Both of them reached the same conclusion about the sword: it had belonged to one of Prince Nelesquin’s vanyesh-although they each acknowledged knowing next to nothing about the vanyesh. Down through the years any truth about them had been lost. Aside from knowing they were sorcerers who traveled with an evil prince, neither man had any information.
Ciras reined his horse to a halt beside Borosan’s mount. They’d crested a hill that overlooked a vast but sunken plain, which angled off to the northwest between two lines of mountains. “We’ll be two days on that plain if we just strike out across it, don’t you think?”
Borosan nodded. “If we keep close to one set of mountains or the other, we should find water. All the green veins running into the plain indicate water, but I would just as soon avoid as many valleys as we can.”
“Agreed. And I believe you’re right. The wild magic flows like water and seeps into the low points. Every valley we’ve seen is more alive with it than elsewhere.”
Borosan nodded as if he’d only half heard. Ciras had become used to that. The inventor leaned back, pulled a journal from his saddlebags, and made a note. “Shall we camp here?”
“Back down the hill, yes, by the spring.”
They retraced their steps and made camp. Neither knew what Ixyll had been before the Cataclysm, and anticipating what it would be from day to day was impossible. The wild magic had scoured the world down to its stony bones in some places and yet, in others, grasses formed meadows and trees grew into groves. Granted, most often the trees were odd-like having gorgeous blossoms that became fist-sized fruit in a matter of hours, only to burst into flame shortly thereafter. The grasses seemed more normal. Though they were seldom a simple green, the horses ate them with no apparent ill effects.
They made camp on a bluesward and collected deadwood-first making sure it was truly dead and truly wood. Borosan made a fire and Ciras stepped well away from it before he started his exercises.
Borosan looked up after Ciras had stripped himself to the waist. “Finally decided you will use it?”
The swordsman nodded and slipped the ancient sword into the sash around his middle. “A swordsman is a union of sword and man. The blade I have carried with me has been in my family for generations. It is not enchanted-it’s not one of your gyanrigot-but it helps me focus. It is hard to explain.”
Borosan warmed his hands over the fire. “I’ve heard it explained that it is easier to walk in boots that have been broken-in rather than those that are brand-new.”
“But you scoff at this.”
Borosan shook his head. “Not at all. You think a blade that is well-used helps you to focus. If I were to use gyanri to build a blade, my purpose would still be to aid the warrior. The difference would be that the focus and guidance would be stronger because the person using it would know little of fighting.”
Ciras’ expression soured. “That would be terribly wrong.”
“So I have come to learn through my association with you, Master Dejote.” Borosan smiled. “If I venture into designing weapons, I will work on armor, to keep people alive.”
“But that’s no better than…”
“Isn’t it? Your objection to my thanatons is that they could kill without reason. The same would hold true for gyanrigot swords and spears. They would make anyone capable of fighting and killing without training. I agree that helping people kill without discretion is wrong. The reverse of that, however, should not be true. I would be saving people from dying.”
The swordsman folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like Borosan’s turning his argument back on itself. There was something wrong with what he was saying, but on the surface it was hard to argue with. If I say it is wrong to stop people from dying, I am as foolish as those who would kill without discrimination. Death is death, and if one believes it should be limited, one cannot pick and choose cases and be consistent.
“If you make someone invulnerable, Borosan, then he will be as dangerous with a simple knife as he might be with a gyanrigot sword.”
“But he will likely do little harm and the armor will work only until the thaumston is exhausted. Facing someone such as you, he would do no harm. Your attacks would wear the thaumston down and you would kill him eventually.”
“What if someone else supplies him a gyanrigot sword?”
That question contorted Borosan’s face. “I’d not thought of that.”
Ciras nodded. “It should be considered.” Then he turned away from the inventor as the chubby man went digging for his journal. Ciras took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began his exercises.
He drew the sword and dropped into the third Dragon form. Closing his eyes, he imagined a foe in fourth Wolf across from him. Ciras stamped a foot and the man came in, slashing low. The swordsman easily leaped above that strike and was ready to land in sixth Dragon. Instead, his right foot flicked out and caught his enemy in the face, snapping his head around.
Ciras landed in a crouch and spun, aware of another foe coming in at his back. This enemy was a Turasynd of the Tiger clan. Strips of orange fur covered his arms and chest. The Turasynd’s heavy saber whistled down in a cut that would bisect him, but his own sword came up and around in a double-handed circular parry.
Ciras would have slashed back across the Turasynd’s body, but for awareness of another attack at his back. He stabbed back over his right shoulder and could feel the blade punching through breastbone and heart. He looked up and saw his imaginary Turasynd foe looming over him, transfixed by both the blade and surprise. The enemy had raised his sword over his head with two hands and it still descended, but Ciras caught his wrists and pulled, flipping the man forward and into the other Tiger.
Ciras came up and whirled, slashing blindly at waist height. A third Tiger folded over the blade’s edge. Ciras slid his blade free and continued the spin. He dropped his blade’s tip, then slashed up, catching the first Tiger beneath the chin as he threw off his dead comrade. Both of them fell back into a tangle of limbs, allowing Ciras to leap over them and turn to face other enemies.
The supply of Turasynd seemed endless. Endless and eager. They rushed forward, two coming for each one fallen. Ciras retreated, then lunged, slashed, then parried and riposted. He beat blades down, then cut above them, or ducked a blow and stabbed deep through an enemy’s vitals. His blade licked out, opening armpits and groins, throats and bellies. He had no time to employ the fine cuts that would all but sever a head or cleave wrist from arm.
Scenes blurred as foes came faster and faster. Some he saw as whole and normal, others appeared far larger than they ever could have been. Some even appeared in degrees of decay, as if they had clawed their way from a grave to have a second chance at the man who had killed them. Regardless of how they looked or moved, Ciras fought each back, ending their lives again and again.
Then he spun to the right, coming about in the same cut he’d used to take Dragright’s leg off. His blade bit deep into his enemy’s left side. It carved through his robe and overshirt, the blade’s forte all but reaching his spine. It would have, too, had Ciras not stopped, had he not let go of the blade.
But he did, and sank to his knees. The visions he’d been fighting melted. The sword thudded to the ground before him and sweat stung his eyes. He’d have been happy if the sweat burned them completely from his head, but he knew that even that would not steal the vision of what he’d seen.
Borosan knelt at his side and pressed a waterskin into his hands. “What’s wrong, Ciras?”
The swordsman didn’t answer. He raised the waterskin and directed the stream over his face and head. He shook his head, spraying water, but Borosan did not complain. Ciras drank a bit of water, spat it out, then drank again and swallowed. He waited a moment to see if he would keep it down, then opened his eyes but stared straight ahead, down the length of the blade.