As the Animithe accompanied the villagers back to Elinwyche, Cora’s thoughts drifted to Elric. Not only had he ascended Equine Hill, but he had touched the sacrificial table—long enough to cast it down. He was not dead, filling her with welcome relief. He was also not crawling with worms or succumbing to a raving madness. On the contrary, he was fully alive and whole, and it made no sense. Joy shrouded by confusion was a new emotional concoction, and she needed answers.
“How are you feeling, Elric?”
His twisted smirk mirrored how she felt. “Mad as a wet hen. Jangles got away, an’ it jis chaps my hide ‘at I didn’t kill ‘im.”
“I mean are you feeling sickly or weak?” Cora laid the back of her hand across his forehead. “Any headaches or nausea?”
Elric winced beneath her touch. “Yer actin’ like my Ma.”
“Did you not feel any ill effects when you touched the stone?”
Moffe choked, cleared his throat, and spat. “You touched the stones?”
A smug grin crept across Elric’s face. “Pfft…I chunked the whole slab clean off the hill.”
The warden’s eyes shot wide open. “You touched the altar?”
“I dunno what y’all are goin’ on about. I jis saved a bunch o’ lives, an’ yer actin’ like I done sumpin wrong.”
“Dees stones try to keel us,” Cuauhtérroc said. “We go up dees heel last three days, and dees worms come into dees bodies and blood come from dees eyes and nose.”
Cora shuddered from the memory. “We’re not saying you did anything wrong, Elric. We’re saying you did something impossible. You saw and heard how that altar killed those who laid upon it. How is it you’re completely unscathed?”
Elric shrugged. “I dunno. I jis did what I’s s’posed to do…what I figgered a paladin would do. I’m s’posed to be a paladin, so I reckon I gotta start actin’ like one.”
Moffe gestured toward the sky. “Odhasaim. The darkness is beginning to recede now. That means right at the peak, when the Void shrouded us most deeply, Elric put his life on the altar of damnation for the salvation of others. It should have killed him, but he destroyed it in a moment of self-sacrifice.”
“I didn’t know all ‘at.” Elric grimaced, as if knowledge gained late could kill him retroactively.
The warden pursed his lips. “In a moment of unwitting self-sacrifice, then. I told you strange things happen on Hasam. What Jangles meant for evil, the Maker intended for good.”
Elric held up a hand. “So…was Jangles really a jinadaar?”
The question hung over the empty forest like the slow decay of a gong.
Cora struggled to comprehend what she had seen. “It shouldn’t be possible. The Abyss is locked. The Maker sealed it himself when he threw the Great Dragon into it.” That much had to be true, an everlasting truth. The world depended on that truth for its very existence. She pleaded with Moffe for affirmation. “Right?”
The warden offered a blank stare colored with doubt.
“It can’t be,” Cora said, shaking her head. “I said he looked like a jinadaar, but I don’t know. Not really. My mind was in an oppressed fog; I couldn’t have seen things clearly. He was hundreds of yards away. I must have imagined it…I…I concocted that image from old memories of long-forgotten studies. It was pure duress, the frantic fancies of a frazzled mind.”
Moffe raised an eyebrow at her.
“If dees jeenadaar never come here…” Cuauhtérroc worked his tongue as he thought. “If dey never come here, how do you know what dey look like?”
Kiyla hitched a thumb at the savage. “Good point.”
“Jinadaar are not supposed to be here!” Cora insisted. “The Vashanti was right. The Abyss can’t be open. That’s…that’s the end of everything!”
Moffe cleared his throat of vestigial phlegm. “The world hasn’t ended, Cora, and the Abyss certainly isn’t open. We know Jangles was a master of controlling people’s minds. It’s possible what you saw was an illusion designed to frighten you exactly as it has.”
Cora looked up as a ray of hope illumined the dark clouds in her mind. “Ah…an illusion. Yes…that’s what it was.”
“Well, I saw him plain as day,” Elric said. “He weren’t no illusion. His breath was so strong ya coulda hung the washin’ on it. He was mean as a wet cat an’ ugly as a hodekin’s butt.” He shuddered and glared at the stone menhirs. “Gave me the screamin’ meemies.”
Moffe whistled for his hawk, and Clement glided from beyond the treetops to light on his shoulder. “Regardless, it doesn’t change what we need to do. Gather your gear. We’re leaving.”
Cora gave the warden a sideways glance. Let me do the leading.
“Where are we goin’?” Elric asked.
“Ordin’s bones await. If we make good time, we’ll find shelter in a neighboring village.”
“Cuauhtérroc,” Cora added, “don’t forget your sword in the tree. Kiyla, run back and gather up the rope we used to bind the people.”
“And my horse?” Kiyla asked.
Moffe shook his head. “One horse among us does no one any good, and it’s just another mouth to feed.”
“I’m sorry, Kiyla,” Cora said. “The people of Elinwyche need him far more than we do. Elric? What are you doing?”
Elric strolled near the tarn, his head down as he pushed aside a patch of fungus-covered cattails with his sword.
“Tryin’a find my bow,” he murmured. “I dropped it here ‘fore I climbed the hill, an’ now I cain’t find it.”
“Consider that a good loss,” Moffe offered.
Elric turned and scratched his chin. “Huh…I cain’t seem to keep nuttin’ what comes outta that bag.” He tapped his fingertips as he recounted his losses. “The laughin’ axe, a razored dagger, some scroll I couldn’t read—I tossed ‘at one back…total waste o’ five stallions—an’ now this bloody bow.”
Kiyla shrugged at him. “We lost the axe. Sorry.”
Moffe’s brow creased with suspicious scrutiny. “You retrieved those items from that bag?”
“Yep. All I gotta do is drop in some coin an’ give it a good shake, an’ out pops sumpin what’ll make yer toenails curl. I figgered out if I put other stuff in the bag, it does nothin’ but lose the stuff. I reckon at’s how I lost all my clothes an’ the duke’s letter back in Cer Cannaid. It jis sucks up what ain’t gold coin.”
“Curious.” Moffe pulled some seed from his pocket and held it up to Clement. After a prolonged conversation, the bird flew away to the east. The warden sighed as his gaze left the skies, then he turned about to the west. “Clement carries the good news to Cerion. Now, let’s go.”
The journey was slow but steady, with very few villages along the way. As the trail meandered, the trees thinned to little more than snowy grassland and blue skies. Day followed day, and the trail widened into a well-traveled road that led to the town of Whitekeep, where they enjoyed a much-needed meal, followed by hot baths and clean beds.
The next day, they reached the town of Eldercross by the Rae Alikon. From there, all the roads received regular upkeep, and many were paved with either cobblestones or flagstones. Some of their last coin was spent on a pair of horses and a wagon, and they rode west to Braenon then north to Heavener, where they had first met Selorian.
The owner of the Lucky Duck, Heavener’s only inn, recalled Selorian as well, and turned them out into the snowy streets. “Don’t come back means don’t ever come back.”
Cora muttered the explanation to Moffe and Kiyla, then set out to find a farmer’s hayloft. But as the sun set over the Maz Nabor, turning the snowy countryside into a sea of sparkling orange, her spirits lifted. Their quest was nearing an end.
Ordin’s grave lay at the foot of those hills.
Sixty miles to the east, the Watcher entered Everglade alone. The capital city straddled the crystalline Rae Alikon, cascading over several rocky rapids as it wended through the city streets. A collection of hot springs dotted the cityscape, flowing from limestone caves and forming calcium encrusted conduits along their paths to the river. Pools of hot mineral water drew visitors from all lands and all walks of life to drink and wash in the rich, steaming flows. On cold wintry days, Everglade soaked in a thick fog of vapors that blanketed the city in an ethereal glow of kaleidoscopic hues as sunlight diffused through the swirling clouds.
Bathhouses lined both sides of the river with underground piping supplying hot water direct from the springs, pumped in through the wondrous mechanics of Dareni ingenuity. Ancillary businesses sprouted like cattails along the river, each one offering, through all manner of glitz and glamour, hot water poultices that promised health, wealth, and finding that elusive true love. And at least three different ragamuffin clans had bottled the hot water for sale. Inns and restaurants stumbled over each other for prime real estate, and whether near or far from the steamy waters, each was filled to capacity.
Everglade’s location in the heart of Alikon was key when The Watcher called the Conclave of Nine. But they were not here for the high-society enticements; matters of great importance required quick and unimpeded attention. And the city’s position as a hub of Alikon’s commerce easily supplied a nondescript and windowless warehouse on the outskirts of town in which to meet. Simple was better. Adornment distracted, and there had been too many distractions in Alikon already.
The Watcher sat at the far end of a long table, his cowl shading his face from view. The dank room flickered with the light of a single candelabrum on a low credenza behind him, obscuring his face from the eyes of the Cities. Westmeade, Freycoast, Cer Cannaid, Rosham, Kalona, Drusk, Stonecliff, Braenon, Everglade…all were present, and as each man quietly took his seat, their eyes glimmered with curiosity, concern, and fear. The Watcher had kept his reasons for this rare Conclave as shrouded in mystery as his face.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the Watcher pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin. “Please welcome Cer Cannaid, our newest member.”
“Welcome,” the Cities said in unison, each turning to a steely-eyed young man with reddish-blonde hair at the opposite end of the table from the Watcher. Cer Cannaid nodded in acknowledgement, but his face remained expressionless.
The Watcher continued in his resonant baritone, and all heads swiveled back to the unseen face. “I am certain you know by now why Cer Cannaid is new to this table. Master Bray was chosen to be the city, but he failed. The Decree has shifted to accommodate his failure, and a new Cer Cannaid has been chosen. See him now.”
“Everglade sees you,” replied an angular blonde man at the Watcher’s right hand.
“Kalona sees you,” said a weather-worn man with a thick mustache sitting next to Everglade.
“Rosham sees you,” echoed a blonde man with two earrings in his left ear.
“Drusk sees you,” said a dark-haired man, dipping his head.
“Freycoast sees you,” said a short, bald man on the Watcher’s left.
“Stonecliff sees you,” replied a goateed man next to Freycoast.
“Braenon sees you,” answered an older man, gray and wrinkled.
“Westmeade sees you,” Montpeleón responded.
Time was meaningless to Ordin Austmil-Clay. All sensory input was gone, as if he existed in a purely spiritual state, a disembodied soul forever trapped in the Void.
Whatever state he was in, he had been allowed to retain his mind. If by mistake, it was a grimly unfortunate one. Were it purposed, then the man who plunged the scimitar into his chest and proclaimed “You and the sword should have never parted” was a diabolical fiend. He had no way of knowing and no power to reverse his fate. He would soon lose himself, his sanity fragmenting into ethereal shards. Insanity would overtake him, sooner or later.
There were early indications he was losing his grip. He heard things—footsteps, voices, growls—as the empty memories of a fading mind. He could hear his beloved companion, Shinnick, howling in the distance. The gurgle of a clear stream, the drone of rain and rumble of distant thunder, the laughter and shouts of children at play—all these and more echoed in his head. But all was darkness and cold, and getting colder all the time. Perhaps he was insane already.
He pondered his former life; there were important matters surrounding him. Things he avoided considering while he lived now occupied him continually. No one survived a lightning strike. And if they did, they certainly didn’t survive repeated lightning strikes after that, the result of being a veritable target of Nature’s most powerful force. He might have been singled out as a conduit for that power, but it was too late now to know. He had squandered his gift, and he had a lonely eternity to dwell on that.
Footsteps approached again, growing louder and closer, their sound muffled and…crunchy? Ordin dared not hope but dismissed the sounds as the crazed imaginings of his diseased mind. The dull echo of voices forced him to listen.
The voice that grabbed him carried an odd lilt, a cadence that seemed vaguely familiar. Ordin listened carefully, but the words were garbled, as if the speaker was inept at speech itself.
Grating sounds like the low rumble of tumbling rocks punctuated the voices, masking even the clearest syllable. Perhaps his dementia had spawned a diversion. His curiosity escalated. Where would it lead?
Everything fell silent with the suddenness of a lightning strike, leaving Ordin with the odd but welcome sensation of warmth, as if he could feel sunshine. All remained miserably dark, but he knew what sunlight felt like, and he basked in its radiance. At least for the moment in his rapid decline into madness, there was a merciful respite, a bath of warmth. Perhaps it signaled the end, as when an apple tree blossoms out of season in a final attempt to propagate before casting its leaves forever. His sick mind grasped for something good and comforting before the final descent into complete inhumanity.
A lone voice rang out, the words muffled as if spoken through water. But they were clear enough to break through Ordin’s misery and slap his conscience with an entirely new possibility.
“I’ll be jiggered,” the voice said.
Elric? Ordin had no idea what it meant, but a ray of hope washed over him—a pointless, stupid, futile ray of hope. He clung to it. Even if it was all the ramblings of an insane mind, even if in his sickness he had conjured Elric—of all people—it was a vast and glorious improvement. Speak to me, Elric! Say somethin’ stupid. Nine Hells, say somethin’ smart for once. Lift me out of this prison!
Montpeleón deCorté scanned the faces of his peer Cities. He had met with Everglade only once before, and the conversation had been cordial and professional with just enough vagueness on both sides to make their words mean precisely what was needed at any given moment. The other men he had never seen before, but it hardly mattered. He was clueless as to their true identities, and they would deny all association with the Nephreqin anyway. Being a City was nothing like membership in an elite fraternity; it was the loneliest of positions. No one knew who you were and no one could know.
The faces of each City, save one, showed the same emotion: trepidation. The Watcher had never called a Conclave of Nine before, which could only mean something grave and serious. Yet, Cer Cannaid showed no concern, and Montpeleón found his stolid face perplexing. Who is this newcomer?
The Watcher lowered his hands, keeping his fingertips pressed together, until they came to rest on the table. With his face shrouded, it was impossible to know who he was watching. Assuming he had eyes.
“The All-Father requires the Duchy of Alikon.” The Watcher’s sonorous baritone filled the room, and the emphasis reverberated long afterwards. “To accomplish this will require an overthrow of the free city. There are two ways to perform this: a surreptitious decay from within or an utter annihilative coup in full view of the public. Because of Bray’s failure, this task is now harder and more delicate.”
“Bray was devoted to the Father,” Freycoast interjected.
“True,” agreed several of the other Cities.
“Do you think devotion sufficient?” the Watcher asked, and the room fell silent. “Do you think because Bray infiltrated the Castle and made a puppet of the duchess he should now be lauded? For what…his efforts? Efforts, infiltration, devotion…these are trifles, empty and meaningless without results. No, Bray was a failure, and I understand he died a horrible and fitting death.”
Though the Watcher’s eyes were obscured in shadow, his gaze bored holes in Montpeleón. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he answered. “We didn’t know August Blanchard had crafted a duplicate of himself to carry on his investigation. This twinning created a sword imbued with a powerful, specific purpose—to slay Vincent Schumann. He also maintained a diary that exposed the Decree for Alikon. Acting on this information, and bearing the slaying sword, the Company of Dragonslayers pursued Schumann to Cer Cannaid. With the assistance of an unknown source, they gained entrance to the castle and routed Bray in his moment of victory. I would not suggest they made any plans for their endeavors; rather, as with everything else these freeblades have done, their success should be attributed to pure dumb luck.”
“Success?” the Watcher thundered. “Do you think it was a success?”
Montpeleón grimaced. “From their point of view, it was. From our point of view, obviously, Bray was a failure.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“No, Watcher, I do not call their actions a success.” It had been several years since the Nephreqin had given Montpeleón any instructions, so when Schumann was revealed, it had caught him off guard as much as any other alderman. Over the years of inaction, his heart had softened and he found his interests now lay with a certain redheaded songsage, not with the conquest of Arelatha. In his eyes, Cora had been a success. But he could not afford to reveal such thoughts. Mind yourself, Monty.
“Good,” the Watcher said. “Let us consider then the duchess. She was a useful puppet and might have become a strong ally. Is she useful still, or do we dismiss her as damaged goods?”
With the shift in topic, Montpeleón released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“I believe she can be turned,” Cer Cannaid replied, “but we will need to remove the influence of Selorian the savant, and he is under constant surveillance within the castle walls. Presumably this is for Gretchen’s safety, but I think it is an arrangement that can prove useful. The savant is—shall we say—unstable. He could be made to create such chaos that the duke will be forced to exile him. Or destroy him.”
“Keep that in mind, Cer Cannaid,” the Watcher said with a slight nod. “We will discuss this idea more in the future.”
“Yes, Watcher.”
“Now, what of the freeblades, this ‘Company of Dragonslayers’? Why, in the name of the All-Father, do they still exist?”
“The Decree never called for their extermination,” Montpeleón suggested, and as soon as the words left his mouth, he wished they hadn’t.
The Watcher’s head turned to face Westmeade, a gesture meant to convey great severity, but his reply delayed. “Do you think, Westmeade, that when the Decree is thwarted by a motley crew of troublemakers there needs to be a call for their extermination? While they were in Cer Cannaid, they were under the protection of a castle awash with military force. Soon thereafter, they were in Westmeade, were they not? That was an opportunity—your opportunity—wasted.”
“Yes, Watcher.”
“Where are they now?”
Montpeleón chose his words carefully. “They traveled back to Cer Cannaid on a summons from the duke.”
“Cer Cannaid?” the Watcher implored across the table.
The young man sneered at Montpeleón. “They were given an assignment in the Brack to investigate a legendary mansion, but Selorian remains in the castle.”
The Watcher turned to the blonde man with the double-pierced ear. “Rosham, what have you seen?”
A long pause followed as Rosham lowered his head and shifted in his seat. “I do not have Eyes in the Brack, Watcher.”
The Watcher breathed deeply and exhaled slowly; his patience was being sorely tested. “You must remedy that. There must be Eyes in the Brack and the Cerion Forest within three days.”
“Watcher, the Mystic Assembly have resisted our attempts to—”
“Do you think I give a rink about the Mystic Assembly? The All-Father will have the Duchy of Alikon. From where I sit, it appears that four or five rank amateurs have destroyed a decade of work, but you fill my ears with excuses when I should be hearing thoughtful solutions. Are these hapless freeblades so elusive they cannot be found? Or am I to believe that none of you think they are all that important?”
“I will send Eyes to the marsh and the forest tomorrow,” Rosham sputtered.
“With all due respect, Watcher,” Montpeleón said, “if these freeblades are slogging through the Brack, of what immediate concern are they? Why not let the bog hags lay waste to them or the bakali flay them over an open spit? Why should Rosham send resources into that mire to meet a similar fate? The Company will return to Cer Cannaid when their mission is complete, should they survive at all. We can deal with them there.”
In an unprecedented move, the Watcher stood suddenly from his chair. Several of the Cities recoiled in their seats. He pointed and his voice shook the walls. “Montpeleón deCorté!”
Every City in the room recoiled in fear. Montpeleón blanched. His identity had been revealed. He was marked. If his penance was insufficient, his sentence would be severe, and he would be dead within the hour.
But the Watcher was not finished. “You have allowed your infatuation with Cora O’Banion to cloud your judgment and to undermine the Decree. You will obey the All-Father, or you will no longer be Westmeade. You will submit, or you will die.”
Immediately, Montpeleón pushed back his chair and fell prostrate on the floor, his hands stretched forward toward the Watcher. “I will obey!” he pleaded. “I will send my own Eyes to the Brack, translocating them at my own cost! I will also send Eyes across every road in every county until they are found. I will obey, Watcher!”
“Rise, Westmeade,” the Watcher said in a dull monotone. “You are pitiful on your face, but there will be no pity for you if these freeblades are not found and removed.”
“Yes, Watcher.” Montpeleón trembled at the proclamation. He had let his emotions for Cora override his better judgment, but not in the way the Watcher thought. His better judgment would have concealed his emotions, not squelched them. Cora was innocent, a lovely and impressionable soul unfortunately mixed up in the wrong lyric. That she was a target for removal jolted his conscience. Was there room for error in the Decree? How would he know? He could not afford a flimsy, disconnected sentiment. But could he win her over? He could pursue and persuade, convincing her to join him—to marry him even—and thus “remove” her as an obstacle without spilling her blood. He would obey the Decree, but for Cora’s sake, his would be a creative obedience.
Late the next morning, under a pall of low, gray skies and a steady chilling breeze from the north, the Company of Dragonslayers pulled rein beside a gently flowing stream that softly gurgled northward into the mouth of a small cave. Forty feet away stood a mound of rocks blanketed by several inches of snow.
“We’re here,” Cora said in a reverent whisper.
They dismounted in wordless quietude and tied off their horses to nearby trees. With all the sobriety of a funeral procession, the freeblades marched toward Ordin’s grave, their feet softly crunching the snow. Moffe laid beside the stack of rocks a canvas sack he had brought from the Cerion for containing Ordin’s remains.
For several minutes, they cast contemplative gazes on the mound of stones. Nobody moved. Cora recalled their brief shared history, whether the memories were fond or painful. Ordin had led a tortured life filled with pain and uncertainty, and he had died in the most unheroic way. But she knew how to tell his story, and it would be one of heroism, sacrifice, and devotion. The Cerion needed that. She needed that.
Cora’s eyes watered, then she shivered in the wintry breeze. “Before we disturb his rest, I just want to say that Ordin Austmil-Clay had a profound impact on my life. I will forever miss him.”
“Me too,” Elric said as Kiyla placed an arm around him.
Cuauhtérroc unclasped his macana and touched it to the pile of stones. “He was dees good warrior.”
“Take your time,” Moffe said. “I have no desire to rush things.”
Cora trembled from the cold and her emotions, but she lifted her head and summoned all her courage. “Is everybody ready?”
She stepped forward and wiped a swath of snow off the topmost rocks. Following her lead, Elric and Cuauhtérroc joined her until the gray-brown stones were cleared and stood as a stark monument against the surrounding white.
From somewhere distant, a wolf howled a mournful wail.
Elric shook snow from his hands. “Reminds me of Shinnick.”
“It is Shinnick,” Moffe replied. “A mystic forms a tight bond with his companion, even stronger than that of a warden. Though he has been released, it will be a long time before the wolf is truly free of that connection.”
“Such a doleful sound,” Cora sighed as she placed a hand on the crowning stone. There was little desire to undo the memorial they had erected over Ordin’s body, much less to see what lay beneath. But Moffe had dutifully guided them and bravely protected them. The least she could do now was remove these rocks. Steeling herself, Cora jostled loose the topmost stone and tossed it aside.
Slowly and methodically the freeblades dismantled the chest-high mound and reduced it to a scattered ring of river rocks dotting the snow around them.
Cora removed the first stone that revealed a corpse beneath it, and she winced. Space existed where flesh once supported the rocks above it, and now there were only the broken and deconstructed bones of a foot. Trace ribbons of desiccated skin, now hard and leathery, curled like shells about the crumbled remains. She could only stare aghast. There he is.
Elric pulled a second stone free, exposing more of Ordin’s remains and upsetting the balance of several other rocks that tumbled into the cavity left by his decomposed body.
Cora flung her rock far away as tears freely fell.
Cuauhtérroc reached over and held her close against his cuauh, where she unleashed a sorrow she had previously thought was finished. The fault was hers, regardless of what anyone said. She unleashed that concussive wave. She interfered with his attacks. He died because she had been hesitant, fearful, and foolish. I’m sorry, Ordin…so very sorry.
Moffe and Kiyla stepped in to complete the task, leaving Cora to purge her anguish into Cuauhtérroc’s panther pelt.
Moments later, Elric stopped with his hand frozen in mid-air and his head cocked sideways. “I’ll be jiggered.”
Cora pulled away from the savage and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Kiyla frowned in bewilderment, and Moffe scratched his chin as he looked into the grave. Cora’s sadness gave way to curiosity. “What is it?”
Elric rubbed the back of his head. “When we buried ‘im, didn’t we put his sky-miter in the sheath an’ lay it beside him?”
“Sky-miter?” Kiyla asked.
“Scimitar,” Cora explained, “and yes, that’s what we did.”
“Well…” Elric began hesitantly, “it’s there, but it ain’t in the sheath an’ it ain’t beside ‘im. The da-gum sword is in ‘im—I mean, like it’s all up inside of ‘im, like someone done shoved it up in ‘is ribcage.”
Peering down into the ring of stones, Cora saw the skeletal remains of Ordin’s body. His flesh had decayed into nothing, and only a few vestigial slivers of desiccated skin clung to the bones. Notably, there was no odor, which meant the rot was gone. Ribbons of Ordin’s clothing lay in tatters around his skeleton; only his leather belt remained buckled around his hips, though it had long ago collapsed into the void of his abdomen.
But those details paled next to the gleaming scimitar lying neatly atop the skeletal spine. With the hilt near his pelvis and the tip of the blade touching the base of his skull, his ribs forming what looked like a protective cage around the sword.
“How did that happen?” Cora wondered aloud.
“I theenk Ordeen Clay weel say dees is not physically posseeble,” Cuauhtérroc said.
Cora nodded at the savage. “I think you’re right.”
Elric continued to scratch his head. “So…uh…whadda we do now?”
Moffe opened the canvas sack and reached into the ring of stones to grab a femur. “We collect every scrap that remains into this consecrated bag, and we return directly to the Cerion Forest.”
“I got the sword,” Elric said.
Sweet, glorious sunshine. Ordin basked in the warmth. Illusory though it may have been, it filled him with joy, an emotion he had not known for endless days of spiraling gloom. He still had no vision and no sense of light or dark, but his imagination filled in the gaps—a brilliant sun, verdant trees swaying in the wind, a clear mountain stream tumbling over smooth rocks. He saw Shinnick prancing around his feet, a small wolf cub now, recently rescued from the frail branch over the raging waterfall to which it clung before a pair of blanched hands scooped it up…
He felt the sudden elation of being scooped up himself, and he spun with dizziness. What the…? He hadn’t sensed motion in countless ages.
With a flash of blinding brilliance, Ordin could see. Actual images replaced his imaginations. A real sun, trees, a ring of rocks, snow, a gurgling brook. All these things flashed before his vision as if he were spinning around. Brief glimpses of faces sailed through his field of vision in such a blur that he could not recognize them. He tried to still himself, yet the world around him spun and hurtled by with terrible speed.
“It’s got great balance!” a voice roared in Ordin’s ears.
Ordin winced from the volume. He tried raising his hands to his ears, but his arms felt paralyzed. And still the world continued to oscillate rapidly all around him, back and forth, up and down.
“This is the bestest thang ever!” screamed the voice again.
Though he hardly wanted to silence the first voice he’d encountered in millennia, Ordin was powerless to stop his impulse.
Shut yer flamin’ feed trough, ya piece of—
To his utter amazement and great relief, the world suddenly stopped spinning. Now he could focus—by the Maker!
Jubilation filled his heart when he recognized Cora O’Banion, though she had chopped off half her scarlet locks. She looked older that way. Cuauhtérroc stood near her, and beside the savage was his old friend, Moffe Stattalonn, squinting at him with a queer expression. A rugged girl with an ash blonde braid moved into view, half a grin on her scar-lined face. They’re all starin’ at me…or past me.
As Ordin’s vision settled, it gave him the impression that he was “outside himself,” as if not quite connected to the physical world around him. He possessed limited control, as if his newfound ability to see was hampered by—
“Did y’all hear that?” Elric asked.
Ordin winced again from the loudness of Elric’s voice, as if echoing in his own head. His point of view, though…it seemed he was looking over Elric’s shoulder, or maybe…through Elric’s eyes? Ordin trembled from the realization. He needed a quiet place to ponder.
I said rinkin shut up, Elric!
Elric’s voice escaped as an awe-struck whisper. “The sky-miter knows my name. I don’t wanna be taken over by a sword!”
Ordin wobbled as if someone had given his shoulders a good shake.
I ain’t a sword, you mole-brained galoot. That’s not even physically possible.
Elric gasped. “The sword is Ordin!”
As his vision spun about, flipping end over end and hurtling to the ground, Ordin pieced together a horrible theory. His death, his afterlife, the ominous visitor who killed him again, the cold, the darkness, the present gravesite, the skeleton—
With a jarring thud, he hit the ground, where his viewpoint was half snow and half looking up Elric’s legs and torso to a horrified gape below a missing mustache. I’m in a sword.
Ordin’s mind reeled. How could such a thing be? How did it work, and could it be undone? Where was his mind? Was his soul trapped inside the sword? Was he merged with the metal? Am I alive or not?
The worst of it was being reliant upon another for motion, views, and…conversation. And it appeared that was going to be Elric. Ordin chafed at the thought of someone wielding him, of his complete loss of independence. But why not Moffe, or Cuauhtérroc? He would even have preferred Cora. Why Elric? He was the last one Ordin wanted a symbiotic relationship with.
But that was rank ingratitude. He had been released from a veritable prison; he could see the world again and hear the voices of old friends. Should he not rejoice in this?
Ordin weighed everything in the balance, and summarized it as best he could. This is stupid.
It was gruesome work scavenging the dirt inside the ring of stones for every last tooth, digit, and ear bone. Moffe insisted on collecting them all. And because they had found only nine toes, they still scoured the ground three hours later for the tenth.
Elric sifted through yet another handful of dirt. “It ain’t here.”
“I’m telling you, it’ll be fine, Moffe,” Cora said as she sat back on her heels and scowled at her cold, soiled hands.
“He ain’t gonna need it anyway,” Kiyla mumbled.
“That’s not the point,” Moffe replied. “The Sacred Assembly said not a bone is to be left behind. You wouldn’t understand their meaning, but it should be sufficient that they require every last bone.”
“I theenk dees aneemal eat dees toe,” Cuauhtérroc offered, sifting through another handful of dirt.
Elric stood up and feigned a stretch. He backed away from the gravesite and unclasped Ordin’s scimitar from his belt. “I’m sorry, Ordin,” he whispered, “but we can’t find one of your toes.”
It’s about time, you lump of orc dung! Why can’t I flamin’ talk to you unless you’re wavin’ me around like a ninny? Do I have to hang next to your butt all day while y’all dig up the ground for somethin’ that ain’t there? Y’all are just so stupid! I could have told you hours ago I ain’t got but nine toes to begin with, but no…you wanna play in the mud while I swing around like a dingleberry on a …
Elric refastened the scimitar onto his belt and sighed. Ordin had never exactly been a pleasant person, but now he seemed especially cranky. “Ahem…so, um, Ordin only had nine toes.”
Four pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief.
Moffe glowered. “You mean we’ve been scraping through cold grave dirt for a bone that was never there?”
Elric shrugged. “Sorry.”
The warden threw down a handful of soil in disgust and bounded to his feet. “You could have said something much sooner.”
“I said I’s sorry. I didn’ know.”
Moffe scooped up the canvas bag containing Ordin’s remains and plowed an irritated path to his horse. “Let’s go.”
Cora raised an eyebrow at him as she wiped her hands on her pants legs. “So, how do you know it now?”
“He told me.” Elric pointed to the scimitar at his side. “Jis now. I took holt of the sky-miter an’ listened at Ordin jawin’ my ears off ‘bout how he hates swangin’ ‘round my arse an’ how he ain’t got but nine toes an’ we’re all stupid.”
Stunned and gaping faces stared at Elric as if he had just announced a preference for dog meat. Moffe continued tying down the canvas bag to his saddle, but he stole several glances over his shoulder.
Cora reached out her hand. “May I hold the scimitar?”
“Sure,” Elric responded, “but I got dibs on totin’ ‘im into battle.” He grasped the pommel and unclasped it from his belt. Ordin wasn’t saying anything, but Elric could feel severe annoyance radiating through the blade.
Cora held the weapon aloft in her palms. Strips of alabaster leather, eerily reminiscent of Ordin’s pigmentation, wrapped the haft of the whitish-silver blade. “This is not quite the same scimitar he carried with him.”
Elric shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s exceptionally sharp,” she said, brushing a thumb across the razored edge, “perfectly balanced, and exquisite in detail.” She peered closer at the base of the blade. “There’s an image of a lightning bolt etched here, and the white leather…I shudder to think where that may have come from.”
“Ya cain’t hear ‘im lest ya grab the pommel,” Elric offered.
Cora hesitated before wrapping her hand around the alabaster leather. “I’m not sure we can bear another sentient weapon.” After a deep breath, she grasped the pommel with a light, cautious touch.
A moment passed as her jaw dropped. “Ordin!” she squealed. “It’s really you!”
Elric danced with excited joy. “I told ya.”
Cora reeled as she held the scimitar aloft. “I mean, you’re really inside the sword. But I thought—” She paused, her elated smile turning sour and flipping into a deepening frown. “It’s Ordin all right.” She glared at the scimitar and handed it back to Elric as if contact with the weapon had sullied her hands. “No one else is that crass. You can have him.”
Elric took the blade. “Why ya gotta be so cantankerous?”
Why don’t you get stuck in a blade and see how it fits?
“Jis try bein’ have, ‘specially to Cora. She’s been pulled through the wringer.”
Cora sat on the ring of stones and ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know how that happened. I don’t know how that’s even physically possible, as he would say. But…it’s true. I wonder if he actually pierced his soul when he fell on his sword…can that even happen?
Cuauhtérroc shook his head. “Dees is bad juju. We must break dees sword and let Ordin Clay go free to dees speerits.”
“No, Cuauhtie,” Cora replied with a sympathetic smile, “it’s Ordin we’re talking about here, not the Slayer. There’s a reason for this; I just wish I knew what it was. We have to figure out how to handle this, either releasing him from the sword or learning why he’s in there to begin with. I mean, what if this is all part of his purpose?”
Moffe finished tying off the canvas bundle. “This is unexpected. I cannot say how the Assembly will respond. All I can say is we must speak of this to no one.”
“An’ all I can say,” Elric added with a grin, “is I’m gonna call ‘im Swordin.”
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