The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 1: The Lost World

THE STONEGATE SWORD

Chapter One

THE LOST WORLD

A grove of spears suddenly sprang from clumps of bare willows, keen-edged points flashing in the hard afternoon sun. The blackened shafts were held by a mob of grim-faced men, who sullenly reformed themselves into a long march file. They then resumed their plodding course upstream, following a time-worn trail next to the river.

Swift and cold the river ran, carrying the mountain's frost in its deep, grey eddies. Down from the frozen canyon, through granite gorges it had come, foam-flecked and savage. Lower, then, through broader valleys it flowed, through stands of leafless aspen and cottonwood to the openness of grey brush and tawny grass. Oblivious to the puny line of humans, it shot on, rushing to its own separate destiny.

The sky was brilliant blue and the chill air clear and clean. A black speck coasted before a gauzy wisp of cloud, the swerved lower, gliding over a juniper-covered knoll. The March wind gusted briefly over the scattered patches of snow, then died.

With a convulsive leap of fright, a young cottontail reacted to a rushing sound and a feel of danger. The redtail hawk, talons spread, flared out of his dive with a shrill cry just before the strike. A thud, a high-pitched shriek, and a quick struggle followed. Then silence returned. Satisfied, the bird lifted his proud head to scan the surrounding valley floor. His gaze took in the ranks of nearby sage and the more distant saltgrass plain. The shattered seedheads of a nearby clump of wheatgrass nodded lazily. But another movement caught his eye. A dark smudge was moving next to the distant river. He clutched his prey convulsively, as his whole being tensed in quivering concentration. His pinions and hackles raised. A minute passed, then two. Then he abruptly relaxed, gazed for a moment at his near surroundings, then dropped his head and began to feed. Greedily, he filled his crop with hot, sweet flesh and his body with energy. The movement drew further away, toward the blue and white peaks to the east. Metal rang distantly on metal, but the bird disdainfully ignored it. He cared nothing for tax collectors or any other affairs of humans.

Clunk! The stone slammed against a fungus-covered stump. Gray slivers flew in a spray, leaving a yellow streak of rotted wood. A slender figure knelt at the edge of a green clearing and selected another smooth stone from a bed of gravel. Flat on the nearby grass lay a cheap canvas satchel, next to a carelessly folded cloak. The black pines stood in a circle around him like silent spectators.

The whirring noise broke the stillness as a rawhide sling cut the air. With an expert motion he rolled one thong off his forefinger and made his cast. Another missile streaked its way across the little clearing and thudded into the yielding bark.

The boy holding the sling was about fifteen years old, with raven-black hair and brown eyes. His gray-brown tunic, frayed at the hem and splattered with damp mud, reached to half way between his knees and sandaled feet. His face was oval, with a button nose and ruddy cheeks, and his bare forearms were burned walnut brown. Brushing aside his unruly shock of hair, he filled the sling pouch with another pebble and sent it on its way. The stone arced gracefully across the clumps of sedge and fescue and slammed into the center of the yellow scar that was his target.

"Ahh...." he released his breath with a smile. In his mind's eye a dark villain, face twisted in a mask of hate, fell backwards to the ground. In quick succession he released the rest of the stones he had selected toward the battered wood, decimating an imaginary enemy gang. Then he stopped, breathing rapidly. With a wince, he rubbed his shoulder with his left hand as he sat down beside the satchel. Perhaps that was enough practice for one day.

He reached into his pouch and pulled out an oval leaden bullet. He was tempted to throw just one, but they were too expensive to be used for practice where he might lose them. He replaced the dense missile, then rolled over on his stomach. He watched a black beetle moving proudly among tufts of grass like a lion in its own small jungle. Shadows began to lengthen. Finally, he picked up his satchel, looped the carrying strap over his shoulder, and tucked the sling into his belt. It was high time to start for home.