He also heard lines concerning ancient races of giants, hidden valleys, maidens of war, and powerful weapons whose curses doom their bearers. These last phrasings made him eye the bard sidelong.
By the fourth night he’d started wondering how to broach the subject of moving on when a huge dark shape emerged from the gloom. The Matriarch announced: ‘Someone is coming.’
Fisher eased the instrument back into its satchel and Kyle tightened his bear-hide cloak about his shoulders. They set out, leaning away from the slicing winds.
The bare broken rocks clattered and grated beneath their boots as they slowly ascended. They sought the place the Matriarch had told them was beneath where the Forkrul came and went. It was a hike of a few leagues from her dwelling.
Below, the clouds had not entirely dispersed. Broad sweeping vistas of woods and glittering lakes spread out for as far as the eye could discern. Except for one entire face of the range. Here, a broad river of ice descended from the wider field below. It gleamed sapphire and white, looking much like a serpent of frost.
The desiccating winds had long cracked Kyle’s lips and clawed his throat raw. He and Fisher had also taken turns fetching snow and ice to melt for drinking water. But it was never enough, and this was their greatest want.
They tramped on. Kyle focused upon raising one foot after the other. These extreme heights, Fisher had explained, can poison the lungs and bring delusions and mirages to those who would trespass. All Kyle knew was that no matter how deeply he inhaled, he seemed to never have enough breath. And breathing too hard made him dizzy.
The light deepened to a murky purple, tinged by blood red in the west. Fisher raised a hand for a halt. Kyle came abreast of him; the bard was squinting up where the slope steepened. Movement. A dark figure descending.
He and Fisher waited. Whoever it was, he appeared wounded or exhausted; he would stagger then pause, righting himself, only to lurch onward once more. Kyle cast an uncertain glance to Fisher, who motioned that they should wait.
It was Jethiss. He still wore the old armoured hauberk he’d salvaged. Yet something was odd about his outline. As he neared, his steps now audible over the rocks, Kyle’s breath truly caught as he saw that the man’s left sleeve of leather hung loose. It swung empty in the winds.
Somehow, in some manner, the man had lost an arm.
Only now did the Andii appear to become aware of them; he halted, taken aback, then changed direction to approach. Though the air was bitingly frigid and the winds punishing, a sheen of sweat covered his face and ran dripping from his chin. The Andii possessed near black-hued skin, yet Kyle would have said that the man was pale — perhaps from shock, or loss of blood.
He halted, weaving slightly, before them, his chest heaving, and nodded his greeting.
Kyle’s gaze fell to fix upon the strange weapon now sheathed at his side. The pommel was an oddly contoured knob. It and the grip appeared to be constructed of the same materiaclass="underline" pale, like ivory, but not glowing like his white blade. Portions of the pommel and grip were smooth while others possessed a rough and porous look. Slowly, the realization came of just what he was looking at — what the sword had been moulded from — and he raised his appalled gaze to where the man’s sleeve hung empty.
Not even the cruellest gods would dare …
Jethiss nodded to them again, affirming their guess. He raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his face, swallowed hard. ‘The justice of the Forkrul,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘is harsh indeed.’
‘A sword worthy of you …’ Fisher breathed in wonder, his face sickly.
The Andii was breathing heavily. The trial he’d endured must have been ghastly. He nodded his agreement at Fisher’s words. ‘Yes.’
‘And your memories?’
‘With me once more.’
‘Then,’ Fisher asked, ‘would you give us your name?’
‘Mother Dark offered a title.’
Fisher’s breath caught. He spoke low, as if not daring to say the words aloud: ‘Son of Darkness …’
Jethiss gestured, inviting them to descend with him. ‘Now more of an honorific, in truth.’
The Andii’s tone was light, but Kyle saw with what trouble he walked, the rigid control he was forcing upon himself to remain erect. He wanted to reach out to help steady the man, but his instincts told him that he mustn’t.
‘There was a terrible battle,’ Jethiss murmured aloud as they descended. ‘At the feet of a gate. I wandered lost for an unknown time. A woman’s voice spoke to me from the Eternal Night. She told me I was needed to stand as I had before. But that the cost would be great. That I would have to lose myself to find myself anew.’ He pressed a hand to Fisher’s shoulder. ‘And so I have. My old name no longer fits. I am Jethiss. As for the title … we shall see if I prove worthy.’
‘Where will you go?’ Kyle asked, careful to give the man room as he walked at his left side.
‘I would travel to Coral,’ Jethiss answered. ‘There is a modest barrow there I would pay my respects to. A good friend. Many evenings we spent together playing Kef Tanar.’ He offered them a smile. ‘I would be honoured if you would accompany me.’
‘The honour is mine,’ Fisher answered.
‘And mine,’ Kyle added, feeling eminently comfortable with the idea of travelling with the Andii. It seemed to him altogether fitting and strangely proper that the White Blade should be found walking alongside what he imagined, one day, might come to be known as the Blade of Bone.