The Spirit of Revenge (38 page)

However, they are obdurately naive. They know not the full capacity of the sword’s power. The sword is indestructible. The blade is made entirely of the purest form of cerebreum, the strongest and lightest metal ever produced from the bowels of earth.

Cerebreum was mined, forged, and mass-produced in every way imaginable for hundreds of years. But humans cleaned the earth of cerebreum a millennium ago, and now none remains to us, as if it all had vanished, to protect man from their own selfish greed. Few artifacts of cerebreum remain, and now a pound of the precious metal can provide a man’s salary for life.

The cerebreum blade is indestructible, easily able to crush diamond as if it were mere salt. The knowledge of how to smelt down and fashion cerebreum has been long lost to history. It is impervious to any of our mundane methods.”

Cain stared at Malecai for a moment, struggling to form his next words. “So what you’re saying is,” he began, “that Ceerocai can never be destroyed. That Abaddon’s spirit can never be destroyed. That we will…never win this war?”

Malecai returned his gaze for a long moment. “It would seem so…”

T
hick iron chains rolled up the sluice gates of Morven as the transport sailed into the city. Buildings crawled by as soldier and civilian alike ran to the riverbanks to get a glimpse of the Warriors, their shouts and cheers echoing in the early morning. After several minutes, the ship came to a stop at the docks and the waters settled around them at last.

The soldiers dropped the gangplank and began rolling up the sails as the Warriors shouldered their rucksacks.

The captain approached them. “There’s someone here to see you, Warriors,” he informed them with a slight bow. They followed him across the deck and down the gangplank.

A large crowd of civilians stood in wait around the docks, cheering as they saw the Warriors descend the gangplank.

Several men and women in brown leather and chain mail stood by the riverbank amidst the crowd, each armed with a longbow, sword, and spear. At the head of the group stood Jiran and Heric, the Vilante of Ilross.

“Well if it isn’t the Warriors,” Jiran cried out as they approached, “a pleasure to see you again, my friends, it has been a while. I’m surprised you’re all alive and in one piece!” He laughed heartily.

“What brings you here?” Cain asked him as they shook hands with the two Vilante.

“The war of course,” Jiran replied. His eyes suddenly flew open as he noticed the sword at Cain’s back.

The crowds then fell quiet and every man, woman, and child stared at the sword. Jiran quickly leapt forward and threw his cloak around the sword, hiding it from sight. He cursed colorfully and herded Cain away from the river, splitting the now fervently whispering crowds.

The Warriors and the Vilante of Ilross stepped out of the fleet of covered wagons and came out into the palace courtyard. The sun hung low over the distant horizon, the mountain peak girdled with clouds.

They walked across the windswept court and approached the palace, passing the winged guardians and ascending the ivory staircase.

The Palace Guards bowed to the Warriors as they passed, and two of them opened the gates to the palace, beckoning them inside. Jiran instructed his men to wait by the door before following the Warriors into the throne room.

King Darius looked up, his eyes wide with surprise as he bound from his throne. “A welcome sight indeed,” he said with a jovial grin and shaking their hands warmly. “Good to see you again, friends.”

“I trust your journey went well?” A familiar voice said from beside the throne. Ethebriel and Armeth walked towards them, their boots clicking against the marbled floor.

Adriel let out a cry and dove into Ethebriel’s arms, the two embracing each other warmly. Ethebriel clasped her head in his hands and kissed her fondly on the forehead.

Armeth walked past them and shook each of the Warriors hands, talking intently with the four of Andaurel as Ethebriel and Adriel approached.

“I’ve heard many things of the Warriors since last we met,” Ethebriel began. “We have much catching up to do,” he said to them before turning and smiling at Adriel. “Things have gone well for you. I see you’ve found a home with these men.”

“Reminiscing can wait,” Jiran said to the group. He swung Cain’s cloak to the side, leaving the sword of Abaddon exposed for all to see.

The group stumbled back in surprise, shouts and curses rising in the throne room.

Darius hastily gestured for the guards to close all the doors. “How did you get it?” Cain explained to everyone how they had stumbled across the Tombs of Atuan.

“A sandstorm?” Armeth questioned. “That bodes ill in my eyes…something is not right.”

Ethebriel stepped beside his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It seems more like the winds of fate to me. For four centuries, Tarsha has searched for it and to no avail. And yet, a soldier of Kaanos finds it. Fate it is indeed. The world has great plans for you, Cain Taran.”

“Fate or not, the world’s not going to tell us what to do with it,” Darius retorted. “There are pressing matters at hand. The war is building. Abaddon is gathering his armies and preparing to launch a final assault before we can gather our strength.

‘He has pulled all of his forces from our lands, leaving us free for the moment. He has given us the precious time we need to gather our forces as well and defend Morven against the coming assault.”

Ethebriel nodded, still eyeing the sword at Cain’s back. “We have brought thirty thousand of our finest troops from Kaanos, and we picked up another fifteen thousand of Verin’s men as we sailed north. Verin himself could not leave with us, but he assured me another forty thousand would be sent soon.”

“And what of my brother?” Darius inquired of the Warriors.

“Fifty thousand will arrive within the week,” Cain replied.

Darius nodded earnestly. “That is a worthy force. Two hundred thousand men should be within our walls by the end of the week.”

“If we have that much time,” Armeth added.

“True, but the gates of Morven have never before been breached; our numbers will swell around our enemy. We will prevail.”

“Overconfidence has always proved man’s greatest bane,” Malecai scoffed, “the enemy is intelligent, powerful, and their numbers are far greater than our own. You would be foolish to disregard rationality for confidence.”

The group fell silent for a moment before Armeth broke the tension. “The enemy may be greater in number, but we are greater in power.” His eyes locked onto Cain and everyone in the room followed his stare. “We have the sword of Abaddon, Ceerocai…”

Suddenly, a great roar filled the throne room. Jiran and Armeth rushed toward the doors and threw them open, the Warriors chasing after him.

Several guards and the Vilante braced themselves against the doors, fighting desperately against whatever lay beyond. Heric turned to them. “It’s the people! They’ve gone mad!”

Armeth shoved aside the guards and opened the front doors of the palace, letting in a flood of frigid air. Hundreds of people crowded the palace steps and stretched across the entire mountaintop.

A great roar rose from the masses as every man and woman screamed and cursed. Soldiers formed a line along the front of the palace, struggling to push back the tide of enraged citizens.

“What’s going on?” Armeth shouted over the clamor.

“They want the sword!” A soldier replied as he shoved a man back. “They want to destroy it!”

At the sight of Cain, the crowds grew incensed. Curses and death threats filled the air as the roar rose to an unprecedented scale. Once the warm eyes of those that had placed their hopes on Cain, now grew cold and insufferable, seething over Cain with changed heart.

Armeth threw an arm over Cain and pulled him back into the entrance room as the people fought their way towards him. The Warriors rushed back into the palace and the guards slammed shut the doors.

Darius and Ethebriel crossed the entrance room and stopped before the Warriors.

Darius eyed Cain suspiciously. “Do you see the chaos you have brought upon us? Tarsha has fought for four hundred years; Ceerocai has been nothing more than a myth to fuel our hope. We do not need it to win this war, we never have and never will.

‘Now that the sword is here however, the people will do whatever it takes to end their suffering. Before the battle to come, they grow scared and uncertain. A great host marches upon us. Their brothers, husbands, sons, they may lose them in the days to come. They may lose everything if we do not win this battle. The city may fall, our people may be slaughtered. The fate of Tarsha and our very survival hangs on this battle. They want it destroyed. It should be destroyed, it has to be destroyed! We could end this war right now…we could end it all!”

“It cannot be destroyed,” Armeth answered.

“There is a way…” Malecai replied. The group turned to him curiously. “We can throw it into a volcano. Only then will it be destroyed…”

“Really?” Silas asked.

“No you shit head! How could that possibly work? The sword is fashioned of pure cerebreum! There is no known way to destroy it.”

Armeth raised a brow at the extent of this stranger’s knowledge. “Aye, it cannot be destroyed. At one time, we had the skills and knowledge to work with cerebreum. But until we figure out how to do that once again, we can only use it as bait to lure Abaddon into reckless action.”

Darius shook his head at this. “It would be too dangerous. It should not be wielded by anyone, who knows what it may do to mortal man.” Isroc nodded in agreement as the others remained stolid.

“Then what do you propose we do with it then?” Armeth retorted. “If we cannot destroy it, and we cannot use it, what then remains to us? Throw it over the wall and let the armies of Andred figure it out?”

“We should study it,” Ethebriel offered, “Until we learn of a way to destroy it. We cannot do more with it, or any less. Let Cain bear it if he wills, until that day of knowledge comes. No other option remains to us.” A long moment of silence followed his words.

Malecai stepped toward Cain and raised a hand in the air. “It is a powerful weapon, but in the hands of Cain Taran…it is divinity incarnate. Just as its former owner. He is the only known person who can use it to its full potential. Let him use it, and we will surely win. We do not need to destroy it. We can use Abaddon’s soul against him…and defeat him in our own way.” Everyone in the room looked at Malecai questioningly.

Isroc stroked his beard in thought. “What makes this time so different from any? Millions have fought this war before us. Millions have given their lives in the attempt to defeat Andred and put an end to Abaddon’s genocide. What makes us so different from them?”

Malecai turned to him and smiled. “We have Cain Taran…”

“How do you know Cain can use Ceerocai?” Jiran inquired. “Ivandar wielded it in life as nothing but another sword, no mortal can wield it with any greater power, no man can call upon the soul save for Abaddon himself, and I don’t think he will be so inclined to help us.”

Malecai remained quiet for a moment. “I do not know,” he surrendered, “it is nothing more than speculation I suppose.”

Darius turned to Cain, blinking slowly as if fighting to form his next words. “I permit you to wield that…monstrosity, until we figure out a way to destroy it. You hold in your hands, Cain, the indomitable will of Abaddon. Search your soul and decide whether the power is worth the price, for Abaddon had to make that decision, and look where his soul lies now…”

The following days were spent in endless preparation, night and day spent ever in chaos. Ships filled nearly the entire breadth of the Alar. Soldiers from across Erias poured into the city from land and sea daily. The gates of Morven lay open to a constant stream of troops that now flooded the streets like a molten sea of steel.

Smoke hung over the city as dense as any fog, the fires of hundreds of forges burning like the avid bowels of hell. Weapons, armor, and supplies carted across the city at a blinding rate. Soldiers armed for combat, and for death.

The last of the Kaanosian troops entered the city. Twenty thousand men poured off the transports, filling the docks with the emerald and russet gleam of their armor.