Burden of Stones

by James Dale

  Braedan stood on the top step of the temple, heart pounding in his chest like a sledge-hammer, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a sprinter anxiously waiting for the starter's pistol. He had been troubled by occasional doubts since learning his heritage, doubts that no matter his lineage, the fabled Highsword would not recognize the blood flowing through his veins after eight hundred years. He would never doubt again. Not when the mere presence the sword infused his entire being with rapturous joy.

  A light touch fell on his arm and Braedan almost jumped out of his skin. "Are you ill?" Ara’fael asked, concern evident on her face.

  If he needed any more convincing Yhswyndyr was meant for him alone, she had just provided it. The Ailfar Spellweaver had been acutely sensitive to the power wielded by the three Lords, even gauging how much they had summoned when their strength was combined. Yet she could not sense the Highsword, though its hum of power seemed almost overwhelming to Braedan.

  "Are you ill?" she repeated, her voice barely reaching him through the song of the Sword of Life.

  "I'm okay," Jack replied, trying to smile away her concern. "Really."

  "You don't have to shout," the Spellweaver replied.

  "Sorry," he laughed.

  Ara’fael looked at him like she suspected he had lost his mind.

  In a way Braedan had. He had opened himself fully to Yhswyndyr, giving over his will to the sword's call until it seemed every cell, every fiber, even the hairs of his head, vibrated with glorious vitality.

  "Come," Lord Wiegl said, taking him by the arm and leading him down to the floor.

  High Lord Perigaen followed, motioning for Lord Dhoran to bring the witnesses. When everyone reached the floor, Perigaen positioned them in a half circle around where he and Braedan stood in the center of the temple. Dorad and Tarsus stood on the far left, both smiling with encouragement to the man who had saved their lives, so long ago it seemed now, by slaying the Norgarthan possessed by the demon Urioch, and setting the wheels of destiny in motion. Next to the former pirates stood Prince Kirstaen An’Kaera, then Lady Ara’fael, Arrinor and Ailicia, with Elua between them, Kaiddra his former lover, Sir Gain, and finally Thonicil. The Elfstone in Bin'et ardendel glowed green with the nearness of the Highsword Deathbane and the power of the Sunheart.

  "Stand here, Claimant," Lord Dhoran said, directing him to the edge of a circular mosaic on the floor, measuring perhaps six feet across and depicting a gleaming broadsword with a sunburst in its cross hilt.

  Braedan moved to the spot as if floating in a dream. Yhswyndyr was just below his feet. He could feel it pulsating through the soles of his boots like he was standing atop a nuclear reactor approaching critical mass. High Lord Perigaen turned to him and spoke a long discourse, but Braedan could hear nothing over the Highsword's call. The Lord's lips stopped moving and he looked as if he expected a reply. Jack smiled and nodded, beyond caring.

  Perigaen, Lord Dhoran and Second of the Staffclave Wiegl moved to the other side of the mosaic, closed their eyes, and raised their staffs high. A circle of blue light erupted around the mosaic but Braedan felt no heat from the glow. The glow died away quickly, and when it was gone, so was the stone picture of the Highsword. It was replaced by a black hole in the temple's floor, soon filled by an alter draped in white velvet rising from its depths. Resting atop the alter was a sword.

  The Highsword Yhswyndyr.

  The Sword of Life rested in an ostentatious sheath of silver with golden inlay, set with diamonds and other precious stones. Braedan knew intuitively Ljmarn Bra' Adan had never carried the sword in such a gaudy scabbard. A man of his humble character could never have been so vain. It had obviously been commissioned after his death by some misguided High Lord who thought to enhance the majesty of the powerful talisman. Yhswyndyr however, needed no such adornment. The mere existence of the Highsword set with Sunheart in its hilt made it an object of unsurpassed beauty.

  Annawyn had made him complete with the gift of her love, had given his life purpose, but this sword, forged by the word of Yh’Adan and set with the jewel from his brow, would give his purpose direction. That direction, Jack knew as he gazed with awe upon the Steel of the Lord, was east. East lay Agash Thugar. East waited Graith and the Bloodstone.

  Braedan needed no prompting from High Lord Perigaen. He stepped forward to the edge of the alter and slipped hands trembling with excitement under the silver sheath cradling Sunheart, gently lifting the sacred blade. The Claimant to the throne of Ljmarn Bra' Adan turned to the people gathered to witness the fulfillment of prophecy. Men and women who had crossed an ocean with him, had shared danger and death and laughter and love and friendship, regarded him with a mixture of fear and wonder as he held the Highsword before them.

  "This ought to be interesting," Jack smiled. With one swift motion, he grasped Yhswyndyr's hilt and pulled the sword free of its silver sheath as a blinding flash filled the temple.

  White fire, glorious and holy, raged like a cyclone in his mind. Braedan fought for mastery of the blade, sensing if he failed to subdue the power seeking to consume him, he would be the third to die by touching the Highsword. Unlike the other two men however, the knowledge of mastery flowed through his veins. It was encoded in every cell of his body, passed down from generation to generation to the last direct descendant of the House of Bra'Adan.

  That was how the curse worked, Jack realized as he battled with the force of creation contained in the sword. Hidden somewhere in his DNA, a code would be recognized by Sunheart. 'Suffer none save the flesh of your flesh and the blood of your blood to touch it,' Yh’Adan had said upon giving the Highsword to Ljmarn. He suddenly understood only by submitting himself to Sunheart, by letting the stone read the code written in the molecules of his blood, could he survive to wield its power.

  Jack Braedan, last descendant of the Bra'Adan line, opened himself to the sword.

  White fire rushed to engulf him, to boil his blood and burn his bones to cinders. But Braedan welcomed its fury. He embraced the rage of Sunheart like a long-lost friend...a long-lost brother. The power of the Highsword hesitated, questioning, searching his blood for the coded message of recognition. It may have only been as whisper as Graith claimed, but a whisper was enough. When his blood answered, the transformation was instantaneous. Instead of being consumed by Sunheart, he and the sword merged into one.

  He became Yhswyndyr.

  Similar to the merging which had occurred between Braedan and the fallen angel Hae’adan, knowledge assaulted him in waves; how to command Sunheart to heal or kill, to rain fire or lightening, how to shake the very Pillars of Heaven! Unlike the knowledge gained from the mind of the former Archangel however, each morsel of wisdom was quickly filed away in his subconscious, to be recalled again when he became more attuned to the sword or when a pressing need arose. Though he was not yet familiar with the power of the sword, he certainly possessed a need.

  "Graith!" Jack roared. He lifted the sword aloft and flame erupted from Deathbane to mushroom against the domed ceiling high above his head. Stating his need, Sunheart revealed to him how to step waking into the Land of Dreams.

  Part VI

  Chapter Seventeen

  Yhswyndyr

  Traveling to the Land of Dreams by the power of Sunheart, there was no field of stars, no dream patterns to search and select, he was simply...there. He was still in the Temple of the Sword, but as it was in the dream world. This place however, had not been created out of his subconscious. It was always here. Braedan learned this from the Highsword. Long Tooth had also hinted at the same thing. 'What is a dream?' the wolf had asked. 'When you go, I will still remain.'

  This was the Temple of the Sword which remained after a dream.

  The entire world was here in the Land of Dreams waiting to be entered. Dreamwalkers could alter its form, but only for as long as they remained. When they returned to regular sleep or the waking world, it would resume its natural state and wait to be visited again another night. And it was al
ways night somewhere. But Jack had come here waking. What he did here would alter anything he touched in both worlds.

  Braedan could leave the temple, walk down the mountain, and Lord's Hall would be there, waiting for him. Down at the village docks would be river boats, and at the end of the river would be Muriel's Revenge, same as in the waking world. If he could man the warship by himself, Braedan could sail all the way back to Wheslake, back to Dorshev, and it would be waiting too. He could enter Ellgereth palace, go to Annawyn's bedroom. The only thing he could not do was travel the land of dreams and step back into the waking world.

  Not yet at least, Sunheart told him. Not in words, but with imagines flashing by fast as lightning. It also told him this was not the only way to travel in the Land of Dreams. He could...will himself anywhere he desired. Like Dreamwalking, he could travel to places he had physically been before. He could go to his bedroom Dorshev. He could go to Brythond. To Elvendale. To Immer. To Gorthiel.

  Braedan chose the Iron Tower.

  As quick as a thought he was in Golgar's Temple. Memories came flooding back to Braedan as he stood once again on the balcony and looked down at the sacrificial alter; the helpless woman's terrified screams, the guttural chant of the unholy priest, the flashing knife, Kiathan's necrophiliac rape. He remembered it all like it was yesterday. Raged filled him as he saw the flames behind the alter, burning even in the Land of Dreams. With a howl of animal fury, Braedan pointed Yhswyndyr at the black stone and hurled a fountain of white fire brighter than the sun.

  As the alter disappeared with a roar, he realized there was no turning back now. He had come waking into the Land of Dreams to Agash Thugar. What he did at this moment would be echoed in the real world. At this very moment, the alter in the Iron Tower was melting to slag. Braedan could feel the Bloodstone's master coming. His rage was like a thousand steel needles piercing his brain. With the knowledge gained from his merging with Hae’adan however, now he was able to brush aside such crushing pain with ease.

  "Surely you can to do better than that!" Braedan taunted arrogantly.

  "I can," came Graith's shouted reply.

  The balcony where Braedan stood shuddered as a deep rumbling rose from the depths of Gorthiel. It suddenly occurred to him he had placed everything he'd worked for in jeopardy by coming here. Agash Thugar was the seat of the dark-King's power. 'You never think before you act,' Ara’fael had once said. And he had done it again! He'd let Graith goad him into coming here, challenging him as soon as he had Yhswyndyr in his hands because Annawyn thought he was sleeping with other women. Because he couldn't stand letting his wife think he'd betrayed their love, Braedan had walked eagerly into a deadly trap. He wasn’t prepared to take on the dark-King on his own ground.

  Not yet.

  But all was not lost. Before Graith could come for him, Sunheart showed him a route of escape, showed him how he could yet make the Land of Dreams safe again without the risk of sacrificing Aralon in the process. But Braedan could not do it here. Graith had possessed the Bloodstone for eight hundred years. The dark-King was too strong for him to battle in Gorthiel until he had fully mastered his own talisman. To survive until that time came, any struggle between them would have to take place on neutral ground. Or better still, somewhere Braedan would the advantage.

  Like the Temple the Sword.

  Graith would know this as well. Somehow, Braedan would have to entice the dark-King to follow him back to Lordsisle. Drawing every ounce of power he could from Yhswyndyr, he unleashed its fury into the heart of Golgar's Temple, filling the entire unholy chamber with righteous, cleansing fire. The stone walls cracked and shattered, the floor bubbled like molten lava, but would it be enough?

  "Graith!" Jack roared. "Where are you? Come see what I've brought you!"

  Red lightning erupted from the bubbling floor, leaping at the balcony like a striking cobra. Without conscious thought, Wind whips the Branches sent the powerful bolt toward the ceiling of the temple. It detonated with a force that shook Gorthiel to its foundation. Chunks of stone as large as boulders broke loose and began to fall around him as the Iron Tower shook like it was gripped in the throes of an earthquake. Would to be enough to bring the dark-King after him? Graith would not stand idle while his tower was torn asunder.

  Another bolt of lightning sprang from the floor, streaking towards him so fast Braedan didn't have time to defend himself. It took away most of the balcony, leaving him less than ten square feet to stand upon. It was time to be going.

  "You really should think about moving," Braedan taunted. "This place is falling apart."

  "How about Immer?" Graith shouted in fury, his voice filling the chamber. "Or the hovel your bitch calls a palace?" The dragon adorned entrance to Golgar's Temple exploded inward with a blinding flash of red. It was almost time to go!

  "I was thinking of someplace a little warmer," Braedan replied. "Like hell!" He shot a bolt of white fire at a shadowy figure as it stepped through the still smoking hole. Graith brushed aside his stroke with disdain and sent an answering ball of red flames screaming towards him. The remainder of the balcony disappeared with a deafening roar but Braedan was already gone.

  He stepped from the fury engulfing the Iron Tower back to the...with a flash of fear, Braedan realized he hadn't returned to the Temple of the Sword as he had planned. Something had gone terribly wrong. This was definitely a place he'd never been before. He was surrounded by lifeless hills. Blackened, shattered trunks of once mighty trees lay scattered around him like giant, used up match sticks. The thick smell of smoke still hung in the air as if what had happened here was only days removed.

  "Do you like it?" a voice behind him asked curiously.

  Braedan wheeled, Yhswyndyr flaring white in his hands, to confront a figure standing on one of the blasted tree trunks. Darkness was wrapped around him like a cloak, and in his hands, he held a long, black bladed sword. In the swords cross hilt, a red stone the size of a small child's fist burned hotly.

  "Do you recognize where we are?" Graith asked conversationally. "Just over there is...was Woodhaven."

  'No!' Braedan wailed silently. 'Not Ail'itharain!'

  "Of course," the dark-King sighed, "this is only my dream of Goldenbriar, but it will not be long before the waking world becomes its mirror."

  Braedan erupted with fury, sending a sizzling bolt of white flame at Graith. Not waiting to see the result of his attack, he fled again to...to the Dorshev of Kiathan's dream! The Ivory Throne was draped in black velvet. Along the walls of the throne room, Knights of the White Horse were crucified directly to the stone. Some....some still lived, moaning pitifully as the life slowly drained from their broken bodies.

  "Now I know you recognize this place," Graith chuckled.

  Braedan turned to find the dark-King lounging on Annawyn's throne, one leg draped insolently over an arm rest, his black sword laying across his lap.

  "I can't take credit for all the redecorating however," the dark-King smiled. "Come dear," he said, beckoning to the hidden doorway behind the dais. "We have a visitor."

  Annawyn stepped from the shadows dressed in a revealing, black gown, a smile on her black painted lips. She glided over to the throne and placed a familiar hand on Graith's shoulder.

  "Anna?" Jack cried, his soul ripping in two.

  "Gor'drueil," the dark-King corrected, patting her hand. "Her name is 'Black Heart' now. When you cast her aside for your mermaid, poor, broken hearted Anna needed comforting. She's quite the hot little minx. I suppose I have you to thank for her...talents."

  "No!" Jack wailed, throwing another bolt of white fire at Graith. To his horror, Annawyn threw herself into the flame's path, instantly becoming a thrashing human torch.

  Braedan disappeared with an anguished howl and found himself in....The Temple of the Sword. Shards of stone lay about the floor in haphazard heaps. Half of the golden dome was missing and red lightning could be seen flashing across a dark sky.

  "You would kill your own wife
?" Graith asked, stepping from behind a chipped column.

  "That wasn't Anna!" Jack cried. 'It couldn't have been!'

  "It wasn't?" Graith smiled. "Let's see, it's only late morning in Dorshev. I'll grant she wouldn't normally be asleep at this time, but poor Anna has been so distraught of late...well, she’s spent much time abed. I suppose it's possible it wasn't really your lovely wife, but then again... she has recently learned how to Dreamwalk."

  Braedan raised Yhswyndyr above his head and prepared to bring what was left of the Temple of the Sword crashing down around them.

  "Before you start throwing fire around again," the dark-King said, lifting empty hands. "Why don't we talk?"

  "We have nothing to talk about," Jack snarled, tightening his grip on the Highsword.

  "No?" Graith inquired. "What about Annawyn? For the sake of argument, let's say it was your lovely wife you just burned to a crisp. I could give her back to you. My Master is the Lord of the Dead after all."

  "If...if it was Anna," Braedan hissed, gathering Sunheart's power, "she would be in Paradise!"

  "Really?" the dark-King asked. "Who can say what state her tortured soul has been in the last few days? First, she imagined you lost, maybe swallowed by the Great Serpent? That’s certainly the dream she has been having of late. Last night, well, last night she found you still lived, but had decided to cast her aside for a mermaid’s fishy embrace. She was so hurt by your betrayal she... she could be capable of almost anything. Even giving herself to the Lord of Shadow."

  "That's a lie!"

  "Possibly," Graith admitted, beginning to descend the steps to the temple floor. "But if I am telling the truth, I am the only one who can bring her back."