The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (20 page)

Approaching him, all of the party members could see the absolute peace on Vaun’s face, a strong contrast to the deadly intensity that had covered his features during the fight. They all felt the power flowing from him and into him, and they grew calm in its embrace. Drath had a sudden urge to kneel in homage to his young friend.

*
*
*

Faces swam out of the void of his mind, faces he did not know but ones he recognized. There were kind, pleasant faces and faces that regarded him with contempt and evil. A few had the light of madness glowing behind their smiles, but they didn’t frighten Vaun. They seemed only to caution him against acting as they had. One at a time, Vaun viewed the faces of his predecessors, and each viewed him in return. Perhaps a dozen were female, and Vaun smiled inwardly at the knowledge of at least one myth’s death.

Music accompanied the faces, music that spoke of fighting, death, and victory. Voices that were not voices sang words of battle, of harmony, and of triumph. He saw the forging of a sword in the words, and the joining of that sword with the man who wielded it. The song that had been struggling to the forefront of his mind for many days finally achieved its full stature. It became the Song of Battle, and it spoke of strength, speed, and skill.

From the fires of the forge Vaun saw his own blade come forth. He heard the ringing of a hammer on steel as it was woven to become the strongest weapon imaginable. That ringing provided a steady, strong undertone to the Song, which itself was created by the sound of swords clashing together. This rhythm of swinging and clashing swords, of bodies stepping to the cadence of battle, of dodging and parrying and striking, became the Rhythm of Battle, the only possible accompaniment to the Song.

The youth could vaguely sense the combatants of the Battle but found they were unimportant when compared to the harmony and music of the combat itself. All sword fights had a rhythm, and Vaun found it matched the flow of blood through his veins. Reveling in the feeling, he concentrated on the only clear image.

As he watched his sword being made, he saw four figures standing around it. Without knowing how, he identified Leaf, Oren, Homlin, and Amoril, the four smiths who had labored to create his sword. He saw their hearts and minds and souls being molded into the weapon, and then his own Bonded with it as well. He felt the awesome power of that Bond, felt the strength and force of the forge of life itself embedded in it.

Those same voiceless voices spoke to him again, speaking now of battles long ago and of victories won by the might of a sword. They told him of his Purpose, and he accepted it without question. They told him of men and women like him who lived long ago, all of whom, good or evil, had some Purpose. They warned that those who rejected their Purpose were condemned to madness and suicide. Vaun understood his Purpose. He accepted it.

When the voices stopped, the faces came again. This time, each smiled at him, though the obviously evil ones sneered more than they smiled. They all approved of him as a choice, and he felt a kind of brotherhood with them, a brotherhood with no gender distinctions, which reached back thousands and thousands of years. At the last, he saw a familiar face with youthfully handsome features. It had black hair and pale, pale blue eyes that bore a wisdom beyond their years. Behind the images, the Song and the Rhythm pounded on, fusing the spirits of his precursors with his own.

In addition to the Song and the Rhythm, Vaun could indeed feel his sword. Like when he’d stabbed the greasy haired man as well as all throughout this last difficult fight, the Vaulka felt as if it was his own arm. Only this time it did not horrify him. This time, the feeling thrilled him. He could feel the earth enclosing the tip of his sword, and the wind blowing over the surface of the woven steel as if it blew over his own skin. It was a cold breeze, and he shivered. He knew these feelings would extend to his opponents’ weapons, allowing him to feel their movements as well as he did his own.

As the music at last faded, he felt himself become whole, where before he had felt like two separate people. The questions and mysteries about himself seemed to have finally been answered, and for once he found those answers satisfying. He felt the Song and the Rhythm enter him and become part of his lifeblood, and he wasn’t scared of the union anymore.

Behind the music, behind the pounding of blood and heart and battle, a bright light shone. The Song and the Rhythm came from this light and the light gave the Song and the Rhythm to whomever it chose. Vaun didn’t know who or what this light was, but he knew it was there, just as he knew the Song and the Rhythm were there. His senses probing deeper, Vaun felt a presence behind the light and discovered it was the same presence he’d felt during his dream of receiving the sword. It was this Presence, not the light, that was the Creator and Giver of his new gifts, of all gifts. Though he knew he could do with his gifts what he chose, Vaun felt inclined to choose what would please this Presence. Vaun chose to embrace the Presence, and the Presence embraced him in return.

He then saw himself join the ranks of an elite society, and at that moment he knew who and what he was.

He was Vaun Tarsus.

He was a Swordsman.

8

Cecil Murdock hated his job.
Well, it wasn’t actually his job he hated; it was more the task at hand. The one he had to complete right now, at this very moment. Without delay. Immediately. He didn’t want this task, shouldn’t have to do it. But he was stuck with it.

He liked being a soldier. It gave his life meaning and offered an outlet for his frustrations. Plus, the life of an unemployed mercenary was not an easy one. He had just achieved the rank of captain, and now he was reduced to messenger boy. He should’ve found someone else to do it, but the general had told him to carry the message himself. He had given Cecil no opportunity to pass the message on to someone else. And even though the message had to be carried to the master himself, Cecil felt it was beneath his station.

He muttered as much and more to himself as he stalked morosely through the dimly lit corridors in the general direction of his master’s chambers. He decided to take as long as possible in delivering his message, for the news he carried was not good. Not good at all. Their men had failed again, but the master didn’t even know they’d failed the first time. Cecil had urged for the hiring of professional assassins, but the master had disagreed, and, well, no sane man argued with the master.

Cecil turned a corner sharply and nearly ran into one of the guardsmen stationed at regular intervals in alcoves along the walls. He barely caught himself from sprawling flat on his face in his effort to avoid the man, something that would’ve shattered his already injured pride. He roughly shook himself from the guard’s steadying hands and did not acknowledge his apology. He didn’t have to; he was captain. Even if it was his fault, the guardsman was right in taking the blame on himself. It would save him from an extra shift on duty. Cecil stalked on, and the guard sniggered only when he was well out of earshot.

Cecil descended the stairway unhastily, pausing at each landing to needlessly check his uniform. The master had strict codes about dress. He walked deeper into his master’s canyon fortress, going ever farther into the bowels of the earth. He knew where his master would be at this hour and didn’t relish the idea of going there. But the news was urgent, so he had to be told immediately, whatever his location. Knowing the master’s temperament, he certainly wasn’t excited about this task. If this message was so important, the general should’ve been the one to carry it. But no one argued with the general, either.

Torches spaced evenly in sconces lit both sides of the hallway. Like every other hall in the fortress, no adornments of any kind decorated the walls. Only the rough stone entertained the eye. The master’s personal chamber, however, bore decorations, and those were so gaudy Cecil thought it should be an insane clown’s room. He told no one that, of course, which was one reason he still lived.

He turned one last corner and came to the tall double doors leading into his master’s special chamber, ignoring the rest of the room. Cecil wasn’t sure what sort of chamber it was. All he did know was that he didn’t like it. He hated it even more than the message he now carried. He wished the master spent more time in his bedchamber than in this room, for those outrageous decorations of his weren’t so bad compared to this bizarre place. It also would’ve been much easier to deliver his news in that other room. He nodded crisply to the guard on either side of the doors, thinking as they opened them that Master Elak hated bad news.

The chamber he entered was empty except for a large, round pool of a black substance too thick to be water and not quite thick enough to be oil. Cecil didn’t know what it was and didn’t want to know. He only wanted to turn around and walk out and didn’t care if he delivered his message or not. This place made his skin crawl.

The room was a massive, round thing with alcoves spaced evenly around its edges. Master Elak liked alcoves. No side passages led off from the room, but Cecil couldn’t see the master anywhere. Five steps would take him down to the walkway that surrounded the pool dominating the room, and nothing stirred its surface. It was so smooth it looked solid.

Cecil took two hesitant steps down and stopped, his eyes searching the entire chamber. Not seeing anyone, he sighed gratefully and pivoted to leave, happy at not having to stay in the room or deliver his fire-cursed message.

“Wait, Captain Murdock. I am here.” The voice cut through Cecil like a sword, freezing him in his tracks. Sighing again, this time heavily, he turned slowly around to find his master standing on the opposite side of the pool looking directly at him.

Cecil didn’t like being stared at, especially by Master Elak. He always felt as if his master could look
through
him. It made his skin grow cold and his hair stand on end. Shivering, he descended the remainder of the steps and stopped at the edge of the pool, bowing formally to his master.

“I have urgent and disturbing news, My Lord.” Cecil straightened and regarded his master hesitantly, wondering how the man would react to what he was about to say. Master Elak wasn’t known for his ability to control his anger.

“I gathered that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have disturbed me here.” Master Elak had to know how much his mercenaries loathed his scrying room, and he obviously liked it that way. “What is it?”

Cecil hesitated, not knowing how to begin, and most certainly not wanting to.

Elak exhaled. “Well? I don’t have all day. What is this urgent news?”

Still Cecil hesitated. He now wished he had sent the message by someone else, general or no general. Looking over at his master, he wondered just what might happen to him when he told the news. Nothing good, probably.

Elak was a small, gaunt man with features twisted permanently into a scowl. The skin of his face and hands was white, almost pasty, and his bones were clearly outlined. He stood a bit shorter than Cecil, himself not quite six feet tall, and the way he hunched over made him look much smaller. But he radiated power as a torch radiates light. Dressed in voluminous black robes, his short black hair permanently disheveled, Master Elak appeared fragile and weak, but Cecil knew he was not. Master Elak was the most powerful man Cecil had ever known, and he feared him greatly.

“Cecil!” Elak’s voice was an impatient hiss.

The captain started, coming out of his thoughts, and managed to make his voice strong and confident. “Our messengers have just returned from the south, My Lord. It seems our soldiers have failed in their tasks. Both groups.” He hated saying the words but knew he had to.

Elak did not change his expression in any way. “Is that so? My, that
is
disturbing news.” The sarcasm told Cecil the information wasn’t a surprise. Elak’s tone suddenly hardened. “Why have you taken so long to tell me this?”

“I have only just heard it myself, Master Elak. I brought it to you the minute I heard of it.”

“What happened?”

The captain fidgeted nervously, licking dry lips. “Twelve of our men ambushed them at the northern edge of the Strom Forest five days ago, but only two escaped alive. Five others tried to capture two of them, the dwarf and the young one, in the town of Landsby two days ago, but all were killed. The two who survived the first attack say the young one dances with his sword and the wizard can slay men with words.”

“Where are these men now?”

“The survivors? They are recovering from their injuries in their rooms. Both should be ready to return to duty tomorrow. They had ridden hard despite their wounds, and gotten here in four days, stopping only at one of our outposts to send the second group to Landsby, which seemed our enemy’s most likely destination. We don’t know where the six are headed now. We think further south, but don’t know for sure.”

“So you’ve lost them.”

Cecil winced at the implication but nodded. “Yes, My Lord.”

Elak shook his head. “A pity.”

Cecil began sweating coldly. He didn’t like the sound of his master’s voice and wished suddenly he’d worn his chain mail.

The black-robed magician walked slowly around the pool to his right. “You know, Captain, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s failure. I abhor it.” Cecil made as if to protest, but Elak raised a silencing hand. “Now, Captain, I know it’s not entirely your fault, even though these men were from your own division. But what am I to do? Something must be done about this continual failing.”

Cecil now shook all over, fear rising. He glanced down and noticed that the pool was stirring, as if something moved beneath its surface. Something very big. He took two frightened steps backward but halted as Elak spoke again, this time walking the other way and still on the opposite side of the pool. The wizard’s voice held him as surely as iron bonds.

“By the way, your shirt is wrinkled, and your boots need to be shined.”