Chapter 49
When Durge pulled the fancy jewel-hilted sword from its place atop a pyramid of skulls, something happened. Outside the window, the blue haze of light went away, replaced by the golden light of the unfiltered sun. Talon’s shrieking alarm pulsed through Hyden’s mind like a whip crack. The magical dome had disappeared, the hawkling conveyed, and a light wind from the plains was sweeping away the ashy foliage. Because Hyden had lingered behind the others long enough to grab the Tokamac Verge, he was the last one in the room. Durge was examining what looked like a glorified ice pick in his huge hands. Before the giant, a knee-high pyramid of strange humanoid skulls had been piled. The elf, Jicks, and the great wolves were spread about the room with tense, but easing, expressions on their faces.
“Be careful, friend,” Hyden warned. “It might be a weapon of demon construct.”
“It’s of no use to me,” Durge said, handing the weapon hilt out toward Jicks. “I only called out because it looked important.”
The young swordsman's hesitation gave Hyden the chance he needed to snatch the long sword from the giant.
Jicks looked as relieved as he did disappointed when Hyden took it. He’d heard many a tale of a magical sword turning a man mad, or worse, so he didn’t say anything.
Hyden gripped the hilt, closed his eyes, and felt for the nature of the blade. Finding what he was after was easy. The large sapphire set in the pommel was still dissipating the energy of its prolonged use, like a coal slowly cooling after a fire is put out. When he opened his eyes, Hyden examined the skulls that made up the weapon’s reliquary. He was curious as to why they hadn’t been scorched away like everything else. He found he was glad that this portion of the castle was all made of stone. Had these rooms been like some of the others, with beam and plank floors, everything that didn’t burn up would have fallen to a pile somewhere below. For a long moment he thought about why the skulls were still intact.
“The sword must have a shielding spell on it,” Hyden spoke his thoughts out loud. He was amazed that it made such sense to him. “When in close proximity to the marrow in the skulls its shield is activated. It’s a demon sword, so there must be demon blood or demon matter present for it to work beyond normal. The Tokamac Verge magnified the sword shield’s power to make the dome we entered to get here. The shield, though, only protected what was close to it. Once the radiant power was magnified, it lost its density, but the power expanded and held because of the Tokamac crystal’s influence.”
“By the Heart of Arbor,” Corva said in exasperation. “What are you trying to say?”
Jicks's answer didn’t sound sure, but he spoke up just the same. “The skulls aren’t charred because they are demon skulls and the sword protected them as it would the person wielding it.”
“Aye,” Hyden nodded. “Explain the rest of it, if you can.”
“The blue energy shield we went through was like a fishing net, but the holes in it were stretched so big that only a gigantic fish could get caught in it.”
“Not a fish, a dragon,” Durge said as his mind grasped the concept.
“Its old elven magic, Corva,” Hyden said. “But the sword was made for a man. The shield protects the man when he was fighting a demon, that’s why demon matter activates it.” He turned to Jicks, gave a half-formal nod, and presented him with the blade. “You get the honors. Don’t waste your time sharpening it by the fire. This is spell-forged steel. It will never dull.”
Jicks was speechless as he took it.
Hyden shook his head and started out of the room. Huffa sensed his sudden urgency and yipped at the other two wolves as she padded out behind him.
Corva skip-stepped to catch up with Hyden. The others lagged behind, moving at a normal pace. They had been climbing the accessible levels of the towers throughout the day, and Hyden’s desire to hurry wasn’t shared by all of them at the moment.
“If that blade was made by my people’s magic for a human, it must be ancient,” Corva said to Hyden Hawk as he gained his side. “Is it from the time of Pavreal and Ironspike?”
“Strangely, Corva, I sense that it is thousands of years older than Errion Spightre. Its existence implies far more than I want to consider at the moment. Whether it’s the Verge crystal magnifying my concern, or a feeling it is trying to send me, all I can think about is getting to Xwarda. I have a feeling…” He didn’t finish the sentence out loud. He could see no reason to get the others alarmed and overly excited. The balance of things had just been tipped so far toward the side of the light, that the backswing of the scales might be catastrophic. He had a strange feeling that by doing his goddess’s bidding, he had done something terrible.
Hyden ignored the praises from the strange villagers that night. Their prophecy had come to pass. His business here was done and things were weighing heavy on his mind. Durge, Corva, and Jicks, though, reveled in the glory the colorfully haired people were bestowing on them.
Over the next day, they made their way back across the empty plain, past the twisting trees and through the Shoovway. When they emerged back into the Giant Mountains they were in the midst of a blizzard. The whole way, Hyden pondered the intentions of his goddess, and his own more personal conflict with Gerard. To cause evil, in order to defeat evil, was a strange concept to him. He couldn’t be certain that what they had done would result in anything terrible, but the feeling of dread hung in his guts like a fist of ice. The urge to hurry grew inside him with every step he took. He was certain that each moment they dallied now carried the weight of lives with it. Even the animals in the mountains acted as if they expected something bad to happen. The hardest part of the sensation for Hyden was the fact that he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was the powerful thing his brother had become who would be the bringer of death and pain.
The only thought that relieved Hyden of the strange anxiety and guilt he felt was that the goddess knew these dark days were coming before he and his companions had gathered the powerful artifact.
By the time they neared the circular symbol carved into the floor that would teleport them back to Afdeon, Hyden’s fear and worry had all but consumed him. Not only in his waking thoughts, but now in his dreams, he saw blood and pain manifested in every way fathomable. From lethal battle wounds and destroyed cities, to wailing mothers huddled over mangled children. Visions of tortured friends and enslaved families plagued his mind feverishly. Finally, with Afdeon only a half day of hard travel away, Hyden crumbled under the weight of the darkness that was pressing down on him. He fell from Huffa’s back, face first into the icy track and lay there unconscious.
The wigmaker’s orbs bulged as Shaella’s dagger jerked up from between her sagging breasts. The Warlord stared through Shaella’s eyes into the old crone’s, and trembled with delight. Watching the sparkle of life fade from his victims was thrilling. In that moment, the Warlord was privy to the mind of the life he was extinguishing. The terrible things some of the good folk had done were surprising.
This particular soul intrigued him. In her younger days, this dying wench had poisoned her first husband to inherit his wealth. While trying to seduce a younger, more vigorous man, she had killed her unborn child to avoid motherhood. Later in life, guilt consumed her. She donated much of the profits she made from making wigs and reading the cards of fortune. This made the Warlord laugh. Humans were so foolish. The gods of light cared even less for regretful groveling than he did. A dark soul was a dark soul. And no amount of coin or regret could take that away.
The joy of this kill now extinguished, the Warlord shoved the old woman's corpse away and disrobed.
Standing before a full-length looking glass, Shaella tried on wig after wig, finally settling on one of long, raven-black hair. Her hair had been that way in life, but without the dragon’s fire scar across her temple, or the dagger scar under her eye, the Warlord doubted she would be recognized.
She had attacked Xwarda before, on the back of the great red dragon she’d tricked into service. No one there would recognize her, for she had been wearing battle gear, not a noble woman's dress. She straightened the bodice of the blue garment. The dressmaker’s life light had irritated the Warlord with the kindness it contained. The only thing about the death of her that pleased him was that her kindness was no longer in the world. Satisfied that Shaella looked like any other privileged young lady in the realm, he motioned for the wagon master to lead her back to the carriage.
The large trading town of Platt, where they were, was only a half-day’s ride to Xwarda. The excited Warlord had to remind himself that getting to the Wardstone and breaching the minor boundaries was only the first step in
