The Spirit of Revenge (37 page)

The Warriors climbed the colossal stairs for several laborious minutes. Soon, they came atop the staircase. They stepped forward and walked across the dais before coming to a stop at a foreboding archway.

Malecai raised the light to illuminate the arch, revealing a strange calligraphy etched across its beautifully carven surface. The Warriors stood in silence for a moment, not a word spoken, not a breath taken. Malecai nodded to his friends, this was it.

They entered through the arch and came out into a circular room. Evenly hewn steps encircled its walls and fourteen arches lined these steps, forming the entrances to different areas of the tombs. Several small slits lined the upper walls that let in thin strands of starlight, casting the room in an eerie film of silver.

In the middle was a large tomb that stood over four feet tall and was fashioned of a dull red stone that glowed strangely in the starlight.

“The tomb of Ivandar…” Malecai whispered in amazement. The light faded from his palm and he dropped his sword, letting it clatter down the steps. He stumbled down the stairs, disbelief in his eyes.

“This is not a good idea,” Isroc warned as the others climbed down the steps after him.

Cain and Malecai approached the tomb and stood together beside the King’s grave with shared interest, hands caressing the large stone slab that covered its mouth. Mysterious carvings were etched into its surface, depictions of the man within, his life, his legacy, and ultimately his inglorious death.

“Help me with this,” Malecai said as he grabbed the edge of the slab. Cain nodded and stepped forward.

Isroc reached out to them. “Don’t do it.”

“And why not?”

“There could be wards around it,” he cautioned as he cast a nervous glance around the room. “Or worse.”

“I will take my chances. I have waited many years for this moment, and Tarsha has waited many more. More than fate has brought us to this moment.”

“And now it is here,” Cain said, “rightfully yours.”

“Aye,” Malecai replied, “so it would seem…”

The two of them threw their full weight against the slab. With a powerful heave, they managed to push it gradually forward. A deafening grind of stone echoed in the room as it slid away in a cascade of dust.

A putrid stench immediately reached them, but they disregarded it as curiosity surmounted. They encircled the now open tomb and peered into the shadows of what lay hidden for over four hundred years.

Inside the tomb was the remains of Ivandar, his bones brittle and eroding atop a bed of human dust and cobweb. A thick layer of linen stained black with decay was wrapped loose around his remains.

Ornate, rusted armor clung to his corroded bones, a thick sheet of dust forever tarnishing the once noble regalia.

Malecai’s eyes caught a glint in the King’s remains. “At last…”

He leaned forward and held out his hand, a light forming once again at his open palm. The light slowly grew and revealed what had been hidden in centuries of shadow.

A massive sword was clutched in Ivandar’s hands. It was over five feet in length, well over two hands wide and half an inch thick. The blade was made of a strange silver metal, unlike anything they had ever seen. Thin veins of blood were woven like hundreds of capillary fingers across its luminous surface.

A sharpened edge ran along one side of the blade before coming to a graceful arch and forming a vicious, hook-like curve at the sword’s tip.

A light steel hilt was fashioned at the base of the blade, the tips of which extended several inches from both sides of the sword before curving gracefully up at the ends. At the base of the blade, scarcely above the hilt, was a large ruby, glistening brilliantly in the light.

Below the hilt was a handle nearly a foot in length, made of hard, black leather. Below that was an intricate, darkened steel claw of a beast, its long talons curling inward as it clasped a massive ruby.

The sword seemed to glow as if newly forged from the light of Alon Heath. The sword boasted no rust, no corrosion. It had somehow escaped the crippling hands of time.

“Ceerocai, the lost sword of Abaddon,” Malecai murmured as he reached for it. He wrapped his trembling fingers around its handle and lifted it from the sarcophagus. Dust and ash scattered into the air as the sword was disturbed from its centuries old resting place.

Malecai lifted the massive sword from the tomb. Light danced along the silver blade as he raised it before the Warriors. The group stood in disbelief, amazed at what they were seeing.

“You finally found it, Malecai,” Cain grinned as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. Malecai stared in awe at the mighty sword, his eyes wide with wonder. He then nodded, and with a pained sigh, held it before Cain.

“It is yours now.” Cain looked at him with astonishment. His mouth opened to say something, yet no words came.

“It is yours,” Malecai offered again, holding the sword out to him.

Cain ran a hand through his hair. “Why me?” He managed to stutter, “It’s rightfully yours. You searched for years; you gave up everything to find it.”

Malecai nodded. “And that is why it is yours. I had given everything to find it and now have nothing left; I wanted it so fiercely that I sacrificed everything dear to me for it. If I keep it, I would be holding onto those painful scars. I have sought forgiveness for my mistakes for ten long years, this…is my atonement. So please take it…for my sake.” He offered the sword to his friend. The others looked on with bewilderment.

“You gave your love to find this,” Cain gestured to the sword. “She wanted you to find it; she would want you to have it.”

Malecai’s gaze fell to the ground. “I wanted this sword out of revenge, not for the good of Tarsha. Because of this sword and my greed for it, I lost my love. I have already told you, if I hold onto this sword…then I hold her death ever in my hands, a burden I already bear.”

A silence enveloped the group as the two men stared at the other, a pained frown in both their faces. “We need this sword, Cain. The Alliance needs it. We have to hold onto it, and I refuse to. So I pass it onto you, to bear until we may destroy it and put an end to Tarsha’s suffering.” Malecai offered the sword to Cain again, and he reluctantly reached a hand out to it.

“Don’t do it, Cain,” Isroc warned. Cain glanced at him with indifference and reached for the weapon. Malecai handed the sword to him and quickly stepped back, gesturing for the others to do the same.

As Cain’s fingers wrapped around the handle, a faint light rose from the sword. At its heart, the ruby in the blade seemed to gaze at him with a wild eye. Cain felt a strange warmth rise in his arm as the light of the sword pulsed with every beat of his heart. His friends stepped back in surprise as Malecai simply smirked.

The light and subtle growl of the sword ceased and the crypt returned to its prior dark, silence returning its boundless hold. Cain looked the sword over with newfound interest.

It was massive, yet surprisingly light for its size. It weighed little more than the long sword at his belt, yet several times as large. The entire sword glistened elegantly in the moonlight, a kind of strange, wild beauty.

Cain rolled the sword slowly in his hand. The colossal blade cleft the air, roaring violently in its own self-produced wind. The blade danced gracefully with little effort to its wielder, spinning near a blur about him. He stopped the blade, the wind died, and the roaring faded as he stared in awe at the power of the beast before him.

Malecai unfastened the black leather straps around his back and held it out for him. Cain nodded and unbuckled his sword from his belt and laid the old, battered sword beside the remains of the robbed king.

Cain then took the baldric of leather and rings from his friend and pulled his arm through the straps that crossed diagonal over his chest and back.

Cain lifted the sword, swung it fluidly over his back, and sheathed it through the rings. “Let’s go,” he said as he looked each of his friends over. “We’ve got a war to win.”

Cain leaned against the prow of the transport, staring through the darkness at the moonlit waters of the Alar. Malecai stood beside him, the two men gazing over the river.

They had boarded the ship that morning and upon their arrival, the soldiers greeted them warmly. However, at the sight of the sword of Andred, they fell instantly quiet, eyes wide with fear and astonishment.

Cain and Malecai enlightened the captain and his men of their journey and Creedoc’s promise in alleviating Morven. They told of the sandstorm seeming guided by fate that revealed to them the Lost Tombs of Atuan. They told of its wonders and mysteries, and of the sword, every passenger on the ship drinking in every word of their lavish tale.

Cain sagged wearily against the ship’s railing, exhausted from hours of talking. Now everyone was asleep and all was in silence save the rhythmic lapping of water against the ship’s hull.

Malecai threw his cloak closer around him. “Long day,” he muttered curtly.

“We had a lot of questions to answer.”

“There will be more of that when we get back to Morven. The inquiries will never end so long as you bear the sword, that I can assure you. It is but a taste of the price you must pay for carrying such a burden.”

“I didn’t even ask to carry it. I shouldn’t have to pay any price. Why can’t you carry it?” Cain asked, “And don’t say what you already have. The story you told me back in Izadon, I don’t even know whether to believe it or not. Everything about you is a mystery.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s too many holes in your story. How do I know you didn’t just tell me all of that to make me feel sorry for you?”

Malecai’s gaze fell. “I wish I could tell you I was lying, but alas, it is all true.”

“Then explain why the Iscara were after you and Raven.”

Malecai shook his head and scanned the waters for a moment. In a solemn whisper he spoke, “They want me dead for the things I have done against them.”

Cain raised a brow questioningly at this. “How could you have done anything against the Knights of Iscara? All of Tarsha can scarcely leave a dent in Abaddon’s armies, let alone the mightiest of his forces.”

“There is much you do not know about me.”

“Then why don’t you carry the damn thing if you’re so high and mighty?” Cain cried out as he thrust the sword before him. “If what you say is true, I don’t want to pay any price to carry it. I never asked for this!”

Malecai rested a hand on the sword and lowered it slowly. “We never call for the burdens fate places on us. We never wish to make sacrifices, yet we must. One day, Cain, you will learn that you must make the greatest sacrifice, you, and no one else. You carry that sword because you have what no one else has.”

“And that is?”

Malecai turned back to the ship’s railing and leaned against it as if deep in thought. “You would not understand if I told you now, but soon you shall know the truth. You will not like it though…”

Cain sneered and slung Ceerocai over his shoulder. He turned his gaze back to the waters, contemplating what Malecai had said.

After a while, Malecai turned to him. “You should at least know more of the burden you bear.”

“I already know,” Cain replied vehemently.

“You only think you do.”

Cain lifted a brow and crossed his arms. “Enlighten me then.”

“Very well…you may know it is the sword of Abaddon, forged by the hand of the Forgotten in the light of Alon Heath. It was crafted to give him far greater power than his human body could ever harbor, yet at a price no man should pay.

He gave his life and his humanity in return for godly power. He infused the sword with his soul, extracting his life force and placing it into the newly forged blade. This bequeathed him with the power of the god who gave him his purpose, to eradicate humanity for their transgressions.

In placing his soul inside the sword, he was able to call upon the powerful emotions of the mortality within, which granted him the ability to unleash physical and mental devastation upon his enemies in the form of a great scarlet beast, the very essence of Abaddon himself.

However, when Ivandar managed to take it from him, he knew not the destructive power of the weapon. He wielded the sword in life without understanding, and took it with him into death, condemning it to the mortal grave for over four hundred years.

Nevertheless, word of its power eventually leaked into the outside world. What was revealed to Tarsha was this…the sword was imbued with endless purity, impervious to decay and corrosion.

Abaddon used it as a channel to his mortal soul, calling upon its strengths while retaining the immortality granted him. You hold in your hands Abaddon’s living, breathing soul, and as long as it remains on this earth, Abaddon will never die.” Cain fidgeted nervously as his friend continued.

“Knowing of this sword’s existence has given hope to the people of Tarsha, perhaps the only hope that has endured after all these needless years of suffering. To this day, people believe that if the Tombs of Atuan are revealed, then the sword could be found and destroyed, ending this senseless war at last.