Swords of the Six (20 page)

He looked down at the old woman in the canoe. Something familiar about her . . . a warm, sunny day back when . . . but he could not complete the picture in his mind.

"Eh, who is there?" the old woman said, searching all around with her eyes. "Who are ye?"

"We both serve the same master, Enlightenment," Specter answered. He did not know how he knew her name, but he said it anyway, then looked southward. "Now, go! I will hold them off until you and the child are safe."

The dragons and the It'ren were close now. He turned to look again at the canoe—but it was nowhere in sight.

* * *

A spot of light hovered star-like six feet off the ground, spitting out strands of energy and expanding until the portal began to open. Soon the sisters would be able to pass through to the realm of their father. Dantress scanned the sea, then the shoreline and the river behind them. The old woman in the canoe was nowhere to be found.

They should not have left her alone.

Fiercely the wind now blew, kicking up the sand and biting the sea until it frothed. Dantress shivered, half from the chill sneaking through her garment and half from the foreboding darkness gathering in the sky. Clouds covered the sun, thunder rumbled—or was it the distant sounds of combat?

She shifted her eyes from the opening portal, her way home to safety.

Green energy zipped from the sky to the southwest, targeting a portion of the forest west of the Eiderveis River.

"Something's not right." She gripped her sword's handle tight and reached out with her mind, groping through the forest for any clue as to what had happened to the old woman and the child.

Caritha's hand grasped Dantress's shoulder. Dantress looked at her. Eyebrows knitting together, lips pressed tight, the older sister shook her head. "We have done our part, Dantress. Now we must wait."

"Wait? But Caritha, what if—"

The portal opened to its full aperture and an enormous white body shot through it, wings spreading as it passed over the sisters. "Father!"

But the great white dragon did not so much as turn his head as he soared into the sky and out of sight.

The portal fizzled with energy and another figure emerged, this one much smaller. With his shepherd's curved staff in hand, the wrinkled, kindly man smiled at the sisters and spread his arms wide. A gust of wind caught his hood, it slipped from his head and folded over his back. "Well done! Well done, indeed!" He kissed each of them on the forehead and slapped the dust from their shoulders.

"Our mission
was
a success." Caritha bowed. "Yet, we have failed in one regard."

"Oh?" The man leaned on his staff, fixing his blue eyes on her dark ones. "To what failure do you refer?"

Dantress stabbed her sword into the sand. The mission
hadn't
been a success. If it had, then Kesla would have returned to her father. And she had also given up his infant son. She should have kept that boy safe. She should not have given him to that crazy old woman sitting in a land-bound canoe. Things would have been different; things would have been a lot different.

She sank to the coarse sand and struck it with her fist.

As if in answer to her inner cries, a rustic canoe slid onto the beach, half resting in the water. The old woman held out her arms. Dantress stood slowly. A tear formed in each eye, blurring her vision as she reached out and took the warm, sleeping son of the traitor into her arms. She mouthed a thank you to the old woman.

"Take care of yerself, deary." The old woman's canoe slid away into the sea. "Ye have a gift, a gift to love without consideration to yourself. Never let that go."

No oars were in the old woman's hands and the boat had no rudder, yet it moved off into the distance, carrying the curious occupant beyond Dantress's sight.

"Come." The shepherd strode to the portal's entrance and waved the sisters toward it.

Rose'el set her shoulders and stepped through without a word. And Evela followed with a bounce in her step. Levena sheathed her sword, lifted her chin proudly, then allowed the fizzling circle of light to swallow her whole. Laura walked in, briskly, no hesitation. Caritha, sword still in hand, glanced at Dantress and, with a nod, stepped through.

Patient stood beside Dantress, his arm around her shoulders. With his free hand he stroked the baby's head. "You have chosen wisely, child," he told her. "In saving this one life, you have saved many.

"Now we should go. These lands must await another day, another savior. But for now, they fall into darkness." Thus saying, the shepherd led her by the hand into the portal.

She was sinking into a jelly-like substance, slippery and cool. All sense of time failed her, light streamed by in glorious abundance. The shepherd beside her streamed into nothingness, the light nudged her with its gentle fingers, sending her into a knee-high stream of bluish-yellow jelly. She was moving at incredible speed, diverted from the portal's original course.

* * *

Six yellow-eyed, black scaled dragons dropped from the sky, enclosing Specter in a circle. Drusa alighted on the ground not ten feet in front of him. Her feathers shivered, reminding him of a buzzing bee anticipating its next nectar harvest. Her eyes fastened on him and her dirty lips curled back to reveal equally filthy teeth.

She could see him? He glanced around at the dragons, their eyes fastened on him as well. They could see him too. But—what had happened? He should be invisible.

Thunder shook the ground, another bolt sizzled from the heavens. This one cracked into the ground only a few feet away from Specter, and a dark figure descended through it. Black and brown feathered wings unfolded from the humanoid's back, and a gust of wind flipped long gray hair over one of the creature's wild, black eyes.

Drusa crouched. "Master, this is
the
ghost man from the forest!"

"Ah." The creature rubbed its hands together. "But surely this cannot be the same man? For now he is visible, exposed for all of you—my faithful ones—to see."

"I have no wish to harm you." Specter stared into the creature's eyes. "Leave now and we will all live to see tomorrow."

The winged man laughed and turned to his minions. "Did you hear him? Are you listening?" He returned Specter's stare coldly. "I fear no one, Ghost Man! I am Turser, the Art'en wizard Lord of these lands and wielder of a power beyond any I gather you possess."

Turser fished into his black, ragged shirt with his right hand—the skin was black, the hand withered—and when it reappeared it balanced a small shiny sphere, as black as the depths of night, on its palm. "Tell me, Ghost, what is
your
name?" Without any warning the wizard's healthy hand sprouted a blast of green energy, striking Specter in the chest and sending him breathless to the ground.

"Pity." The wizard held out the sphere. "I had hoped we'd get to know one another better before I killed you. But seeing how easy this is proving to be, I doubt you have much longer to live."

Standing, Specter forced himself to ignore the heat racing through his chest. He drove at the wizard with all his might, but another green energy bolt struck him down. This one sizzled longer, latching onto and lingering on his chest before it died. But he stood again and, when the wizard threw another charge in his direction, Specter jumped to the side, rolled, and stood beside the Art'en. He raised his scythe.

The wizard, energy still sprouting from his left hand, did not have time to protect himself. Specter's blade sliced open the man's face from his left eye down to his chin. He swung the handle of his weapon around to hit the creature's side.

Screeching like a mortally wounded bird of prey, the wizard crouched down and bit Specter's leg. Specter attempted to back off, but the winged man seemed transformed into a carnivorous creature.

Striking with fists and wings, Turser dropped to the ground. He balanced on his hands and kicked his feet into Specter's ribs. As he fell, Specter tried to stab the wizard, but Turser's black sphere fed him green energy and blasted from his hand, hitting Specter repeatedly until Specter felt that he would indeed die—again.

Again? What made him think that he had died before? His mind filled with images of swords and blood and a youth—wielding a white-bladed scimitar.
Betrayed!
He felt the conviction of the word, knew then what he was,
who
he was. But,
no, I am him no longer. I am Specter.

Despite the pain, despite the multitude of attacks, Specter stood up again; he would not die today.

He twirled the scythe around his body, letting his rage build inside him like a hurricane waiting to be let out. The next time that the Art'en's wings struck at him, Specter's scythe harvested their feathers.

The wizard screeched again, his featherless wings pitifully naked.

"I did not want to kill you," Specter said. He drove his weapon's handle into his enemy's ribcage. With every blow the images of his previous life returned to his mind, making him remember, making him strong.

Holding his scythe with both hands he now struck the wizard's withered hand, knocking away the sphere. As soon as he did . . . he had the satisfaction of seeing his cloaked body vanish. But his efforts had cost him dearly. His wounds drained the energy from his body. He collapsed, invisible, yet helpless.

The clouds in the eastern sky split apart as if pierced by an enormous white blade and Specter knew what would happen before it ever did. This time salvation had come in time.

Albino dropped from the sky, directly over him. The tremendous bulk of the dragon overshadowed him. In the great white dragon's presence the other dragons cowered away, whimpering like dogs in retreat.

Drusa alone tested the creature. She flew at his neck as if to tear out his throat. But instead of touching him, the It'ren passed through him as if he were not even there. When she fell to the ground, she looked up and screeched in terror. Her master rose beside her, grabbing for his sphere.

But Albino opened his mouth in an earth-shaking roar. The sphere rose into the air and hovered before the dragon until his claws closed around it and shattered it into a thousand fragments. An explosion of darkness erupted from the ruined device of wickedness, yet the dragon's white scales glowed and the darkness dissipated against them.

Clasping Specter in his claws, Albino shot into the sky. Specter watched the ancient ruins and the wizard and Drusa shrink out of sight. And even as he rested in the dragon's clutches, he felt Albino send wave after wave of revitalizing energy into his body to heal his wounds.

Chapter 11: Planting Seeds

Shooting from the stream of jelly and light, Dantress emerged into a dark place. She could see no farther than her hands and her feet did not rest on a floor. Yet the air cushioned around her, making her comfortable and secure.

Ahead of her two doors opened silently, and a vertical line of flickering light appeared. A chamber filled with raging flames emerged from the blackness. A sword, burning fire inside of and on the exterior of its blade, rose amidst the flames. She caught her breath. Its handle twisted upward, its blade pointing down, until it rested level with her eyes.

"Once again you come to me, dragon's daughter. Once again you loosen the tongue of prophecy:

'The man child you hold, the traitor's son, son of a warrior—and of a witch. A powerful warrior he will become. He will seek vengeance for those he does not know, and his eye will be drawn to dragon blood enchained beneath the valley.'"

Dantress could not take her eyes off the weapon which had a splendor beyond compare. Where was she? And what, or who had created this place?

The chamber doors closed gradually, leaving her once more in total darkness. She felt her feet rest on a solid floor of stone.

"It is done then," a voice rumbled from behind her.

She spun around. Balancing the child in one arm she reached into the fold of her garment and touched the cool pommel of Xavion's sword. Her fingers slid over its handle, and she drew it from its scabbard. The blade blazed like a torch, and the light radiated off of the pure white scales and soft pink eyes.

"Father!"

In her excitement, Dantress almost dropped the baby, who started to cry.

She ran to the dragon's outstretched arms, feeling his warm gaze. As his strong, hard fingers pressed her against his chest, Dantress wept. The joy of reunion, the stress of the past days . . . it all welled up inside her until it forced its own release.

She could not say how long she and the dragon stood there. When she opened her eyes they were standing in the palace library.

Patient stood there too, leaning on his shepherd's staff with one hand, smiling at her from beneath his hood. And in the shepherd's arm lay Kesla's son, sound asleep. The shepherd's white robes starkly contrasted the dark bookcases towering above him. Somehow he seemed almost magnificent, even in the presence of the great white dragon.

"The boy is Kesla's son," Dantress said as the dragon released her from his embrace. She walked toward the shepherd and lowered her sword into its scabbard.

The white dragon took one powerful stride past her and fixed his eyes on the weapon. "The sword." His tone was hushed. "Patient, my friend, do you see?"

"Yes! Yes, I do." The shepherd's blue eyes shone, and he stepped in Dantress's direction, his eyes fastened on the sword's handle, which she still held. "Do you think"—the shepherd looked up at the dragon, questioning—"that this weapon might be purified?"

"It appears the process has already begun." The dragon swung his head around to address the shepherd. "But the sword will never truly be cleansed, never fully restored, until it is wielded by one who has shed no blood, whose heart is pure, and in whose veins runs the blood of humanity. Only then would it be restored to its original state."