Sword of the MacLachlan - 10. The Sword's Master

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,
Throughout the sensual world proclaim
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

—Thomas Osbert Mordaunt
(written on this Earth-analogue
during the Seven Year’s War
1756—1763 C.E.)

The old mines and natural caverns had led to the castle. It was Kenneth who saw the hidden door, but it was dwarven magic summoned by Kaam that opened it. The mage-lit metal rings on the companions’ quarterstaffs flickered and died as the door opened. “What happened?” whispered Darryn. In the darkness they could hear the scritch of flint on steel as Alan reacted.

“Dark magic…strong. It’s warped the magical field. The rocks have screened us to this point. We can reset the lights, but it would be difficult,” Patrick replied quietly. “We will find it difficult to work any magic or healing in this place, until we find and destroy the source of the Evil.”

Alan lit the torch he had insisted on bringing, and by its light the companions climbed the stone steps into the room above.

“What is this place?” Kenneth asked. The room was about 20 feet by 40 feet. Along one wall, pegs held robes of black and of a red so dark that it appeared nearly black. Several benches were scattered about. “It looks like a vestry…”

“Given the strength of the distortion to the magical field, I’d not be surprised if a chapel—with an altar consecrated to Evil—were through that door,” James replied.

“Darryn, please check the door; Kenneth, you, as well. What do you see?”

“It’s blacker than the rest of the wall, and lines seem to radiate from the door. They’re odd lines, though: flat, rather than round,” Kenneth replied.

Darryn nodded. “Nothing I can find, and it seems to be unlocked.”

Alan had not yet closed the trapdoor, but raised his eyebrows in question to Patrick. Patrick gestured for Alan to close the trapdoor. We’re in, and there’s no escape for us that way. Like Julius Caesar will…did…will…whatever…we’ve crossed our Rubicon.

*****

The door behind them slammed shut. From doors on either side of the narrow room, trolls armed with wickedly barbed swords, poured into the room. More appear on the gallery that ringed the room. These were armed with crossbows. One troll, more revolting and larger than the rest, spoke in a guttural voice, “Scum humans, lay down your weapons.”

“Do as he says,” Patrick ordered his stunned companions.

The companions were stripped of their weapons, possessions, and clothing, and herded into a cold, stone room. The door boomed shut.

Alan was the only one with the courage to ask Patrick the question they all wanted to ask, and even he could not ask the fundamental question. Rather, he asked, “What is your plan?”

Patrick answered the question that was in everyone’s mind, why did we surrender? “Did you see the trolls in the balcony? At least 20 of them, with crossbows. If they wanted us dead, they could have killed us then. The trolls who were on our level out-numbered us at least three-to-one; they, too, could have killed us had they wanted to. No, they or their master want us alive. There is some advantage in that; all we have to do is find it.” Patrick’s wry smile was lost in the darkness of the room, but Alan heard it in his voice.

Patrick continued, “They know nothing except that we managed to penetrate the defenses of a supposedly impregnable fortress. That, in itself, makes us valuable to them. Perhaps—like those on the island west of Agium—they will ask us to join them.”

“B…” Thom began, before Alan’s hand covered the boy’s mouth. After a moment, Thom nodded. He understood…Patrick was speaking for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

Bide our time, Alan thought.

The companions were wakened by a rattling at the door. It was opened by a human. Behind him they could see a column of armed and armored men. Naked, and with a burly guard on each side, and two or more in front and behind, the companions were marched through the castle toward a large double door, which opened as they approached.

Facing the party was what appeared to be the self-named baron’s entire army: trolls—at least 50 of them—and humans, 40 or more. Dominating this assembly was a human, seated on a throne that seemed to be carved from the rock of the mountain, itself. In front of him, the party’s possessions were piled. The figure on the throne wore a tunic of black emblazoned with a silver harp—a counterfeit of the arms of MacLachlan.

“Welcome to Castle MacLachlan,” he said. “And thank you for your tribute.” His followers joined him in braying, cackling laughter.

The baron scanned the company. “And which one of you fancies himself a hero?” Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to Kenneth and said, “You! You will fight me. When you lose, your friends will be turned over to my army for their sport. Any who survive will be allowed to join us.”

Alan jerked free of the trolls who had been holding his arms, “You are a coward to fight a boy; I will fight you!”

The baron’s laughter at Alan’s remark got even louder when Kenneth asked, “And when I win? What happens then?”

“Why, if you win, you and your friends will be invited to join us!” The baron unsheathed his sword, which pulsed with a flickering black glow that seemed to emanate from the hilt. “You see how generous I am.”

Again the assembled company guffawed at their leader’s irony.

“Stand to, boy,” the baron said as he drew his poniard in his left hand, and stepped off the dais on which the throne sat.

Kenneth quickly seized his sword from the pile. Whipping his left arm in a circle, he wrapped the leather sword belt around his forearm and secured both ends in his hand. It was not a shield, but it was better than nothing. He hoped it would give him a chance.

The Sword of the MacLachlan glowed with a brilliant golden hue as it swept down and through the baron’s sword, leaving the man only his poniard and the stump of a sword with which to defend himself. The baron stepped back to his throne, holding the poniard in front of himself. “Kill them,” he roared.

Before the startled villains could act, Alan broke free of those holding him, and dived for his sword in the pile on the floor. Thom wrestled with the trolls holding him. He was able to get one arm free to grab a troll’s dagger and plunge it into its chest. Darryn and Greyeyes followed Alan into the pile of possessions and pulled their swords free before turning to face the crowd. Taam and Kaam found their weapons: double-bladed war axes, and swung them over their heads as they ran toward the largest concentration of soldiers in the room.

Two of the baron’s guards started toward the baron and Kenneth, drawing swords as they moved. They were not in time. Rather than raise the sword for a downward strike, Kenneth stepped into the baron’s face, shoved the sword between the baron’s legs, and raised it swiftly. The sword shrieked as it split the man in half, stopping only when it hit the would-be baron’s breastbone. The guards stopped, stunned, when Kenneth pulled the sword out and turned toward them.

As swiftly and surely as it ended the life of the false baron, the sword also cut through the darkness that had warped the matrix. Clear, bright lines of magic snapped into place throughout the room. James and Patrick broke free of their captors and stood, back to back, arms swinging as they gathered magical power. They cast power, Sacred and Secular, into the massed villains, scattering those before them, and killing more than a few. Darryn and Greyeyes successfully beat off their attackers, but were not doing any damage against the heavier creatures. Alan fought his way toward Thom, slicing anything that got in his way.

“Oh, noooooo!” he cried as he saw one of the trolls who had held Thom ram his sword through the boy’s back and out his chest. Thom raised his hand to Alan, who managed to touch the boy’s fingers before Thom fell.

Alan’s fist struck the troll so hard that the creature’s head was ripped from its neck, to hit the wall more than 30 feet away. The grisly mass splattered, and then stuck to the wall for an instant before sliding down to the floor. Taking his sword in both hands, Alan turned and swung, gutting a troll and a human brigand in one swipe of his sword. The tween gave no thought to defense, only to attack, and was oblivious to the wounds he received as he fought to keep the villains away from Thom’s body.

As Kenneth held the ghost’s sword, preparing to fend off the two guards, he saw a reddish golden glow stretch between the sword and Ivan. He has seen that glow before: at the barrow, and at Marcus’ hut. But Marcus is dead. It wasn’t Marcus! It was Ivan! This is Ivan’s sword! Kenneth thought.

Kenneth hesitated. The sword was filled with power—power that Kenneth could wield. The sword responded to him! It throbbed in his hand; its golden glow pulsed along its blade and into Kenneth’s arm and through his body. This sword is mine! But this cannot be…

“Ivan!” Kenneth called, “Take this sword!”

When he had the boy’s attention, Kenneth tossed the sword, which slowly wheeled end-over-end until the haft dropped solidly into Ivan’s outstretched hand. As the sword touched Ivan’s hand, it released the magic it had stored over centuries. In their imaginations if not in fact, the companions heard a sound as of a great wind rushing throughout the castle.

Ten miles away, a party of trolls returning from a raid fell dead, releasing the ropes by which they led half-a-dozen captive children. The startled children ran down the path back to their village. In the basement of the castle, trolls rushing to join the battle above them dropped in their tracks. The trolls in the throne room fell to the floor, blood exploding from their ears, mouths, and noses.

Kenneth rushed to Ivan. He tugged Ivan’s hand, urging the boy to stand on the dais on which stood the throne. As Ivan reached the throne, Kenneth called out, his voice augmented by magic, “In the name of the true Baron MacLachlan, throw down your weapons or die!”

The surviving humans, seeing the way their troll allies had perished, dropped their weapons in dismay.

*****

“…and under penalty of death swear not to take up arms against the MacLachlans, the Cordillera, the Principality of Arcadia, the Kingdom of the Elves, or their peoples?”

The bodies of the trolls, stinking up the throne room, had been left as an object lesson, one that the two-and-twenty surviving human brigands heeded. As each brigand was paraded before Ivan, under the watchful eyes of Patrick and James, both crackling with magic, Greyeyes read the oath. Each one accepted the oath, and was released with the clothes on his back and a dagger.

When the last surviving brigand had been released, the castle gates were closed and the drawbridge was raised.

Darryn and Greyeyes came into the throne room. “We found the larder. There’s lots of food. We set out supper in the kitchen, where it doesn’t smell like troll guts.”

“Do we have time to clean up, and did you find the bath house?” Kenneth asked.

*****

“Alan, we’re going to have supper. Will you come with us?” Patrick asked gently. “You’ll feel better if you have something to eat.”

Alan looked at Thom’s body. They’d washed it, and dressed it in clean clothes. Thom’s quarterstaff and the sword that had been a gift from Alan were at his side.

Alan nodded, and followed his friend.

*****

“The magic thread in the quarterstaff isn’t there, any more. I suspect that it died when Thom did. His father wasn’t worthy to carry it; and Thom had no heir.”

Alan put a torch to the huge wooden catafalque he’d raised and on which Thom’s body and the quarterstaff rested. The wood burned furiously, aided by Darryn’s magic. Alan and his companions stood in the courtyard until the last ember was dead, and the last wisp of smoke had been whipped away in the wind.

*****

Alan woke to see Thom standing next to the bed. “Come back to bed, Thom. It’s cold, and…Thom? Oh, Thom, is that really you?”

As the boy nodded, Alan saw that there were shadowy figures behind him… shadows that Alan could see through the boy.

“Thom, are you all right? Who are these people?”

The boy replied in a voice that seemed to fill Alan’s head without, however, making a sound. “They are I, and I am they. Look…”

Immediately behind the boy, Alan saw a man with a vacant stare. He drooled as he picked his nose and examined the lump that he found there. Next in line was another man, this one the picture of evil. There was a bright blackness centered on his chest, and his face was twisted in a leer. The next figure also seemed to exude blackness, but his features were too dim to make out. The line grew dimmer and less clear as it continued, but the blackness of evil was clearly visible in them all. Alan squinted. There, just as it gets too fuzzy to see. A man in armor, and he’s glowing with the Light.

“Thom,” Alan whispered, “who is that?”

Alan heard Thom’s silent voice. Long, long ago, I was a Warrior of the Light. Who you see is Sir Thomas…the ancestor for whom the quarterstaff was made…but something happened…I turned from the light.

Between Thom and Sir Thomas was blackness…except that now Alan could see, in the boy in front, the boy that Alan knew as Thom…in his chest a glow…no, a flicker…a faint golden light.

In death, I can see what I have been. In my last life, I was a dullard, worthless. Before that, evil. A brigand, but not a very good one…In this life I would have been no better had not you and Patrick found me…no, not just found me, but taught me, loved me, protected me, and made me part of you.

See, the boy looked at his own chest where the golden light flickered, there’s some Good inside me. I have a chance, now. Perhaps in my next life…perhaps I can shake off the Darkness. Because you and Patrick gave me a chance. Gave me something to live for. For that, I am grateful. The boy and his images vanished, and Alan slept.

The next morning, Greyeyes and Darryn stood hand-in-hand facing Alan.

“Alan, there’s something…” Darryn started, to have Greyeyes to finish the sentence.

“…you should know. Back in the monastery…”

“…the day after we met, Thom gave us something.”

“It’s not something that we can touch…”

“Oh, no, it’s much greater than that. You see, Thom gave us…”

“Thom gave us a piece of his soul. He told us…”

“…what had happened to him when he was a prisoner…”

“…and how you and Patrick rescued him, and how he tried to pay you back…”

“…and how you wouldn’t let him, and how you and Patrick healed his soul, and how much he loved you…”

“…well he didn’t have to say that, it was so obvious that he did…and we feel that Thom…”

“…that Thom is part of us and since you are part of Thom and so is Patrick…”

“…that Thom is still here even though he’s not but he is as long as…” Both boys stopped talking, overcome by tears.

Alan reached out and grabbed one elven boy in each arm, hugging them to him, bending down to kiss each on the top of their heads.

“You boys are right, of course. Thom is still with us, and he’ll be with us again. Perhaps not in this life, and perhaps not in the next, but we will all be together again, someday.”

*****

“But, what was I seeing?” Alan asked James. “It looked like Thom, and it spoke like Thom, and it knew things that Thom knew. I felt that it was Thom. How is it that he was his own great-great whatever grandfather? I didn’t think that happened. I thought we became someone else…not a relative.”

James assured his friend. “Of course it was Thom. And it is rare, as far as I know, for a person to come back as one of their descendants, although, when you think of it, we’re all related somewhere back in time, and so we probably have to come back as a descendant…just not so quickly.”

“But how is it decided?” Alan asked.

“Imagine, if you will, a hiring hall such as the Mercenaries’ Guild has in large cities. Mercenaries who are looking for work stand around waiting for the reader or clerk to announce that someone with certain qualifications is needed for a certain job. He may say that a caravan leaving for Elvenhold needs five men who are good with sword and have their own horses, or needs ten men who are mule-wranglers as well as swordsmen. When the announcement is made, the mercenaries who have those qualifications vie for the job.

“Imagine, then, a huge hiring hall where our animus, soul, spirit—that which makes us what we are—goes after death. When a new body is about to be born somewhere in the world, someone in the hiring hall is selected to become it. How the selection is made, I have no idea. Is it possible that a clerk announces, “A male child, to be born the third son of a farmer in Arcadia!” and souls vie for the job? Is it that there is some scorekeeper who looks around and says, “You…you’d make a good farmer’s son...”? Is it, perhaps, that the person who was the farmer’s son in his last life that is selected to be the son of a prince in the next life? That is something that clerics debate for hour after hour.

“This does, however, I think, explain why Thom was so good with a sword and so quick to learn; he wasn’t learning for the first time, he was relearning something that he’d known, before. I’ve heard of this.

“And it does explain why the quarterstaff responded so strongly to him. Not only because it was his by inheritance of the flesh, but because it was originally given to him…when he was the first Sir Thomas of Fortmain.

“You aren’t the first person to have seen a loved one shortly after that person’s death, and what you saw is similar to what many people have reported: the line of past lives, the expression of hope or regret. Like you, almost everyone seems to see this at night, between waking and sleep. Many dismiss it as a dream; many others have clear memories of it.

“Our tenets include a sure knowledge that we are born many times, and that we have many lives; however, that is the extent of it. We really don’t know much more…at least, I don’t. There may be clerics who do. Perhaps we could ask Alten when we get to Arcadia.”

*****

“The false baron had accumulated a tidy little fortune, which we found in his room.” Before releasing the last of their prisoners, Patrick and James had interrogated several. They’d learned which rooms had been occupied by their leader, and confirmed that except for one band of trolls, all of the brigands had been in the castle.

“It amounts to some 4,000 guineas in coin, metal, and gems. This includes all we found in the barracks, as well. That money likely belongs to the people in nearby villages and to merchants all over this part of Arcadia…perhaps even some on the other side of the mountains,” Patrick concluded his inventory.

“What do you suppose lies across the mountains?” Ivan asked.

“Towns and people much like ourselves, I suppose,” Alan answered. “I hope they’re friendly…”

*****

“What do you suppose was going on here,” Taam asked James. The two were exploring the lower levels of the castle, just above the dungeons.

They had found a large room, at the end of a long hallway. Inside the room were picks, heavy metal hammers, and… “These are star chisels,” Taam said. “We use them in the mines.”

“Do you think they were going to enlarge the room, perhaps,” James asked.

“No…all these are dull…they’ve been used so much they’re nearly worn away,” the boy said. “And look at the heads…they’ve been hammered so much the metal has formed a mushroom…”

Kenneth, who had followed them into the room, asked “Look on that wall…is that a door?”

“I don’t see anything,” Taam said.

James confirmed what Kenneth’s mage sight had revealed. There was a door, hidden and locked by magic. The tools suggested that the false baron had found it, and tried to open it, unsuccessfully.

“Ivan, would you put your hand on the door, please,” Patrick asked. He and James and Kenneth had carefully scanned the door, and Darryn had looked closely for hidden traps. Nevertheless, the tension in the room was high.

Ivan stepped to the door, and put his hand on the spot Kenneth had outlined in chalk. There was a sound as if one kernel of corn had popped on a hot hearthstone, and the door opened inward.

Alan, who had been standing close with sword drawn, stepped to protect Ivan from whatever might be inside, but nothing emerged. “Light,” he said, holding out his left hand.

Patrick handed Alan the mage-lighted quarterstaff that he’d prepared, and Alan stuck it into the darkness behind the door.

“What do you see,” James asked.

Ivan, who was in a better position than Alan to see inside the room, gasped, “Wonderful things,” he said.

The room—rather the suite of rooms, for there were ten more rooms, each larger than the first—had been the MacLachlan treasure room and armory. It seemed as if they’d put every valuable artifact they owned, as well as every bit of jewelry, and every coin, in the room before they sealed the door. Shelves were covered with silver and gold plates, cups, bowls, goblets, and spoons. Small chests opened to reveal broaches, pins, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, and unset stones. Larger chests held gold and silver coins, as well as coins of a strange silvery metal that was not mithral, but much, much heavier. Taam and Kaam whispered over these coins, and declared them to be platinum, the rarest of metals, more rare, even, than mithral. In the back rooms, racks held swords, daggers, and poniards of the finest steel, enough to equip an army. Another room held crossbows and thousands of quarrels; another held pikes. Stacks and stacks of shields, each bearing the Harp of the MacLachlan, filled one room. The shields were of a thin wood with mithral-steel sheathing, and Alan marveled at their strength and lightness.

“These leather straps on the shields…perhaps the wood, itself, should not have survived the thousands of years that may have passed since this room was sealed,” Alan said to Patrick.

“You’re right,” the tall elf answered. “I would guess that there was a preservation spell on the rooms. Incredible that it lasted this long…we don’t know how to do that, today.”

*****

Darryn, who had drawn the duty of patrolling the battlements, ran to the east side of the castle when he heard the drum of hoof beats echoing from the hill. His elven eyes were quick to recognize the companions’ horses, each being ridden by a boy or tween of the Cordillera…all but Patrick’s Windchaser, on which the mage Jiian sat.

As the horses approached the deep chasm in front of the castle, they halted. Darryn waved and called to them, “Stand back…the drawbridge is huge!” Running to the gatehouse, he tripped the lever that locked the bridge in place and began to wind the wheel that lowered it, assisted by huge counterweights. By the time the bridge was halfway down, Alan had arrived to lend his strength to the task. Raising the portcullis was easier with two shoulders on the wheel.

Patrick and James had reached the courtyard when the Cordillera rode in. Patrick bowed to the mage as she dismounted.

She returned the courtesy. “I heard the sound of Great Magic…in fact, I suspect it was heard all the way to the ocean by everyone with any sensitivity. It was the sound of Light returning to a place from which it had long been absent, and I knew that you had been successful.” She paused, and looked at Patrick. “Ah, but you lost someone…who?”

“The boy, Thom,” Patrick said.

“The one with the troubled past,” Jiian said. “May he find the Light. Was he the only one?”

“Yes,” Patrick said, “and I believe he did find the Light. I’ll tell you about it, later.”

The horses were stabled with the 50 or so that had belonged to the brigands, and the companions were seated with the Cordillera around the huge servants’ table in the kitchen. Ivan, still uncomfortable with his position, sat at the head. Alan sat on his left, and Greyeyes on his right.

“Our king has named Taam, Atheling,” Jiian said, “and instructed him to travel to Arcadia with letters to Prince Auric seeking to re-establish the alliance that once existed between our people and Arcadia. Taam asks that the companions travel with him.”

Patrick responded for his companions, “Had the Cordillera not aided us, Ivan would likely never have found out who he was; the false baron would likely still rule; and we might well be dead. Of course, we will travel to Arcadia with Taam. There are some things we must do here, and we will stop in Bowling Green, sending letters to Arcadia telling of our arrival…”

*****

Ivan whispered with Greyeyes and then with Alan, who announced, “There are nearly 50 horses in the stables. Taam and Kaam must have mounts; I want to offer Thom’s horse to Taam. Ivan suggests that the others go to the Cordillera to help you re-establish your herds. He also wants Taam and Kaam each to have a share of the finders’ fee on the brigands loot, and a share of the Treasure of the MacLachlan.

Taam looked startled, and then whispered to Jiian. She nodded, and Taam stood. “My Lord,” he began, “the Cordillera thank you for your generous offer; we accept the horses with gratitude, but we decline any share of the loot or the treasure of the MacLachlan. You have a duchy…more important, a barony…to rebuild. The companions have taught us that Arcadia and the Cordillera soon may have to fight against the Darkness. Our legends tell that the Western Marches, both above and below ground, have been in the forefront of such battles in the past. The gift of horses will be the beginning of our cavalry. However, it was you who gave us the courage to explore caverns we had been reluctant to enter. We can now obtain our own gold, silver, and gems—as well as the iron we will need to create more weapons.”

*****

James and Patrick put spells from Marcus’ book on the castle to seal it, above and below, until Ivan should return.

“What if something happens to Ivan…if the prince rejects Ivan’s claim to the title?” Greyeyes asked.

“Then it will remain sealed until the magic wears off…a dozen centuries or so, I’d guess,” Patrick answered. “Of course, James, Kenneth, and I can break the spell, too. I do hope that Prince Auric accepts Ivan’s claim.”