Death's Sword Book 1: Finding and Seeking

Chapter 9, part 3: Day 13

The sun had just climbed over the mountains that protected Vartansberg's left flank, light moving down the Great Keep, highlighting the massive towers that studded its' concentric walls. Most of the wall across the pass itself was still in darkness but that would change soon. Light was sliding across the stone, bringing out colour from the greys of night. "A right arrogant swine. I hate his guts," said the blonde man, leaning over the thick wall and spitting into the courtyard below. In that courtyard, out of both earshot and spitting range, a tall, slim, elegant figure was checking over the harness of his war-dorvei. He wore a helmet with a stiff crest of scarlet horse-hair, a white cloak over full armour and had a two-edged sword belted to his side. The armour was in an archaic style, two centuries or more out of fashion. As he turned, a stylized Z could be seen on the front of the man's helm. The symbol was repeated on the shield strapped to the dorvei and again on the saddle-pouches. Rolf smiled, lazily, "I doubt he cares about what you think, my irritable friend. He's no dandified fop, though; he's good with that fancy sword of his." He glanced at Oax slyly. The stocky man looked incredulously at his comrade, "What, you don't mean he's as good as me?" Rolf grinned some more. "He may even be better, old son," he said, driving the needle a little deeper.

"You're having me on!" rumbled Oax, fingering the worn leather hilt of his sword.

"Zmnt has lived across the border for over ten years. His hobby is hunting tuigrahan, the bigger the better, and he's still alive. Believe me, he's good, Oax, he's very good," replied Rolf. Oax' eyes narrowed, then he pulled a wicked face, "Perhaps he'll give me a fight, then." He hurried off towards the stairs with his usual rolling gait. Rolf sighed, raised his eyes briefly to the skies, then strode after him. "He might give you a trouncing but only with practise weapons. He won't raise that sword against you except in earnest," he called out. "What, afraid I might break it?" chuckled Oax, bouncing down the worn stone steps two and three at a time. "No, you thick-headed dolt! Afraid it might break you is more like it. That is the Sword of the Champion, it will never break. Don't you know the legends?" asked Rolf, exasperated by his friend and now a little worried that his needling might have gone too far. Oax kept on moving, showing a surprising turn of speed for one so sturdily built. "Him, a champion? It takes more than a fancy sword to make a champion and I never did worry too much about legends. I've known the Graf for too long. He's enough legend for me. We'll see how this Zmnt character fares when he doesn't have that wizard friend of his to hide behind." So saying, Oax strode out into the weak sunlight of the courtyard. Rolf shook his head and stopped in the archway. He could get a clear view from there. He had pushed Oax too far to stop him now.

"Pick on someone your own size, my friend. I don't waste my time brawling," drawled Zmnt, turning away from Oax and back to his horse. The shorter man was starting to fume. "Now listen, horse-dung, I challenged you to a trial of skill. Round here, a real man would take up that gauntlet. Are you too weak after all those years hiding behind that wizard's skirts?" he barked. The other man sighed and turned reluctantly to face Oax once more. Zmnt had taken his helmet off. He was still smiling, an arrogant smile that Oax was hoping to wipe off his face. The smile did not extend to the cold, grey eyes above them. They held a cautious, calculating look. Zmnt's left hand dropped to his sword-hilt, seemed to caress it. "If you insist, then, my friend. Practise weapons only, though. My blade here likes to bite rather too deeply for a friendly bout." The smile had changed somehow to an infectious grin, the expression in the eyes open and charming. In spite of himself, Oax found that he was grinning, too. A good fight would get a lot of the frustration out of his system. Perhaps Zmnt wasn't as bad as he had first thought. He just needed teaching a few lessons.

Dimly, through the ringing noise that filled his ears, he could make out a voice saying something. He sat up and pulled his helmet off. "Sorry about that, old fellow, I got a bit carried away. Are you alright?" His vision swam, then Oax started to pick out Zmnt's face looking solicitously down at him. "Yeah, think so," grunted Oax. Gingerly, he felt his head. A lump was already coming up, in spite of the protection that the helm had given. A bruised head to match the bruised ribs, arm and leg he'd already been given. Oax had been made to realise that this guy wasn't just good, he was a superb swordsman. Perhaps the best he had ever encountered. "Sorry to leave you like this but I really must be on my way. Thanks for the work-out, old boy. Perhaps next time?" Zmnt said, then turned and walked away. He moved easily, unmarked and not even breathing hard. Rolf wandered over. "I did try to warn you," he said. Oax just groaned, then held out his hand for his friend to pull him to his feet. "That fellow is fantastic," muttered Oax, one hand on his aching ribs. "You know, if I wasn't the Graf's man, I'd want to join Zmnt out there. I mean it!" he added, as Rolf began to laugh. "What's so funny, bowman?" he growled, eyes beginning to narrow dangerously. "The Sword of the Champion!" gasped Rolf, laughing all the harder, "He used it on you, Oax, he used it on you." His laughter began to subside as he saw the warning glint in Oax' eye. "What are you talking about, feather-brain? He only used the practise sword," the stocky man ground out. Rolf swallowed, loudly, then patted his friend on the shoulder. Oax winced at the touch, jerked away. "There, there. I'll explain over a mug of ale," said Rolf, quickly.

"Now that's more like it," growled Oax, "Lead on, target-head."

The pillar of flame flickered and twisted within the golden frame that hung in the air in Maora's richly-appointed chamber. "So you came to me, hoping that I might shelter you from Hzmai," said Maora, slowly. The flame crackled blue for a moment, signifying assent. "Tell me," she continued, "do you think that I gave aid to the boy?"

"It makes no difference what I think, lady," answered the voice from the fire, "I know that Hzmai will punish me if he finds me, as surely as I knew that Namarth would end me if I stayed in that cave. Certain death or uncertain punishment. Which would you have chosen, my lady?"

"I would have chosen as you did, Brchak. I will consider your proposal; my answer will be at Dveldorkin at Sunstan. Can you evade Hzmai until then?"

"It appears I have little choice, my lady," The flame's voice was grim.

"You are certain that it was Namarth, I suppose?" queried Maora, one final time.

"I saw Namarth at the battle of Tvistkj, my lady. I am quite certain. I lost kin at Tvistkj, three of my fgak." If anything, the voice was grimmer than before. Then Brchak was gone, in his customary fashion, the communications disk collapsing.

"Well, Advisor, what do you think of that? Could Brchak be the bait in some trap of Hzmai's?" A green glow slowly became visible in one corner of the room, grew brighter. "It is possible," sighed a voice, "although I doubt Hzmai would invoke the spectre of Namarth in such a matter. Unless you did give aid to the boy?" Maora's aswering laughter was soft and musical. "So even my Advisor has doubts about me? I find that interesting." Her tone became more serious, took on some of the grimness that had filled Brchak's speech, "If Brchak's tale is true, then we have Namarth on centre-stage once more. And as yet, no other Power even guesses at it...." Her voice trailed off into silence. Then she snorted, a gout of flames jetting forth. "I think that there is an old acquaintance I need to speak with," Maora said, thoughtfully. "One I perhaps should have tried to find before now."