SIX
He remembered awakening earlier in a cave before setting off on a journey through the desert. But why? And how had he gotten to the cave in the first place? And where had he been before that? There were only broken fragments of clinging memory. Foremost among them was a creature, at once massive and threatening, yet hauntingly familiar. Apart from this, there was only hollowness. He prayed the rest of his memories would return with time.
He sat up and looked at his hands as though to reassure himself he was real. He wore a single piece of clothing: the softened hide of some animal.
A breechclout of doeskin.
The answer floated across his mind and startled him. His first memory? Apart from a thin, faded scar across his abdomen, there were no physical injuries. He remembered his body and he knew he would recognize his face. And he had not forgotten his name.
I am Ryder Talisman. But who or what is Ryder Talisman?
He had survived. He was alive. But how he had arrived in his present position, he could not say.
He looked around and saw a square chamber twice the length of his body. Three of the walls were a blank, dull gray. The fourth, at first glance, appeared to be a large opening leading to a corridor. He blinked his eyes and stared harder. He could swear the opening had wobbled for an instant.
He stood and was immediately dizzy. There was a dull aching in his head that forced him to lean against the nearest wall. It felt solid enough, though of a spongy texture identical to the floor. Glancing up, he saw a thin strip of luminous material painted on the ceiling. It was low enough he could touch it by stretching. As he did so, he found it was surprisingly cool since it radiated enough light to fill the small chamber.
He moved toward the opening, bent on entering the corridor. The sudden flash of pain sent him staggering back into the room. He could now see a film—almost but not quite transparent—covering the entire opening. He could hear a low-level humming.
He reached out with the tips of his fingers and felt the tingling when only a hand’s breadth from the barrier. The harder he pushed, the more unpleasant the feeling became. It was an energy field and he was a prisoner. The corridor was empty. When he tried to see more than a meter to either side, the view became distorted.
“Hello!” His voice was flat, without a trace of echo. Whatever material the walls were composed of was absorbent. He shouted again and waited. There was no response.
He turned back, once more facing the room’s interior. It felt different now, more like a cage. He did not like the trapped feeling, even though the dizziness had faded.
His eyes searched the tiny compartment for anything out of the ordinary. There was only a bed, made of what looked and felt like stainless steel. When he grasped the rail, he was surprised to find how light it was. It was unbolted to the floor or the wall. He could lift it easily and he did so.
Without a second thought, he hurled the entire frame at the opening, then dropped and flattened himself against the floor. There was a horrific screech and the smell of scorched metal as the entire frame was repulsed with the same velocity it had been thrown. Crackling and glowing white-hot, it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor. Whatever material had been used to make the cushion was inflammable since it did not even smolder. The shimmering barrier had not changed.
He waited a few minutes while the bed cooled, then shoved it back against the wall and out of his way. He sat down on the floor. There was nothing to do but await the pleasure of his unknown jailers.
They arrived soon after, no doubt summoned by the commotion. There were two of them, both wearing identical robes of midnight black. The first was tall and slender, with skin the color of darkest ebony. The other was swarthy of complexion, and though shorter, he was much heavier in build.
Both men carried swords, which glinted like burnished gold. Upon the insteps, forearms, and forehead of each were glittering, diamond-shaped slivers of silvery metal. A second dagger-like blade was strapped to their forearms. The stocky one bore a curious emblem on his breast: a sword superimposed upon a triangular shield. This metal too shone like burnished gold. Embossed upon the shield was the word ‘honor’. Considering his present state, Ryder did not find the word or the sight of these men comforting.
“Who are you and what is this place?” he demanded, advancing toward the barrier. “Why am I being kept a prisoner?”
The strangers watched him without answering. Then the stocky one spoke.
“He no longer mutters the strange tongue. They used the autolect?”
The tall one nodded. “A technik administered it while he was in the dream state.”
Ryder heard and understood them plainly, even though the force field blurred their voices. “Who are you?”
“Well do you know us, Code-breaker,” the shorter one snapped. “We witnessed your attack upon our sword-brother, Mendiko of Sid. As to your question, I am Argus, Lord Marshal of the Gardai, and I have sworn oath you shall pay the supreme penalty for your crime.”
Ryder shook his head. “What in God’s name are you talking about? I know nothing of any attack. I don´t remember much of anything.”
“You deny that you violated the warren? That you are Swordkind?” It was the tall black man’s turn now. “We saw you summon the Flame. There can be no mistake.”
“I swear to you, I have no knowledge of swords or this flame you speak of,” Ryder replied. “I remember waking up in a cavern somewhere in the desert. Even that memory is uncertain and shadowy. I started on a journey…after that, it is all a blank.”
The man digested this answer. A deep frown lined his brow as he glanced at the one called Argus. “Could it be possible he is telling the truth? That he has lost his memory?”
Argus grunted. “More likely, he is the most convincing of liars.”
“Please, you must believe me,” Ryder said, directing his focus upon the tall one who seemed more inclined to help him. “I don’t know who you are or even where I am. Won’t you at least give me that much information?” The dark-skinned man hesitated. Instead of answering, he posed a question of his own.
“First, tell us your name.”
“I am Ryder Talisman.”
Though the one called Argus remained unimpressed, the tall one showed immediate astonishment.
“I am Roland, brother of Shaka, Cachique of the Fifth Wen. You are charged with violating his Royal Warren. As to the more serious crime of Code-breaker, you are now in the holding pens of the Judicata. This cell rests on the outskirts of the city of Brigantia, capital of the empire and home-hearth of House Mondragon.”
Mondragon? In Ryder's mind, a small glimmer of memory shone for a heartbeat. Mondragon…yes, he recognized that name. Richard Mondragon had been Chairman of the Council of Five…’
The sudden jolt of awareness shocked him. A chain of events and memories flooded into his brain with such force he wobbled dizzily. He was saved from falling only by leaning once more against the wall. Men with swords, wearing robes like warrior monks. Where was he? When was he? “What is the present date?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Both men stared back as though he might be mad.
“We are nearing the end of the thousandth cycle of post-Cloister,” Roland answered, his frown even deeper than before.
“And what is this world? What planet…?”
Argus laughed without humor. “See how he schemes to play the role he has assumed. This is Earth, liar.” He spun on his heel and growled a final comment over his shoulder. “This avails us nothing, Lord Warden. We shall see what justice the council meets out.”
Ryder watched the man until his distorted shape disappeared down the corridor. The one called Roland continued to stare strangely at him. From the title and the way Argus had addressed him, Ryder decided he was a man of some importance in this time.
“I have given you my word,” he began, more firmly than before. “I have no memory of these crimes. Yet the name you spoke…Mondragon. I now remember a little of what I was. I am not from this time, though I am native to this planet. I have come from long in the past—a millennium or more. How I arrived and for what purpose, I cannot say.” He shrugged expressively. “I know nothing of your world or its laws. I can only throw myself at the mercy of this body you call the Judicata and claim innocence.”
Ryder watched as Roland nodded his head. There was a worried look on his face, and then a growing expression of certainty replaced the frown. “Yes…By the Rim! It all begins to make sense just as the prophecy foretold!” He cocked his head, searching the corridor Ryder could not see as if he were afraid someone might be listening. When he turned back, his dark eyes were penetrating and his voice was much lower.
“There is little time for me to speak further, so listen closely. You must compose your thoughts and make certain of your answers. You go on trial for your very life, and not before the Judicata. Instead you face the High Council of the Star Chamber. The evidence against you is damning, and even I must bear truthful witness to what I saw.
“Yet all is not lost. There are others who might aid you, those who I have been unable to find as yet. I must seek them out quickly while there is still time: my brother and the Pat’Riark among them. Keep your courage, Ryder Talisman. Lord Kronus of Tsark, Chief Chronicler of the Pentarchy is with us. We can only pray he has found understanding in the scrolls. Heed his council until I return.”
Before Ryder could question further, the man was gone. He listened to the retreating footsteps until they faded away. He was alone again, beset by a mind full of incoherent images and horrifying possibilities. Yet there was now a faint glimmer of hope. He had found an ally.
***
“You are mired in self-pity, Mendiko. It sickens me to watch—worse even than the filthiest swine wallowing in the mud. Bad enough we are sword-brethren. Even more disgusting, we share the same blood.”
Ashara cringed at the harshness of her brother’s words, even though she understood the need. For two whole turns, her cousin had lain unconscious, awakening only yestermorn. He had uttered no word since then. Nor did he give any sign now that he had heard.
They stood high upon the parapet of Castle Mondragon. Mendiko remained unmoving, his broad shoulders slumped, his entire carriage listless as he gazed out at the majestic panorama of the city of Brigantia. He could have been staring at a stone for all the interest he showed.
Shaan turned to her and shrugged in weary resignation. The pain of defeat twisted his handsome features. He gripped his sword with white-knuckled fingers, as though willing the blade of Kirlin to aid him.
Ashara’s heart reached out to her cousin. With every fiber of her being, she felt the great depth of his shame…the sorrow and ignominy of his defeat. Yet she knew her brother was right in his way. Mendiko was like a root, healthy and strong, suddenly plucked from its native soil. Unless he once more felt the nurture of the earth—and soon—he would wither and die.
She moved to stand close behind him. Reaching out, she gently gripped his shoulder. He did not flinch. He did not even move. It was as if he had become some carved effigy, lacking any spark of life.
“Please, Mendiko…will you not look at me?”
The Sword Thane remained motionless.
“Even if you no longer love yourself,” Ashara spoke softly, “will you forget the feelings we bear for you? You, who are the closest and most beloved of our kindred?”
Slowly, as if awakening from a deep sleep, Mendiko turned. His eyes were shadowed and sunken, lifeless as dried-out shells.
“Dearest and most beautiful Ashara, there are no words to help me. Neither yours nor Shaan’s. I am Sword Thane no longer…less even than half a man. There is only the Gundring left for me.”
Ashara cried out in shock. “No! Do not say such a thing!”
“You are a fool!” Shaan strode forward to confront his cousin as though he were a mortal enemy. “The dishonor is not yours! It was the stranger who broke the Code!”
“Yes,” Mendiko nodded, his voice twisted with bitterness. “A lone stranger with neither sword nor shield…yet still more than a match for Mendiko, Sword Thane.”
Ashara saw her brother shake his head. Disgust was once more in his tone. “You bleat pitifully at the Fates, which in their harshness deigned you would be born of the Blood Royal. So bitter are you, one of the chosen few blessed with the Gift of the Swordkind. You stand there sulking and forlorn because the natural law appointed you to wear the Red and not the Black. Now do you besmear yourself. Have you forgotten the Code? Will you play the coward in the end?”
Mendiko’s eyes were once more alive with anger. She saw it and hope returned. Even anger was feeling of a kind: a sign of life. When her cousin replied, his voice was cold and even rougher than Shaan’s.
“Wear the shoes, Cousin! Walk in them a while before you speak of the journey!”
Ashara waited breathless as the seconds ticked by. Her brother’s face had become transformed by a thin and melancholy smile. He moved to the low table where Mendiko’s sword lay as though forgotten. Reverently, he picked it up and returned once more to stand in front of his kindred.
“Forgive me, Mendiko. We are as close as brothers. That is why I more than any other know you could never be the coward. Yet hear this. You have been summoned by the council to bear testimony. If you refuse to appear, they will brand you as such. Though it may never be stated…it will be thought.”
Shaan lifted the sword and offered it hilt first. “Take up your sword, Mendiko…Dao N’Athair!”
She saw Mendiko’s eyes rivet upon the shinning blade as though drawn by a lodestone. Yet he did not reach for it. Instead, he shook his head and returned his gaze to the city far below. His words were like an utterance of doom.
“Better I had never touched the sword.”
Ashara felt the tears streaming down her face as she and her brother quietly left the room.