An Armory of Swords

Fealty

Gene Bostwick

Templar Jarmon’s eyes strained in the dim light to pick out Lord March’s body. The debris-laden cellar smelled more than a little of recent enchantment, a honey odor that hung in the dusty air. Thick, blood-red wine oozed from the seams of huge casks along the basement’s far wall, and rats with oddly human faces stared from the shadows. March had dabbled in strange magics.

Wide pine planks from the deck above hung down with jagged edges, and a long oak ceiling timber, roughly hewn and broad as two men, lay splintered and broken across the stone floor. One end had crushed March’s chest.

A shiver ran down Jarmon’s back, not entirely due to the cold. He hunched low and worked his way forward, smudging the patterns of frost that decorated crates and stores for the coming winter. His chain mail and braced leather armor were not meant for these tight quarters, but the Delfland border was close enough to demand caution. As he neared the body, something larger than a rat stirred in the shadows, and he pulled out his dagger. The rats squealed and retreated, and the shuffling noise stopped, replaced by an eerie quiet. Jarmon had heard stories of how an exposed blade could dampen the effects of magic, but he wasn’t sure what had aided him here, anti-magic, or the simple threat of the weapon.

As he reached the body, he kept his dagger ready lest some residual sorcery still animated the flesh. March had already stiffened with rigor. His eyes bulged from the shock of the impact, and blood had pooled in his mouth. The tyrant was dead.

Under a shattered scrap of beam, the Sword lay nearby, still sheathed in its scabbard. March had stretched out his left hand and clutched the hilt, but he’d died before he managed to bare the enchanted blade.

The priests at the Temple of Dawn had prayed to Aurora for divine intervention against Lord March. The goddess had obliged, striking a blow before March could react. Her immense fist had shattered the small lodge, piercing roof and floor, and pinning March where he now lay. Templar Jarmon glanced up through the jagged hole, half-expecting to see her radiant face. The first stars of twilight glinted back at him.

He turned his attention to the Sword. The scabbard was splintered and torn, and what showed of the long blade glimmered with intricate scrollwork. It retained its fine twin edges despite the mayhem recently at work around it. Jarmon brushed a shred of wood aside and studied the hilt. Half concealed by March’s fingers, the only adornment was a simple banner. Mindsword. The Sword of Fealty.

An urge seized him to take it up, and his hand reached out. He stopped short of touching it. “Gods devour me,” he cursed, low and angry. “The temple has sworn me against you.” He glared at the Sword as if it could reply. “The world cannot stand another empire from your hand.”

The urge diminished, and Jarmon gritted his teeth as he set to work. He used his dagger to cut through March’s arm at the elbow, a slow, grisly process without saw or hatchet. March’s death-grip on the Sword held, and Jarmon slid arm and blade aside. The unearthly quiet lifted abruptly, and sounds of evening drifted down to him, cold wind in the pine trees and the flutter of bats’ wings. Up the canyon behind the ruined lodge, an owl hooted twice.

Other creatures would be prowling soon, and Jarmon hurried. Starting under the arm, he sliced March’s side open with his blade. The dead man’s innards were still soft, and they bubbled out as Jarmon cut through belly and intestines. When he reached March’s groin, he paused, sweating from the effort, and took a measure. March had been a tall man, a hand short of two meters. With the Mindsword’s point shoved through his neck and into his skull, the weapon would just fit inside his body.

Jarmon used March’s hand and his own dagger to set the tip of the Sword at the body’s neck. A hard shove drove it upward into the head, and a final kick of his boot buried it in the cold flesh. As March’s body swallowed the weapon, Jarmon lost any remaining urge to take up the Sword. Jarmon fell back, panting. His stomach churned, and the smell clawed at his throat, but he’d completed the worst of the job. Satisfied, he felt himself relax.

In the next hour he levered the beam aside and dressed March in fresh servant’s clothes from the quarters above. As cold seeped into the dead body, the smell of death ebbed. He borrowed from March’s finer wardrobe to replace his own splattered garments, and cleaned his mail and leather with icy water from the kitchen cistern.

March’s followers had fled with his riding-beasts, but Jarmon found a small wagon and hitched his own mount to the yoke. With a blanket and a few bales of straw to cover the body, he pointed beast and wagon northward and departed from Lord March’s once-grand abode. A half moon hung overhead, and the clear sky promised a very cold night.

Keaf crouched among the scrub oak and watched as the young men from the village of Palmora played a rough game of football. He wanted badly to join in the competition, but Keaf lived in the graveyard hut, and at seventeen he’d just inherited his stepfather’s profession. Gravediggers were the shunned people, in a class with sin-eaters and demon dancers.

Among the players, Lane was the biggest, and he used his size cruelly against the others. He charged into Kaye, the village barber’s youngest son, and knocked the boy over into half-thawed mud. Kaye sprang up, fists clenched and charged after the wool-stuffed ball.

The young men didn’t like Keaf hanging around, but most of the time they ignored him in favor of the game. Chancing that they would leave him alone today, he toed his own ball around in a small circle, practicing a few moves as the game continued. It felt good to stretch his muscles in the cold.

He’d fashioned his ball out of leather taken from a corpse’s tunic, and he’d watched Lane and the others until he knew every play by heart. He still had aspirations that extended beyond the cemetery fence, and in those dreams he was one of the team, a good player, admired by his friends. Friends. Keaf had only had one in his life, his father, and he’d buried him six months past. Time had dulled the hurt, but it hadn’t reduced his need for friendship.

Kaye deflected a pass intended for Lane and sprinted down the field before the bigger lad could catch him. Two teammates helped finish the play, scoring easily against Evar. The moneylender’s son was too slow and too lazy to really play, but the other boys knew, even in their teens, that he was destined to inherit power in Palmora.

Lane stormed up to Kaye after the goal was made and cuffed him alongside the head. “Cheater!”

Keaf watched from a dozen paces away, excited at the prospect of a fight as Kaye curled a fist. “It was a fair goal,” Kaye shouted.

Lane raised himself up to tower above Kaye. “I say you cheated.” He swung at Kaye again. Kaye ducked, and Lane sprawled forward into an ice-scaled puddle. It was too much for Keaf, and he burst out laughing.

Lane scooped a handful of mud and flung it. Kaye dodged and laughed, and Lane came raging up from the puddle. He lunged at Kaye, missed, and landed in the mud again. When he lifted his head, he was only a few paces away, facing Keaf. His anger shifted immediately. “Damn ghoul-lover!” He flung a stone at Keaf’s head and charged.

“Leave him alone,” Kaye shouted. “Let’s play ball.” Alone among the villager boys, he never picked on Keaf, but the others ignored him and followed Lane.

They chased Keaf into the woods with hurled stones and clots of mud. One stone hit his back, but he was quick, and he was used to the forest, and he outdistanced the rest. He wound deliberately through thick brush and over fallen logs, and the shouts dwindled behind him. Well after he’d lost the others, he kept running, caught up in being a part of the group, even if it was as the prey. His father would have laughed as his foolishness and warned him not to make a habit of enjoying it. We’re shunned, his father had often said, but gravediggers have dignity.

Keaf choked back other memories and kept going. Before he knew it, he cleared the far side of the woods and burst onto the cart path where he nearly collided with a small wagon.

“Whoa, boy,” the driver said as his beast skittered. “Where are you rushing to?”

“Home,” Keaf stammered, puffing steam in the cold air. He backed away, wondering why a riding-beast was hitched to a cart, and bowed his head. “To the graveyard,” he added. A faint but familiar smell emanated from the wagon, and he glanced sidelong at the straw in the back.

The man looked at Keaf with open surprise. “A gravedigger?” He turned to the east and made a quick sign with his right hand. “Goddess, you have guided me true.”

Keaf retreated another step, but the man slid to one side of the buckboard seat and motioned for Keaf to join him. “Would you like a ride, then… your name, boy?”

“Keaf,” he said, startled. He kept his eyes pointed down at the dirt, mindful of his proper station.

“Well, Keaf, come along.”

“I can’t,” Keaf said. “I dig graves.”

“Too good for Jarmon’s company?” The words didn’t challenge. “I’ll admit that Templars aren’t well received in some circles, but I’ve never been ostracized by a gravedigger.

Keaf looked up in bewilderment, and the grin that lit Jarmon’s face reminded him of his father. Underneath his heavy overcoat, the fellow was dressed like a lord or noble with chain mail and leather armor. A temple banner decorated his chest, white with rainbow-fringed edges. He didn’t seem to understand the custom of shunning. “No, my Lord Jarmon,” Keaf said, confused. “I’m the outcast one. You can’t let me ride with you.”

A moment later, Lane and the other young men charged out of the woods. The day was already warming, and their panted breaths dissipated quickly. “There he is,” Evar wheezed. He bent low, gasping for air as he pointed with a stubby hand. As Lane led and the others advanced, Keaf jumped behind the wagon, ready to run again. The smell was worse there, and he spied the edge of brown blanket under the straw.

When Lane was a few steps away, Jarmon stood and pulled a long bright blade from the sheath at his side. “Do you have business with me?” he asked. His voice was loud and booming deep.

“Not you,” Lane said. “But that ghoul-lover is going to learn who his betters are.” He pointed with a thick hand, and someone threw a stone. It hit the wagon and disappeared in the straw.

“And I think my friend Keaf and I will be going.” Jarmon pointed his sword at Lane’s chest.

Lane stepped back. “You can’t defend him, he’s shunned.” His voice was close to whining. “We need to teach him a lesson.

“Ten against one,” Jarmon growled. “I think you’d better reconsider.” He twisted the reins of his beast around a notch in the seat and hopped to the ground in one smooth motion. His size hadn’t been apparent until then, but he was a head taller than Lane and broader at the shoulders. “You had better run along home and think about whom you bully.”

Lane dropped his stone, and all the boys retreated before Jarmon’s glare. “We’ll get you, Keaf,” Lane said. He turned on his heels and led his fellows back toward the woods.

After they disappeared into the trees, Keaf came around and bowed before Jarmon. “My Lord. I can never repay you.”

“Well, now,” Jarmon said, “I think you can.” He reached over the side of the wagon and raised the blanket enough to reveal a body. “Even with the cold nights, old Wend is growing foul. I’ve been traveling north these past two days looking for a good omen on where to bury him, and I have found my omen in you.” He let the cover fall and brushed a handful of straw over it.

Jarmon hiked himself back onto the wagon seat. “Don’t waste more time, boy.” He offered a hand and plucked Keaf off his feet as he pulled him up. “Now where is this graveyard of yours?”

Keaf pointed down the road. “Not more than ten minutes’ walk, and then take the lane up toward the Ludus Mountains.”

The riding-beast pulled them along quickly, and Keaf was glad they traveled into the wind. As they reached the trail up to the graveyard, Palmora came into view down the valley. Dormant winter air and too many fireplaces made for a band of gray haze over the jumble of cottages and shacks, but a few larger buildings stood out.

“A crossroads?” Jarmon asked.

“A branch of the Eastern Highway comes along the foothills here. It connects a few villages.” Keaf rocked nervously on the seat, unused to being close to people, and especially not someone like Jarmon. At the same time, there was something familiar about the Templar, an air of quiet trustworthiness that continued to remind Keaf of his father. “The graveyard’s just up the way,” he said. “I can run on ahead and start digging.”

“Easy, boy,” Jarmon said. His huge hand found Keaf’s shoulder and squeezed. “After this long, my friend in the back isn’t in that big a hurry.”

“Why bring him so far?” Keaf asked. As soon as he said it, he remembered his father’s admonition against questioning people. You won’t like what you learn, his father would say.

“Wend was a faithful servant,” Jarmon said. “He was born near the mountains, though he never said exactly where, and he requested that he be buried near them when his time came.”

As they turned up the path, a gust of wind carried the smell of rot, and Jarmon covered his mouth and nose. Even this late in the season, flies buzzed in the straw. The clouds of the past few days had gone, and the sun was at work. “It’s time to lay old Wend to rest,” he said.

Keaf looked back and wondered. There were plenty of mountains in this part of the country, and one hardly had to travel for two days to reach them. But he held back any more questions.

They followed the trail up to the base of steep foothills and reached the tree-shaded graveyard. A neat split-rail fence surrounded the cemetery proper. Keaf’s father had worked hard to build it, to give the place a respectable quality, and Keaf maintained it out of that respect. Every grave was neatly squared off by small stones, and an orderly pile of rocks waited to mark the new digs. Keaf had seen many a body laid to rest here, and he’d buried some five souls in the months since his father had died. The ground was a series of names and faces to him, a macabre resume of his family’s works.

“I have a good spot for him,” he said. “One that looks up toward the peaks.”

“Fine,” Jarmon said, somber now that his task was nearly ended.

Keaf hopped down and reached for the body to haul it over to the gravesite. Wend’s left arm was missing below the elbow-oddly, his sleeve was neither pinned up nor cut short-and his chest looked caved in, perhaps from long sickness. He didn’t look old. Keaf had him half upright before Jarmon stopped him.

“You get to digging,” Jarmon said. “I’ll bring him.”

Keaf looked at him and frowned. “He’s too many days dead. You don’t want to touch him.”

Jarmon’s expression agreed, but he insisted. “I’ll do it. Go dig.”

As Keaf let the body back down he was surprised at the stiffness in the torso. Wend’s head remained straight and facing forward as if it were on a spit. All the strange things about the body added up in Keaf’s head, but he ignored the mysterious total in favor of Jarmon’s story. His father had taught him the importance of trust, and Keaf wanted to trust the Templar.

It took little time to dig the hole. The frosts of winter hadn’t penetrated very far, and Keaf knew how to break the ground and make it yield. He squared out a hole a meter and four hands deep and extra long for Wend’s height.

Jarmon sat on the rear of the wagon and watched until Keaf was ready to climb out. “Deeper,” he said. “I want two full meters of good soil on him.”

Warning words sounded in Keaf’s head. Two meters-twenty hands, as his father said, was the demon’s deep. He scrambled out of the hole and gripped his shovel like a staff. “I won’t bury a devil-held soul in my cemetery.”

Jarmon’s expression hardened. He stood slowly and drew his sword. “Lad, I will only tell you once. No devil or demon possesses this body. I have sworn on my Templar’s oath to see him buried. He will rest in that hole this day, even if I have to lay you alongside him.”

Trapped between Templar sword and graveyard demon, Keaf felt the confrontation smoulder. An urge told him to run, but his father’s wisdom held him fast. Trouble was like a weed. The longer you ignored it the bigger it grew. He considered Jarmon’s words and tried to imagine a truth that would fit them. What could be so awful, other than a possessed soul, that it required two meters of earth to bury it?

Finally, Jarmon lowered his blade. “Please, Keaf. I give you my word as a Templar of the Goddess of Dawn. No evil spirit possesses this body. It’s just a custom in some parts to bury bodies deeper.”

Keaf let his instinct to trust the Templar win. More than ever, Jarmon reminded him of his father, a big man whose soft-spoken words carried truth and wisdom. He felt the tension inside him drain away, and he let out a long breath. A little more depth wouldn’t take long.

With the last of the dirt patted into place, Keaf went to select some stones to mark the grave. Other than carrying the body over and laying it carefully into the hole, Jarmon had watched from the wagon seat. Now he stood.

“No stones, boy. I don’t want the grave marked.”

“But how will anyone know where it is?”

Jarmon let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his graying hair. “You’re smart enough to realize that Wend didn’t die under usual circumstances,” he said. “I don’t want to bring his troubles down upon your head. With luck, no one will know he’s here.” Jarmon pulled a small sack from under his tunic and shook it. Metal coins clinked. “How much do you get for a burial?”

Keaf ran a dirty hand through his hair and used the sweat to wipe away some of the grime. “I get five coppers usually, but this was deeper digging.” He thought of demons again, and his shoulders bunched.

“Will three gold delvars do?” Jarmon held out the coins, large and shiny in the afternoon sun.

Keaf’s lips pursed into a reflex whistle, and he nodded. He didn’t know what delvars were, but three of them looked like a king’s treasure. He hurried over and held out his hand.

“Good,” Jarmon said. He let the coins clink one at a time into Keaf’s palm, then he moved to the front of the wagon and unhitched his mount. “And I’ll throw in this cart if you’ll promise to lay another grave atop that one in the spring.”

Keaf understood now, and he didn’t argue. Wend, one-armed and stiff as a rod from waist to neck, was no servant, and Jarmon wanted to make sure that he was never discovered. A lord, perhaps, murdered and spirited away by an usurper. Or an enemy of Jarmon’s temple-that would explain the Templar’s presence. “I will,” he said.

“You’re a good lad,” Jarmon said as he saddled his riding-beast. “Don’t let those bullies push you around. Take them one at a time and show them you’re not afraid, and they’ll respect you after that.”

Keaf snorted laughter. “Lane will beat me into the ground. He’s done it before.”

“You’re quicker than he is,” Jarmon said. “Big men tire fast. Stay out of his grasp for a little while, and he’ll fall like any of the others.” He mounted and pulled his beast around toward the path. “Take care, boy.”

Coming from the Templar, it sounded sensible, like the advice Keaf’s father had always given. Keaf felt a rise in his confidence that lasted until Jarmon was halfway down the road. Then he ran to hide the coins before Lane and the others came around.

Keaf lay on his cot next to the crude stone hearth and watched orange sparks dance over the fire. Quiet on the outside, inside he fought a battle with his morals. Jarmon had been gone for two days, and still all Keaf could think about was the secret he buried with Wend. In his imagination he saw not devils now, but treasure. Treasure that could mend many wounds.

The deepest scars in Keaf’s life were not those from mud and stones. Shunning cut wounds that never healed, wounds in the mind and wounds in the heart. He survived as his father had, by growing a tough hide, by callousing over his emotions and his thoughts so that each subsequent injury hurt a little less.

Was it fair that he had to live alone and away from everyone else? Was it his fault that he’d been left on this particular hut’s doorstep, a baby abandoned? It wasn’t unusual in these parts for unwed mothers to give their children to the shunned folk instead of the wolves, but which was the worse fate?

More than anything in life, Keaf wanted to be a part of the village, to have companions, to share laughter and raise a mug. And he wanted a wife. His thoughts turned to the blacksmith’s daughter, Toya, with her long yellow braids and slender body. If he could have her, all the world would be perfect. If he could have her? Hah-if he were rich and powerful, perhaps. If he had Wend’s treasure.

Keaf had believed Jarmon’s story, not so much in the facts, but in the message behind it. Wend carried some important secret to his grave, a secret that the Templar had thought it vital to hide. But was that fair to Keaf, to put the burden on him without the reward?

The waxing moon rose above the eastern hills, and a shaft of light cut across Keaf’s straw bed. Sleep was as far away as the moon, and he rolled to his feet, pulling his tattered wool blanket around his shoulders. Outside, the night was quiet with winter chill. Wood smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh dirt. Down in the village, families snuggled together with friendship, closeness, love. All things that Keaf had barely tasted.

His eyes strayed across the cemetery to the fresh grave. The frost would be working deep into the loose soil by now, and the worms would have found Wend to be a ready feast. And Wend’s treasure would serve no one. Keaf grabbed his shovel.

Wend’s body had collapsed under the pressure of the dirt, and his left side oozed with the stench of rotting innards. Keaf cleared away the worst of it, rising frequently to gasp cold clear air. The longer it took, the more his determination wavered. Jarmon had trusted him. Whatever secrets this body held, they were meant to remain here. But what good was treasure to a dead man, and what harm would a little prosperity do to a gravedigger?

Keaf straddled Wend and began to search. He found nothing in the ruined clothing, not even the usual bits and scraps of a servant man, until he felt along the body and discovered the gash in the left side. Something hard protruded, a knob of metal, a dagger, perhaps. Was that how Wend had died? He sucked a deep breath and tore open the shirt.

The odor of death reached out. Worms crawled in Wend’s ruined flesh, and maggots thrived in festering lumps despite the days underground. Keaf stood, his stomach sick, and waited for the revulsion to pass. After the cold air cleared his head, he went for the metal knob. As he pulled, Wend’s body twisted, and a meter’s length of slime-covered blade slid free. From down in the village, a brief roar rose up, as though everyone were cheering for some champion.

On impulse, Keaf held up the blade, and his head reeled with a strange feeling of triumph, like a warrior at the end of a great battle, or a traveler completing a long journey. The beauty of the sword captivated him despite the filth that masked it. It was the finest metal he’d ever seen, and its edge split the moonlight like a silken thread. As he studied the small banner emblazoned on the hilt, something moved at his feet.

Wend’s remaining hand moved slowly up in a death salute. Keaf slammed back against the dirt side of the deep pit. “Demon!” he screamed. He scrambled out of the hole with the sword and stumbled over his shovel. As he fell to his knees, his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. “Gods forgive me, I’ve loosed a demon!”

Dry maple leaves swirled around him, and the owls up the canyon hooted frantic calls into the night. The earth between Keaf’s hands heaved and puffed a wisp of smoke. A sulphurous odor betrayed the doom that stalked him. Creatures of darkness and death would take him to their deepest hell and torture him for eternity.

A scaly arm burst from the crack in the ground. Keaf pitched to the side before it clutched him, and a body emerged, a thing more hideous than Keaf’s imagination could ever invent. It was the yellow of a dead man’s eyes, a deranged human shape with bent limbs and bloated belly. Sulphur stench enveloped it, and a constant moan quivered within its breast.

Keaf couldn’t breathe to cry out his terror, nor could he find the strength to flee. His bladder emptied, and tears leaked from his eyes. Jarmon had warned him, but he had not listened. His father had raised him to respect the wishes of others and to live by his word, but he’d done neither of those tonight. He would die a fool’s death with the taste of guilt on his tongue.

The demon floated a foot off the ground and looked down at Keaf with black holes for eyes. “You summoned a demon,” it thundered. A rending sound of breaking bones accompanied each word, and its face twisted through imitations of all the people that Keaf and his father had buried. “This is my death-yard, mortal. Would you have it?”

Keaf found the barest trace of voice. “You possessed Wend’s body?”

“No.” An agony-twisted face appeared in the bony plate of the demon’s chest, and the moaning grew louder until it vibrated in Keaf’s head. “This one I possess.”

The moan became a scream, and Keaf covered his ears. “Stop!” he cried. “It hurts. Please, stop!”

“At your command,” the demon said. It opened its mouth, and a long black tongue reached out to carve a rent in its chest. Red ichor sprayed outward, spattering the ground at Keaf’s feet. He skittered back and held the sword across him as some meager protection. The opening in the demon’s chest widened, and the body of a naked woman, raw red and hairless, spilled out. She moaned as she hit the earth and raised her head to look at Keaf with bottomless red eyes. Then she lay still.

“You can have her now,” the demon said. It settled back to the ground and hunched forward until its head nearly touched the ground at Keaf’s feet. “What would you have me do? Bodies broken? Enemies tortured? Command my cruelty.” Its voice rasped in Keaf’s ears.

Keaf shuddered at the idea of choosing his own fate. Body broken? Torture? What else would the demon do to him? He hugged the sword to his chest and wept. “I beg you, spare me,” he sobbed. “Go away, and I will never call you again. Begone to the furthest hell and spare me.”

“Done!” The demon reared up tall as an oak and sucked all the fire and stench back inside its body. “Fare you carefully, lord and master,” it said.

As it sunk back into the earth, a great whirlwind surrounded the graveyard, and the edges of the sky burned with fire. Keaf curled into a ball, awaiting sure death, and prayed for the salvation of his soul.

Keaf awoke with a pain in his side, and he rolled over to find the hilt of the sword caught in his shirt. Dawn was close, and a cold mist hung in the air. He sat up and rubbed at the very real pain in his temples. Inexplicably, he was still alive.

Close by, a flock of crows had gathered on the mound of dirt beside Wend’s open grave. A good sign. Crows avoided demons. Looking around, he saw the woman. She lay where she’d fallen, a tangle of arms and legs and bright pink skin with alluring curves. Pink, not red, and a head of long black hair where there had been none. A crow lifted from the grave site and fluttered over to land beside her. Its beady eye stared for a moment, and then it pecked at her arm and drew fresh blood.

Keaf pushed to his feet. “Get away, damned bird!” He lurched forward on cramped legs. The crow hopped once, eyed Keaf up and down, and flew off with the others to circle noisily overhead.

Keaf knelt beside the woman and pressed a finger on the nick in her arm. The blood was warm, but she was very cold. He scooped her up-digging had given him strong arms-and carried her to his shack as the crows returned to their decomposed feast.

Rekindled fire, fetched water, corn mush and the last of a trapped pheasant, a too-large shirt and trousers to cover her nakedness. In an hour Keaf had done the meager things he knew to do, and the woman seemed to rest comfortably on his bed. Other than a twitch or two, she hadn’t moved.

He settled by the fire and nibbled at the pheasant, and he had time to wonder. Last night might have been a dream except for the person now in his bed. The demon had been almost servile in the way it dumped out the woman, and it had spared him when he begged. Lord and master, it had said. But that made no sense. Perhaps the sword had scared it away. The Sword. He dropped his bowl and dashed out the door.

It lay in the graveyard where he’d dropped it, gleaming in spite of the smudges and dirt. He picked it up carefully and wiped both sides of the blade on his sleeve, fraying the coarse cloth along the sharp edges. Patterns danced deep in the metal, swirling and looping in designs that almost looked like words. Keaf gripped the hilt, and once again he felt a power within himself, and he heard the distant roar of the crowd. His father had told him stories of magic, of mighty wizards and strange beasts, but Keaf had always taken them to be fairy tales. Might as well fancy himself a king. But this Sword cried out with magic. It had to be worth very much gold.

He glanced at the open grave, decided Wend’s body could wait, and returned to sit by the fire. The woman still slumbered. He planted the blade’s point between his feet and leaned his chin on the pommel in what he supposed was a very royal pose. Before he knew it, he drifted off to sleep.

“My Lord.”

The words nudged Keaf awake, and he opened his eyes to find the woman kneeling at his feet. As she bowed her head, her long black hair fanned forward to touch his moccasins. Words stuck in his throat, and his mouth hung open. The woman looked up and smiled, and her face went from ordinary to beautiful.

“You saved me,” she said. Gold flecks twinkled in the dark green of her eyes, there was an earthy aroma to her that was not bad. “You banished Gemlech.”

“I did?” Keaf didn’t remember it that way. “Are you all right?”

“After two hundred seventy-six years in a demon’s chest?” She stretched her arms and scratched at the sides of her head. “I could be worse.”

Keaf watched her body move and his heart galloped with a different sort of terror. He’d never been so close to a living woman, and though he’d explored a few dead bodies, she was an exotic mystery to him. He fumbled a cup of corn mush from the pot and snatched the pheasant’s carcass from near the fire. “Are you hungry?”

She looked at the grimy mush and greasy bird and nodded. “If my Lord is through.”

“I’m just Keaf,” he said, embarrassed by her words. “Please, take what you want.”

“My name is Dellawynn.” She sat back on her haunches as she took the pheasant and tore hungrily at it.

“I don’t know how we survived last night,” Keaf said. “But I saw you come from the demon’s chest.”

Dellawynn’s look grew distant. “I caused a lot of mischief once. The gods wanted to punish me.”

“I thought that monster was going to kill me,” Keaf said. “Something must have changed its mind.”

“It was you,” Dellawynn answered through a mouthful of mush. “You made him give me up and banished him.”

Keaf was dubious at best. And Dellawynn’s reaction seemed to fit in a fairy tale. The princess is rescued by the prince, she is eternally grateful, they fall in love, and live happily ever after. This would be the middle part.

“If I may ask, my Lord,” Dellawynn said, “when do we depart for your castle and keep?”

Keaf looked around his hut and felt his elation at having a woman’s attention collapse. This was where she discovered he was a gravedigger, a shunned man. He pointed wordlessly at the hut’s bleak walls.

Dellawynn’s eyes followed his gesture. She set down the pheasant’s bones and empty bowl, and a small sigh escaped her lips. “If this is your home, then I know my purpose. I will help you get a castle.” She reached out and touched his knees, leaning forward so that Keaf saw the curve of her breasts. She was much more woman than Toya, the blacksmith’s daughter. “I once brought the kingdom of Delfland down in fire, and I made the Prince of Borhas give up his crown,” she continued. “Getting you a castle and servants and treasures shouldn’t be too difficult, and I will be your queen if you will have me.” She looked down, but the hint of a smile lingered on her lips.

“But this is all I have,” Keaf said. “I dig graves.”

“Why don’t you go somewhere else then? Start over?” Keaf had once asked his father that same question, and the answer had made him proud. Only a decent, honest person can be a gravedigger, his father had said. Any lesser man would run from the responsibility and the burden. Keaf believed that to his soul. “I am Keaf,” he said. “I dig graves. I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“Then I shall serve you here, if that is your wish. I am bound to you, and I cannot think but thoughts of you.” Dellawynn’s hands slid up his legs and found his groin. Less than gently, she tugged at him and reached for the twist of rope that held his trousers.

“Wait!” Keaf sprang to his feet and pulled his belt tight. Dellawynn’s boldness scared him worse than demons. “I think I need to tend the fire…. I have a grave open…. I have to wait….”

Dellawynn managed to look understanding. “I have offended you, my Lord. I will go make myself better able to serve you.” She stood and bowed like a noble. “May I have your leave, my Lord?”

“Please,” Keaf stammered. “Don’t go on my account. I mean you… you can if you want, but you don’t have to.”

“I think it best for now,” she said. She marched to the door and was gone.

Keaf was nearly done refilling Wend’s grave when a stone hit him in the back. The pain made him turn, cursing, and he saw Lane, fat Evar, and three other village boys at the cemetery fence.

“Digging up your supper?” Lane sneered. He reared back and let another stone fly, sailing it high over Keaf’s head. Evar’s throw was better, but Keaf deflected it with his shovel.

“Is that shovel your sword?” Lane asked. He kicked at the fence and knocked loose the top rail.

Keaf dropped his shovel, ready to fight. A stone caught him in the elbow, and a sting ran like fire up his arm. He snatched up the rock and hurled it back as hard as he could. It caught Evar square in the forehead, and the boy dropped to the ground.

“Damn you!” Lane shouted, and they charged.

Keaf dashed for his hut and slammed the door behind him. As he leaned against the coarse wooden slab, he looked desperately around the room. The hut had no other exit, no windows, and only a small chimney hole in the roof. And he could never hold the door against four people. Pushed by fear, he grabbed the Sword as the door burst inward.

The boys stopped, Lane with his fist raised to throw, as Keaf held up the Sword. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Keaf pleaded. “It was an accident. I’m sorry….”

Lane lowered his hand, a look of surprise plain on his face. “We should be sorry, Keaf. I mean Master Keaf. Can you ever forgive us for attacking you?”

Keaf couldn’t discern any sign of a trick. The other young men dropped their stones and cowered behind Lane with their heads lowered. One of them began to recite a prayer of repentance. Keaf had never held a real sword before, and he understood suddenly why Templars and knights garnered such respect. The mere sight of the weapon could cow one’s enemies. “I’ll use it,” he said uncertainly.

Lane turned pale and backed into the others. “We’ll do anything,” he said. “Just tell us.”

Keaf wondered if he’d changed somehow, if the weapon in his hand made him look bigger and stronger. He took a step forward and leveled the blade. “Get out of my hut and my cemetery, and don’t come back.”

The group rushed to depart, knocking the door off its hinges. Keaf hurried out and called after them. “Don’t forget Evar. Make sure he’s all right.”

One of the young men darted over to Evar’s side and helped him up. Evar staggered sideways, blood flowing down his face. “Damn,” he cried. “Did you see what he did to me?”

Lane rushed over, nearly choking with horror. “Quiet, Evar! Can’t you see that he’s a great warrior? You’d be lucky to lick his boots!”

Evar paused, holding his head, and then remarkably, he agreed. “Oh… I see. I didn’t know….” The others hurried him away, glancing backward as they went down the trail. Remorse filled their eyes, and something akin to sorrow.

It was a look that Keaf knew too well.

Keaf sat in a patch of warm sun on the hillside above the cemetery, the Sword across his lap. Confusion twisted his thoughts like wind swirling through the fir trees. If there was magic within the blade, it seemed to affect everyone but him. Or perhaps only him. Would he know if he were under an enchantment?

Learn to use it, or get rid of it as quickly as possible. Two choices, one hard decision. Krohn, Evar’s father, would have the money to buy it, but Keaf didn’t think it wise to approach the man just now, not after this morning’s fight. Use it, then. But he was no warrior, and he had no desire to be one. If this blade could win him friends, well, that would be one thing, but he suspected that the sudden change in Lane and the others wouldn’t last, and they would be back, angrily in search of vengeance.

Best then to put the Sword away, somewhere safe and well hidden, and search out a buyer. Three days east, there were mages in Arnon City, and there was the Red Temple a week to the north. It would be a long trip, but frozen ground would soon idle him until spring, and he could hunt along the road as easily as here, perhaps better.

His plans set, he started down the hill. Halfway to his hut, he heard a whining voice and spotted two people coming up the path from the village. If they were coming to punish him, they were fewer than he’d expected.

He hid in the shadow of the trees until he recognized Dellawynn’s long black mane. She’d found other clothes, leather skirt and laced sandals, a sleeveless tunic of purple cloth, and a wide belt that glinted with silver. And a sword that she held at a man’s back. It was Krohn, Evar’s father, and he whined steadily about abduction and false pretenses.

Keaf trotted down to the cemetery fence. At the bottom end of the graveyard, Dellawynn stopped the little man’s crying with a poke of her sword.

“My Lord,” she called to Keaf, “I have brought you this swine from Palmora. He’s the richest man I could find in that sty of a village, and he can help build your castle.”

Krohn looked around for someone other than Keaf. “You said he was a king. You forced me all this way to meet this worthless gravedigger?” He turned red with anger. “I demand you release me. I am a powerful man….”

Dellawynn poked him in the chest with a finger, and he stumbled and landed on his backside. “What shall I do with him, my Lord Keaf?”

Keaf hurried over, hoping he could make amends with Krohn before the whole village was up in arms. The little man scooted backward from Dellawynn and bumped into Keaf’s legs. Keaf could smell his fear like oily sweat.

As Krohn looked up, he spotted the Sword in Keaf’s hand, and his expression changed. “My dearest young man!” He climbed to his feet and clasped Keaf by the shoulders. He was a full head shorter, in part because of the crook in his back that some said was from hunching over his money box too long. “I had no idea that you wanted a castle. I think it’s the finest idea I’ve ever heard.” He turned a rusty smile on Dellawynn. “And you! You might have told me that this fellow was royal blood. Obviously, he’s been sent out to prove himself among us common folk.”

Keaf thought he’d been confused before, but this was unbelievable. “I’m sorry about Evar. I didn’t mean to hurt him….”

Krohn’s laugh grated like the chatter of the crows. “Forget that lazy boy. He needs to learn manners, and he should know better than to bother a gentleman like you.”

Dellawynn prodded Krohn again. “What about that treasure?”

“Certainly. If Master Keaf would like, I can bring it up here. It’s quite a pile of gold.” Krohn’s face pinched in thought. “It might be safer to keep it in my strong boxes and simply give you the keys.”

Keaf had heard of insanities and maledictions of the mind, but he’d never seen anyone afflicted. Maybe this was Krohn’s secret to wealth. Total madness. “You’re most kind,” he said as he detached himself from the small man’s grip. “But maybe you’d better go home now. Your family will be worried.” He looked at Dellawynn, hoping she’d understand. Sooner or later, Krohn would come to his senses, and then…

Krohn’s expression dropped, and Dellawynn stepped up to take his arm. “I will see that he gets there safely, my Lord Keaf.” She licked her lips, and mischievous fire danced in her dark eyes as she unbuckled a finely tooled leather scabbard from her side. “And then I will come back to serve you.” She stepped up and strapped the leather around Keaf’s waist, and her hands lingered on his hips a bit longer than necessary.

Keaf swallowed hard and motioned them away. As Dellawynn and Krohn tramped back down the trail, he thought he was beginning to sort out this day’s madness. Somehow the demon had changed him so that everyone saw not Keaf the gravedigger, but a great lord, maybe even a king. At his hut he grabbed the water bucket and set it between his feet. As the water settled, he bent to look at himself.

No majestic features, no special fire in his hazel green eyes. Nothing different. Just the adopted son of a gravedigger with a smudge on his left cheek and stubbly hair on his chin. He sat down hard and shook his head. Was it the Sword then? He picked up the blade and examined its mottled surface. The faint roar resounded, from a distance, and yet from within the metal. Could it affect men’s minds? It seemed a stretch of imagination, but Keaf knew little of such things.

At arm’s length it glimmering, beckoning. Let the crowd cheer for Keaf the gravedigger. Let them pay for shunning him and his father and all those like him. Let them see how it feels to be less than worthy, less than equal. He shook his head to clear away the ugly thoughts, and slid the Sword into the scabbard. Maybe he could learn its power, but he would have to be careful how he used it.

Keaf paused at the edge of the village as angry voices rose in a commotion from below. His self-confidence faltered as he imagined a mob preparing to come for him, but he was determined to discover what magic he held sheathed at his side. If he was right about the Sword, no crowd could withstand it.

On the main street, he spotted the mob outside the inn. Innkeeper Ganton was Lane’s father, and he stood tall above the others as he raised a sickle overhead. Cornered against the wall, Dellawynn faced them defiantly while Krohn cowered behind her.

“You stole that sword from one of my patrons,” Ganton said. “And left him without a stitch of clothing.”

“She threw stones in my mill when I would not give her bread,” old Hagga added. Welk, the thatch-cutter, accused her of seducing his son. Dellawynn had been busy for one day.

“Harlot!” another old woman shouted. “She’s cast a glamour on Krohn!”

A stone flew and hit the wall near Dellawynn’s head. She slashed with her sword, but the crowd didn’t back down.

“She’ll have to be burned,” Ganton said. Welk held up dry bristle and thatch, ready to light.

Ignored, Keaf marched to within a dozen steps of the mob and planted his feet. “Stop!” he shouted over the noise. “She’s with me!”

Heads turned, and mouths gaped. Someone laughed and lobbed a stone that fell short of Keaf’s feet.

“Get back to your graves,” Ganton sneered. It was easy to see where Lane had gotten his manner.

Keaf held his ground and pulled out the Sword. As he raised it, the sound of cheering drowned out all other noise, not with volume, but with undeniable energy. “I command you to leave her alone,” he said.

Incredulous looks turned to adoration, and those nearest to Keaf knelt to the ground. Murmured praises rose up-my lord, my liege, prince, and king-and Keaf knew that any of them could be true. He only had to wish it.

“Ganton,” he called out.

The big man stepped forward and pulled his cap from his head so that the balding spot showed as he bent low. “Sir?”

Keaf reached into his pocket and tossed a gold coin at the man’s feet. “I’d like your best room for the night.”

“Any room, my young master,” Ganton said, bending for the coin. “The inn, if you desire it. I would gladly make it a gift to you.”

Keaf listened for strain in Ganton’s voice, some indication that he suffered for his sudden devotion, but his words were completely sincere. A consoling magic, at least for those it spelled, but it robbed Keaf of much of his feeling of vengeance. He supposed he could command them to suffer, even to inflict suffering upon each other, but that would bring no better satisfaction, and it made him feel uneasy to realize it was possible.

Dellawynn joined his side, and the crowd cheerfully escorted them into the tavern hall of the inn.

“I had no idea who you were before this,” Ganton said. At the serving bar he ordered his bartender to pour his best brew.

“A king’s son,” Krohn declared. “He must be out to prove himself.” He waved a finger at Keaf and grinned. “You can’t fool us, young sir.”

“Or he’s on a mission,” Ganton said, pulling at his ruddy beard. “Are you on a quest, Master Keaf? We can help, you know. We can do quite a lot here in Palmora.”

“I only want a room and a good meal,” Keaf said. Those were enough to demonstrate his newfound power.

“And so you shall have them,” Ganton said.

Lane and Kaye returned with a freshly killed silver boar, and a feast was declared in Keaf’s honor. He’d tasted bitter ale once or twice, but the heady stout that Ganton served made the room too warm and the laughter too easy.

Every girl of the village knelt at his feet to praise him during the course of the evening, including Toya, who seemed far too sweet to be bound by magic. Dellawynn chased them all away in between teasing the men. Keaf basked in the adoration, sure that he’d finally discovered the secret to friendship.

Late in the night, as the room began to spin, chamber servants carried him to his room and laid him to bed, and Dellawynn was there, warm and soft and faithful as he passed out.

Keaf began the morning by puking in the vicinity of the chamber pot. He staggered back to bed and fell across it before he realized that Dellawynn was still there, rolled in the covers. She shifted against him, and one hand tousled his hair while the other slid between his legs. Startled, he pulled away, but dim memories-her excited cries, her nails raking his back-told him he hadn’t shied earlier in the night. He flexed his shoulders and winced.

As he sat up, a knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?” he asked. For a moment he pictured reality breaking in, Ganton hauling him out to be whipped in the square, a line of villagers hurling insults and stones. Instead, a young chambermaid peeked inside.

“I have your bath water drawn, my Lord, and fresh clothes waiting.” She opened the door a bit wider, and Keaf saw more servants with steaming pots and a large oblong tub.

The bath was a truly wonderful experience, even when the maid got a little fresh with her scrubbing. Dellawynn awoke and watched from the bed, giggling when he squawked about the soap in his eyes or the coarseness of the bristles on his tenderer parts. Breakfast was fresh berries that someone had spent the night obtaining from a city to the south, and cream that clotted on Keaf’s fingers. Afterward, in fur-trimmed trousers and ermine-collared shirt, with jewels on his belt and fine leather boots with real heels and soles, Keaf found it easier to believe in his new superiority.

The villagers had been busy while he slept. Krohn’s manor was no castle, but it was the biggest house in Palmora, and it included a stable with six fine riding-beasts. Krohn had moved into another abode, displacing the family that rented it from him. His staff, now at Keaf’s disposal, was determined to polish every bit of the manor before their new lord arrived. An entourage of Ganton and Krohn and every other important man of the village accompanied Keaf to the front gates, and they waited patiently while he made an absurd show of inspection. He knew no more about manor houses than he did about being a king, but the people hung on his every word and leapt to fulfill his every request. No one grumbled.

Through the morning, during a lunch of rabbit, fresh bread, and red wine, and into the afternoon, Keaf was attended and administered and fussed over. The local magistrate only visited Palmora once a month, but now Keaf became the village judge. A farmer came to ask him what to do about a wolf that had been raiding his wool-beasts over the last few days, and an angry wife dragged in her husband, accusing him of dallying with another woman. Keaf suggested a hunt for the wolf-Kaye had done it before, and he volunteered-and he sent the husband to stay home with his wife for a week. Everyone marveled at his wisdom, and a scribe wrote down his every word. Dellawynn grew tired of it before noon, and begged excuse to go find whatever mischief she could. Keaf had come to understand her well enough to know that she thrived on challenges, and he made everything too easy. He also knew that she would be back.

While Krohn was presenting his riding-beasts for Keaf to select one or all, news came that an old man who’d been sick for some days had died.

Ganton interrupted Krohn with anxious words. “Master Keaf, this is a serious problem.”

Keaf nodded. He was the only one in the area suited to bury the fellow. “I understand.” He cracked his knuckles and flexed his shoulders. It would be good to do the digging after two big meals in one day.

As he started away, Ganton stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “My Lord. Your disguise is ended, and your mission is far too important. You need only tell us who is to replace you as the gravedigger. I would gladly take the job myself, but my back is not what it used to be.” He reached behind and made a poorly faked grimace of pain.

Keaf stood there stunned. All adoration aside, it had never occurred to him that he would no longer be digging graves. He had assumed that he would simply be the best-treated digger in the land.

But Ganton was serious, whatever mission he thought Keaf was on, and Krohn and Lane and the others looked genuinely worried that he might actually do something besides let them serve him. “N-no,” he stammered. “You shouldn’t do it, Sir Ganton. Get someone younger.” A malicious choice came to him, and he spoke before he considered more. “Let Lane do it.”

Lane stepped forward, looking grim and huge. “I am honored,” he said with total sincerity. “Thank you for thinking of me.” He turned and lumbered off in the direction of the cemetery with a whistled tune on his lips.

Keaf watched him go, and he almost yearned to follow. The irony of casting Lane among the shunned had a second edge. Power took as well as gave, and it had just taken away Keaf’s purpose in life. He would have to work at finding a new one.

By evening, Keaf was growing convinced that his new occupation was to give his followers someone to follow. He was waited on and tended to with unerring devotion, and the village seemed happier than he’d ever seen it. They had purpose as never before. And they used up their small supplies of food and stores as never before.

During the supper feast, travelers arrived seeking room and board for the night. Their leader, Baron Mallorin, was a dashing figure, a young nobleman from the Western Empire. Ganton couldn’t offer them his best room, but he made his second best sound even better. While he and the baron bargained at the serving bar, Dellawynn sat beside Keaf and stared.

“I should see to your new guest,” she said as Mallorin glanced around the tavern hall. Even his smile gleamed. Dellawynn had discovered a silk dress that left her stomach enticingly exposed and did fine justice to the rest of her. A Gypsy dancer had left it at the inn sometime past, departing under hurried circumstances that Ganton did not speak of around his wife.

Keaf was growing impatient with Dellawynn’s roving eye, or maybe there was little else to rouse him, and he let his irritation show. “Wait until the baron comes to greet us,” he said. “Then we’ll see who best captures his interest.”

Dellawynn sat back pouting, but her eyes remained on Mallorin. As Ganton concluded his arrangements, he took the baron’s arm and led him toward Keaf. The villagers had set up two fine chairs on a raised platform of rough planks, and from there Keaf held his meager court. Meager but absolute.

The hall grew quieter. Mallorin’s brow wrinkled, assessing and speculating as he met Keaf’s gaze. When he looked at Dellawynn, his expression turned hungry.

“Lord Keaf,” Ganton said, “may I present Baron Mallorin from the Western Empire.”

Mallorin bowed slightly. Keaf stood and drew his Sword. As the distant cheering rose up, the baron dropped to one knee. “My Lord,” he said. “I did not know that you possessed one of the Twelve Swords. Allow me to pledge my eternal allegiance.” He bowed lower and offered his glove.

“You see,” Keaf said to Dellawynn, loud enough that everyone heard. “He serves me, and none of my followers would ever go behind my back to you.” He took the glove and tossed it beside his chair.

Dellawynn’s pout melted away as she gazed at the Sword. “It was wrong of me to ever think it,” she said. “Serving you is all I ever want.”

Keaf sighed as he put the Sword away. Too easy. Everything was too easy, and everyone was too doggedly obedient. Contemplating bigger challenges, he motioned Mallorin to sit. “You know this Sword?” he asked.

Mallorin nodded. “It is one of the Twelve, forged by the Gods in the mountains north of here. I held the one called Sightblinder for a short time. Anyone who looked upon me saw a different face.”

“And this Sword?” Keaf patted his side but left the blade sheathed. “It seems to work a similar magic.”

“No,” Mallorin said. “The Sword of Obedience was made for you to wield. In another man’s hand it might make him seem great, but that would be delusion. In your hand it only confirms what my heart tells me. Once you throw off this cloak of meager birth, you will be the ultimate ruler, a god among us.”

A shiver ran down Keaf’s back. To hold such power in a single blade? He’d seen practically nothing of the world in his short life, but now it was his for the taking. That was irony beyond measure, that a gravedigger could rule the Earth.

“Thank you, Baron,” he said. “You may attend to your dinner and your duties. We will talk more in the morning.”

“I await your call.” As Mallorin steered himself back to the serving bar, Dellawynn sat quietly, her hand light on Keaf’s arm.

The evening wore into night, and Keaf drank more stout and more wine. Mallorin had put visions in his head, visions that went far and promised much. Visions that made Keaf’s desire for simple friendship seem ridiculously small. As he staggered off to bed, there was a knot in his stomach and a cloud in his head.

“Please, my Lord Keaf, I beg you, wake up.”

Keaf wasn’t sure how many times he heard the whispered words before he understood. He raised his head and lowered it again as drink-inflicted pain thrummed through his skull.

A servant girl stood at the foot of the bed and begged him to rise. “It’s urgent business, the man says.” She pointed to the door. “Your welfare is at stake, he says, and he must see you tonight.”

Keaf reached out to tell Dellawynn that he’d be back, but she wasn’t there. He rubbed at his forehead and felt the ache at his temples. “Get me a drink of water,” he rasped.

The girl slipped out and returned a minute later with a mug. The water was cool and sweet, and it reduced the fire in Keaf’s belly. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head while she worked him into pants and shirt, tied on his boots, and draped a cloak over his shoulders. “Please, my Lord.” She urged him up, guided him down the corridor, and they slipped out the door into the night.

As the cold hit him, Keaf’s head cleared enough to realize his oversight. He’d left the Sword behind, and all of his loyal followers were asleep. He grabbed the girl by the arm. “Damn, girl! Fetch me my Sword!”

She darted away.

“You shouldn’t have dug it up,” a deep voice said from the dark.

Keaf turned to see Jarmon step from shadow into moonlight. “Templar?”

“You’ve been busy,” Jarmon said. “News of a great new lord has traveled as far as the Temple of Dawn.” His sword rang as he drew it from its sheath.

“I–I’m sorry,” Keaf stammered. He stepped back as the servant girl returned with the Sword still in its scabbard. She knelt at Keaf’s feet and stood the blade against him.

“Begone, girl,” Jarmon said.

She looked at Keaf, and he nodded her away. After she’d gone back inside, he reached for the Sword’s hilt.

“Don’t,” Jarmon said. His voice was tight with warning, and a stone-hard look glinted in his eyes.

Keaf pulled his hand back. “I didn’t know it was magic. Truly, I only thought to sell it for a few gold pieces.”

“I doubt you’d get that for it,” Jarmon said. “A kingdom, an empire, maybe the whole world, but not a few gold pieces.”

“I’m sorry,” Keaf said, and he’d never felt any emotion stronger in his life. “I only wanted to make them like me.”

Jarmon stepped forward and wrapped a mailed fist around the Sword’s scabbard as he touched the point of his weapon against Keaf’s chest. “And I paid you to do a job. I trusted you.”

The words cut twice, like the twin edges of the Sword. Jarmon had expected trust, but he hadn’t shown it himself. And Keaf had broken the trust that he’d accepted. He believed in trust and integrity, things that his father had taught him to value, and he’d looked upon Jarmon as a noble man. The truth was, they’d both failed. “You didn’t trust me at all,” he said, letting his shame translate into anger at the Templar. “Otherwise, you would have told me about the Sword. You tricked me into burying it.”

Jarmon drew back his sword, and the look in his eyes softened. Before he could answer, an arrow whizzed past Keaf’s head and pierced the heavy leather padding at the Templar’s shoulder. The impact knocked Jarmon back, and the Sword fell at his feet. Keaf turned to look for the bowman, and Kaye charged out of the darkness with another arrow nocked.

“Get back, Keaf,” he shouted. “I’ll defend you.”

Jarmon reached to tear the arrow free and growled deep in his throat with the pain. Keaf sprang for the Sword, but Jarmon’s boot caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling to the side. Kaye’s next arrow shot past Jarmon’s head and hit the wall of the inn with a dull thump.

The Templar didn’t wait for a third arrow. He wrapped both hands around his own sword and advanced to attack. Kaye pulled out his hunting knife and planted his feet, apparently willing to die for Keaf.

Keaf’s chest ached from the kick, but he managed to roll to his feet. “Stop!” he shouted, but only one man there was bound to him.

Kaye froze, torn between defending Keaf and obeying him, and Jarmon struck. His sword slashed across Kaye’s left hand and knocked the knife away with a trailing spray of blood. Kaye fell back clutching his wounded hand as Jarmon stepped over the Sword to deliver another blow. Keaf had only an instant to react, and he lunged.

He hit the Templar in the knees and knocked him off-balance. Jarmon stumbled a half step sideways and his blow missed Kaye’s head by the barest margin. Keaf grabbed for the Sword. Before he could unsheathe it, Jarmon twisted, off-balance, and swung his blade. The blow tore the scabbard from Keaf’s hands and sent it cartwheeling upward. The Mindsword slipped from its sheath. Moonlight caught the spinning blade, and it seemed to hang in the air for an eternity.

The sound of the roaring crowd echoed off the black outline of the mountains. At the edge of the darkness, Dellawynn appeared with a gash in her leg and her small sword badly notched. Dripping blood, Kaye reached for his knife, and Jarmon’s mailed hand reached for Keaf’s neck.

As the Sword reached the top of its arc and began to fall, Keaf saw the fight that would ensue, saw that it would end in death. And he saw the Sword gleaming with its strange designs written for gods and not for men. Not for men.

He pushed away from Jarmon and sprang toward the Sword. The Templar snagged him by the foot to stop him, but Keaf’s right hand reached far enough. Far enough for the tip of the blade to slice through flesh and bone and pin his palm to the hard ground.

He shrieked with pain and curled around his skewered hand as Jarmon and Kaye regained their feet. Jarmon took a step toward Keaf, but he stopped as Dellawynn raised her weapon.

“Leave him alone,” she warned.

“He’s hurt!” Jarmon snapped as he backed away. “That cursed blade.”

“It’s that blade that you were going to kill him over,” Kaye said. He held his wounded hand inside his belt and circled to trap Jarmon between himself and Dellawynn. His eyes strayed to Keaf, but as much as he wanted to help, he had first to defend his master.

Keaf struggled to his knees, each movement an agony as his impaled hand flexed, and he curled his fingers around the hilt of the Sword.

“I must help him,” Jarmon said. As he dropped his guard, Dellawynn moved to strike.

“No!” Keaf cried as he yanked upward. His shout froze Dellawynn and Kaye, but not Jarmon. The Templar threw his weapon down and rushed to Keaf’s side as the Sword came free. Keaf started to collapse, but Jarmon’s strong arm caught him.

“My liege!” Jarmon cried as he pulled off his glove and tore out the cloth lining. “I have been a fool!” He reached for Keaf’s wounded hand and pressed the cloth against the flow of blood. Another wave of pain made Keaf nearly faint.

Kaye and Dellawynn recovered from their shock and leapt to help. Kaye stripped off his woolen vest to drape over Keaf’s shoulders, and Dellawynn added her scarf to the temporary bandage.

“I’ll get help,” Dellawynn said. She started toward the inn, but Kaye stopped her.

“This way,” he said, motioning down the main street. “Lara is the village midwife. She knows medicines.”

As they hurried off, Jarmon slipped out of his heavy coat, exposing the bloodstain at his shoulder. He draped the wrap over Keaf, and its lingering warmth eased a little of Keaf’s misery. Tears welled in his eyes, and he turned away from the Templar.

Nothing had turned out right with the Sword of Fealty. Three people were hurt, and Keaf felt more alone than ever before. If he kept the Sword, he wouldn’t be able to trust anyone not under its power, and he could never afford friendship. His one dream would remain forever out of reach.

He turned to face Jarmon. “Why did you do this to me?”

Jarmon bowed his head in shame. “I was blind to your greatness, Master Keaf. I hope you can forgive me.”

“But this,” Keaf said, lifting the Sword with his good hand. “What about this?”

“In my heart,” Jarmon said as he tapped his fist on his chest, “I believe it is a bad thing. You would be better off without it. Then people could see your true noble nature without magical deceit.”

Keaf shook his head. Jarmon was as spellbound as the rest, but there was a truth in his words that the Templar could not see. The truth was that the Sword enslaved its owner as surely as it enchanted those around him. “For my own good.”

“Yes,” Jarmon said. “I have seen what it does to those who wield it.”

“Servant Wend?”

“Servant Wend, Lord March. He was an unfortunate man, ordinary where you are extraordinary, and that magic blade brought him to ruin.”

Keaf felt a shiver, not from the cold. Lord March! His land holdings were well known even in Palmora, and he conferred with kings and emperors. Such a man might have been able to rule the world with the Mindsword in his hands. Yet he now lay in an unmarked grave.

“Bury it before it harms you,” Jarmon pleaded. “Bury it demon’s deep where no one will dig.”

Keaf heard footsteps on the road, and he forced himself to sit up straight. “Please, go home,” he said quietly to Jarmon. “I release you from any service to me.”

Out of the darkness, Dellawynn, Kaye, and old Lara arrived with clean cloths and a doctor’s satchel. Kaye’s hand had been bandaged, but Dellawynn’s leg still seeped blood.

Lara muttered with each step. “I don’t see why I couldn’t fix your leg…. And that hand needs more than a wrap of linen…. Cold night to be out trapping wolves….” She saw Keaf, and her eyes grew wide for a moment before she returned to her interior dialogue. “Cold night for a lord to be out…. Need a warm hearth and strong brandy….”

She passed by Keaf on her way to the inn. Jarmon helped him to his feet. Inside, Ganton appeared in his long nightshirt, and he was mortified to see Keaf hurt. He offered drink and food and had his servants stoke the fire as Lara began her work. The old woman fussed over Keaf, crabbing to herself about kings and nobles and why hadn’t anyone told her it was Keaf. She tended Dellawynn and Kaye next, and came back to fuss over Keaf some more. He finally insisted that he was all right, and she left, still muttering.

A stiff drink of brandy loosened some of the knots, and Keaf sent Ganton and the servants back to bed. Ganton offered anything from his considerable stores, and Keaf silenced him by ordering a repayment to everyone who had used their supplies over the last two days. After a dozen more assurances that they had done everything they could to make him comfortable, the staff retired.

Next, Keaf looked across the tavern bench at Jarmon. “Go, now, Templar,” he said, repeating his earlier dismissal. You have duties to attend at your temple.” He smiled at Dellawynn. He would miss her, but he knew she would leave as soon as she was no longer Sword-bound, and he wanted to set her on a better course than the one she might choose herself. “And you go with him. I think you could use some time in a temple.”

“But Master Keaf…” Jarmon said as he stood.

“A temple?” Dellawynn asked.

“You will be serving me by going,” Keaf persisted. “I’m counting on both of you.”

Jarmon and Dellawynn looked injured, but neither could disobey a direct command. “As you wish,” Jarmon said.

Dellawynn slid around the table next to Keaf and kissed him harder than she might. “I will miss you, Master Keaf. She turned to Jarmon and linked her arm in his. “Temples are quite wealthy, aren’t they, Sir Jarmon?” Where she’d walked with no trouble a little earlier, she now let him ease her weight on her bad leg. Keaf hoped he wasn’t sending Jarmon’s temple too much trouble.

After they’d gone, Keaf turned to Kaye. “Thank you,” he said.

“It was nothing,” Kaye said. “I was out hunting the wolf that’s been after the wool-beasts. I saw you were in trouble, and it was my duty to help.”

Keaf held up his right hand and felt it throb. “It looks like we’re both useless for a while.”

Kaye raised his left hand. “One pair between us.” His voice was flat, but his face showed worry. A man’s hands were his living in these parts.

“Maybe we can work together,” Keaf said. “I could use your help yet tonight.”

“Anything, Master Keaf. I’m here to serve you.”

“Not service,” Keaf corrected. “I want your help working with me, not for me.”

Kaye looked beyond tired, but his Sword-driven enthusiasm still ruled. “Command me.”

Keaf shrugged. There was no stopping the power. “Jarmon made the mistake of not trusting me, but I won’t do that to you. We’re going to bury this Sword,” he said softly, lifting the blade from the bench.

“It’s a fine weapon,” Kaye said. “Why throw away such a thing?”

Keaf pushed to his feet. “Let’s head for the cemetery, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Kaye nodded and stood. “I appreciate your confidence in me, Master Keaf.”

Keaf smiled. “We’ll be friends after tonight or not, but either way we’ll share a trust.” He slid the Sword carefully into a loop of his belt, and together he and Kaye headed out into what remained of the night.