‘There shall be reborn,
One who is man yet more than man,
The Saydin Mak Doom:
Not of the sword shall he be,
Though he summon its highest power,
He shall be master of the true fire,
Lord of the Flame:
Out of the darkness and into the light,
Shall he lead the legions of mankind…'
(Excerpt from the grimoire of the Magi)
Though the invisible nexus between the planes was infinite, passage between them was instantaneous for one who had mastered the art of transference. His skaan contracted, and once again he entered the world of corporeal existence.
His reawakened psyche was bombarded by agony—the awful intensity of sensation.
Slowly, guardedly, his aura readjusted to the limited yet myriad wonders of reality. His consciousness explored both outward and inward, sifting and sorting the vast amount of information. He became aware of the changes in his environment. A normal man would have said he had spent a few hours in dreamsleep, yet Talisman knew many centuries had passed from the Earth age he had known.
His eyes opened and he blinked as the glow of his aura pushed back the darkness of the small space. There was only the woven cot upon which he had laid his body to rest so long ago. Surrounding him were the stone walls of a cave. In ages past, long before the written history of man, a sea had covered this area. Softer portions of the rock had eroded over time until they formed the cave and its connecting tunnels.
He rose to his feet, and the ease with which he did it surprised him. The ceaseless energy of the Aether had sustained him well. His muscles were toned, his joints flexible. He was naked apart from a breechclout of tanned doeskin. A large hunting knife was strapped to his waist by a sturdy leather thong. It was his only accouterment.
Like his body, neither the thong nor the breechclout had been adversely affected by his long sojourn. His black hair hung in thick, shaggy ropelets that brushed his feet. His nails had grown to a length resembling the talons of a bird of prey. A few minutes with the knife and his nails were trimmed to working length. His hair draped evenly upon his broad shoulders.
A draught of cool air rippled along his back, raising the fine hairs on his skin. He remembered the cave led back into the hills, diverging into a maze of winding tunnels. There was only one entrance and one exit—the same. Although faint and distorted, his other sense told him it remained open.
The entrance to his cave could only be reached through a crevasse between vertical cliff faces. At the bottom was a natural watershed that had formed a narrow but deep pool. It was invisible from the air and fed by an underground system. The pool acted as both an air filter and a trapdoor. To enter, one must first submerge beneath the pool, travel through the connecting tunnel, and then up again into the breathable area of the maze. It had been an ideal place to hide his body for the long sleep, and one he had known would be secure.
He moved toward the back, ducking as the space narrowed. Finally, he was forced to crawl on his hands and knees as he entered the maze. He moved unerringly, for the summons that had caused his awakening drew him as though it were a cord tied to his body.
He reached the pool and entered the water, enjoying the pleasant feel of the cool liquid against his skin. His body had already begun to crave the sensory pleasures of this domain.
The short journey took only a minute. Even before his head broke the surface, he sensed the wrongness. Much greater was his surprise that he had misjudged. His other sense remained dulled after the long hiatus.
The chute was open enough to permit air to pass through but for his purpose it was blocked. The jumble of broken rock and drifting foliage had entwined into a solid mass over the long years. It now jammed the way like a wedge, beyond even the great strength of his body to move. And even if it had been possible, there was not enough time.
He crawled onto the small bordering ledge and rose to his full height. Lifting his arms, he began to summon the power.
The chant started as a low monotone and built in crescendo: the medicine song of the Cheyenne, the ancient people of his youth. He felt the power growing and his feet began to dance with the rhythm. It was a primal beat, increasing in cadence until it equaled the racing heart of a warrior.
The final echoing note was a shout, which became a roaring, crashing gout of exploding rock, brush, and dirt. It left behind a veil of dust hanging like mist. The faint flicker of dawn twilight filtered down and outlined the entrance. It seemed to drift upon the clouds far above him.
He began climbing. He pushed with his back and feet, a steady yet careful creep upward that brought him to the summit. His breath was deep and even as he looked out over the barren plain. It was a desert, but not as he remembered it. So many of the once familiar scents and sounds were either gone or changed beyond recognition. Still, he detected the presence of living creatures, and among them were men. The energy auras were faint and remote, yet of this he was certain.
Far off on the horizon, the first glimmering bands of palest crimson had begun to claw their way out over the sands. He cocked his head and his nostrils dilated, but it was not with olfactory or aural senses that he searched the once familiar land. It was with his other sense, still vibrating like a tautened string to the summons.
He smiled. It was as he had thought. It came from the East, as straight and sure as a Sacred Arrow.
With quick and agile steps, he traced the unmarked trail downward until he reached the desert floor. He began to run. His strides were long and powerful and ate up the ground. His path was unerring: it aimed straight toward the rising sun.
***
Fano Tuck, Top Blade of the Myrmidon, raised his hand to shade his pale and sensitive eyes. It was a useless gesture as he squinted into the hot glare of the sun. The glowing orb was barely into its third hour, yet already it had licked its tongue over the sands until they burned like hell-fire.
He could just make out the jagged summit of Burning Mountain far to the south. Like their camp, it too lay in the Royal Warren of Shaka, Cachique of the Southern Wen. The mount no longer burned. It did not even smoke as it had hundreds of cycles before. Yet it did glimmer and glint, appearing so close he could touch it. A deception. Fano knew from firsthand experience it was a full three turns march from this eastern gate.
He leaned on the railing of the high platform serving as a lookout post. The sun’s rays slanted down past the tower’s conical roof, catching him on the exposed flesh of his thighs and calves.
He was a short, thickset man nearing middle age, with blunt unremarkable features. An assortment of scars etched his skin, marking the high and low points of his long service. He wore the classic myrmidon uniform of neutral gray, altered to fit tropical climes. A light but sturdy kilt and sleeveless waistcoat were the main trappings, embossed with his badges of rank and tenure. His wide feet were encased in boots of Morlas fiber, form-fitted and built to withstand the hazards of his occupation. They rose to mid-calf and the tops of his socks were visible above them. A short sword with the nicks and gouges of long service hung from a simple scabbard on his left side. On his right was a long and gleaming disruptor pistol.
He raised his snooper to his eyes and surveyed the barren land. He saw exactly what he had seen from the first turn he had arrived at this remote outpost over a cycle ago: nothing but sand and scattered patches of scrub brush. Few of the desert denizens approached the eastern gate this closely. The bored duty personnel eagerly grabbed such rare and interesting moments as an opportunity for target practice.
The tall, slender pylons of the energy barrier marched away on either side like a column of giant toothpicks. They gradually shrank into dwarves, and then continued to recede until they blended into the distant terrain. Everything looked a bit distorted through the veil of the force field. Even the very air shimmered and rippled like waves of heat above a roaring fire.
Indeed, the desert was exactly this…a furnace. And the visitors would be out there, somewhere.
Standing sentinel on the lookout tower was not Fano’s regular duty. He was, after all, a top blade with twenty cycles of experience under his sweat-soiled uniform. Such menial tasks were for the lower ranks, and the ‘snicks’—the raw recruits who needed to learn the meaning of discipline and responsibility.
And it did mean something to have risen to the highest level in the rank and file of the Gardai. They were the guardians of the vast empire: the Pentarchy of Solarian. Fano had learned the meaning of duty on countless worlds that had filled a long string of cycles with more excitement than most would ever see. Even so, this duty…
Should not be his.
He tried to shake off such thoughts, for sidestepping his responsibility had never been his way. Still, he was not the Warden of the Gate. He was not one of the Swordkind, not even a wearer of the Red. Not an inkling of the Gift resided in his aging bones. Yet it was for him to do.
His commander, the young Sword Thane—being a recipient of the Serum who had seen only two hundred and six cycles—was, as usual, indisposed. Or in the slang of the ancient scrolls, ‘hung over’. Fano found this to be a colorful yet apt phraseology. He had oft passed the Thane’s quarters on the pretense of duty. On those occasions he had been treated to the sounds of woe emanating from within. It had not been hard to imagine the commander, bent over and puking his guts out from an overindulgence of Tiswin.
Ah…blessed Tiswin. The sweet distillate of the burin-gita leaf could be found only in one spot in the empire: the desert world of Reamur. This singular planet lay in the dominion of the Grimman-Seth, the bird race, and was off-limits to all but the highest echelon. Fano had tasted the nectar but once and it had nearly beggared him.
Even a Sword Thane—though a true lord of the empire—could ill afford the costly liqueur for long. Yet his commander was no ordinary Sword Thane but the prince of a Royal House. And a Pentarchial House at that! By the Rim! Only the old gods knew what such a one was doing in this isolated outpost, two steps from hell. A princeling of his class could have had his pick of the pleasure worlds, even the capital of Brigantia itself!
Fano wiped the sweat from his brow and made another attempt at searching the waste. Even with his snooper set at maximum, he could detect nothing suggesting human activity. When tomorrow dawned, it would be five turns since the party had entered. Five was the limit, after which the law of the warren dictated rescue should begin.
The thought made Fano even more disgruntled. There was little doubt he would be ordered to lead the search. Or what he would find. On several occasions in the past, the hunter had become the hunted. The grizzly remains of too-eager visitors had been a stark reminder to them all. The burning torture of the sun was not the greatest danger of the warren.
Flickering shadows passed close to his feet and startled him into glancing upward. A long-winged buzzard circled lazily on the air currents, no doubt enhanced by the pylons’ energy field. Fano was once more reminded of a feeling that had been nagging him since he had come on duty. There was a subtle difference to the order of things. He continued to watch the ugly carrion feeder and it suddenly dawned on him.
The drones! There were no drones!
Fano knew then that these were no ordinary visitors. In truth, he had known it when the party had passed through the portal. His first impulse had been to utter the words of refusal, for there had been glaring violations of the law. But experience had guided his judgment. And caution. There had been no written notification, not even a verbal warning from the higher echelon. But he had followed his gut and it had served him well.
Lord Shaka must know. No one else could order the removal of the drones.
Though visitors to the warren were not numerous, they were not as rare as the forbidding hardships of the terrain would suggest. This had been an especially well-outfitted company with heavily laden porters in copious number. And they had carried the most expensive state of the art accommodations offered by the Guild.
In the company had been a woman. Not a violation, certainly. Yet rare was the woman who would brave the hardships of the warren—or even want to. Never mind the dust, heat, and vermin. There were endless carnivores and poisonous creatures that crawled, walked, and flew. And the only water was a three turns march in any direction. The most dangerous threat of all—and what drew more visitors than any other reason—was the tharfi, last of the true dog kind.
What had made his eyes open wide, even more than the woman, had been the presence of the Adept: a wearer of the Black. He had donned a ragged cloak and hood to disguise the fact. But Fano’s keen eyes had seen evidence of the slivers of Ryl, the Shield Metal, shining from his insteps. A brief flicker only, yet the proud erectness of his bearing and the boldness of his walk would have been enough to mark him as an Adept of the Swordkind.
And one of the First Rank too, if Fano’s suspicions were correct.
According to Shaka’s law, only personal hand weapons could be carried into the warren. Knife, sword, and javelin…these were acceptable. But disruptors, even old style missile weapons like the bow and crossbow, were ruled improper advantage. So what then of an Adept who bore the Metals? Few would argue that a sword of Kirlin in the hands of an Adept was more powerful than the main disruptor of a Fleet destroyer.
Notwithstanding the woman and the Adept, the most unusual circumstance of all had been their permit. Lord Shaka was stingy when it came to allowing hunters to intrude upon his royal preserve. Even high dignitaries from off-world had not carried such a one as these. It had been stamped with the Great Seal, and bore the bold lectroglyph of Archduke Mondragon, Primus of the Pentarchy. Impossible to forge. Not even Robert the Piper, dishonored Chieftain of the Techniks, would have dared such a thing.
So who are they? Fano admitted to himself he had no inkling. But what they were doing there was obvious from the large cage they had carried. He had recognized the special alloy of the Techniks, normally used in Fleet interceptors. The cage was indestructible. Yet for all its size, it had been light enough that four men could handle it. Such housing could only be designed to hold one beast—the tharfi.
The tharfi was one of the true remaining creatures of pre-Cloister, the all-but-forgotten age predating the great meteor that had struck Earth over a millennium in the past. The hide or head of a tharfi could guarantee the possessor more than five hundred tarks: a sum greater than the life earnings of many a successful Guild merchant. Never mind the various remaining body parts, each of them in its own right worth a fortune.
Few remained on Earth, and the greater part of these roamed the Royal Warren at will. Fano had faced many fierce and wild-eyed enemies in his service with the Gardai. He had traveled and fought in countless battles throughout the broad reaches of the Pentarchy, keeping the peace among the warring tribes of the lesser worlds. Yet no amount of money could have enticed him to face a tharfi with only a spear or a short sword in his hand. Not even a disruptor if he was alone.
The beasts possessed uncanny intelligence and cunning, mutated to four and even five times the size of their ancient ancestor. They were also endowed with incredible speed and endurance, not to mention an abiding hatred and distrust of men. It was a brave or greedy fool who would dare to hunt such a one on foot, armed only with primitive weaponry.
Fano heard the clomp of booted feet climbing the tower’s entry ladder, and he realized with a start that his relief had arrived. His meandering had taken him well into the afternoon. He made one last cursory sweep of the outlying area before shrugging his thick shoulders in defeat. Five turns with the coming of dawn. With luck, the party might have reached one of the other gates by this time. Perhaps that was their intent all along. Strictly speaking, entry to the warren and exit therefrom should be through the same gate. But normal law obviously did not apply to these people.
“No sight of ‘em yet, eh, Top?”
Fano offered only a grunt in reply as his relief joined him at the railing. He was a third blade named Gavin: a tall, gangling veteran from Faerwyn-Joss, the Earth-twin. They had soldiered together on more than one occasion in the past. Fano knew the man to be not overly bright yet reliable enough in a pinch.
“You checked to see if the commander had awakened before you came up here?” Fano growled. The long, heat-filled morn had set an edge to his temper.
“Aye, Top,” Gavin answered, unfazed. “Not a hair showing yet. Seems like our red robe swallowed a good bit this time. Been four turns now and we still ain’t seen...”
With surprising swiftness, Fano’s thick arm shot out and his fingers closed around the other’s throat. Gavin had time to register a brief look of surprise before he was lifted onto his toes and shaken like a rat. He struggled ineffectually, choking and gagging before the relentless pressure eased up enough that he could breathe. “What’s the bleeding...?”
“Shut your gob!” Fano ordered, shoving his face close to the unfortunate myrmidon’s. “If I ever hear you disrespect the commander like that again, I’ll burn you a new dunghole.” He patted his disruptor. “You get my meaning?”
Suffocated to a tint of deep purple from lack of air, Gavin merely rolled his eyes in answer. With a final emphatic shake, he was flung against the railing with such force he had to grab hold to keep from falling. His eyes wore the wounded look of a kicked dog as he gulped air. “Shit, Fano, you know I meant nothing...”
“Keep your eyes open and your trap shut. Let me know the second you see anything. Anything!”
Without waiting for a reply, Fano descended the stairs and made his way across the open parade ground. The entire encampment was bivouac style, with neat rows of tents spread out in a curved half-moon for a hundred meters along the pylon perimeter. Being a permanent post, there were plenty of reasons why they should have established more solid dwellings, but Lord Shaka was reluctant to mar the natural look of his lands.
The commander’s tent sat apart from the rest, as was fitting. He was Swordkind, even if only a wearer of the Red. Though not much different from the dwellings of his men in appearance or shape, the commander’s was a shade larger and boasted a double entryway.
Fano made his way toward it but his unease grew the closer he came. It was not cowardice to be afraid of the Swordkind. They were different from ordinary men. The Gift as much as the Metals made them so.
As he came up to the dwelling, he saw the windward flap was open. He paused and cleared his throat so that anyone awake would hear. His finely tuned nostrils detected the subtle but unmistakable aroma of the drug. It filtered through the pervading scents of sweat and stomach leavings.
A giant horsefly buzzed his head and he swatted it. His impatience drove back his hesitation. He was about to call out when a voice echoed from the darkened interior, preempting him.
“What is it, Fano?”
“My lord,” Fano began cautiously, “I have an unusual tiding to report. I have delayed the telling since you...or rather, I wanted to wait until I was more certain...”
Fano’s voice trailed off. He had seen a shadow moving toward the opening. He stepped back as a figure brushed past him and staggered into the sunlight.
“How long has it been this time?”
“Just past four turns, my lord,” Fano replied. The state of his commander shocked him. Never, it seemed to him, had he seen the man fallen so low.
Prince Mendiko, Sword Thane of the Gardai, Fourth in the Royal House of Sid, was a handsome man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was medium of stature though sturdily built, with a smooth and well-defined musculature—though the past four turns had taken their toll. His dark brown eyes were redlined and shadowed by sagging pockets of flesh that bespoke ill sleep or none. His clear and bronzed skin had taken on a sallow caste—all but his face, which was flushed.
He wore a wine-dark robe that hung to his sandaled feet, cinched at the waist by a broad sash of softened black leather. A single emblem garnished his breast: a slim blade superimposed upon a triangular shield. It was the symbol of the Gardai, carved out of the black stone of Slyph. It marked him for all to see: Dao N’Athair. Sword Thane.
But the Metals were the most striking part of his attire. Five slim triangles of silver hue clung to his insteps, forearms, and forehead—though unfastened by any visible means. Ryl—the Shield Metal.
A sword was tucked into the sash, the hilt angled across his belly. It was golden in color, long and gracefully tapered, the handle hide-bound. Kirlin—the Sword Metal.
Both Ryl and Kirlin possessed an aura, faint yet discernible. The shields bore the rose color of sun’s last fading, while the sword was the rainbow’s violet edge.
Last was a short, dagger-like blade in a sheath strapped to his forearm. The Gundring, the taker of blood and life itself should one of the Sword Brotherhood forswear the Oath of the Code.
Some of Fano’s discomfort registered on his normally serene features. Enough that Mendiko made the effort to speak again. He moved his lips in an exaggerated motion, as if he struggled to pronounce the words.
“I am prepared, Top. Please…speak plainly.”
As Fano described in detail the events of the last few turns, a frown settled on Mendiko’s brow. He brought his hand to his chin and stroked it. “You’re certain it was an Adept? And there was a woman with them?”
“Certain as to the woman’s presence, my lord. But as for the Adept, I am sure only that he was Swordkind. I could not mistake the Shield Metal—brief a glimpse though it was.”
Mendiko straightened, dropping his hand to rest on his sword hilt. “You made the correct decision. This is no normal visitation. Detail a cleaning party and send them to my quarters. We can expect visitors before nightfall. Make the necessary preparations if you have not already done so. If the hunters have not returned by dawn’s light, we must be ready to send out a search party.”
Fano bowed and began to hasten in the direction of the men’s bivouac, but Mendiko called out to him.
“Fano! My thanks.”
For an instant, the eyes of the top blade and the Sword Thane met. The stocky myrmidon jerked his head in acknowledgment and continued on his way.
***
Mendiko stood for a moment longer, balancing on the balls of his feet as he struggled to clear his mind of the drug’s aftereffects. The situation called for clear and decisive action. Above all, clear thinking. He was in no shape for either.
With sudden decision, he reentered his quarters. Searching in the dim light through the soil and clutter, he located a fresh robe and the water-pack. It was an oblong container of twenty liters, molded for carriage on the back. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw it was full.
Fighting his clumsiness, he mounted it with a final shrug of his shoulders and tucked the robe between the straps. Without further delay, he left his tent.
He aimed for the dunes to his right, two klicks from the outskirts of the camp. He was conscious of the averted gaze of his men as he crossed the open parade. Then, with sword-sense, he felt the eerie tingling on his back…the feel of many eyes watching.
He continued without a backward glance, reaching the first of the rolling dunes a half-hour later. The climb was a brief struggle lasting only minutes before he was on the far side and beyond sight of camp. He dropped his pack and sank to his knees. With careful precision, he assumed the position of deep meditation.
His breathing slowed. With more than usual effort, he began to empty his mind of all thought save the inward aura. After an interminable time, the poisons in his body began to dissipate and he achieved the Quietus: the inner state of balance from which all power grew. He began to recite the Litany of the Code within his mind—the words more familiar than the feel of his own skin.
You are Dao N’Athair, wearer of the Red. Sword Thane. Yours is the right to bear the Twin Metals: Ryl of the shield and Kirlin of the sword. Yours is the duty of the Gift, bound by the Code to uphold the right: Honor before all else!
The calm pervaded him for only a short while before deep memories began to intrude. Memories so powerful he did not try to quell them. It would have been useless.
It had now been one hundred and eighty-six cycles since he had first donned the white robe of the Initiate and taken the first imbibe of the Serum of Longevity. He had sworn sacred oath, bound himself to the Code and begun to unravel the mysteries of the sword. They had been exciting times, with the power of the Gift raw and untamed—no one knowing where it might lead, least of all him.
There had been loneliness, too. Endless, silent hours in which he had both battled and explored the deep corridors of his mind, striving for mastery of the power that ever seemed to elude him. And always, he strove under the grim and watchful eye of the Pat’Riark, his master and tutor—the first and greatest of all the Swordkind. The turns had marched past, slipping at first into moons that had accumulated into cycles. And then the verdict had come at last. The decree of the Pat’Riark was a ringing tome, a mixture of dread and anticipation. Yet it was a verdict that could neither be escaped nor denied.
‘Mendiko of Sid, you are Dao N’Athair: Sword Thane and wearer of the Red. From here you must find your own way. Go now in peace.’
And so he had. The cycles had continued to pass, lengthening beyond the time of enlightenment, the time when the High Power should have revealed itself but did not. No amount of training, self-discipline, or mediation had altered this state.
There were those of the Brotherhood who had counseled him, saying there was honor even in this defeat. He would never wear the Black. Never find the power he was certain resided within him, yet remained as untouchable as a wraith. Even so, he was Swordkind. He had listened with grudging patience, even though he had not agreed. Still, he had sworn the oath of fealty to the Pentarchy. Become Gardai.
He broke from the Quietus and rose from his kneeling position. With little wasted movement, he washed his body. Donning his clean robe, he fitted his weapons and badge of rank. As he moved back toward camp, he wondered for the thousandth time how other Thanes dealt with the disappointment.
It was a taboo subject. The inception of the Sword Brotherhood was now eight hundred cycles in the past. No Sword Thane—once he had finally been acknowledged as such—had ever risen to the rank of Adept. All must pass through this level to find the High Power, yet those that could did so within a certain period, or they did so never.
The Pat’Riark had been the first of the Swordkind, the first to cross the barrier, and it had taken many cycles to do so. Yet those had been times of uncertainty and long ago. Now it was accepted by all that this thing must happen within a reasonable span of cycles. It could be as little as two or as many as five…certainly no longer than ten.
For Mendiko, this was now a time long in the past. Yet something within him refused to accept this stricture. Was it vanity that made him believe he could cut the cord of such binding tradition? There was a treasure within him—buried beyond sight and no map to guide him—yet it was there. He knew he would never give up the search, not until death finally took him. And being Serum-blessed, there was no way of knowing how long a time this might be.
He reached his quarters. It had not yet been two hours but already they were clean and as orderly as he normally kept them. This was his domain, a place he had made his private Cloister. Here he battled the devils in his head. There were few frills or comforts. As the prince of a Pentarchial House who was also Sword Thane, he could have turned even this remote outpost into a palace. Yet he preferred simplicity and functionality rather than extravagance or opulence.
According to the wisdom of the Pat’Riark, ‘A wise man does not overindulge in the softness of pleasantries…not if he wishes to remain as tempered as his blade.’
He allowed himself three items that satisfied his comfort, thanks to the imaginative wizardry of the Techniks. There was a small lamp of teklume, which provided adequate lighting; a sound module for his favorite music; and a reefer unit that kept the desert heat in abeyance. These items were no more a