by N.D. Bailey
The sun rose the next morning, but it offered little comfort from the frigid air. Rising early, Nadora cleaned Skeener’s wound and reapplied the healing herbs. Then, she put some stitches in to help promote healing and prevent further damage. They bagged their belongings and made ready to ride. She helped him up onto Orpah and the riders rode north into the mountainous regions.
Once again, Nadora rode behind Nuvatian, her arms wrapped around his waist. Their near-kiss the night before was not spoken of. The energy, however, was felt by both of them.
The morning sun glistened on the blanket of snow that buried this polar region. Streams of light danced magically across the slithers of crystallized diamonds, but it didn’t bring a hint of warmth. The cold was nipping at their toes, impenitent at his merciless ways. A steady stream of snow began to shower down on them, making them one with the masterpiece.
They scaled the monoliths dressed as a majestic cathedral of ice and snow. As they ascended the white-mountains, the snow became deeper and the temperatures grew much colder. Icicles hung from the snow-covered trees like pellucid jewels, pearls dangling from a goddess, and ridges formed in the spires of rocks looking much like crystallized works of artistic breathtaking wonder, such that they might cause even deity to stand in awe. The howling wind took their breath away as it blew forcefully, snow blinding them all. Trekking up the mountains, their mounts instinctively placed their feet on the snowy ground, though unable to see where they were going.
Nadora buried her head into Nuvatian’s back, seeking shelter from the harsh wind. She wished she were in warmer climate but she reminded herself that suffering for the kingdom was worth it. Her role as leader required sacrifices and she was determined to be the best and most effective leader possible. For the kingdom; for the people, she told herself.
By the fifth day traveling, they had ascended high into a celestial sphere clothed in limpid diamonds. Evergreen needle leaf trees covered the mountains but not a speck of green could be seen. It was a canopy of white. The landscape was rich with elegance, like a sanctum where the gods might congregate. Their ride was slow and the terrain was rough as the snow continued to heap upon them. Snow blinded, they went on instinct, trusting Windsor to keep them on course. Their fingers were now thoroughly numb, so were their toes and noses, their faces chapped by the winds.
Fleece fumbled with his lucky medallion, checking it to make sure they were going in the right direction. He didn’t want to get lost in this frozen tundra. According to his coin, they were on course. He was relieved.
“I’m freezing,” Nadora said to Nuvatian, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist and her head hunkered down behind him, shielding herself from the wind. She had grown rather comfortable with her arms around him, and within the secret places of her heart she was fully enjoying the closeness they had forged, but she refused to admit it.
Vikings
After eleven days enduring the biting frosty elements, hope arose as the riders approached the summit of the mountain. The view was magnificent, a marvelous work of art. Over the cliff lay the lucid icescapes of the fjords, the glassy blue ocean gelid with glaciers. The fjords opened up into the icy sea, visible from where they stood. The noble glaciers rose out of the ocean, their ice caps reaching into the heavens. Mountains of sculpted ice, slick and shiny like glass, shimmered with hues of blue.
The riders didn’t get in a hurry, they took it all in. The awe-inspiring view made them almost forget that they were freezing. They were thankful that the snow had let up, wasn’t blinding now.
Peeping out of their furs and wraps, the riders gazed at the frozen tundra spellbound by its spectacular beauty. The snow covered mountains that lay across the vast ocean bay were crispy white in the arching sky. At the cliffs edge, the mountain plummeted below; it was a straight drop into the icy waters of the great blue yonder.
Riding their mounts across the crystallized mountain peak, the riders could see smoke arising in the milky atmosphere; it was smoke ascending from the chimneys of the Vikings. The riders were relieved that the village was in sight.
At first sight, the village looked empty, all inhabitants tucked away inside their cozy homes trying to escape the biting cold of the harsh winter typical of this region. Then they heard voices, deep and rough. They guided their beasts in the direction of the booming voices in the midst of the trees. Finally, they spotted a cluster of men dressed like Eskimos cutting down a tree. Among them were the brothers they had come looking for: Zilgar and Zorgar. Windsor recognized them because they were the only two that didn’t have hats on and their wild hair set them apart from the others.
The Vikings stared at the strange arrivals, curious at who would be coming into the village during the onset of winter. The trek up the mountains was an event in and of itself, but in a blizzard, it was quite an accomplishment. They immediately noticed that a wooly covered giant was among them. It was not until the riders were nearly upon them and Windsor spoke that the Vikings realized they knew at least one of them.
“Well, smoke a haystack!”
“Would you look at what the snow has blown in?” said Zorgar, going over to greet them.
“What brings you moth-eaten’ villains our way?” asked Zorgar, shaking the snow from his long and scraggly hair.
“Oh! Uhhh… Sorry, mam, I didn’t see you back there!” Zorgar noticed the pretty girl when she leapt off her mount. She was nestled in so tight that she looked as one with Nuvation hunkered down behind him.
He was curious about the girl so he leaning toward Windsor to inquire, seeking to be discreet “Whatcha got a fair lady like that ridin’ with ya for?” He smiled, showing his brown stained teeth and absence of one or two on the right.
“This is Princess Nadora.”
“Princess! My pleasure, mam.” The two brothers spoke at once, bowing their heads to show respect.
“Pleased to meet you too, but you can leave off that princess stuff.” She prided herself in shunning her position, always seeking to be approachable and reputed as down to earth, level eyed with her people.
Zilgar couldn’t help but notice that Skeener was moving slower than normal as he tried to slide off the dragon. “What’s that mattah with you there, mate? You don’t look so good.”
As Nimri and Fleece helped Skeener down from his mount, Nadora filled him in. “He took a cut to his chest. It looks good. He’s probably just stiff from the ride more than anything. Is there somewhere warm where he can rest? ”
“A cut to the chest! What happened, Skeener?” asked Zilgar. Concerned, he walked over beside him.
“R-ran into s-some R-ridahs of Q-quadar,” Skeener whispered between clenched teeth. He quickly placed his finger over his mouth to caution him to keep quiet and not disclose the information to their Viking buddies who were now approaching.
“Ridahs of Quadar!” Zilgar couldn’t help repeating the words, but he did so at a whisper.
“Shhh.”
Nadora had some whispering of her own to do. “What’s up with their hair?”
“They’re bald,” Nuvatian said hushed. “They hated being bald; so, they cut the hair off of a mammoth and made themselves hair. Zilgar corded the fur and had it sewed into his scalp—that’s why his hair looks different from Zorgar’s. Zorgar just left his shaggy and had it sewed in like that. They’re wild-looking, but they are fine men, and great fightahs.”
“They’re wild lookin’ alright.”
“Yaw look terrible! My old hound dog looks better. Heck, Zilgar almost looks as good as yaw do, and he looks about as ugly as can be.” Zorgar thought his wise crack was funny but Zilgar thought otherwise. Throwing his brother a friendly punch in the shoulder, Zilgar tossed out a few insulting words of his own. Zorgar punched him back.
“Yaw come on to the house,” Zorgar said. “We’ll finish discussing this there. Man, yaw are just plain mangy-lookin’.”
“Mangy? He hasn’t loo
ked at himself lately, has he?” whispered Nadora, taking Valor’s reigns from Nuvatian.
Vandorf shook off the snow that had accumulated on his boots. “I can’t wait to get out of these wet clothes and get cleaned up.”
Zilgar and Zorgar led the way walking beside Windsor and Nuvatian. Since Nadora had dropped back with Skeener, the two brothers had the opportunity to ask some questions of their own. Zilgar shot first. “Mate, what’s the girl comin’ for? ”
“And what is she carrying that sword for?” Zorgar added. “It’s biggah than she is!”
“She is the best archah in the kingdom,” Windsor patiently explained. “And that sword she knows how to swing. Not bad for a gihl eithah.”
“She has proved herself and has earned our respect,” added Nuvatian rather icy.
“Ah, kind of sensitive about the gihl, I see.” Zorgar looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. “A man can see why. She’s a looker.”
Since Zorgar lived alone, they went to his house so they could discuss their purpose for riding without the curious ears of others. He pushed open the heavy cedar door to his log house and welcomed his unexpected guest.
The house was a mess. An old ragged-tooth saw sat in the middle of the mud-stained floor, and three shabby chairs were strewed around the den. Nadora sat down in a hard chair trying to not show her repulsion.
“This place looks like a pigsty!” Vandorf said, not caring if he offended Zorgar.
Gilgore followed, hunkering down, turning sideways to get through the door of Zorgar’s house. Once in, he nearly took up the entirety of one room by stretching out across the floor.
“Well, there’s othah rooms.” Zorgar stepped over Gilgore’s large leg.
Having found a place for Skeener to lie down, Nadora prepared a warm herbal healing drink with mambrogin root and mulled rum, rum she borrowed from the Vikings. She held it to his lips as he sipped it down, grimacing at the combination of flavors.
The riders slowly thawed as they sat close to the fire. Weary from their long journey over such daunting landscape and harsh climate, they settled back to relax. It was good to be in the warmth of a house, even if it was a dirty one.
Vandorf was insistent about getting the accumulated dirt off his aching body.
“So, where can I get cleaned up?” Vandorf inquired as he shook the remainder of the snow from his ponytail.
“Rivah’s frozen,” Zorgar explained. “It’s impossible to get watah right now for bathin’. We barely have enough for drinkin’ to get us through the wintah.”
“For the love of God!” Vandorf exclaimed. “Your rivah is always frozen! You mean to tell me that I can’t wash off? No wondah you people always smell.” He thought he had whispered the last statement, but all could hear it.
Pulling his coat around him, he paraded across the room, grabbed a bucket sitting by the door, and stepped outside onto the slippery porch and scooped up a bucket of snow from the yard. Setting it beside the fire, he watched as it slowly turned to a little puddle of warm water. He added buckets of snow until he had accumulated a sufficient amount of water to wash off with.
As he now began to strip down to his drawers, Nadora, growing increasingly embarrassed, got up and swiftly walked to another room. Grabbing a rag and some lye soap, Vandorf scrubbed down, not leaving a spot unwashed. He even gave his head a dip. When the water got dirty, he persuaded others to retrieve more snow. In all, he changed the water four times. Afterwards, he cleaned all of his gear, not leaving a trace of dirt.
Now that he and all his gear were clean, he felt better.
“You’re the cleanest Earthdwellah I’ve evah met.” Zorgar said, fetching the last pail of snow for him.
“Well, just because I live in the earth doesn’t mean I want to carry it around with me. You should try to wash some of that stuff off you sometime!” Zorgar stepped outside to get more wood for the dying fire. “The mammoth you borrowed that hair from might appreciate it if you kept it a little bettah. God only knows what’s crawling round in there.” The Viking didn’t hear Vandorf’s last statement. Good thing too. That might have been fighting words for Zorgar. The man is sensitive about his hair.
Stepping outside onto the sheet of ice, Zorgar slipped and almost fell. He caught himself by grabbing the wobbly porch railing. The sight of his near-fall produced a much-needed laugh for the riders. Now recalling the ancient prophecy, Windsor gave careful consideration to their selection of riders. He hoped they had made a wise selection.
When Zorgar returned with the wood, Windsor wasted no time in getting to the point. “It’s the Sword of Dahvan. It has been found at Shilly Shally Ford,” opening the scroll to explain the roads significance. Will you two ride?”
“Of course we’ll ride.” Zorgar was still holding a hand full of wood. “Where are we off to?” asked Zilgar.
“Shy Kadesh,” answered Windsor carefully, as though he were expecting the usual objection.
“Sky Kadesh,” Gilgore echoed. In the same breath Zilgar and Zorgar exclaimed the same thing: “You didn’t say we were goin’ to Shy Kadesh.”
“You didn’t ask.” Windsor carefully drew a long puff from his pipe and sat back relaxed.
“Can we get into the Immortal Kingdom?” Zorgar took a seat opposite the fire, the closest ones already occupied.
“We may be exiles,” said Windsor. “But I am certain he will hear us.”
Sleep came swiftly for everyone except for Windsor. Nervous vibrations kept him awake. Because he bore the brunt of the responsibility of their selection for the riders, he sat up going over in his mind each person chosen for the team.
The Tomb of Murdorf
It was twilight when the riders in the east reached the Tomb of Murdorf. The twisted face of a man stricken with terror was carved in stone, his hands stretched out in a futile attempt to defend himself. The statue stood erect upon the Hill of Descent. Darkness quickly fell upon the hill and the clouds wrapped around the full moon like a snug coat. A billow of haze rolled across the sky, snuffing out the twinkling of the stars. It was pitch-dark.
Navi held the torch in front of the statue. Flames danced in the lines of anxiety that etched his face. You could see the dread of death in Murdorf’s eyes.
“This is where it all began,” Navi said, looking up at the statue.
“This is where what all began?” asked Amase. The older riders proceeded to tell the tale, each adding their own set of details.
Navi began. “This is where the Swohd of Dahvan was deceptively given to an immortal king by Dahvan.”
“Dahvan was once a dignitary in the Kingdom of Shy Kadesh,” Gilmanza explained. “He was a trusted official and friend of King Justiz. Aftah yeahs of servin’ second in rank, Dahvan became hungry for powah and attempted to assassinate King Justiz. He made a swohd, the first evah crafted. ”
“How could he assassinate the king, when the king was immortal” asked Cozbi. He was aware of some of the story, but not all the fine points.
Navi jumped in. “Ahh! The quest for powah defies all logic. Its appetite for control, powah and fame seeks only personal satisfaction. The thirst for powah surpasses all reason.”
Cozbi wondered if there was more to the story. Why would he try to kill the Immortal King if it couldn’t be done? Perhaps it could be done and that was what the king feared? Cozbi wasn’t sure but he kept his thoughts to himself, turning them over in his head.
“Dahvan’s quest for powah knew no logic,” Gilmanza continued. “He tried to seize the throne, but of course King Justiz discovahed his plot—though not before he had deceived a small numbah of othahs with his trickery and deceit, winnin’ their favor through flattery and a show of self-importance. The king brought everyone involved in the mattah to swift judgment, castin’ them out of the Kingdom of Shy Kadesh. He then placed a curse on his swohd.”
Navi butted in to repeat the cu
rse as told by tradition.
Cursed be Dahvan,
And his sword.
For he sought powah,
Above his lord.
Cuhsed be the Sword of Dahvan,
That rose up to kill.
May all who accept it,
Gain a corrupt will.
Their people will die,
And lose their immortality.
They will degenerate,
And decline in morality.
May their bodies, souls, and spirits,
Become empty and bare.
Unable to find rest,
Trapped in despair.
From generation to generation,
Their sin innate.
Their likeness only,
Can they propagate.
But Dahvan himself,
Will nevah perish.
Because the love of powah,
Was what his heart relished.
Trapped between life and death,
In appearance you will be defaced.
Unable to rule,
You will be a disgrace.
This sword in your heaht
Driven by an immortal king who is upright
You will then be destroyed,
And death will become your plight.
Navi took up the story now himself. “Angry at those who had betrayed him, King Justiz put a cuhse on all of those who fell into cahoots with Dahvan. I bet those bloody little cursed derves and nomeds sure do regret teamin’ up with Dahvan. They have been small and ugly ever since. Kind of like Monguard here.” Navi laughed and elbowed his friend.
“Watch it,” said Monguard, poking Navi with the end of an arrow he was fumbling with in the dirt. He put down the arrow and reached for his knife and a piece of wood to work. The story was turning his creative juices.
Gilmanza ignored them, and stepped in now to finish the tale. “For many yeahs Dahvan tried to deceive someone into taking the Sword of Powah, that he might propagate his evil.” Finally, the dark one convinced a young king named Tepshar-Cevor, whom they called Temp, to take the sword. Tepshar was a weak man. Dahvan lied to him. He told him his brother, Murdorf, was seeking to take his throne, and that the sword would make him more powerful. With this sword, he said, Tepshar could not be defeated, but would hold all powah to rule the world. Tepshar took up the sword, unaware of the powahs it possessed. When he took it with wicked intent and acted upon that wickedness, it caused everyone within his kingdom to lose their conditions of immortality. Soon, the sword had possessed Tepshar’s very heaht. He sought to destroy the brothah he now despised.
“One day, he brought a new horse out and insisted that his brothah Murdorf go ridin’ with him. The horse was a rare beauty, which made it impossible for Murdorf to turn him down. While they were out in the fields ridin’, Tepshar ran the Sword of Dahvan through his brother. Murdorf became the fihst person to evah die. And that single act caused every immortal man in his kingdom to become mortal.
“The evil of the Sword of Dahvan was now alive and well among the inhabitants of humanity, and many there were who sought aftah its spellbinding powah. Tepshar, the willing possessah of the sword, was now possessed by the sword and became Dahvan’s puppet-king. He began to rule ruthlessly, becoming a tyrant with delusions of deity, demanding the allegiance and worship of the people. Men were forced into slavery and exploited for his personal, political, and financial success.” Gilmanza had pretty much talked himself hoarse and glanced around the room for another voice.
Buldar took up the tale, eager to share more intricate details of the swords history. “One day, Hanbri, a king in the southwest, desihad the Sword of Powah for himself. He poisoned Tepshar, who did not die, but merely lay unconscious for two days. Hanbri stole the sword, taking it to his own kingdom. He became a ruthless tyrant, just as Tepshar had been. He too brought the curse upon his subjects who then became mortal. When Tepshar awoke, he was ill for many days. When he recuperated, he hunted the sword until it drove him mad.
“As the sword passed down into the hands of kings, and each became obsessed with it, one by one entire kingdoms became mortal and their kings turned to tyrants, ruling over their people and enslaving them. Greed grew in their heahts as they horded up more fortunes and more harems. It was finally discovahed that wherevah the sword dwelled, evil was more prevalent. People turned from good to evil almost overnight, gaining corrupt wills, just as the curse proclaimed. Some even chose to follow Dahvan directly, becoming dahk riders themselves.
“Each time a kingdom fell to mortal conditions their offspring entered the world as mortal men just as the curse prophesied. Some mortals then chose to follow aftah Dahvan. It was only then that they became aware that King Justiz had cursed those who chose to follow him that they would become like Dahvan except for his immortal condition. He had cursed them with a sentence of living death, while yet remaining alive. That is why their flesh rots while still upon their bones; they are dying while yet still living.”
“The Ridahs of Quadar?” Monguard asked as he whittled on a piece of wood with his pocket knife.
Ozni stepped in now. “Yeah. Some dahk ridahs were immortals who joined Dahvan at the beginning of his rebellion, while othahs are those who chose after their mortal condition to follow him, and have fallen undah the curse. Those ones used to be mortal men just like us.”
“But I thought the nomeds and derves were the cursed souls that joined Dahvan in the initial rebellion,” Sagran said. He, too, knew bits and pieces of the legend.
“They are. But you see the curse took on many diffant forms,” Ozni explained. “Some took the form of nomeds, othahs, derves, still othahs, dahk ridahs. It’s the beauty of the complexity of being immortal and having such powah, mate! But you are right, all derves and nomeds were immortals when they fell undah the curse. Now, even their offspring are cursed.
“Now I know it looks like Buldar fell under that curse too but he didn’t, he’s just plain ugly.” Ozni couldn’t resist a little humor at Buldar’s expense. Everyone laughed.
“Watch it wool head.” Buldar was fortunate to be sitting beside the Himp so he scruffled his knuckles across his goatish head.
“You just wish right now that you could own the title wool head.” Laughter broke out at Buldar’s scorched head.
Ozni continued, “But whatever effect the curse took, those who choose to follow Dahvan since the break from King Justiz have all fallen under the curse. They were once men, now they are cursed dying men, even while they live! They are all nomeds, derves, or dahk ridahs.”
“Once it was learned across the lands of the curse King Justiz had put upon the Sword of Powah,” Buldar continued, as if never interrupted, “there was understanding why entire kingdoms were losing their immortality. Then it was learned of the prophecy about an immortal king thrusting the sword into the heaht of Dahvan.”
Binko chimed in, aware of the details of the legend but choosing to remain silent until now. “Good kings began to seek the sword, thinking they could put an end to Dahvan with it. But every king who got his hands on that bloody sword yielded to its evil, becoming conquered by it instead of conquering it. After all, it is a cursed sword!
“So, here we are today with only one kingdom remaining immortal and only one king who can destroy Darvan. If King Justiz fails, we are forevah doomed to the tyranny of Dahvan.”
“King Justiz won’t fail, Buldar proclaimed. “He’s got what othahs lacked.”
Amase was still puzzled. “Whatever happened to Tepshar.”
“The bloody scamp became so obsessed with tryin’ to get that bloody sword back, it drove him practically insane,” Navi said, glancing over at the hunk of wood Monguard was carving away at. “He murdered many in his court. In the end, he drove his own sword, the one he had since considered useless, through his own heart.” He mimicked a sword going through his heart, his eyes rolling backwards into his head and pretended to be dying. “
Quest for powah will drive you bloody crazy!”
“So what became of the sword then?” asked Amase.
Buldar, ever the pedant, began to give a timeline of the history of kings and the sword, adding far more detail than the story required. “After Hanbri, the sword ended up south in the Land of Monghora, where civil war quickly broke out. Rakiyl then killed Hanbri; he poisoned him; then, while he was unconscious, he ran the Sword of Dahvan through his heart. By now, everyone had discovahed that whoevah fights with the Sword of Dahvan was unbeatable. At first they thought that they could not die but then it was discovahed there was no truth in that. He just can’t be beat with the powah of that sword. Sword for sword—the Sword of Dahvan will win every time.”
“Anyway, Rakiyl stole the sword and took over villages, oppressin’ the people and forcin’ them into slavery. Then King Dangar killed Rakiyl and took the sword back to his land, the Land of Mitorah where he oppressed the Mitorahians.”
“I don’t think he expected a history of every king,” Gilmanza said, gently. He could see where this was going.
“Oh, right, right. Sorry, I get carried away.”
“Anyway,” Buldar began again, “the sword has passed from hand to hand through various people who have sought powah to rule the world. Who can say all the hands that have taken up that sword?”
“What about King Chess?” asked Cozbi, sounding alarmed. “Has he evah attempted to seize the sword? And how did the sword come to Shalahem, and cause our own loss of immortality?”
“Well now, to answer your first question,” Gilmanza explained, “King Chess himself has nevah sought the powah of the sword. He entered into the kingship as a mortal, anyway. But many, many years ago, some great, great, great—I don’t know how many greats exactly—grandfathah, King Happi Japhia, was king. He was a kind and gentle man until he seized the sword, overcome by the temptation, whereby it ruled him and he became a tyrant, so we lost our immortality. He even murdahed some of his own sons so that they would not be a threat to his kingdom,”
Binko added his own bit. “Some kings have deceived themselves, thinking that they would rule with justice and not lord it over the people. But they failed to understand that the sword is cursed. That can’t be changed.”
“It’s been ages upon ages without the Sword of Dahvan within our land, cronies! Now it’s back.” Navi chimed in, having complete confidence in the Immortal King. “Life has been so sweet. But it will be sweeter still when King Justiz runs that sword through him.” I can hardly wait for that dirty scamp to get what he deserves.” There were a few hearty “Amens!” from the others.
“But what if he too succumbs to the sword’s powah? I mean why should we expect him to do somethin’ that no one else has been able to do?” Seemed like a reasonable question to Cozbi who wasn’t holding as much confidence in the Immortal King in light of the history of other immortal kings.
There was silence for a moment. Everyone knew that the question was valid. Finally, Gilmanza spoke up, “He is the only one we have to believe in.”
After a lengthy pause, Sagran felt compelled to find out another detail. “If you don’t mind me askin’,” he offered, “where did you find the Sword of Powah?”
“A Knight of the Hospitable Ordah found it at the fork at Shilly Shally Road” answered Gilmanza. “It was in a pond, with a corpse gripping it.”
“Shilly Shally Ford!” blurted Amase. “Isn’t there a prophecy about that?” the boy not hearing a word circulating among the riders who were trying to keep them out of the dark until they knew their character better.
“Yes.” Navi answered, looking suspiciously at Amase. “But how is it that you know of this prophesy?” Only the prophets had access to the scrolls and only kings and friends of prophets have access to their wisdom.” Many that rode with them knew of this prophecy because they had been long time friends of the wizards. Amase would have had access to neither having lived in a remote village. Sure, many legends and stories had ran their course in time but knowledge of this nature was not broadcasted.
“I don’t know.”
Navi eyeballed the boy, curious and uncertain about him in every way.
“But that can’t be!” Sagran cried, himself being oblivious to the prophecy of Shilly Shally Ford. “When King Arga of the Awshaks charged into our village, he held up the Sword of Powah, showin’ it to us! He carried it everywhere he went; in fact, he had it just the othah day.”
“That’s impossible” Gilmanza affirmed. ”We have the Sword of Dahvan locked up in a safe place.”
“No, I saw it,” Sagran insisted.
“But did you touch it?” asked Navi.
“Well, of course not.”
“He obviously had a fake,” said Navi, offering a simple explanation.
“But…”
“Were there evah any Ridahs of Quadar with him?” asked Gilmanza, determined to put this tale to rest.
“No! There were nevah any dahk ridahs in our village this last time.”
“If it were the genuine Sword of Dahvan,” Gilmanza declared, “then Ridahs of Quadar would have been in your village in droves. I have seen a blue million imitations from people who lust aftah powah, desiring to lord it ovah the weak.”
“You mean my wife and friends died ovah a fake Sword of Powah?” Sagran asked somberly.
There was silence for a moment; then, Navi gently spoke up. “You know, the ancient prophecy said that there would appear imposters, claimin' to possess the Sword of Powah.”
Ozni sought to comfort his friend. “Anyone can use any unique looking sword, or even craft one to look like it, but there is only one Sword of Powah. Even without the Sword of Powah, your village could not have put down those warriors without some outside help.”
“Neighbahing villages would have helped,” Sagran said. “If not, at least we would have died fightin’.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Binko said gently. “Even if you had known, there were far too many of them. There was nothing you could have done, Sagran.”
“How do you know that you have the real Sword?” asked Sagran.
“Because we witnessed its powah’” said Navi.
“You mean there really is a powah that can be felt?” Monguard asked as he kept whittling away at his wood that was starting to take shape now. The riders nodded their heads, almost as one, assuring him that the Sword of Power indeed did possess a real and tangible power. “To tell you the truth, I have often wondahed if there’s really any truth to that sword; I mean, perhaps it’s all legends.”
“Me too,” Sagran said, wide eyes taking it all in.
“No, crony, it’s for real,” Navi answered. “It may sound like something from a fairy-tale, but it’s true. I’ve experienced it. Even Windsor had a run-in with the sword in his youth. Dahvan tried to deceive him into takin’ the Sword of Powah, tellin’ him that he would rule over all people with this sword. He told Windsor the sword had powah far above any Windsor had evah known.”
“What did Windsor do?” Cozbi was curious even though he knew where Windsor stood.
“He told that bloody scamp where he could go. That’s what Windsor did.”
Monguard was still not fully convinced. “So there really is a powah to that sword aftah all? What is it like?” he asked.
“Windsor experienced his own battle of temptation with that sword. He held it in his very own hands, and felt its powah radiate. He told me it felt as though the sword was callin’ to him, tellin’ him how powerful he was, and indeed, making him feel powahful. He said the powah he felt from that sword scared him, and he threw it back at him and fled, vowin’ never to come that close to temptation again.
“Dahvan became angry, and the two engaged in a long and exhaustin’ duel. At one point, Dahvan forced him to the ground and placed the Sword of Powah in Windsor’s hands, making him experience once again the powah of the sword, and hopin’ to tempt him into de
sirin’ it. But Windsor resisted it all.”
“That must have been very difficult.” Sagran was clearly impressed. He held admiration for the wizard. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“If King Arga was claiming to have the Sword of Powah,” Binko said, “then he must have been exposed to it or seen it.” He was thinking out loud, drawing conclusions as he went.
Gilmanza was following Binko’s line of thinking. “When Pip found the Sword, there was a corpse with it.”
Binko began putting two and two together. “My guess is that the dead man, who evah he was, must have been in King Arga’s presence at some point, and one of them had it, while the unfortunate corpse was the winnah of the grand prize. How he died would be interesting to find out, since the possessah of the Sword is unbeatable sword for sword.”
“Well, we know where it is right now and that’s what mattahs most. It’s gettin’ late. We should rest up,” Gilmanza said.
As they finally rolled over to get some sleep, Cozbi had one more question. “Whatevah happened to King Chess’s great, great, great…whatevah grandfathah?”
Navi answered him. “The king’s son was faced with a terrible decision: he had to kill him or be killed; so he killed him. The king had gone bloody-mad and tried to kill him. It was a true tragedy for the royal family, crony. King Chess hates that sword.”
After so much talk about the Sword of Darvan, the riders gathered close to the fire, bundled under their blankets, and drifted off to sleep.