The only smile James had ever seen upon the old man’s face quickly vanished into the weathered lines from which it had emerged. With careful, unhurried movements, Torrinth reverently laid the newly-carved sword upon the ground and braced a hand against his bended knee. It pained him to stand but when at last he had gained his feet, he drew his own sword with an ease that belied his injury.
From where James lay, he watched helplessly as the blademaster of Galendar prepared to defend his life for what would be the last time. A painful twist of remorse brought tears to his eyes, but if he was going to die, at least it would be at the side of a man he not only admired, but could at last call friend.
The warriors in white had reached the edge of the flagstone floor when the air was rent by the shrill tearing of fabric. Between the two men and the approaching warriors, a lone figure dropped out of the sky. A cloud of dust exploded into the air as the ancient stone was pulverised beneath a pair of bare feet. Before the dust had settled, James knew who had at last come to their rescue.
The warriors stumbled, unnerved by what they had just witnessed, but Lord Balen furiously bellowed his rage behind them, goading them on to confront the frail old man who had materialised before them.
James looked on in horror as Kloven-Perrin stood as though to welcome his own death. For not only did the monk look every bit as frail as he had first appeared upon the Watch, but his face was turned away, his blind eyes seeking attack where none was due.
Raising their gleaming blades, the warriors moved in formation, lunging towards the monk with all the cunning elegance of their craft. But when the first blade had come to within an inch of his neck, the old man’s rigid form dissolved into a blur of movement. His motion was so fast that his arms appeared to vanish, yet the consequences of his actions sent the four men crashing to the ground, their wooden blades clattering across the flagstones like discarded toys. The men following in their wake hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then they too were taken to the ground amidst their fallen companions.
But Lord Balen was no normal man, and as he ran into the space beneath the destroyed tree, he swung his white staff in a blur of movement that matched the monk’s beneath him. The old man had no time to ward the blow and instead braced his shoulder against it, the contact shattering the staff in an explosion of white shards. The startled Lord of the Citadel tumbled to the ground, but the monk remained where he stood like a statue hewn from granite. Before any of the remaining warriors could advance any further, the monk’s voice detonated like thunder from between his thin lips.
‘The next hand raised in violence against these men will result in the destruction of you all!’
Lord Balen slowly regained his feet as the remaining warriors stood obediently beside him. Their faces betrayed no hint of fear, yet they looked puzzled as though uncertain how such an attack could have been committed against them.
‘You have no right to issue such commandments here, old man!’ Lord Balen spat. ‘You meddle in matters beyond your ken. I will not stand idly by whilst this barbarian destroys the very symbol of our salvation. A demon has been let loose within our fortress and I intend to send it back to the oblivion from whence it came!’
‘Demon,’ the monk muttered derisively. ‘It would appear that the folly of man extends beyond the borders of those you would call barbarians. You speak of salvation, yet you cannot see it when it is plainly writ before your eyes.’
The monk pointed a bony finger to the ground where the newly carved sword lay upon the granite stone like a shard of midnight.
‘The tree was not destroyed, it was reborn.’
Lord Balen visibly flinched when he caught sight of the red-black blade glistening in the moonlight.
‘The Custodian’s Blade,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Ire quickly swept the man’s astonishment from his face, his hands clenching for the staff now lying in pieces upon the ground.
‘Sacrilege!’
The monk raised his hand in supplication as a wry smile twisted itself upon his lips.
‘You are Custodian here, are you not?’
Lord Balen deemed not to reply, but his eyes burned with a cold hatred that made James’ skin crawl.
‘Perhaps I know more of your custom than you do yourself,’ the monk continued. ‘Though the felling of Loreth’s tree is a crime justly served by death, is it not also true that its execution be committed by a blade melded from the offended?’
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He gestured to the ground where the sword lay framed within the centre of a flagstone.
‘Loreth’s blade lies at your feet. If you are its rightful owner, take it and mete out the justice you so demand!’
Lord Balen’s scowl seemed to falter upon his face, replaced for the first time with the faintest hint of uncertainty.
‘Do not toy with me, old man,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘I would not dream of such effrontery,’ the monk replied earnestly. ‘I am merely confident that the laws you ascribe to the protection of the tree will not be sufficient to end the life of its rightful owner.
‘Now, take up the blade and mete out your justice, if you are capable of doing so.’
Balen’s face coloured and with movements no longer graceful he lunged for the sword. His fingers were like white claws upon the slender handle as he held it aloft, the blade trembling and quivering as though assaulted by a gale.
‘You know nothing of our lore!’ Balen seethed. ‘I’ll play your little game and spill the blood of the demon at your feet!’
James shuffled backwards across the cold stone like a frightened animal, shocked that the monk would offer up his life so readily after having only just spared it. Torrinth too appeared to hesitate and moved to stand over him, but the monk reached out a hand, gently clasping the other man’s shoulder. With a slight shake of his head, the blind monk made him still.
‘Fear not,’ he told Torrinth, ‘James has nothing to fear from this man.’
Provoked by these words, Lord Balen strode forward. His anger now such that he held the sword clumsily, as though in his rage he had forgotten his prowess with such weapons.
‘Stand!’ Balen shouted. ‘Stand and meet the Lord’s justice!’
James shook his head from where he cowered.
‘Please, I meant no harm! I was trying to heal the tree, not destroy it!’
‘Lies!’ Balen screamed. ‘Stand and be judged, demon!’
James looked to his old friend, but Torrinth now returned his gaze as though nothing untoward were about to occur.
‘Jame, stand and show these people who you are,’ the monk said softly.
‘Who I am?’ James sobbed. ‘Perrin, you’ve made a mistake, a terrible mistake! I’m not who you think I am!’
‘It is you who have made the mistake,’ Balen cut across him.
Two of the white-clad warriors strode forward and roughly raised James to his feet. Standing either side of him, they spread his arms, exposing his naked chest to the uncertain movements of the sword.
‘In death, you shall be pardoned,’ Balen said, repeating the perfunctory words he had last issued in the Hall of the Dead.
With grim satisfaction, he raised the sword before him and drove the razor-sharp point towards James’ chest. James tensed, and with wild eyes watched the blade as it plunged towards him. But at the last moment, as though guided by indecision he did not show, the lord jerked his hand to the side, sending the sword tumbling to the ground.
Those warriors standing in attendance exchanged uncertain glances as the furious lord bent to the retrieve the fallen weapon. The sword now shook violently in his grasp and he was forced to bring both hands to bear upon it. Gritting his teeth, the sword tip finally steadied in the air, and with his whole body braced behind it, he drove the blade forward like a lance. This time, the sword bucked violently in his hands and reversed itself, scoring a cut across his arm. Lord Balen staggered backwards as the sword once more tumbled to the ground, his hand pressed to the dark stain now seeping through the white weave of his robes.
‘Impossible!’ Balen’s voice trembled. ‘What kind of sorcery is this?’
The monk was now directly behind the lord, and as he had done with Torrinth, he now placed a conciliatory hand upon his shoulder.
‘The man is mortal, yet he cannot be harmed by his own blade,’ the monk said, as though explaining the obvious to a child. ‘It was thus with Loreth, so is it thus with James.’
‘His blade!’ Balen cried, shrugging the old man’s hand away in spite of his injury.
‘Let the blade choose its keeper,’ the monk said, his voice level and calm. ‘Unhand the man and see if he is capable of holding the blade you cannot keep from the ground.’
Balen’s face coloured at the audacity of the suggestion, but with a savage sweep of his arm, James was released from his bondage.
‘You spoke earlier of folly, old man. Well, let us witness the greatest folly of them all!’ the lord smirked. ‘The Custodian’s Blade will not tolerate its befoulment at the hands of a barbarian! The blade will end his life as surely as any of the arrows trained upon him from the trees.’
James stood awkwardly, his gaze nervously passing from the shadows lining the clearing to where the monk stood beside him. A cold breeze rattled through the trees, fluttering the burnt remnants of his clothing.
‘Perrin, you made a mistake,’ was all he could think to say as he cast his eyes to the sword lying upon the flagstones.
He had never held a sword in his life, and even now as he approached it, a distant part of his mind baulked at the absurdity of the situation. He remembered how the sword had so recently betrayed the hand of Lord Balen, a man obviously skilled with such weapons.
What might it do to him?
Slice his arm?
Cut his throat?
He felt his hand tingle as it had just moments before becoming welded to the tree, but a sharp intake of breath made him look up into Balen’s wide eyes. The man’s proud face no longer reflected the hatred that had been smouldering there but moments before. Something he had seen had wilted the expression, transforming it into a grimace that at last resembled fear.
From around the edge of the clearing, the silence was broken by indrawn breaths and the obscure oaths of those watching. Confused, James at last obeyed the impulse to regard his tingling hand and saw that the handle of the sword was already nestled between his fingers. The sword felt weightless in his grasp, its graceful blade perfectly in balance with the hand to which it was attached.
Lord Balen regarded him now with disbelief as he took an uncertain step backwards. He, like everyone else in the clearing, had just witnessed a miracle. The symbol of their saviour, the Blade of Loreth, had risen from the ground at the barbarian’s bidding.
When the monk spoke next, his voice rose to fill the wide clearing, but gone was any lingering trace of anger or scorn. In its place was a voice once more strong and resolute, a voice that spoke only of hope.
‘Behold, people of Kellandria. A magician returns to the land of our peoples.’