Knight Templar in Training - 5. Destruction of the Sword

Alten and Senshen locked eyes. The tension in the courtyard of the Temple complex was palpable. Clerics moved slowly to one side or the other. The majority stood behind Alten. Senshen snorted, and averted his eyes.

In the wagon, Kenneth focused his attention and power onto James. After more than ten minutes, Kenneth leaned back and took his hand from James’ chest. The boy’s hair fell to his shoulders as the residual charge dissipated.

“How is he, Kenneth,” Alten asked quietly.

“He will live, Senior, but will need time to recover. The physical wound has been cleaned and bandaged, but needs healing…I’ve not the strength…” Kenneth whispered, leaning against the side of the wagon.

Under Alten’s efficient administration, James was taken to a room to rest and be visited by Senior Healers. Acclaudius, and his companions who were retrieved from the gate, were established in guest rooms while their exhausted horses received care in the stables. The sword was taken to the storeroom that was being used as a laboratory, where it was to remain under the constant watch of men whom in whom Alten had complete confidence. On penalty of excommunication, no others were to enter the laboratory without Alten’s specific permission.

*****

“Yes, Senior,” James said. “We received a letter from Joey yesterday. Acclaudius and his friends arrived safely in Cross Creek after having a wonderful visit in Arcadia. Joey is very happy to have his brother back, and they both hope that Kenneth and I can visit them sometime.”

“Cross Creek certainly grew some fine people, James. I’m very glad that the influence of that school did not reach the town before you and they were able to deal with it,” Alten said, then paused.

“James, I’ve not asked you or Kenneth to be involved in the examination of the sword. There is a reason for that, and I believe I owe you that reason…No, no,” as James started to demur, “It’s something you need to know so that you’ll recognize it if you ever see it again.

“That sword was almost certainly a relic of the Great Wars, and was created by Evil for Evil. It would have been called Life Stealer, and its magic would have sucked the Life Force from anyone with whom it came in contact. It would not be necessary to be stabbed as you were, James. That Lizoid and his friends were under its influence, and would eventually have weakened and died had they remained in close contact with it. That is one of its weaknesses…it will kill the one who carries it as surely as if it had stabbed him. On the other hand, it is highly desirable, and will always find a new master.

“Most magical spells fade after they are cast, as you know. You also know it is possible to bind magic temporarily to an object such as an amulet or weapon. But even that magic fades in time. The Evil blade uses the life force it steals to maintain itself. Insidious…and ingenious. I think I’m glad we no longer know such magic.

“In any case, we’ve learned all we can from it. Now, it must be destroyed. I’ll develop a ritual, and let you know more, later. James, I want you to assist, of course.

“But in the meanwhile, I don’t want either of you close to it…you both have been close enough.”

In his cell, James watched a sliver of sky through the arrow slit. The morning had broken with a sullen red glow from the east, a glow that gave the color of blood to the normally tan wall of the Temple School that James could see if he stood—as he often did—on the top of his table. As the morning passed, the heat grew unusually oppressive for a day in the early spring.

At the noon meal, shared with the brotherhood in the refectory, the clerics at his table had gossiped about the weather. Some fingered various runic charms nervously, and spoke of Devil Winds. One, from the far west, told of sandstorms that stripped the flesh from men and animals and left polished skeletons in their wake. Another joked of converting to the Dark, so that he might better manipulate storms and lightning. A stern look from a Senior put a quick stop to that line of conversation.

When the meal was over, James hurried back to his cell. As he walked through the colonnade, he cast anxious glances at the sky, now leaden gray—almost green in places. This storm was building to a greater strength than he’d ever seen. Even the spring storms of his native mountains, where thunder rolled down the valleys and echoed from hill to hill, seemed moderate compared to what this sky was holding in store.

When James reached his room, Kenneth was waiting for him. Although the Elvish-Human boy appeared to be only thirteen, and was wearing unadorned white robes, James knew the boy was both years older, and a powerful healer. When James had been brought to the Temple, wounded almost to death, his life nearly drained by the Evil sword that he had captured, it was Kenneth who had been at the gate, and it had been Kenneth through whose hands had flowed healing power that kept James alive until help could be summoned. The boy, however, had been well schooled by someone, and his manners were almost courtly as he nodded his head. “Brother James,” he said. “My Lord Alten would see you. Will you follow me?”

“Gladly,” James replied. “But, please tell me, why are you being so formal, and why does the Senior send a messenger, rather than calling me out at noonmeal?”

“Because,” replied Kenneth, his demeanor breaking down into petulance, “he intends to perform the ritual tonight, and I won’t be allowed to go along. An acolyte is required, and I’ve trained for it, but Senshen told Alten it was too dangerous for me. He wants Martin to go, but only because Martin is his favorite. Martin hasn’t even practiced for it!”

James put his hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “Kenneth, one cannot heal as you did without creating a bond. That bond may be more important than any skill or knowledge in the events which are to come. Let me talk to Alten, and please do not think ill of Senshen or Martin.” He smiled at the boy, “It does not become you.”

Kenneth blushed, and nodded to indicate his compliance with James’ wishes.

“Wait in the commons, then,” James asked. “I can’t talk to Alten if you are there.”

In Alten’s chambers, James came obliquely to the point. “Kenneth says that the ritual will be tonight; he and I are ready.”

Senshen stood, his small ego needing the boost to his equally small stature. “Kenneth shall not go. The Master of Probationers will not allow one so young to participate.”

James hardly let Senshen finish. “The Master of Probationers? But he has assigned Kenneth to me, and it is my desire that he participate.”

Alten, the Senior, spoke the instant that James stopped, even though he knew that his decision could only serve further to alienate Senshen and the coterie of older, more conservative clerics that rotated about him. “James is correct, and the Master of Probationers has overruled himself by assigning Kenneth to James.”

Offering Senshen a way out, Alten added, “I would, however, feel much better if you and Martin were present. Your strength and skill will be helpful.”

Alten then addressed them both, “The ritual will culminate at sunrise, when Light pushes back Darkness. At that time, we will destroy that ugly sword James bought at such cost.” Although Light and Darkness were merely symbols for Good and Evil, the Senior knew the importance of symbolism in ritual. “The preliminary invocation will require about an hour; we will require three or four hours to reach the hilltop. We had best leave at the third hour of evening. Be you all ready in the courtyard at that time.” His gaze swept to include Senshen as he concluded, “You are both responsible for your acolytes and for their behavior.”

James and Senshen bowed, and departed, turning in opposite directions as they left the room.

Upon the hilltop, as wind tried to whip their robes to tatters, Alten, his acolyte Arne, Senshen, James, Kenneth, and Martin formed a circle. The Evil sword, placed on a flat rock that served as a workbench, glowed sullenly, seeming to draw the anger of the storm to itself.

Senshen and Martin had been tasked to create the shield that would protect them all from the storm. It was clever of Alten to make that assignment, for it was in Senshen’s best interest to see that he and Martin were safe, and the only way he could do so was to ensure that all in the circle were safe. James and Kenneth were to draw magic from the web, and channel it to Arne, who would in turn channel it to Alten. Alten, himself, held the silver hammer with which the Evil sword would be destroyed.

The clerics and acolytes chanted and gestured as they snared magic and wove it to their ends while the storm continued to rage. With the approach of dawn, a break in the clouds on the eastern horizon let a ruddy beam of sunlight through to strike the workbench. A miracle, thought Martin; a coincidence, mused Alten. Alten, however, quick to seize the symbolism of the moment, lifted the silver hammer above his head, snaring the lines of magic coming to him from Arne. Arne felt the power from James and Kenneth swell as they concentrated.

Martin’s brief distraction at seeing the sunbeam caused the shield protecting the group from the storm to falter. A bolt of lightning raced down toward the tiny figures on the top of the mountain.