Dast continued to search the surroundings for a way out, already knowing that there wouldn’t be one.

  “You don’t want to do this Rorin.”

  Ryker’s voice was loud and unwavering, causing Dast’s fearful gaze to land on him. Rather than any sign of nervousness, his uncle stood tall and resolute. If anything, he looks sad more than he looks worried or scared. Dast realized, and the knowledge both comforted him and made him worry about his uncle’s sanity, a feeling that Mayor Orville seemed to share.

  “Yes I do, Ryker. I want it very much. More importantly Khrom would want this very much.” The mayor’s voice, which was usually dignified, sounded hoarse and crazed. “But I’m not an unreasonable man. Anyone would have run given the circumstances, and I won’t hold that against you–it’s the boy I want. Let me have him and you can be on your way.”

  Ryker’s only reply was to draw his sword, a motion which Dast hastened to follow, if somewhat less gracefully.

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Ryker.” Mayor Orville said before nodding to the men behind them.

  *Fttkh* The sound of the crossbowmen releasing their cargo was the last sound Dast expected to hear, and he squinted his eyes in anticipation, completely missing his uncle’s movements.

  After a second of feeling nothing, he opened his eyes, expecting to see Ryker’s lifeless body, afterall, if the bolts hadn’t hit him, there was really only one other option, but to his surprise, his uncle stood behind him, on arm outstretched, grasping the arrow as if he had caught it from the air. His other arm held his katana outstretched–silence reigned in the small valley for a brief moment as everyone registered what had just happened, but then his uncle spoke.

  “This is your last chance. Leave now and you won’t be pursued.”

  The mayor sputtered in response for a moment before the calm sheen of anger once again covered his eyes.

  “I don’t care for your parlor tricks. It is 15 men against 1 and a boy.” The last part was said with a disdainful glance at Dast. “Finish them”

  This time, Dast’s eyes were completely open as Ryker seemed to blur across the distance to the men blocking their retreat, cutting down the two men with crossbows before they could even react. As the bodies of their comrades fell, the remaining three seemed to realize the peril of the present circumstances and began pulling swords from their sheaths–too slow. Ryker’s katana seemed to move at the speed of lightning as it severed a sword arm, pierced the throat of another man, and then blocked the bumbling strike from yet another.

  Footsteps sounded in Dast’s ears and he turned to see the remaining soldiers who had been blocking their route charging him down. Backpedaling as fast as he could, he brought his sword arm up to block the blow coming for him, just managing to turn it to the side. The sneer on his attacker's face made it clear that he wasn’t even considered a threat in this confrontation.

  He was forced to leap backwards as a blow came from another man, exposing him to the follow up strike of the first, but then his uncle was in front of him, batting away the man’s blows with no visible effort. He followed it up with a twirling cut that blocked a blow from another man and took the head from another. A soldier took the opportunity granted by the falling body of his comrade to squeeze past the bottleneck, running the distance to Dast in mere moments.

  A powerful overhand strike, with more control than Khrom used but far less than he was used to was the man’s opening salvo, and Dast moved instinctively to the side. The follow-up, which came much slower than anticipated, was a cross body cut, which brought his opponent’s blade back to bear and forced Dast backwards and away from the man’s weak side.

  The man stepped towards him, once again closing the distance and striking out with a very ungainly attempt at Viper’s Strike. Seeing the recognizable move, Dast moved to block, hundreds of iterations of experience backing him. Their swords connected with a clang, and Dast grit his teeth, only to realize that the impact was far less than he anticipated. Much as in his fight with Khrom, he came to the realization that his opponent may be older, but he was nowhere near as good with a blade as Ryker, someone he sparred with nearly every day.

  *Clang* *Clang* *Schwing*

  The two battled back and forth for a few moments, during which time Dast’s confidence grew. Multiple openings were revealed in the man’s form, the greatest of which was his timing when recovering from his offhand side. Over the next few exchanges, he slowly maneuvered over to that side, until, after the predicted attack, he was able to capitalize on the weakness–pushing the blade off center as he parried and followed up with a strike at the man’s unarmored neck.

  A look of shock crossed his opponent’s face before the life drained from his eyes and he crumpled. Dast stared in horror at the body as flashes of Khrom superimposed themselves on the situation. A warning cry from Ryker was the only thing that saved him from his second opponent who was within feet of him and already partially into a powerful lunge.

  Dast barely got out of the way in time through a combination of luck and survival instincts, which is what also saved him from the follow-up strikes. Each blow was like a hammer falling on his sword, causing his arm to go numb as he blocked desperately. Somewhere inside, he knew that he was a match for his opponent, but, try as he might, he was unable to regain the calmness he had felt in the previous fight, despite Ryker’s instructions on finding calm going through his head from memory.

  Within a few minutes, his arms hurt so badly from absorbing the blows that his timing got off, and he was barely able to get his blade in place to block. With each iteration, his timing only worsened, and he realized in horror that soon he would be too slow. The mercenary seemed to realize this around the same time, for his attacks had even more energy a viscous grin split his features.

  Dast refused to close his eyes when the moment came, which was sooner than he expected. One moment he was fighting for his life and the next his arm simply refused to move at its normal speed and he knew that he was about to be skewered. He had heard from ex-soldiers how death had a way of making people rethink their life choices, but that didn’t happen to him. His only thought was of Ava and how he would never see her again.

  A whistling blur of steel swept upwards between them lifting the tip of the incoming sword a foot over his head. Shock registered on both of their faces as Ryker’s booted foot came up and kicked the man to the ground with enough force that the impact of his head was audible as it collided with the hard earth. Dast’s chest heaved as he watched as the man’s face glaze over in death.

  Several seconds passed before he was able to look away from the scene, and when he did, he wished he hadn’t, for a sea of carnage awaited him everywhere he looked. Somehow, in the time it had taken him to fight a man and a half, his uncle had taken out the other thirteen. He noticed with a small hint of sadness that not even Mayor Orville had been spared, although he couldn’t put his finger on why he felt that way. The man had been trying to kill him and his son had bullied him for years. After a few moments of trying to understand the emotion, he decided that it wasn’t pure sadness he felt, rather, he felt sorry for his part in the situation. He knew he hadn’t caused it, but some part of him still felt responsible.

  Looking up, he saw Ryker watching him with a mixture of worry, warriness, and maybe a touch of regret.

  “Thank you for saving me, Uncle.” The words felt too mundane compared to the supernatural talent that had been displayed, but he meant them, and it seemed that Ryker understood because his face softened.

  “How’d you let that mediocre swordsman best you?” He asked with a force chuckle.

  “I got a little tied up after taking down the first one.” Dast shrugged in response.

  “How’s that?” Ryker said, drilling into the issue.

  “Well, all I could see in the moment was Khrom’s face and it threw me off balance.” The admission felt raw when he said it out loud.

  “Ah. Well, I wish I could say that this is the last time that will happen, but the truth is, you will likely relive that moment a thousand more times throughout your life.” A firm hand grasped his soldier, causing him to meet Ryker’s gaze. “But remember, fighting doesn’t make you a bad man and defending yourself or others is never a crime–the reason why we do something matters as much as the outcome. Your father taught me that.”

  Mention of his unknown father lifted his spirits, enoch so that he asked the question he had been burning to ask for days.

  “What is that sword, Uncle? How did it let you move like that?” Ryker’s face became guarded before the sentence had finished leaving his mouth.

  “Later, Dast. For now, we need to put some distance between us and this scene–even between kingdom boarders, this isn’t the type of situation you want to be found in.” Ryker replied as he stooped and began rifling through the nearest man’s body, pulling a coin pouch from him.

  “It will be better for us if they think bandits attacked and robbed these men. Less chance of being followed.” His uncle said logically in response to Dast’s questioning gaze before making his way over the next corpse.

  ?????????????

  Though the trail through the narrow canyon was rough, it was far smoother than the bush and branch laden trails they had been forging through in days prior and Dast found his head less occupied than he would have liked. As he followed Ryker league after league, his thought kept swirling with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he was grateful to his uncle for packing up their life and leaving home at a moment's notice without so much as a complaint, for saving his life in the fight, and especially for his steadiness in helping him deal with the psychological burden of Khrom’s death. On the other hand, Ryker was hiding something from him, and he had the nagging sense that it was about the sword as much as it was about his own past–maybe answers to the questions he had asked dozens of times over the years.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Why won’t he tell me? He wondered. Am I the son of a murderer? Has that sword been used to butcher thousands of innocents?

  As his thoughts turned more and more petulant, he found himself growing aggravated by the entirety of the situation and it wasn’t until hours later when they finally exited the canyon and he saw the sprawling plains laying below them that anything knew entered his mind. It was so different from the mountain country of his childhood. Somehow, the terrain had completely changed from one side of the pass to the other.

  “Welcome home, Dast.” His uncle said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He could only nod dumbly as he tried to understand the lack of mountains in the distance. As far as he could see was flat farmland, thousands of times larger than the small farms that kept Winbreak thriving. Why did it look so unused?

  “Listen, we will be going through the Cremean fort soon, and just like before, try not to draw any attention to ourselves. Don’t talk unless spoken to. Follow directly behind me. We want to be so unremarkable that no one will even remember seeing us.” Ryker chuckled then, “Oh, and try not to agree to any duels, hmm?”

  He knew his uncle was joking, but his face burned slightly anyway. Had that really only been earlier that morning?

  As they made their way down the slope, Dast took note of the placement of the fortification which effectively acted as a cork on this side of the canyon. The walls of the gorge grew wider as the ground sloped downward, and nestled between the walls at the end of the canyon was the Cremean military base. Just looking at it made him feel nervous–unlike the Somirean fortification, which had been small and mostly built from stones, this one was made from brick and mortar and stood four stories high in some places. It dwarfed anything he had ever seen before and he did his best not to gape at the grandeur. Crenellations lined the upper wall, and he could just make out moving heads as soldiers patrolled the perimeter.

  By now, it was nearly an hour from nightfall, but the palisades still stood open, which was a relief. Dast had no desire to spend the night in the canyon, even thinking about such a possibility caused him to turn back and look behind them, expecting to see a vengeful army chasing them down for killing Mayor Orville and his men.

  Thankfully, their passage through this fortification was less eventful than on the Somirean side–the guard didn’t look twice at them after a strict warning concerning the consequences of drawing steel within the base. If anything, it was Dast’s suspicion that was aroused, as his uncle’s accent flawlessly matched the guards. Though both countries spoke the common tongue, Somir put more emphasis on the end of their words, in some places they even dropped the start of words all together, whereas the Cremeans enunciated every syllable and had a slight lilt at the end of their sentences.

  It had been a bit of a game growing up for the town children to try to copy the Cremean traders accents, Ava in particular had been particularly skilled at it. Though Ryker had always had a slight Cremean accent, Dast had always thought he sounded more Somirean than Cremean, so it was with some alarm that he suddenly started speaking with a Cremean accent as if he had lived there his entire life–which, he probably had, Dast realized. But then why had he faked an accent for all of those years?

  After exiting through the tunnel, they entered a large courtyard with a keep at one side. Ryker’s footsteps seemed sure as he guided them around the keep and down a road with small markets on each side. Though much smaller geographically, by the number of buildings present, Dast guessed that the total population of the fort was nearly double that of Winbreak. He wanted to ask about it, but didn’t dare to disobey Ryker’s orders, curious or not.

  It took nearly 45 minutes, but they made it through the fortification just in the nick of time. The sun had set completely and only the orange reflection from behind the horizon and the flaming streetlamps provided enough light for them to see for the last block or so before reaching the gate. Dast was once again nervous that the guard would stop them or at least question them at the gate, but he seemed totally disinterested by anyone leaving the compound, barely glancing at the swords they wore.

  Unsurprisingly, they didn’t stop walking once they found themselves on the open road, it was becoming customary at this point to travel several hours after dark–although Dast hoped that that was only because the moon had been bright lately. Surely they wouldn’t keep up this pace forever.

  After a quarter span, the novelty of the surroundings wore off, and his mind once again turned to the many secrets that were being kept from him by his uncle. It took nearly another span for the truth to finally dawn on him–the explanation was so simple and yet impossible that he hadn’t considered it before, and when he came to the realization, the words came out of his mouth without any conscious effort of speaking them.

  “It’s an Artifact!” he exclaimed into the darkness.

  The noise caused Ryker to spin around in alarm, the blade of question already drawn as his eyes sought to locate the threat. It took a few heartbeats for both of them to process the situation, at which point his uncle gave a sigh.

  “I guess it is finally time to tell you.” he said. Dast noticed the defeat that laced the words but his excitement was too great to give it any consideration.

  “Really, Uncle?”

  “Don’t sound so excited, Dast. While truth is always valuable, sometimes it can change the very nature of your life, for once you know it, the world can never be the same again.” The heavy words managed to dampen his elation. “Let’s go off the road and make camp and then I’ll tell you everything.”

  Despite the ominous declaration, Dast’s excitement rekindled and became a blazing flame, making the walk seem to take forever. To his disappointment, Ryker decided that it was finally safe for a fire, making the usual simple process of finding a flat spot of ground with a decent vantage point take much longer.

  Once a location was found and the fire was going, Ryker told him to start making a stew, producing a small pan and the supplies from the travel bags he carried. Dast hastened to obey, eagerly watching the hawklike profile of his guardian's eyes as the firelite danced upon his face. At long last, he began.

  “What I am about to tell you is going to change the way you look at the world–including Winbreak, your childhood, and even me. I want to start off by saying that everything I have done, I have done with the belief that it was for your benefit. Though I am imperfect, I have given my life to give you the best life I could.”

  Sensing how raw and personal the admonition was, Dast nodded in acknowledgment, not wanting to spoil the mood with words.

  “Around five hundred years ago, a man by the name of Uthral stumbled upon a cavern which contained not one, but seven artifacts. Each was a sword, and each enhanced the abilities of its wielder: Strength, Memory, Recovery, Balance, Awareness, Speed, and the final blade provided all of the gifts, though at a slightly decreased amount.”

  The story tickled a memory in Dast. This is the story of the Cremean Song Blades! He thought with a mixture of wonder and unbelief. The legendary blades were well known in the border town and actually throughout many kingdoms. They were icons of the powers Artifacts could grant and how they could keep rulers in power over generations. Is Uncle’s blade really the missing Katana of Speed?

  “The blades represented something more valuable than anything else to Uthral–safety. His family and friends had been chased by raiders from their small village only a few seasons prior and had been barely surviving in the woods through the harsh winter. The blades were an answer to his prayers, a way to take back his land and protect his family from ever going through these hardships again.

  “He entrusted six of the blades to his closest friends, but kept the Blade of Harmony for himself. Together, they trained in secret for two years, until they felt they had mastered the powers well enough to return to their lands.

  “After retaking their own lands, they continued their onward, subduing injustice and freeing innocents. Over two decades, their small village turned into a large kingdom, the kingdom of Cremea.

  “As Uthral and his friends began to age in years, they began training the next generation, choosing Uthral’s son, Zanbar, as the next leader of the Blade Bearers and training his compatriots how to protect and follow him.”

  Dast knew all of this, it had been taught to him in school and was a common tale told at festivals by bards, but it had always just been a story. Knowing that it was relevant to him and his origin caused him to hang on every word.

  “Zanbar followed in his father’s footsteps, expanding the kingdom where justice dictated, doing his best to create a place of safety for his people. As did his son, and his son’s son. In total, the blades passed through eight generations until they reached King Angar…” Ryker’s voice broke over the name, and it seemed he almost said something, but then continued with the story.

  “King Angar ruled as all of his forefathers had–with equity and righteousness. For ten years, he and his fellow Blade Bearer’s defended the kingdom, until Palantire, wielder of the Katana of Speed, gave his life in the king and kingdom’s defense.

  “Palantire’s death served as sustenance for the jealous and selfish thoughts that already existed in some of the other Blade Bearers, poisoning their minds and causing them to blame his death on King Angar. Eventually, their bitterness became too great and they rose up in mutiny against the king. Like thieves in the night, they snuck into the King and Queen’s chambers, slaying the guards who looked to them as protectors before killing the royal line.”

  The last bit was new to Dast. Politics and who ruled in which neighboring kingdom had been of little importance to the village children–as long as they had enough knowledge to be helpful residents and enough knowledge of local traditions to pass it onto the next generation, their education was deemed sufficient.

  Submerged in his own thoughts briefly, it took him a moment to notice that Ryker was silent.

  “What does that have to do with me?” he asked after he began to fear that the silence would last forever.

  “Well, there was a newly minted Blade Bearer by the name of Ventre who was guarding the prince's chambers the night of the coup. Thanks to a bit of luck and his training, he was able to stop the attempt by the Messengers of Ahizo on the princeling’s life.”

  Mention of the legendary assassins caused chills to form on Dast’s neck. More mythical forces that have only ever been stories, he thought to himself.

  “Unfortunately, Ventre was unable to save King Angar or Queen Ansa. Instead, he was forced to flee from the palace, the baby in his arms until he found refuge in a neighboring kingdom in a town called Winbreak.”

  “But that would mean..” The world seemed to rush violently around Dast and he was unable to voice the words, let alone process them.

  “Yes. You are not simply Dast, orphan nephew of the village blacksmith. You are Prince Dasterion, rightful inheritor of the Blade of Harmony and heir to the Cremean throne.” Ryker said as he kneeled on the ground. “And though I am not your uncle by blood, I am your man, sworn to adhere to your command and protect you so long as I continue to draw breath.”

  Just as Ryker had predicted, the knowledge changed Dast’s very existence, and for several moments, he sat in silence, until he realized that his Uncle, no Ventre, was still kneeling in front of him, as if waiting for permission to rise.

  The resolute figure of his guardian, the man who had protected him and raised him, who was more a father to him than anything else, gave him a steady place to harbor in the storm of his emotions and he found himself thinking of all he must have given up. The magnitude of his sacrifice served to mellow the torrent of his emotions and he moved around the fire until he could clasp Ventre’s arm.

  “Thank you, Uncle” he said.

  The unanticipated title caused a tear to form in Ventre’s eye and he rose, embracing Dast with the muscular arms of both blacksmith and warrior.

  “We're going to get through this, Dast.” He said with conviction, and Dast believed him.