent was to see if interfacing with the metal would improve my control further. It didn’t accomplish that, but it did give me the necessary understanding of the sword’s structure to utilize it more effectively in battle many years later. And, perhaps more importantly, I learned to shape it enough to disguise it.
That proved useful soon after. When I was ten, I was sent off to the Thornguard — our local military — for sorcery training. They required six years of mandatory training for anyone who demonstrated sorcerous talents. Really, the “training” was largely to assess if we’d be useful to the Thornguard’s Sorcery Division. As a child, my only real aptitude was with metal shaping, but that was enough that I needed to go through the training process.
My parents told me to explain that my sword was an inherited magical item, but not to ever tell anyone that it was the Sae’kes, and to absolutely never use it unless my life was threatened.
For a while, I actually listened.
***
As a trainee for the Thornguard, I was trained in swordplay, history, sorcery, and tactics.
> Swordplay was always my favorite, of course. We had some mandatory sword training each day, but I took every opportunity to get more.
Each day, I woke early and headed to an oft-ignored wooded area on the border of the training facility in order to train with the Sae’kes itself.
I had to be careful to do it alone, both because of the physical danger the weapon presented and the importance of making certain that no one figured out exactly what sword I was carrying. Having an inherited magic sword wasn’t that suspicious in itself — there were a handful of other students with them each year — but my specific weapon had religious and political implications that the Thornguard couldn’t have ignored if they discovered it.
For years, I improved my skills at both sorcery and spells. When I was thirteen, I impressed my teachers enough that they transferred me to a different training facility for a direct mentorship.
I spent the next three years being trained personally by Res’vaye Fayne.
Res’vaye wasn’t a member of the Thornguard’s Sorcery Division like I’d been initially assigned to. No, Res’vaye taught new recruits for the infamous Bladebreaker Division — the people dedicated to hunting sorcerers.
And it seemed that I’d made the mistake of getting their attention.
The Bladebreakers involved people with a number of different skill sets. Some were sorcerers themselves, but generally those with aggressive natures that liked to be in the thick of things. Others were skilled with weapons, and still others were focused more on things like logistics and reconnaissance. A handful — including Res’vaye himself — worked for a branch of military intelligence.
We only had one thing in common — every Bladebreaker trainee was, in their own way, hideously dangerous.
I flourished under Res’vaye’s guidance. He was a tremendously talented swordsman, one of the best I’ve ever met. And, perhaps more importantly, he was a metal sorcerer.
He’s the one who taught me a good number of the tricks I use, even today.
He was not, however, an easy teacher.
Every day, we’d wake, eat, and get straight to training.
For hours, I’d study the blade, then sorcery, then the blade again. I’d spar against older students and, for the first time in memory, I’d lose. Repeatedly.