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fear of the Toal.
He wandered for hours, occasionally pausing to indulge in a fit of tears. So
many angers, fears, losses, frustrations. It was not fair.
The last time, after wiping tears with the backs of grimy hands, he noticed a
pale, ghostly light ahead. With hope and fear writhing together like wrestling
snakes, he crept toward it.
His fingers, brushing the cave walls for guidance, caressed scars left by
ancient tools. They encountered beams supporting the invisible ceiling. He
frowned. There were no mines in the Savards.
He stepped into a bedroom-sized chamber, manhewn from poor limestone. It
contained two pieces of antique furniture. They were illuminated by a
sourceless witch-light. One was a small, heavy chair. The other was an open
coffin.
In the chair slept a gnarly, dusty dwarf. He was half buried by a beard in
which crawling things nested.
Gathrid wanted to believe that he had found one of the mythical creatures who,
with trolls and elves and giants, supposedly haunted the forests and hills and
night.
But in the coffin, on dusty cerulean velvet, lay a long black sword. Its edges
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were nicked and crusted.
Gathrid stood, one hand sealing his mouth, vainly trying to contain a cough.
It all fit the legends.
His free hand strayed to the weapon's hilt.
Sparks. Power flooded his arm. Pain and fear evaporated. His weak leg
strengthened. The dead side of his face quickened and joined the other in an
expression of wonder. The blade vibrated in his grasp. Dust danced off its
dark gloss.
And the dwarf opened his eyes.
The gaze of a Toal was warmer.
"Daubendiek has chosen." Theis Rogala spoke softly, chillingly, with a
curiously jerky accent, like the sound of bones being crushed far down a long
cold hallway. "There will be blood for Suchara."
Gathrid tried to drop the Sword. His fingers would not open.
The question of which had been master and which tool pervaded the legend of
Tureck Aarantl, As the Sword, against his will, rose in salute, Gathrid
suffered the despairing suspicion that it had been Aarant who had been the
controlled.
Bones creaking audibly, Rogala dropped to one knee. In the same death-edged
voice he croaked, "Suchara's will be done. Her servant swears fealty to her
Swordbearer till Dau-bendiek severs the bond. Sucnara's will be done."
Nothing in Gathrid's sixteen years had prepared him for this. Beyond daydreams
he had never really wanted to be a warrior. Nor did he want to be a slave.
Most of all, he did not want to replay the tragedy of Tureck Aarant. Though
Aarant had been a warrior of a stature equal to any boy's daydreams, his
existence had been lonely and choked with despair. He had known no friends, no
lovers, nor even a country he could call his own. He had traveled a road of
blood and tears. Death had been his only friend, Daubendiek his only lover,
Theis Rogala his sole companion.
Yet Gathrid felt the seductive caress of power, heard its soft siren call.
Bearing Daubendiek, he need not fear the Twelve. Nor Nieroda. Nor his own
handicap. Even the Mindak would fear him. What fell vengeances he could
wreak....
He was a fish writhing on a hook. Even at that moment he knew he would not
shed Daubendiek till the Sword itself willed it. He had been taken.
Rogala creaked as he rose. "Damned bones. Must've been years." He turned
stiffly, began kicking dusty accoutrements from beneath his chair. "How goes
the war, boy?"
"Kacalief fell," Gathrid mumbled. "The Mindak has gone on to Katich. Unless
Malmberget, Bilgoraj, and the rest of the Allies move soon, Gudermuth is
lost."
"Eh? Gudermuth?" The dwarf frowned, his face becoming all crags and gullies.
"Never heard of it."
Gathrid was puzzled. Never heard of Gudermuth? But... oh. Rogala had slept for
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centuries. There had been no Gudermuth when the dwarf had gone into hiding.
"Kacalief was the castle of my father, the Safire of Kacalief, a knight
protector of the Savard, which is a March on the Grevening frontier. Gudermuth
is our kingdom. Katich is our capital. The Mindak of Ventimiglia is our enemy.
Malmberget and Bilgoraj are the major states in the Torun Alliance. They
pledged war and wizardry if Ventimiglia invaded from Grevening, which Ahlert
and the Toal conquered last year."
The dwarf dropped into his chair. He combed his beard with his fingers and
muttered, "It must have been longer than I expected. An age. I never heard of
any of those places." His mien became so sour Gathrid backed a step away. "But
there is a war on? We need a war." His eyes burned wickedly. "You'll have to
explain as we go." He rose, gathered his gear, strode off as if he knew his
destination.
"There's a Toal out there!" Gathrid croaked.
'' Eh? So? " Rogala kept walking.
Gathrid tried to explain. Memories of defeat released anger and hatred. The
Sword stirred. His emotions paled immediately.
"Then Daubendiek will drink," Rogala snarled.
"But...."
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