As he watched, Mata lifted the dirk again and slashed it across his neck, severing his windpipe and major arteries. Zatoma gurgled, unable to speak, and then collapsed to the ground, his limbs twitching as he choked on his own blood.
“And now, you will leave my house,” Mata said. Datun Zatoma was the first man he had ever killed. He shuddered with the excitement of it, but he felt no regret or pity.
He stepped over to the weapons rack in the corner. It was full of beautiful ancient swords and spears and cudgels taken from the Zyndu Clan. Zatoma had seen them as decorations only, and there was a thick layer of dust over every weapon.
He picked up the heavy sword — by appearance, bronze — at the top. Its thick blade and long handle seemed to suggest that it was meant to be wielded by two hands.
He blew away the dust and pulled the blade halfway out of its scabbard, made of bamboo wrapped in silk. The metal’s appearance was unusuaclass="underline" a somber bronze hue down the middle, as one might have expected, but edges glinting cold and blue in the filtered sunlight from the window. Mata turned it around in his hand and admired the intricate carvings — logograms of ancient battle poems — along both sides of the sword.
“This was the weapon of your grandfather for most of his career, a gift from his teacher Médo when he completed his studies,” Phin said, pride in his voice. “He always preferred bronze because it was heavier than iron and steel, though it could not hold an edge as well and wasn’t as hard. Most people could not even lift this sword with both hands, but he wielded it one-handed.”
Mata pulled the sword all the way out of the sheath and swung it through the air a few times, with just one hand. The sword spun in front of him easily, reflecting light like a blossoming chrysanthemum, and he felt its chill wind on his face.
He marveled at its balance and heft. Most steel swords he had practiced with were too light, and their thin blades felt fragile. But this sword seemed to be made for him.
“You move like your grandfather,” Phin said, his voice growing quiet.
Mata tested the sword’s edges with his thumb: still sharp after all these years. He could detect no nicks or fractures. He gave his uncle a questioning glance.
“There’s a story behind those sharp edges,” said Phin. “When your grandfather was made the Marshal of Cocru, King Thoto came to Tunoa on an auspicious winter’s day, constructed a ceremonial dais ninety-nine feet on each side and ninety-nine feet tall, and bowed thrice to grandfather Dazu on the dais so that all could see.”
“The king bowed down to Grandfather?”
“Yes.” Pride overflowed from Phin’s voice. “That was the ancient custom of the Tiro kings. When a Tiro state designates a marshal, it is a most solemn occasion, for the king is entrusting the army, the most terrifying engine of state, to a pair of hands other than his own. The proper rites must be followed to show the great honor and respect the king places in the man he names his marshal. It is the only time that a king bows down to another man. Tunoa, the domain of our clan, has witnessed more of these ceremonies than anywhere else in all the Islands of Dara.”
Mata nodded, feeling once again the weight on his shoulders, the history that ran through him. He was but a link in a long chain of illustrious warriors, warriors who had had kings bow down before them.
“I wish I could witness such a ceremony myself,” he said.
“You will,” Phin said, lightly clapping him on the back. “I’m sure of it. As a symbol of the marshal’s authority, King Thoto gave Grandfather Dazu a new sword made of thousand-hammered steel, the strongest, sharpest blade metal known to men. But Grandfather did not wish to give up his old sword, for it was a mark of esteem from his teacher.”
Mata nodded. He understood the duty of respect one owed to one’s teacher, for the teacher was the model and mold of a man’s skills and learning, as the father was the model and mold of a man’s form and manners. These were ancient obligations, the kind that secured the world on top of its foundation. Though they were private bonds, they were as important and as unbreakable as the public duties one owed to one’s lord and king. Mata keenly and vividly felt Dazu Zyndu’s dilemma from decades ago.
Mapidéré had tried to suppress these private bonds and to elevate duty to the emperor above all, and that was why his empire had turned out to be so chaotic and unjust. Mata knew without having to ask that Mapidéré did not bow down to his marshals.
Phin continued, “Unable to decide which weapon to wield, your grandfather traveled to Rima to seek out Suma Ji, the best bladesmith in all of Dara, for help. Suma Ji prayed for three days and three nights to Fithowéo for guidance, and he was inspired to come up with a solution that also led to a novel method of compound blade making.
“The master bladesmith melted down the marshal’s new sword. Keeping the old sword as the core, he wrapped it in layer after layer of hammered steel, forging it into a new blade that combined the weight and heft of bronze with the hardness and sharpness of steel. When the forging was complete, Suma Ji quenched it in the blood of a wolf, sacred to Fithowéo.”
Mata caressed the sword’s cold blade and wondered how many men’s blood it had drunk over the years. “What is its name?”
“Suma Ji named it Na-aroénna,” Phin said.
“The Ender of Doubts,” said Mata, translating from Classical Ano.
Phin nodded. “Whenever Grandfather unsheathed it, in his heart, the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt.”
Mata gripped the sword tightly. I will strive to be worthy of this weapon.
Continuing his examination of the weapons rack, Mata let his gaze travel over spears, swords, whips, and bows, rejecting them all as unsuitable companions to Na-aroénna, but finally, his eyes stopped on the bottom rung.
He picked up the ironwood cudgel. The handle, as thick as his wrist, was wrapped in white silk, stained dark with years’ worth of both blood and sweat. The cudgel grew thicker toward the other end, in which multiple rings of white teeth were embedded.
“That was the weapon of the Xana general Rio Cotumo, who was said to have the strength of ten men,” Phin said.
Mata turned the cudgel this way and that, and the light glinted from the tips of the teeth. He could identify some of them: wolf, shark, even a few that might have come from a cruben. Some of the teeth were stained with blood. How many helmets and skulls had it smashed through?
“Grandfather and Rio Cotumo dueled for five days straight on the shores of the Liru without being able to determine a victor. Finally, on the sixth day, Cotumo stumbled because his foot slipped on a loose rock, and Grandfather was able to cut off his head. But Grandfather always thought his victory was unearned, and he honored Cotumo by giving him a lavish burial, and kept his weapon as a memento.”
“Does it have a name?” Mata asked.
Phin shook his head. “If it did, your grandfather never learned it.”
“Then I will call it Goremaw, companion to Na-aroénna.”
“You will not use a shield?”
Mata gave a contemptuous laugh. “What need is there for a shield when my enemies will die before three strokes?”
He held the sword steady in his right hand and struck it sharply with the cudgel in his left hand. It clanged in a sweet, pure note that held for a long time, reverberating in the stone halls of the castle.
Phin and Mata Zyndu fought their way through the castle.
Having tasted his first blood, Mata was now possessed by the killing lust. He was like a shark set loose amongst a herd of seals. In the narrow halls of the castle, the Xana soldiers could not take advantage of their numbers, and Mata methodically dispatched them as they came at him in ones and pairs. He swung Na-aroénna with such force that it crashed through shields and arms held up vainly in defense. He smashed Goremaw down so hard that a man’s skull was crushed into his torso.