Swords of the Six (22 page)

* * *

The white dragon emerged from the portal, and it closed behind him with a snap. Dantress, astride his back, drank deeply of the crisp, flowery air. Fluffy tidbits of pollen floated on the gentle moving air, filling the flat meadows around them like a haze. It gave the scene a surreal feel, dreamlike, separated from reality.

She reached out, caught one of the elusive pollen clumps. A red petal wafted into her hand and she breathed in the smell of roses.

But the dragon shifted beneath her, and she grabbed hold of his scales. The dragon's legs methodically took step after step and the ground crept away behind her. Then he picked up speed. Each long stride brought her closer to the distant setting sun, Yimshi—and a descent to unknown lands miles below.

The dragon shot off the edge and the sisters screamed. They left the beautiful flowery meadows, flying off of the land they knew and over lands that they knew nothing of.

Glancing behind, Dantress saw clouds obscuring the meadow, hiding the kingdom of Emperia in veils of innocent white mist.

Around the dragon the meadow, clouds, sunset, and lands below blended, like mixing paint, into myriads of color and light. Nothing except her and her sisters and the dragon were visible, and she supposed that they were traveling at a speed unparalleled by any other creature.

As surprisingly as the flight had begun, it now ended. The streaming colors coalesced, resolving into trees rushing beneath them and a purplish-pink sky above. The great white dragon angled back his wings and dropped through the treetops, thudding into the forest, jarring Dantress. She looked around, disoriented, wondering where in Subterran he'd brought them.

In one unified action the sisters swung their legs over the dragon's side and sprang to the ground as he crouched to permit them an easier descent. The forest's floor cushioned Dantress's feet as she landed. She looked around at the forest.

Crooked old trees and twisted young ones almost completely surrounded her, with the exception of the spot of forest directly in front of her where wild grape vines dangled over a low cliff face. A triangular wedge cut into this wall of solid stone, no more than six feet wide and ten feet high.

Albino's claws pulled aside the vines, revealing the triangular mouth of a cave. Then he released the vines, hiding it once more.

"Your assignment here, my daughters," he rumbled, "will not be immediately apparent to you. This cave will provide you with shelter from the elements until the time comes for you to leave this place."

With a gentle sweeping gaze, the dragon looked upon his daughters. His wings spread, stretched toward the cloudless sky, his scales glowing pure white in the gathering darkness. Fastening his pink eyes on Dantress, he lifted her chin with one of his claws.

His touch felt cool on her skin and she smiled up at him. But the pink eyes did not smile back and a lone tear formed in the dragon's eye. "Be safe, my daughter."

The dragon roared, shaking the ground as he shot through the forest canopy. The first stars twinkled in the heavens and he disappeared like a comet into the western sky.

* * *

Not even the starlight cascading down the high waterfall could tear Albino's eyes away from the white robed shepherd stepping into the pool of water formed at the waterfall's base. Patient waded deeper and the water rippled around him. In his hands the sword of living fire burned, the tip of its beautiful blade barely touching the water's surface.

The scales along Albino's spine shimmered as a cool breath washed over him. The trees around the presence of an unseen One blossomed and shed their leaves then grew new ones. The grass warmed and shivered.

"We are all here, Patient." Albino spat flames into the misting night air.

Another voice boomed out beside him. "Let's do it, Patient. I grow weary of waiting."

A smile snuck across the shepherd's face as a breeze pushed his hood off his head and his long white hair freely flowed behind him. "Patience, my friends." But he raised the sword by its handle, above and before him, longingly gazing upon its flaming blade, then slowly lowered it into the water, and stabbed it into the depths until it was hidden from view.

Beside him, the dragon felt the presence of the other One depart.

He nodded to Patient as he slogged out of the water and obligingly dried his robes with a wave of his clawed hand. With not a word more, the shepherd climbed onto the dragon's neck, and Albino spread his wings to depart.

PART II

MIGHTIEST OF SWORDS

Chapter 1: Man of the Wilderness

It was the night of Ilfedo's seventeenth birthday. Heat radiated throughout the room from the fireplace. He dropped his hand to feel the long box set across his legs, the gift he'd been forbidden to open until after cake was served. To his left sat his mother, blond hair dancing and green eyes glimmering in the candlelight. She beamed at him, clasped his hand in both of hers, then she turned to meet her husband's lips for a quick kiss.

Rising from his rustic chair, Ilinor, his father, pushed it back from the table and stood with a pewter mug held in his hand. "To you, our friends, our neighbors." He nodded at the half dozen smiling faces looking up at him with rapt attention. "And to you, Ilfedo"—he grinned at his son—"on this most momentous day of your life, a day I hope you will look back on as
not only
the day that you entered manhood, but also the day that you recommitted yourself to uphold your family name, the name of Mathaliah, with honor, for as long as you live."

"Here! Here!" The other three men sitting at the table scrambled to their feet for a moment, and clunked their mugs to his.

"And to my wife, Larkspur," Ilfedo's father continued, resting his hand on her shoulder and looking down into her eyes, "who has raised for me a son of whom I am proud!"

At this, two women seated across from his mother raised their mugs. "Here! Here! Here!"

Ilfedo's face warmed as his mother kissed his cheek, then stood. Three lads now marched into the dimly illuminated room. They'd been his friends and playmates since childhood, ever since their parents had banded together to "Tame the wilderness" and "Get out of the overpopulated coastal towns." His father had headed the expedition, much to the horror of his fellow countrymen who'd warned him that the western parts of the Hemmed Land were no place to raise a family and certainly not the place for the descendants of the tiny nation's oldest family, the family of Mathaliah, to establish themselves.

True, the western half of the Hemmed Land was home to some old beasts that had been known to tear men in half, but it was also hunters' heaven—for those, like Ilinor, who dared explore its wild forested hills.

Ilinor preferred bow and arrows—sometimes a javelin—while on the hunt. A finely crafted, sleek long bow hung over the large stone fireplace behind the kitchen table in their three-room log cabin. The kitchen table had been stained red with the blood of Ilinor's many kills. Below the bow, on a wooden peg driven between the fireplace stones, hung the quiver full of steel-tipped arrows on wood shafts. Ilinor had acquired a large quantity of the lethal arrowheads from the smiths in the coastal towns before making his departure.

His three friends marched stiffly toward Ilfedo, carrying his cake. Ombre stood nearest him, walking sideways with both hands supporting the cake's wooden dish. His hazel eyes twinkled merrily, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was having difficulty keeping his face straight.

Broad-shouldered, sandy-blond haired Honer held the center of the cake dish. His gray eyes met Ilfedo's for an instant before looking to his right where sat a couple whose sandy-blond hair and matching gray eyes left no doubt that he was their son. Fletch, of the family Pithion, sitting with his wife Adara, glued their gazes on their son. Honer's seventeenth had come and gone a year and a half ago.

To the couple's right sat a solid-built man with his hands clasped on the table. Jevnar of the family Ernalia. His wife had died two years ago and, though a very nice middle-aged woman back on the coast had tried to draw his eye for a while, he'd eventually decided that no one would take his dead wife's place at his side and had remained a widower. Ombre was his only child and they lived in a tiny cabin a considerable distance south of Ilfedo's parents.

The man smiled a small smile at Ilfedo when he saw him staring, and Ilfedo smiled back, then glanced toward his cake, feeling that he had somehow intruded on the man's private affairs.

Beside Honer, Ganning held the last third of the cake dish. He was a bit of an oddity from the rest, boyish yet sober, dark haired, yet blue eyed. His parents occupied the seats beside Jevnar.

Every other step Ganning took dropped his head and shoulder down by at least a couple inches. His gimpy left leg had been with him from birth. But Ilfedo knew that the boy's limp deceived many people into underestimating his physical abilities. He had seen Ganning run over a wet forest floor with hardly a sound, notch an arrow to his bowstring and bring down a deer within short order.

In fact, all the boys hunted and fished, following in their fathers' footsteps. Though, of late, Ilfedo'd preferred hunting with a sword. Unconventional it might sound—his father at first objected—but Ilfedo liked the maneuverability the sword offered him. Swing, throw, stab—the options seemed limitless.

Slaps on the back from his friends, smiles from the adults gathered around—a thumbs up from Jevnar. Ilfedo relaxed into the party, enjoying the warm love of his home.

He cut the cake into slices . . . each one large enough for two men.

Larkspur passed out the cake, and Ombre said the chocolate and vanilla flavor was just perfect. She patted Ombre's head affectionately, then turned her back to the cabin door and passed cake to Jevnar, her smile magnetic.

The next moment a furry, black mass smashed through the door, razor sharp claws wildly cutting through the air. Never had Ilfedo seen a larger bear, nor, he vowed—as blood spurted from his mother's back and her face paled—would he ever see one alive again.

Horror froze everyone at the table. Everyone, that is, except Ilinor. Throwing himself across the table, he yelled like a madman as his wife collapsed in his arms. Her eyes closed, and he yelled wildly.

He pulled the chair from under Fletch Pithion, dropping the man to the floor, and smashed the heavy wood across the black-furred face. In the few moments that it took for this to happen, the bear shook its head and opened its mouth, latching horrifically with its fangy teeth onto Ilinor's neck and dragged him, bleeding to death, onto the floor.

Everyone sprang into action, grabbing whatever weapon happened to be closest at hand. Adara smashed the cake over the bear's head, while her husband swung his chair after it. Jevnar sprang onto the table, pulling down Ilinor's bow, slipped two arrows from the quiver, and drew it back, then released the projectiles into the beast.

The bear thrashed Ilinor around on the floor, tearing limb from limb, and it struck down the would-be-rescuers with one massive paw.

Ilfedo screamed, rage mixing with sorrow as he tore into his birthday box. The gift he had known would be contained therein, shone back at him in the firelight. Highly-polished metal glinted in the firelight. He snatched up a three-foot long sword of simple yet solid composition, its blade honed to a deadly point.

He stepped over his guests, the box falling to the wood floor, his fist gripping the sword's leathern handle. His father lay dying, his mother—already dead.

The bear swatted at him. He upswung his new blade and drove its point through the bear's paw. Then, with all the strength he possessed, he stabbed the beast's face.

Ilfedo watched the bear through blurring vision as it fell, the blade stuck through its paw into its head, and he released his hold on the black leather grip.

Kneeling beside his mother he held her wrist. No pulse. He called her name, knowing that he'd been too late. Nothing beating in the heart that had loved him as only hers was able.

A tear formed in Ilinor's eye and rolled off his face. "You are—alone—my son. I am ..." Blood dribbled from his mouth. "I am sorry."

A strong hand clasped Ilfedo's shoulder. He felt someone else's tears falling onto his neck. Jevnar said, "No, Ilinor. Not alone."

The room lay in shambles, but the weeping faces of his friends all around, shook from side to side, affirming Jevnar's statement. "Not alone."

Ilinor struggled, spitting blood as he grasped Ilfedo's shoulder. "You are a man now, my son! But—you need a father—regard Jevnar as such. He—loves you—I know that." He rasped out another breath. "Remember your Creator—honor the family name—" He breathed in one last time, and his eyes closed in death.

Hours passed. No one stirred.

Evening came, darkness fell, midnight passed. Still the mourners lingered, unmoving.

When Yimshi's first light broke upon the forest, the mourners wrapped the dead and formed a blood-stained procession, taking the bodies of Ilfedo's parents to a spot deep in the forest. They cut down one of the larger trees, carved out a rustic coffin, and placed Ilinor and Larkspur together inside of it.

Deep in the earth they buried them, covering the grave with rocks so large it took all three grown men and Ombre, Honer, and Ganning to move them.

Ilfedo remained there that day—and Jevnar stood with him, while Ombre wept almost as much as he. The emotional wounds were deep, he knew. It would take time to heal. But he
would
heal.

* * *

Ilfedo accepted a large wooden mug from the innkeeper. The potent juice of the wild grapes slid refreshingly from the mug, over his tongue and down his throat. He set the mug down, sliding his hand along the slippery bar. Thanks to the crackling wood in the fireplace, heat drove the dampness from his unkempt, shoulder-length hair and the clammy clothes clinging to his skin.