The Circle: The Uniting

  The night air thick with the aromas of festivity awakened Pip’s senses, reminding him of the celebration as he opened his door to catch a breath of fresh air after toying for hours with his new sword. The smell of food called to him, so he tucked his sword into its sheath and buried it beneath a lightweight riding coat. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, the boy entered the gateway to the city. He was trying to stay inconspicuous, skulking along the edges of the festivities, but his efforts failed him.

  “Hey, there’s Pip,” said one of his pals.

  “Come over here and eat with us,” said another. Reluctantly, Pip accepted the offer and gathered with his friends to eat. He fumbled with his sword, repeatedly fondling it, unable to keep his hands away. He grinned with excitement over the surging strength he felt with each touch, unable to control his enthusiasm. His friends found him distracted, not acting like his normal self.

  After scarfing down his food, he rose and then shuffled through the crowd with a sly smirk across his face as he made his way out of the celebration. He strolled past the wall that Windsor and the others were perched upon. He then made his way down a dark street, his right hand petting the sword strapped to his side, as he gibbered about his great delight in his new-found sword.

  As he rounded a corner, two men, snakes, were leaning against a wall. They had a reputation for causing trouble and if all their deeds were known, they would be hung from the gallows. Pip was not ignorant of some of their misdeeds; in fact, he had stumbled upon them in the very act of violating a young woman he knew well. The two men had threatened to kill Pip if he told of their damnable sin. Just to the left of them was a torch, dimly lighting the unpopulated road. As Pip’s shadowy figure became clear to the two men, they immediately began to scoff at him, insulting him.

  “Lookie there, it’s the goody knight who couldn’t make it as a real knight,” mocked one of the men, laughing.

  “Oh, look, Randolf, he’s even carrying a sword,” the other sneered. “You want us to show you how to use that?” The man pulled his sword from its sheath and placed the tip of the blade at Pip’s throat reminding him of his obligation to remain silent.

  “I think we should just go ahead and end him; then we won’t have to worry about him blabbing his mouth just in case he makes it into the school. You know how those daisies think when they gain a few skills.”

  As they slurred their insults his way and threatened him with death, buried agitation began to arise within Pip’s chest, an agitation he thought he had brushed aside and outgrown. Coming face to face with Pip, the man shoved him and waved his big sword around. As Pip stroked the sword at his right side, agitation turned to fiery anger, and he gained confidence as well as a lust for revenge. An unfamiliar fire coiled inside. His breathing grew heavy as the anger turned to rage and his face turned flaming red with vengeance. Pip hardly knew what was happening, for he had usually brushed off such immaturity, but in a state of perplexing wrath, he swiped the sword from its sheath.

  “Oh look, the little water boy has pulled his sword,” mocked one of the men.

  “You might as well put that back where you got it, Boy!” jeered the other, waving his sword around in Pip’s face. “You might huht yourself with it, since you don’t know how to use it!” His sword poking at Pip’s belly, the ruffian offered words as sharp as his sword.

  In a flash of rage, Pip crossed blades with the man who was now growing more aggressive. The duel ended quickly, as Pip knocked the sword from his hand and thrust the Sword of Darvan across the man’s abdomen, spilling his guts into the streets. As the man fell in his own blood, his eyes gaped with disbelief. Stunned, the other man frantically drew his sword. Pip was as surprised as he was and felt near faint from the sight of blood. It was Pip’s first time to see blood spill out of a man like that. He shuttered, but only for a moment.

  As he clutched the sword, the dizziness was replaced with confidence.

  “Day aftah day, I have listened to you threaten me,” Pip said evenly, turning to face towards the other man with sword well at hand. “Well, no more. What do you have to say now? Now that a swohd is placed at your throat like you have done to me. What? Do you have nothin’ to say?” Pip was yelling now, poking the tip of the Sword of Darvan against the man’s chest.

  Flickering shadows from the torch divulged a twisted face of rage that now confronted the terror-stricken hardened criminal. He man’s hand trembled as he stared into the angry eyes of a madman. The man of ill deeds was baffled at what had made Pip snap, and now he tried to soothe the irate swordsman. “Pip, ya see, I w-was only playing. Come on, let’s call a truce, Pal.” His words trembled nearly as much as his body. “We can be friends, and I will nevah tell anyone. I’ll even help you get rid of his body.” Not convinced of quick compliance, the man extended his sword.

  “Don’t try to pacify me, Pete. I’m no fool.” Pip raised his sword. “You deserve death-- and hell!”

  It was then that Pete noticed the rubies on the handle of the sword. “The Sword of Dahvan,” he whispered, as he stared into the contorted face of rage. “It’s true, the rumors, they’re all true.” Suddenly, Pip thrust the sword through the man’s body. It wasn’t as bad the second time.

  Now, pulling his sword from the man’s abdomen, Pip hurried down the dark street running past two passersby locked arm in arm on their way to the celebration. Just moments later, they discovered the two men lying in their own blood. Their screams were drowned out by the merrymaking of the festivities.

  The young woman ran to the outskirts of the festivities, where her screams were heard by a few leaning against a wall, observing the partying. Among them were Windsor, Nuvatian, Navi, Cozbi, Nimri and Gilmanza. A crowd began to gather around the bodies. Windsor, Gilmanza, and Navi rushed ahead of them and pressed their way through to the infamous dying man, the other one already being dead. As blood pooled out of the man’s mouth, he muttered the fatal words, “The Sword of Dahvan.”

  “The Sword of Dahvan?” repeated Windsor, looking up at Gilmanza.

  “Are you sure?” asked Windsor, seeking clarity.

  “Sword of Dahvan,” he whispered again.

  “Who?” asked Gilmanza, “Who has the sword?”

  With a gurgling noise, the man’s body fell limp.

  Windsor and the others pushed their way out of the crowd that had gathered around the bodies and walked over to the edge of the wall where they had been watching the splendor of the kingdom at peace, each now knowing that their peaceful kingdom was about to be shaken.

  “The Sword of Dahvan!” said Nimri.

  “Sshhh!” Navi, Windsor and Gilmanza hissed in unison.

  “Why do you tell me to shhh?”

  “Because this must remain quiet,” Windsor admonished. “No one else heahd what he said as he was dying, except us. We tell the king and no one else.”

  “Why?” asked Nimri.

  Gilmanza spoke first. “Do you know what will happen if news of this spreads? Some, eager for powah will seek it out, othahs will refuse to leave their homes, and othahs are just too immature for such knowledge. There will be uttah chaos.”

  “I have heard many legends of the Sword of Powah,” whispered Cozbi.

  “Legends? They are far more than legends,” said Windsor, placing his hand on the orb of his staff and leaning forward attentively. Visible tension rose up among the many wrinkles that mapped his forehead. Concern surged in his eyes. This wasn’t his first encounter with the sword. He was familiar with it and its destructive ways, more than he wanted to admit. He knew its past, he knew its future. He was familiar with the prophecies, some of which he knew through personal ecstatic experiences, some he wished he could forget.

  As they stood there gazing across the crowded hillside where the news of a murder had not yet disturbed the merrymaking, another scene was unfolding on the opposite side of the hill. A Himp and a Gommit had begun shouting at each other, though
no one could understand what had sparked such an outburst.

  “It looks like you have two old worn out shoes on the sides of your head,” the Gommit told a Himp. “An ear mite wouldn’t dare crawl in those ugly floppin’ masses of sour flesh. And what have you been gnawin’ on with those obtrusive pieces of rocks in your mouth? Oh, excuse me; I think those are supposed to be teeth.”

  “Well, your cheeks are so fat you could churn butter,” replied the Himp. “But your breath is so bad it would poison it.”

  Angrily, the Gommit spewed out all the chewed-up apples and nuts he had stored in his mighty cheeks—a large quantity indeed—right in the himp’s face. In a rage, the Himp threw down his glass of sweet herbal tea and charged at the Gommit, surprisingly knocking him back. The Gommit regained his balance and grabbed the Himp by the truffle of fur on his head, pushing him back across a table of food, collapsing the table. Four himps now jumped on the Gommit, forcing him to the ground. Before long, the entire side of the hill had burst into a raucous uproar, although many of them had any idea what they were fighting about.

  “See what I mean?” said Gilmanza.

  With a look of dread on his stony face, Windsor muttered, “The Sword of Dahvan! So, we will meet again. Come, let’s go tell the king.”

  All the while, Pip had inconspicuously snuck out of the crowd and skulked to the edge of the woods. Hiding behind a cluster of fig trees, he embraced the sword as he watched the uproar. Now seeking to justify his actions, he conversed with himself, mouthing the reasons as to why the two men deserved to die, and trying to relieve his guilty conscience. He rehearsed the sins and misdeeds of the two outlaws and replayed in his mind the events that had transpired. They deserved what they got.

  Beneath the shimmering of the soft moonbeams, captivated by the seducing power of the sword, Pip held the sword close to his chest and stroked it, as he wondered about the atrocious tales associated with the Sword of Power.

  A Mysterious Knight

  It was just before dawn when King Chess Japhia arose. He had one thing on his mind: the cursed Sword of Darvan. It had kept him up most of the night. He had searched through the ancient prophecies and it haunted him in the few precious moments of sleep that he managed to sink into. Its history, the legends, the blood it had spilled and the power it possessed, the sword was a threat to his kingdom and to the world.

  Before he sat down for breakfast, he sent out his messenger. It was imminent that a council be arranged with Windsor, Navi, Gilmanza, Nuvatian, and Cozbi and Nimri, the latter two only because they were with Windsor and the others when the news was revealed.

  The messengers hastened, riding out with the kings sealed messages, one for each of the men.

  Nuvatian received the message and wasted no time, unless one was to count the slow sipping of two cups of coffee. After sucking down his morning brew, he mounted his favorite black stallion, Rebel, and rode down the cobblestone street. The early morning fog had long since lifted and the streets were bustling with people. He rode out of the city and toward the castle along a wooded path. Admiring the turning of the fall leaves, Nuvatian didn’t get in a hurry. He knew he was right on schedule.

  It was as he was traveling within the proximity of the castle that he heard the distinct sound of movement just beyond the trees. Bringing Rebel to a halt, Nuvatian listened intently and then slowly dismounted. He led the horse to a nearby patch of lush green grass and stepped beyond the trees of the forest, being careful to not make any noise. Pushing back the branches, he saw a knight in armor. Though unlike the mail armor of the Knights of Shalahem, this knight was clad in plated armor with a small knight engraved on each shoulder, and the grooves outlined in ruby-red. The back bore the image of a dragon. What sort of armor is this? What sort of knight is this?

  Nuvatian had left his mail at home, not thinking he might have need of it. All he had with him was his helmet and steel sword. He had only brought the old helmet along to give to Cozbi sense he had mentioned his being a little tight on his head. He was clearly at a disadvantage. Now, donning the helmet and drawing his sword, he approached with prudence, well aware that discord was coming alive in the land. The knight sat on a large fallen tree, his back facing Nuvatian. He walked softly, intending to sneak up on the armored man. As he neared the knight, Nuvatian stepped on a stick. It snapped, alerting the knight of his presence. With sword drawn, the knight jumped to his feet and began swinging his sword at Nuvatian. A duel of exceptional swordsmanship began.

  Parrying sword-thrusts and swinging back and forth, the two exchanged blows, each blocking and deflecting with superb skill. Nuvatian quickly realized this knight was as skilled with the sword as he was. Back and forth they exchanged blades, swinging and blocking, their feet stepping in as skilled a fashion as the swinging of their blades. Nuvatian did not want to kill the knight, since he knew not who he was. His intention was to disarm his adversary. But he was at a grave disadvantage possessing no armor against a knight fully garnished in metal. If the opportunity came for a deadly blow he would take it. The weight of the armor was sure to wear out this knight, and then Nuvatian would have the advantage.

  “Who are you, and where are you from?” he demanded, still engaging the mysterious knight’s blade.

  The knight did not respond but rather moved in with greater force toward Nuvatian. Nuvatian deflected his opponent’s sword-thrust, narrowly escaping being hit. The wind of the blade could be felt upon his bare neck. The knight stepped in close, their blades now locked together. Then, the knight kicked Nuvatian in the shin, grabbed his neck and swept his feet out from under him, taking him to the ground and sending his sword flying into the air. The knight put the tip of his sword to Nuvatian’s neck and stood over him in triumph.

  His breathing was hard, his pulse racing. He couldn’t die like this, not knowing the face of his killer. Thinking quickly, Nuvatian swept his right leg across the planted foot of the knight, knocking the knight to the ground and his sword among the ever growing weeds. The tin clanged together noisily. Nuvatian leapt to his feet and tackled the knight, now gaining the advantage. Wrestling the knight to the ground, Nuvatian suddenly realized that this knight was rather nimble, for a boot knife was now placed directly at his unprotected groin. Peering down at the location of the blade, Nuvatian abruptly halted his attack.

  The frame of this knight looks… different, he thought.

  Reaching his hand up to the knight’s helmet, he pulled it off, unloosing the long warm-brown hair of none other than Princess Nadora. The sweat beading on her forehead shone like liquid diamonds on her beautiful olive complexion. Her lips were stern and unsmiling.

  Breathing heavy, Nuvatian whispered, “Oh brother! I’ll never hear the end of this.”

  She reached over and pulled off his helmet.

  “You, you’re Nuvatian, the knight who plowed ovah me the othah night,” Nadora crowed sharply. “So that wasn’t enough, huh? Now you have to try to spear me with your sword?”

  “I thought you might be a threat to the kingdom. Your suit of ahmah doesn’t look like ours!”

  “So that makes me a threat?” Pressing the blade in a little further to his groin, she said playfully, “It is a good thing that I am in a good mood today.”

  “I'd hate to see what you're like when you're in a bad mood," he said, taking a long hared look at the sword at his groin. "I’ll neva hear the end of this,” Nuvatian whispered again.

  “What? That you got beat by a woman?” she said, withdrawing the blade and pushing him off her. Losing his balance, he landed on his back. Looking up, she stood over him, her blade now at his neck.

  “Do you give?” she asked smiling.

  “Not on my life,” said Nuvatian, reaching for his sword.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said, swatting his hand with her blade.

  “Aren’t you a wee bit old to be playin’ dress up?” Nuvatian laughed at his own joke
but the princess narrowed her eyebrows finding no humor in his words. “What are you doing dressed like a knight?” he demanded.

  “I AM a knight,” she answered defiantly.

  “Where did you get that atrocious thing? It looks like you’ve been prowling around in your grandfathah’s attic.”

  “It’s a suit from long ago and remains in my family. I was just trying it on for size.”

  “So I was right, you have been prowling around in grandfathah’s closet and you are playin’ dress up.”

  “Nevah mind where I got it. Do you give?”

  He refused to answer. Silence.

  “What are you doing on the castle grounds?” She prodded him with the tip of her sword, teasing him.

  “What am I always doing on castle grounds? Going to see your fathah. Or at least I was, until some… some….”

  Seeing him stumped for words, she interjected, “Woman?”

  “Whatevah!” said Nuvatian, looking off to the side as if he were searching for something. Curious at his sideways stare, the princess looked to see what had captured his gaze. When she did, he swung his leg, knocking her feet out from under her. Jumping to his feet, he then grabbed his sword, and turned around to draw it on her, seeking to redeem a little of the male ego she had ripped from him. As quickly as he moved, it still wasn’t swift enough, for although she had fallen, she hung on to her blade, rolled onto her back, and pointed her blade to his chest before he could stand aright with his sword.

  “You just can’t let it go, can you,” the Princess chortled.

  “I have a meeting with the king and because of you I am going to be late!”

  “Well, I think I can get you excused for your tardiness.” She sheathed her sword and stretched out her hand offering for Nuvatian to help her to her feet.

  “Would this meetin’ be in regards to last night’s events? More specifically, to the Sword of Darvan? ”

  “Maybe.” Nuvatian was uncommitted.

  “Hmm, I suppose if you are goin’ to see my fathah I should escort you.”

  “If you are goin’ that way then that will be fine.” He smiled at her, offering a flirtatious grin. My God, she’s gorgeous, he thought. He couldn’t decide if he was more impressed with her sexy long legs or her tumbling curls of auburn-brown hair. Her hourglass figure. Her voluptuous breast. One thing he was certain of: that armor sure didn’t help. It covered every curve and every inch of that smooth soft skin. He decided it was a sin to cover up a body like that in a plate of steel, or anything else for that matter. For now, the hair would just have to do.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that I beat you.” She whistled and called out “Valor!”

  “You did not beat me,” protested Nuvatian. “I was merely being careful not to huht you since I knew not who you were.”

  “Of course.”

  Around the corner came a beautiful stelleto. Its shiny ebony scales glistened in the sun. As the mare pranced, its thick mane and long black hair covering its hooves danced in the breeze. The horselike creature spread its wings as though it were showing off its magnificent beauty. Stelletoes were as rare as dragons and more graceful than swans. Their strength, natural armor plates, and ability to fly made them excellent mounts for war; for this reason, they were nearly extinct, only existing in large numbers in the land of the Immortals.

  Now that’s a fit match, thought Nuvatian as the creature approached. He summoned Rebel and mounted the horse, but only after he had watched her climb aboard her own mount. She kicked and clawed, the armor too cumbersome for the task. Nuvatian couldn’t resist the urge: he gave her a shove up by the bottom.

  “How dare you! That’s not yours to touch.” Her hot temper flared, kicking up her heel at him.

  “Darlin’, can’t feel a thing through steel.”

  “Yes, well I hope you enjoyed it because that’s not only the firmest butt you’ll evah feel but it will be the last time you touch my butt, you got that.”

  “Yes mam, princess. Just trying to be a gentleman and help you up on your mount.”

  “Humm!”

  All he could think was she needed to lose that steel; it covered up her well-rounded bottom, her sexy long legs, everything.

  Now on her mount, her temper soothed. “I know a shortcut to the castle.” She turned Valor toward the east and tapped her heels into his side.

  Cantering through the forest with Nadora leading the way, they alternately ducked their heads under branches and leapt over fallen limbs. The verdant trees and blossoming flowers looked as though they had been manicured, although they were nothing more than wild forest growths. As they came upon one fallen tree, Nuvatian, following directly behind the Princess, leaned forward in his saddle, preparing for the jump. Suddenly, Rebel stumbled and Nuvatian flew over his head and over the jump too and crashed to the ground. Nuvatian moaned in pain as he lay face down in the dirt.

  Hearing the commotion, Nadora turned Valor around and trotted back to where Nuvatian was laying. She smirked but Nuvatian didn’t know it.

  “Oohhh! Are you okay?” Nadora asked, slowing her mount down and jumping off.

  “Yes! I’m here—in the dirt.” Nadora attempted to help him up, but his wounded pride forced him to leap to his feet, ignoring the pain. His male ego had suffered enough for one day.

  Nadora ran her hand down Rebel’s leg, noticing the tenderness.

  “He has sprained his ankle. We’re going to have to walk from here. Good thing the castle is just beyond the trees.”

  Although Nuvatian regretted his faithful horse injuring its ankle, he did enjoy spending the extra time with the beautiful princess, even if she was dressed like a tin man.

  A Meeting at the Castle

  Towering above large oak trees stood the slate-colored castle. It looked tall and impenetrable, an edifice of both strength and beauty. The fortified castle sat magnificently on a mountain just above the City of Sayir. In the background stood mountains, their peaks reaching into the clouds as though competing to ascend to higher places. A lofty wall of hewed stone climbed around it. Above the wall were multiple turrets topped with impressive spires that reached to the heaven like a cathedral of praise, bringing symmetry to its background. Battlements surrounded the castle on all sides, offering a watchful eye in every direction and leaving plenty of room for noble knights to shoot their arrows.

  The large ironclad gates set in the fortified wall could only be opened by the armed guards who manned them. As Nadora and Nuvatian approached, the knights and squires quickly opened the gates, giving them immediate access onto the castle premises.

  “Nuvatian’s horse has injured its front leg,” Nadora said to one of the knights. “Lead it to the stables and call for the stable keepah to examine it.”

  “Certainly, Princess Nadora.”

  “How many times must I tell you, you do not have to call me ‘Princess’?”

  “I know I do not have to,” he said with a bow, “I choose to, Madam.”

  Approaching the castle, Nadora escorted Nuvatian into the castle.

  “You know the way,” she said, smiling. Nuvatian was a regular at the palace and knew which chamber the meeting was being held in.

  Nuvatian rushed up the winding staircase and down a long corridor to the door of the meeting room where Gilmanza, Windsor, Navi, Cozbi and Nimri sat waiting. The solid oak door was open and light shone through the windows illuminating the soft pearl color of the walls. Heavy russet drapes, embellished with soft amber cords, hung framing the large rectangular windows.

  “You’re late, crony!” scolded Navi.

  “Hu...uh! Let’s just say I got held up a bit, mate.”

  “Close the door,” the king said politely.

  Nuvatian closed the door and took his seat.

  The king began immediately. “I have been up all night, gentlemen, reading the Chronicles of Grand Knight Zandar, the Chronicles of King Zer, and the words of the
ancient Prophets, including your ancient prophecies Windsor and your more recent ones Navi. All my readings lead to one conclusion: this sword must be found and its final destination carried out. Furthermore, we must find out where the sword turned up and how it came into our land. The safety and future of our country—of our lands and all the lands far and wide—are at stake. Unless this sword is found and its final destiny carried out, we will all be destroyed. We must find that bloody Sword!”

  “How do you know this really is the Sword of Dahvan?” Nimri asked.

  “We don’t,” answered Gilmanza. “But we have no choice but to take Pete’s word for it.”

  “How does this Pete guy know what the sword looks like? How credible is this Pete?” Nimri asked.

  “Credible?” Gilmanza answered. “Well, he does have a point. It is Pete, after all, and he does have a history of causing trouble. His actions have been reprehensible. One of the most ignoble and arrogant men I know. It would be just like him to claim defeat by a sword cursed with great powah.”

  “There are more than a few people who would like to see him dead and he is arrogant enough to claim his death might be caused by an undefeatable sword,” Navi said.

  “Howevah, the look in his eyes was, well, one of horrah. He looked as though he had seen something truly terrifying,” Gilmanza said.

  “Yes, there was that look in his eyes,” Windsor remarked, though he was deep in thought. “I have seen that look before.”

  “Of course there was horror in his eyes. I mean, for cryin’ out loud, the scoundrel was dying.” Nimri leaned back in his chair laughing at his own wisdom.

  “Something happened back there,” Nuvation concluded. “He got a good enough look at the sword to believe that it is the Sword of Dahvan. We would be foolish to brush his statement aside.” Everyone nodded in agreement, and there was silence for a moment.

  Nimri was next to speak. “Where shall we begin lookin’ and what shall we do with it when we find it?”

  “I say we search every home and turn up every rock until we find the bloody thing!” Cozbi spoke with passion and enthusiasm, seeming eager to demonstrate his value among them.

  “We can’t go out here and cause a ruckus by searching people’s homes,” the King admonished. “We mustn’t advertise that we suspect the sword is even within our land.

  “As for where to look, I know not what to tell you. The possessah of it was at the celebration last night, but nearly half the kingdom was there. Just keep your eyes open for anyone or anything suspicious. He will make himself known eventually, but not until he is confident that he is powerful enough to subdue the people. He will begin his conquest on the outskihts of the city in smaller areas, building himself an army. In addition, he will gathah the Ridahs of Quadar around him, and he will begin to recruit others, building Darvan’s kingdom.”

  The King took a deep breath and addressed the larger question regarding their strategy. “As far as what to do with the Sword of Darvan if you find it, well, do not try to retrieve it on your own, and do not seek it out alone. You must work in pairs, so as not to succumb to the deceptive power of the sword. And remember not to engage him who holds it now; he is undefeatable with that sword. You will have to try another method.

  “When you retrieve it,” he concluded, “bring it immediately to the palace. That will be all for now. Godspeed and keep your eyes open for any peculiar behavior.”

  As the group walked out of the meeting room, their serious faces expressed concern for the well-being of the empire, except for Nuvatian who had his mind on other things. Walking down the corridors of the castle, he found himself glancing through the open doors, hoping that he might see her without all that metal covering even if it were but a glance.

  “What are you doing,” the king asked, noticing Nuvatian peering into each room they passed by.

  “N-nothing,” Nuvatian answered, with a slight stammer. “I’ve just nevah noticed the décor of some of these rooms.” All eyes glared at him suspiciously.

  “It doesn’t lean too favorable for a man to be preoccupied with décor, especially when such grievous matters are at stake,” Navi said.

  No one believed him. They all knew he was looking for the princess.

  As they walked out of the castle and onto the grounds, Nimri broke the somber silence. “Is there anything else we should know?”

  “As a matter of fact there is,” Windsor replied. “We must be unified and we must strive to remain unified.”

  “What do you mean? That is merely one of the marks of knighthood.”

  Gilmanza stepped into the conversation. “Many years ago a man named Zandar founded the order of the knights. He trained us to fight against darkness and to protect our citizens. Oh how I do miss him.”

  Shaking his head and rubbing his long gray beard, he continued, “Even though we fought, we were divided. The more we became divided, the more powerful Dahvan’s kingdom became. We were our own enemy because we fought amongst ourselves. We soon realized that the Sword of Dahvan was the root of our trouble.” He immediately stopped talking when he heard a noise from behind them. “Princess Nadora, how do you do?” he asked, smiling.

  Nuvatian came to attention, looking in her direction with nervous satisfaction. He took in her shapely form now freed from the burdensome chastity suit. It was nearly a cure for a man’s lust and would be if it weren’t for a man’s hearty imagination. But his imagination wasn’t as extensive and creative as the enchanting creature that stood before him. He couldn’t possibly dream of a woman that astounding.

  “You are welcome to stay for lunch,” the king offered.

  “Thank you, but we must be getting back.”

  “Very well, thank you. And you, Gilmanza?”

  “All the same.”

  Nadora turned, smiled at Nuvatian, and said, “The stable keeper examined your horse. He has a sprain, but he should be bettah in a few days. He wrapped his leg and will check on it every few hours. He recommends that you leave him here for the night.”

  “How shall I get home?” asked Nuvatian. “Or shall I just spend the night here?” he asked, grinning at her.

  “O, you’re definitely going home,” the king said, with a knowing look. He could sense the energy between his daughter and this brash knight.

  Nadora stepped in quickly. “Fathah told me to give you one of our mounts in the stable until your horse’s ankle heals. Come and you may see your horse and choose anothah from among the royal mounts--so you can go home.”

  “If I must,” replied Nuvatian, unable to take his eyes off her.

  “You must, sir; indeed, you must,” she said firmly.

  “Must indeed,” her father said scowling, condemning the lusty eye of the knight.

  Nuvatian took note of the indigo shirt open in the front with a black shirt underneath. Her black riding pants molded her petite figure. It was unusual to see a woman wearing such alluring clothing. The knight liked it.

  Gilmanza spoke, “Well, I believe we need to be going, don’t you think, Windsor?” He grinned at Nuvatian’s awkwardness toward Nadora.

  “Yes, yes,” Windsor agreed.

  The King tried to dissuade them. “Oh, why don’t you two hang around a little while? I would like to teach you a new board game I made up. I call it “chess”—named after me, of course!”

  “We would love to, but I think we need to get back,” Windsor said. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Yes,” Gilmanza added, “I have a young knight I must meet with shortly at one of the schools in town. I will stay there tonight.”

  “We need to get back for the celebrations tonight,” Cozbi said.

  “If there is a celebration tonight,” Windsor noted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Few will show up after last night’s incident,” Windsor predicted. “Fear will keep many inside. Plus, storms are coming. That will certainly ruin the festivities.
”

  “Ummm… you guys go ahead,” Nuvatian said to Cozbi and Nimri. Men know how to read each other. They got it and left Nuvatian to making furrows. They reasoned that she would be a tough one to woo, a prestigious woman made wise by education and tough–girl training.

  “Okay. We will see you two tonight,” Nimri said, smirking at Nuvatian’s obvious crush on the princess.

  Windsor and Gilmanza waved goodbye, mounted their steeds and rode off together toward the City of Sayir. Nimri and Cozbi rode together, their minds pondering the many questions they had about the legends of the sword. Nuvatian, however, followed Nadora to the stable, walking a step behind her, admiring her rear-end. Firm and well-toned, it didn’t even bounce when she walked.

  “That’s my boy,” Nuvatian said, rubbing Rebel’s neck. “You’ll be bettah in a few days.”

  “Since your horse is a stallion, I thought you might like this one,” Nadora said, leading a black and white Gypsy Vanner out of a stall. His yellowish-orange eyes were jewels, topaz surrounding a ring of onyx.

  “He’s beautiful!”

  “Take him for a ride and see what you think.” Nadora grabbed a saddle.

  “Here, let me do that.” Ever the gentleman, Nuvatian, stepped forward to help her. Taking the saddle from her, he tossed it over the stallion.

  Laying down his helmet, Nuvatian mounted the horse, gathered the reins in his hands and very lightly touched the horse in the side. The animal moved out at a brisk trot, seeming to have springs beneath his hooves. Squeezing his reins, the stallion came to an immediate halt, just as Nadora appeared bareback on a gorgeous one herself, its long feathers gracing the ground.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Is he smooth enough for you?”

  “Perfect,” Nuvatian replied.

  “There are plenty more breeds to choose from if you want to try anothah.”

  “No, I think he will do.”

  “Well then, perhaps you should get acquainted with him,” she said flirtatiously, tossing her unmanageable hair to the side as she sank her heels into her horse.

  Nuvatian nudged his own horse and the two rode out of the walled grounds, down a trail to the base of the mountains where flatter land awaited them.

  Now over the rough terrain, they galloped through the plateau of golden meadows, the verdant craggy hills towering ahead of them. It was warm and pleasant, a perfect day for a pleasure ride.

  As they galloped across the fields, Nadora’s long wavy hair swept out unruly behind her, tangles weaving their way into her tresses. She was a natural rider, seeming to be as one with her mount. She rode in synch with her horse, signs of a very talented and experienced rider.

  They descended into the pastureland where the river flows. Laughing, they stopped at the water’s edge to allow the horses to catch their wind and have a drink.

  “I hear you are quiet the archah. Who did you learn from?” Nuvatian asked, dismounting.

  “Mostly from my fathah and some from Gilmanza and others. When I was five my fathah had a little bow and arrow made for me. My mothah was mortified. She thought I should be all lady. I suppose my fathah always wanted a son. Less than a year aftah my fathah gave me that bow my mothah died. Since I was his only child, my fathah was pleased that I had an interest in the politics and military aspects of the kingdom."

  Nuvatian struggled to pay attention to what she was saying. Those lips. And thank God she took off that armor.

  “Aftah my mothah died,” she continued, “my fathah didn’t know what to do with me other than to teach me what he knows.” As she spoke, she was admiring Nuvatian’s rugged but handsome appearance: the stubbly hair on his otherwise smooth, dark brown face, the dark eyes and dark wavy hair, each in turn captured her attention. “I was all my fathah had, and he was all I had. We became very close. We often spent time sword fighting, riding horses, discussing politics and shooting archery togethah.” Nadora leaned against a tree, relaxing a little more. “Aftah my fathah saw that he was thoroughly making me into a tom boy he had some of the wives of the men on his court take me undah their wing. I didn’t like it because I wanted to be with me fathah shooting arrows or riding horses. I think they got more than they bargained for when they offered to take on the task.”

  “How so?” He loved watching her talk. Her lips. They were full and inviting, welcoming, no summoning, his. At least that was his perspective on her puckers.

  “I don’t mean that I was defiant or anything. Just at times I suppose I had an attitude. Once some boy called me a stuck up king's daughtah and I got into a fight with him. The women accused me of picking a fight.”

  “Pick a fight, you say? In that case, I should stand down.”

  “Or stand up!” Nadora said smiling, her hand teasingly going to her sword.

  “So did you whoop him?”

  “I don’t remembah. We just scuffled. It was no big deal.”

  “That was such a tragedy when your mothah died. She would be proud of you,” Nuvatian offered, running his hand across the back of her hair. Finally. He got to touch it.

  “Thanks for saying that,” Nadora said. There was a moment, but then she turned away to her horse. She looked up at the dark clouds rising from the east as she mounted. “We should be getting back. It will be dahk soon and it looks like we might get some rain. I wouldn’t want you to ride home in the rain?”

  “I don’t mind. I won’t melt.”

  She turned her horse and said over her shoulder, “Plus, your girl-friend will be wondering where you are.” She then galloped off, leaving Nuvatian behind.

  “What makes you think I have a gihl friend?” asked Nuvatian, trying to catch up with her. Her inquisitiveness assured Nuvatian that she was interested. Now he was making progress.

  The two raced across the fields laughing as they rode competitively toward the barn, the sun already going down behind the dark clouds that hung in the sky. They laughed and played, riding through the spacious pasture. Finally, they rode up to the barn.

  Nadora jumped off her horse and fetched Nuvatian’s helmet, the one he brought for Nimri but proved to be too uncomfortable his head.

  “Come back when you can ride again,” she said, handing him his belongings and looking into his deep brown eyes. Putting on his helmet, Nuvatian took one more look at the princess etching her into his mind and then rode across the castle grounds, vanishing into the trees. The sun was setting in the west and dark thunderclouds were forming in the sky as though they would overtake the sunset, imprisoning it in darkness. The sky now showed signs of an imminent storm.

  One Dark Night

  As Nuvatian rode along the path through the dense forest, the dark clouds covered the sun and night enveloped him on every side. Even the moon was swallowed up by the darkness of the storm, extinguishing its faint light. Howling winds brought sheets of rain, penetrating his clothing. His wet garments quickly became weighty and miserable. The thrashing of the wind caused limbs from the trees to slap violently against each other as the gale winds blew loose branches onto the ground.

  He moved slowly, hunkering down over the horse’s neck in a futile attempt to shield himself from the brutal force of the wind. The rain beat down on his metal helmet, sending riddles of vibrations noisily into his head. It was driving him crazy so he pulled it off and attached it to his saddle, trying to remember why he had brought it in the first place. The rain saturated his long hair making it a sloppy mess. He fought with the wind, pushing his mop out of his face, but the gust was persistent in battering him. Out of necessity, he squint his eyes in the darkness, straining to see the muddy path. His horse plodded along the path, instinct telling it how to place its feet.

  As Nuvatian looked up trying to discern his location, streaks of lightning lit up the sky. The burst of light revealed the sketchy silhouette of a horse and a rider in a field just beyond the trees. Thunderbolts brightened the sky again, this time disclosing the
sketchy form of a horse rearing and the rider’s cape flapping in the wind. Dark ridahs. This close to the castle. This close to Sayir. Impossible! Now he knew that the sword used to kill the two fellows at the festival was indeed the cursed sword. As he heeled his horse, the lightning flashed once again. Now he could see the horse carrying the dark knight galloping towards him, a silver blade triumphantly raised above the rider’s head in an eagerness to shed blood.

  Nuvatian’s heart began to beat faster as he goaded his horse into a full run down the dark, water-soaked path. With his right hand, he pulled his sword from his sheath and held it in anticipation for a fight. Streaks of fire lit up the sky again. This time he could see the shadowy silhouettes of a host of horses, the coats of their riders whipping in the wind. How many there were, he could not tell. Behind him he could hear the muddled sound of hooves pounding the ground. His breathing became heavy with urgency and his right hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Although his horse was galloping against the wind, it ran with velocity, its nostrils flaring fiercely.

  Nuvatian knew it was not much further until he reached the city, a fortress of safety. He was thinking he might be able to outrun them when suddenly, from among the trees just ahead of him, two more dark riders shot out from the stacked up timbers that lined the pathway, charging at him with their swords shining under the bolts of light, their dark capes grappling with the wind.

  Nuvatian galloped by, swinging his sword and striking it against the blade of one of the ratfinks. He couldn’t see their faces because the dark hood and the black night camouflaged them. But he didn’t have time to wonder if the legends were true because another rider raced swiftly to his side, swinging his sword. Nuvatian skillfully blocked it and thrust his sword through the rider’s body. Suddenly, another dark rider emerged from the tree line. How many are there? As the rider thrust his sword at Nuvatian’s chest, Nuvatian blocked the deadly blow and jabbed his own sword under the rider’s arm, perforating his side. The dark rider slumped over his horse and fell to the soggy ground, his blood now mingled with the muddy water.

  A cluster of hellions were upon him, the pounding of their hoofs proving that they were closing in. If it weren’t for the wind and rain, Nuvatian thought he might could feel them breathing down his neck they were so close.

  Nuvatian could see dim lights ahead. Almost there, he prayed. As he raced for the sanctuary of the city one more dark rider sprang up from out of nowhere, their horses now locked in a battle for speed. Mud splattered in every direction as the horses galloped shoulder to shoulder. Lightning flashed and Nuvatian stared into the face of the dead. Nuvatian winced as he beheld flesh that looked as though it was decomposing, bones nearly visible and eye sockets hollow. The unnatural distortion reminded Nuvatian that these were cursed men, dying even while they lived. He flinched at the grotesque appearance of the face that stared back at him. So it’s not just a legend.

  As the dark rider swung his sword, Nuvatian swerved his horse to the right and parried with his own blade, blocking the deadly blow. With as much skill as Nuvatian demonstrated, the dark rider’s blade still had enough force behind it to slice Nuvatian’s arm. Unbearable pain shot through his arm, causing a momentary loss of coordination. Fumbling with his sword, Nuvatian wrapped his hand around the hilt with a death grip. Pain, he reminded himself, was just an impulse to be ignored. Swerving his horse toward the left, Nuvatian thrust his sword into the dark rider, the dark blood splattered onto Nuvatian’s horse.

  The dim lights of the city were in sight. Go, Go, we’re almost there. Digging his heels into the stallion, Nuvatian raced toward the city. Slowly, the thundering hooves faded. Finally, he reached the city, its torches giving light to the dark night. Thank God! He sighed with relief as he entered into the safety of the city.

  Looking over his shoulder he could see the Stygian silhouettes against the backdrop of the darkened sky, lit only by skittish flashes of lightning. Fierce and arrogant, they eyeballed Nuvatian with a thirst for blood, as their horses pranced beneath the sporadic flashes of bold thunderbolts. The rain washed away the blood on his sword, as well as the blood that had sprayed the flanks of the king’s horse.

  The crowd that had attempted to celebrate on the hillside had been driven back by the violent winds and rain saturating the lands. It was now still and quiet outside, except for the rumbling thunder and the pattering of the rain. Nuvatian wondered how much longer the land would remain peaceful. Most of all, he wondered who in the city had come to possess the cursed sword and brought this trouble upon them.

  Nuvatian put the king’s horse in the stall. “Thanks for a hard run, friend,” he whispered as he patted the stallion on the side, his own fresh blood still running down his arm. He climbed the stairs and opened the door to his home, anxious for dry clothes and hot coffee. The cut on his arm demanded first priority. He took a couple of swigs of whisky and then pulled out a needle and some thread. Twelve stitches ought to do it he thought. The excruciating pain of the piercing needle called for a few more swigs of the liquor. He wasn’t a drinking man but he kept it on hand for times like these. He was nearly right though. The cut took fourteen stitches, spread out and not neatly done. He wrapped a bandage around it and took one last swig of whiskey. Then he peeled off the wet clothes, put on dry ones and sat down with a cup of hot coffee.

  As he slowly warmed up, he pondered the day’s events. Then, realizing he was bone-tired, he crawled beneath the warm quilts and fell into a restless sleep.

  A Story to Tell

  Nuvatian eagerly rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, having had very little sleep. His eagerness was only because he had news to tell, important information to send to the king. His arm ached with excruciating pain. As he changed his bandage, he realized that he had done a shoddy job stitching up the cut. But he wrapped it tightly and hoped for the best.

  The rain had stopped but dark clouds remained, hanging over the quiet City of Sayir. After dressing, he hurried down to the horse-stalls on the first floor of his house. No time for coffee. The house was made of granite stone, finely crafted with character and grace. The two- and three-story homes were adjoined to one another, one residence to the right, another to the left.

  Although the front of the homes was crafted with diversity, the floor plans were nearly the same. Beneath the homes, on what would be the first floor, were the stables for their horses and a large storage room for carriages, saddles and such. There was an additional entryway at the front of each house, with steps leading directly into the home, bypassing the stables. Behind the homes were pastures for the horses and livestock.

  Anxious to inform Navi, Cozbi, Nimri, Gilmanza and Windsor of the happenings the night before, Nuvatian skipped breakfast all together, threw a saddle on the king’s horse, and rode off, this time donned in mail, prepared for anything. A dense fog blanketed the land and dew covered the ground. The cloudy sky showed few signs of withholding its moisture, though for the time being it was restraining itself. As he rode through the streets all was still and quiet, not a soul was stirring.

  Nuvatian stopped in front of a house that looked a lot like his except the rock work was less fancy than what garnished his house. He sprang off his horse and knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. “Nimri,” he called out as he pounded the door. Still no answer. He walked to the house next door. It too looked similar, only the rock was a slightly different color, hues of blue-gray. He knocked and yelled, “Cozbi!” He picked up a small pebble and tossed it at an upstairs window, pelting the pane with the small stone. He picked up another pebble and tossed it at the same window, then another, and another. The fourth pebble he tossed harder, this time breaking the glass.

  “Ooopps!” muttered Nuvatian. Peering out the broken window was a crusty-eyed Cozbi, his hair standing straight up on one side of his head. Puzzled, he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the annoying subject below.

&n
bsp; “What are you doing breakin’ my window, mate?”

  “You wouldn’t answer your door.”

  Cozbi now walked down the steps and opened the front door of his house. His striped pajamas were wrinkled and a button was missing on his night shirt. “Ya’d bettah have a good reason for breaking my window and waking me up at the crack of dawn.

  Nuvatian interrupted, “Oh, it’s good alright.” Letting himself in, Nuvatian recalled the events of the previous night.

  “What? Ridahs of Quadar! You’ve got to be kiddin’.”

  “Hurry up and get dressed,” Nuvatian said, turning towards the door.

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “To wake up Nimri.”

  “You gonna throw a bouldah through his window like you did mine?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  After much pounding, Nimri finally stumbled to the door with one eye opened and one shut.

  “Get dressed,” Nuvatian ordered staring at Nimri in his underwear.

  “Good morning to you too,” Nimri said, not exactly jumping at the order. But the minute Nuvatian explained Nimri’s eyes sprang wide-opened. Coffee first. Nimri strolled over to make some coffee.

  “Don’t even think about it, mate. Just get dressed.” Nuvatian knew exactly what he was thinking. Reluctantly, Nimri obeyed his biting command and threw on some clothes.

  Nimri and Cozbi saddled their horses and rode off down the foggy streets still wanting for people. The cobble-stone streets turned into dirt roads, winding roads that led to the middle of nowhere. Then they took a narrow trail down a cul-de-sac. A squirrel raced up a tree toting its early morning snack, an acorn, in its mouth. Twines of grape vine rolled around a fence and up a post, providing privacy for an already secluded spot. At the end of the cul-de-sac stood a charming home built of hewed stone.

  Nuvatian rapped on the door; but again got no answer. He knocked again a little louder. He waited. Then, he bumped it again, a little harder. Finally, Navi stumbled to the door rubbing his bleary eyes, another man trying to discern reality from the land of dreams. Running his hand over his ruffled hair, Navi forced open one sleepy eye as he sprung open the door. His green and purple braids had been taken down and mingled wildly with the rest of his hair. Standing silent in his dragon-printed pajamas, he tried to wet his dry mouth with saliva, to muster up a word or two. “Hey, crony,” he slurred. “Come in.”

  Staggering over to a chair, he sat, motioning with his head for Nuvatian to relax as well. Caught by surprise at Navi’s childish looking pajamas, Nuvatian giggled.

  “What, you’ve never seen dragon pajamas before?” Navi asked. “My grandmothah made them for me.”

  “What? When you were ten?” cracked Nuvatian. “Or did she forget that you’re a grown man now? Or at least a replica in form of a grown man.”

  “Whatevah are you doin’ wearing that ridiculous mail,” Navi asked. Navi disliked mail, believing it to slow the warrior down and wear him out. But Nuvatian was already familiar with Navi’s ways. Navi held an advantage that Nuvatian didn’t possess—he was a wizard. Mail would only cramp his style and his reputation.

  “Ridahs of Quadar are in Sayir,” answered Nuvatian bluntly.

  “What?” exclaimed Navi. His eyes grew wide, suddenly becoming alert. “How do you know of this?” he continued, as he moved toward the back of the house, motioning for Nuvatian to follow him.

  They walked into a room, where Inka lay snoring on the floor. The pad and pillow that lay beside him indicated that Navi had slept there. Inka was a Salfir dragon, a small and tamable version of the species. They were one of the only plant-eating dragons in existence, but make no mistake, they were no less furious than other dragons; in fact, they were fiercely loyal to their riders, a trait missing from other dragon-breeds. Although their main diet consisted of plants they would also eat dried lizards or salamanders. Inka’s violet-blue scales and yellow eyes made him suitable for Navi, who was a huge fan of the color purple. He was a pretty little dragon with exquisite features. Together they made a formidable team and were devoted friends.

  “When did you build this room onto your house?”

  “It’s the same room. I just expanded it and I widened the door because Inka was getting too fat to get through. The big doors swing up like this.” Navi demonstrated the door. “Go on, get going.” Navi prodded Inka, providing a bit of encouragement for him to get moving. In a slumber, the dragon arose, stretched, and strolled outside.

  “So your dragon sleeps inside with you?” Nuvatian was a bit surprised.

  “Yes, as a mattah of fact he does. You got a problem with that, crony?”

  “No, no,” cracked Nuvatian. “But we’ve gotta get you a gihl, mate,”

  Inka growled at Nuvatian, as though he understood too well what he was saying.

  “Easy, Inka. I don’t mean anythin’ offensive now,” Nuvatian said, tossing him a piece of dried lizard from out of Navi’s jar into the yard.

  Navi lowered the door shut.

  Nuvatian now followed Navi, still trying to explain the events of the previous night. As the young wizard went into his bedroom, he shut the door behind him, almost slamming it into Nuvatian’s face.

  Nuvatian talked through the door while Navi changed clothes and began getting ready to ride. “I was comin’ home from the castle last night in the rain when I saw a ridah under the lightnin’ of the sky. He pursued me and othahs joined him.”

  “How many?” asked Navi.

  “Don’t know, but there were several,” he answered. “I cut down two or three and then out ran the othahs.”

  Navi came out of his room wearing brown riding pants, brown leather riding boots, his purple rag around his head, and his purple and green strands neatly braided. In his hand was his dull-purple wizard hat. In a quick moment, he had changed from his childish clothing, settled his ruffled hair, and gotten a sparkle in his eyes. He grabbed his sword and strapped it to his side, then grabbed a few apples sitting on the countertop. Then, he shoved them inside his bag he had swung over his shoulder.

  “That was quick. How did you do that so fast?”

  “I’m a wizard, remembah?” Navi said, laughing. “Let’s go,” he said, tossing Nuvatian a red apple, while chomping into one himself.

  Navi and Nuvatian walked outside, chewing on their apples. “Morning, scamps,” said Navi, tossing Nimri and Cozbi an apple apiece. He leaped onto Inka, and the dragon shifted his weight, sending him toppling over the other side and onto the ground. To his misfortunes, he was unable to hold onto his apple. Inka gobbled it up though. Nuvatian, Cozbi, and Nimri roared at Navi lying face down in the dirt.

  “You moody bloody dragon,” Navi said, twitching his eye and curling his upper lip. Now jumping to his feet, he pulled two more large red apples from his bag he had tossed over his shoulder and fed one to Inka, reserving the other one for himself. “I was goin’ to give it to you anyway. I ought not to now, you bloody little demon you. I don’t like mornings any more than you do.”

  Navi remounted Inka. “Let’s ride, cronies!” he cried, straightening his hat while trying to gain his balance. His lips were still puckered in irritation at his dragon.

  The four rode up a mountain lined with colorful trees, then along the path that led to the military training school. Fetching Gilmanza was essential. He was, after all, not only on the king’s court, but was the grand sword master and leader overseeing all the training of men with swords. He also supervised much of the training in martial arts, making sure that those who became warriors were equipped to meet the demands of the tasks. Gilmanza lived on the premises, a benefit for one so esteemed. He had his own living quarters, eloquently designed for one who was a personal friend of the king.

  When they arrived, he was sipping on herbal tea on the balcony overlooking the valley.

  “Morning, crony,” Navi said, strolling through the gate that led onto the stone
patio.

  “Well, what brings you four out here this early? Please, have a seat. Would you like some hot tea?”

  “No thanks,” Nuvatian answered politely.

  “Don’t mind if I do, crony. Do you have some balswick tea?”

  “I can make some,” Gilmanza answered, rising to do so.

  Cozbi and Nimri chimed in, themselves desiring a cup of the delicious brew. Nuvatian’s glowering stare called them back to the importance of their purpose. “We don’t have time for sipping tea. Dahk ridahs are near the city. I saw them last night.”

  “Dahk ridahs,” Gilmanza repeated. His eyes looked as though they were conjuring up memories of an age that had come to pass, times of long ago. He sat down his tea and walked inside. Minutes later, he appeared geared up and ready to ride. Gilmanza mounted his shiny strawberry roan stelleto sprinkled with hues of copper, a magnificently marked creature, and joined them.

  They rode down the mountain, the fog having lifted, and veered off to the left, down a dirt path shaded with many trees and garnished with rocks. A squirrel sat on a nearby branch watching their arrival, as though finding them a source of entertainment. Amid a circle of trees lay a small stone house of ordinary design. It had a rustic look. A broken wooden rail lay across the side of the porch. Though the day was not cold, as most would measure, a stream of smoke came from the chimney. The riders tied up their mounts and rapped on the door. In just a couple of seconds, the door sprang open, as if anticipating their arrival.

  “Come in, come in,” said Windsor. His long silver hair hung down over his shoulders, and a puff of smoke rose from his long and slender pipe. He said not another word but sat down in his hand-carved rocking chair near the fireplace, motioning for his guests to sit down in the chairs near him. Beside the rocking chair stood a small oak table and on the table was an opened scroll of ancient prophecies.

  “We must…,” Nuvatian started to speak but was silenced as Windsor waved his hand, motioning him to quit talking. He stroked his steel beard as though deep in thought. Behind him was a shelf filled with scrolls, parchments bound together as books, and dusty sheets of papyrus.

  They all sat speechless for a few moments, as Windsor puffed on his pipe, blowing a series of smoke rings. He picked up a tattered piece of parchment with writing on it and placed it in the inside pocket of the jacket beside him.

  Gilmanza finally broke the silence. “Dahk ridahs, they are here, in the outskihts of Sayir.”

  “Yes, I know,” Windsor said, taking a sip of his steaming coffee.

  “You know? How do you know?” asked Nuvatian.

  “I saw one last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Down my road. I was standing on the front porch just after dahk, before the storm began. Just as the rain began, I was about to go in. It was then that I saw him.”

  “A Ridah of Quadar?” Nuvatian asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’?” questioned Cozbi.

  “He eyed me and I eyed him back.” His thoughts were clear but his mind seemed to be in ages past. “Then he drew his sword and waved it at me, just before he rode off on his black horse.” He looked over at Gilmanza.

  “Why didn’t you go out there and cut him bloody down?” Nimri asked enthusiastically.

  Windsor blew a smoke ring and looked at him. “In time, you will trade in some of your zeal for wisdom, at least I hope.” This silenced Nimri, at least for now.

  “Why do you suppose he rode off, as opposed to tryin’ to fight you?” asked Nuvatian.

  “Because he just wanted me to know that he is here,” Windsor said. He stood up and picked up his sword sitting on the mantle. “And so am I.” His stroked his cheek that bore the scar. “So am I.” Then, he strapped the steel sword to his side.

  “Who was he?” Nuvatian inquired.

  “Let’s just say, an old acquaintance.” He picked up his pipe and took a long draw from it. Gilmanza studied him. He knew who the rider was too. “But tell me, how is it that you have learned that dahk ridahs are in Sayir?”

  “I encountahed a group of them last night as I was ridin’ home from the castle. They pursued me. I cut down three but I could not tell how many there were, so I thought it best to try to out run them.”

  “Smaht choice. ” Windsor blew smoke rings casually, not allowing himself to hurry. He put on his riding boots, finished sipping his coffee, and grabbed his riding jacket and gear. Then he picked up the scroll, along with two others, and tucked them away in his brown leather satchel. After a long pause and a few more puffs on his pipe, he walked over to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Moridar!” Almost instantly, a small blue and gold dragon dropped right in front of his house; it too was a Salfir.

  “Hey there, Moridar.” Navi patted the dragon and pulled a piece of dried lizard meat from his bag. Moridar ate it with delight and licked his hand for more.

  “To the king, mates?” Windsor asked, mounting his dragon.

  “Yes, to the king,” Gilmanza answered. They rode off on the next step in their quest.

  Returning to the Castle

  The six riders rode out of the city toward the castle along the same path from which Nuvatian had barely escaped with his life the night before. As they winded down the road that led from the city to the castle, they could see the three slain riders lying in the mud; one lay on his back, his decomposing face frozen in the terrors of death. Nimri and Cozbi got their first look at the reality of the curse upon the dark riders. It stunned them to face the truth. Tales came right out of the pages of the parchment but some had written the curse off as fable, stories that they had read. Now they knew. Both wondered how such a truth could become doubted when proof existed and when men, such as Windsor and Gilmanza, along with a host of others, some of whom they were soon to meet, had witnessed the evidence of the curse.

  “Why do some men say that it is only fable? The curse of the dahk ridahs I mean?” Cozbi asked, staring at their perforated faces and skeletal hands.

  “Because the truth is too fearful for some to accept,” Gilmanza answered.

  Just overhead in the sky, vultures had gathered. They circled the corpses, not caring that their souls were cursed. It was their flesh that they wanted.

  Now they began the ascent up the side of the mountain, following the trail to the castle. They were almost there.

  Upon reaching the castle, the riders were quickly let through the large ironclad gates by the two squires who immediately recognized them.

  “What have we here?” King Chess asked as he entered the room, his royal garb much more practical than many kings. “The guard said you have some urgent news for me?” The king ushered them to a private room.

  “Yes, my lord,” explained Nuvatian. “Last night, as I was ridin’ home from the castle, I encountahed Ridahs of Quadar, right outside of Sayir and not too far from the castle.”

  “Riders of Quadar, here in Sayir? And you say a little ways from the castle? That is very bold.”

  “That is correct, Sire.”

  “Darvan is already onto the sword. We don’t need any of this information to spread throughout the community, because it will cause widespread panic.”

  “Gilmanza, we need to put more knights on the watch towers and we need all the knights on duty; however, do not mention the purpose of their watch—no one outside of those who already have knowledge of this should know. It will only cause the quest for that damn sword to be perpetuated. This information is to remain classified and confidential.”

  “I will order more knights on duty here, my lord,” said Gilmanza.

  “Find the sword, then bring it to me,” the king repeated his instructions from the night before. “If you discovah who has the sword, do not try to take it yourself. You will not be able to defeat him. You know the power it gives to the one who possesses it, and you know
the power it has to possess you, turning even good men into tyrannical rulers. Godspeed.” The king only added the comment for the benefit of the younger knights who had little knowledge and no experience with the sword. They weren’t dancing around fairytales anymore.

  “Shouldn’t the possessah be killed?” Cozbi asked.

  “No, by no means,” the king admonished. “He might have come across it by accident and not known what to do with it. He might not be a threat yet. If the sword can be taken without harming anyone, then that is what we must do.”

  “But anyone who possesses the sword is treacherous…” began Cozbi, before being cut off by the sharp eyes of Windsor.

  “I hope that age gives you wisdom and retards your hastening to rash judgment,” the old wizard said.

  “But he has already killed two men,” explained Cozbi.

  “Yes, but it was Randolf and Pete, who have a history of trouble. The possessah of the sword might have merely defended himself,” Gilmanza said.

  Navi listened, his feet propped upon the king’s table and his hat tilted shadowing his face. “I suppose then that if you end up with it momentarily,” he said to Cozbi, “I should do the right thing and shoot an arrow through you, even if you haven’t succumbed to its tempting vices.”

  “Well of course not,” Cozbi cried. “But I thought it held powahs to corrupt even the noblest of men.”

  “Yes, it does. But that doesn’t mean that its powahs cannot be withstood. Besides, for some it corrupts almost immediately because they are already tainted with a lust for prestige, others are more slowly corrupted because deep down they want to do what is right,” Windsor explained.

  “Bearing the sword doesn’t make one evil; succumbing to its devices makes one evil,” warned Navi. “Rushin’ to judgment only brings swift judgment upon yourself, scamp!”

  There wasn’t much more to say at the moment, the king still mulling things over in his head. What was would have to be until they found the sword. They needed a plan.

  The seven men walked up the long and decorated corridors of the castle to the spiral staircase. They stood in front of the pane, making soft conversation. An octagonal window framed the view of the princess outside. She stood beneath a large oak tree brushing one of her horses. As the men paused on the stairwell discussing the pulse of the kingdom, Nuvatian was apprehended by the view outside. The princess’s fine equestrian clothing complimented her curvy frame even from a distance. He watched her as she brushed her horse with such care, her untamed hair blowing in the wind. The clothes suited her perfectly.

  The king, having thinking things through, issued his orders. “We will put say about seventy extra knights on duty guarding the castle. You know if they were that close to the castle, perhaps the person with the sword lives nearby. Maybe they were in the area seeking out the possessah in order to make him their leader. Make a list of all who live within the area where you first saw the riders,” he concluded. He then noticed Nuvatian staring out the window. “Nuvatian!” he said sharply, hoping to get his attention.

  Hearing his name, Nuvatian snapped back to the task at hand. “Excuse me, my Lord, what did you say?”

  “I was saying that perhaps the riders were so close to the castle because they were scouting out the possessah of the sword. Perhaps he lives nearby. Therefore, I suggested that after lunch we make a list of everyone who lives nearby where you spotted the dark riders and that you six scout out this area. Now, what do you think?”

  “Yes, Yes! Certainly!” Nuvatian agreed, trying to look at the king instead at the sublime view outside. “I think you have a point there. I will get right on it, my Lord. Be assuahed, we will not rest until the Sword of Dahvan is found.” Taking leave, Nuvatian retreated down the stairs.

  “I don’t know why people insist on building homes outside of the city wall, anyway,” fumed the king.

  “City life is stifling,” Windsor noted. “They know they can have more land outside the walls of the city. Windsor’s response came with a definitive answer since he lived outside of the city walls himself. “Besides,” he continued, “you’re not within the walls of the city yourself.”

  “Yes, yes, but I sit on a mountain overlooking the city, with iron gates and a wall around me. That’s much different than being open prey in the spacious land. You, well you are pretty safe, being a wizard and all. But I will say, who evah of my ancestahs built the castle outside of the city ought to be shot. The king belongs with his people. That’s beside the point, I suppose. I have the utmost confidence in all of you. I know I have the most skilled and trusted men for this job. The chefs will have lunch prepared for us in a few hours. After lunch, we will map out the area and discuss further plans.”

  The king seemed convinced that all would be well. As he saw Cozbi and Nimri already beginning to walk down the stairs, he hollered after them, “Lunch, will be served after a while so don’t go far.”

  Nodding his head, Nuvatian turned and walked off. The king, Gilmanza, Windsor and Navi stood looking out the window where his gaze had been.

  “I think he is struck by the beauty of your daughtah,” Gilmanza said with a chuckle.

  “Who isn’t?” Navi rubbed his scruffy chin, checking her out himself.

  “Yes, I think you are right. Well, he is a fine man and a man with good taste in women I must say, even if she is my daughtah,” King Chess said, laughing and rubbing his brown stubbly beard. “However, perhaps that is a greater task before him than is the Sword of Dahvan.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Windsor.

  “That daughtah of mine is of a very independent spirit. I guess I’m partially to blame for that. When her mothah died, some of the palace staff suggested that I send her off to be properly raised by women. I was not about to do that; she was all I had.

  “But I didn’t know what to do with a girl. I did the best I could, but I suppose I raised her more like a boy. I didn’t know what to do with her, so I taught her what I know: the sword, the bow, martial arts, fishing, riding horses and all the politics of the kingdom. I even taught her how to craft a sword. She can craft a finer sword than anyone I know—well, except for you and Gilmanza. Thank God that some women did step in and teach her the things that I wasn’t capable of teaching her. You know girl things like how to dress like a lady and such or she would have no idea what it is to be a woman. Not that she dresses all that much like a lady, at least she knows how to when the occasion calls for it.

  “Why, that girl is so independent she cleans the hooves of her horses, refusing to let the stable keepers do it. I made her do that as a child, because I wanted her to learn responsibility and not to think she is too good for simple tasks,” explained the king. “She is a strong woman and a bit temperamental. She keeps her heart guarded.” He sighed, examining the situation. “He has his hands full if he thinks he is going to win her ovah. He is in for a real bullfight.”

  “Well, I think you did an exceptional job raising her,” Windsor said, patting the king on the shoulder.

  “I hope so,” the king said, smiling. “I sure do hope so. I think she is a fine woman. You know, she can speak more languages than I can,” added the king, glancing out the window at his daughter. “But I neva taught her about love.”

  “I would be glad to volunteer my services and teach your daughtah all about romantic love, my Lord,” Navi said bearing a grin.

  Harrumphing before he spoke, the king turned toward Navi with his hand on his sword and said levelly, “If you so much as touch my daughtah, I will cut you into pieces.”

  Navi’s eyes grew wide, about to protest the king’s insults.

  “Nothing against you personally, Navi,” the king assured him. “You are, after all, a prophet. I just don’t want my grandson running around with purple and green braids in his hair. So you can forget about courting my daughter.”

  Navi tousled his colored braids away from his face and laughed,
letting the insult roll off him.

  “You have taught her about love, the love of a fathah. Romantic love begins with knowing healthy love—and that is what you have given her,” Windsor said, pretending the young wizard had never steered them away from the original conversation. “Romantic love picks up there and is not anything that a parent can teach. I mean, think about it, did your parents teach you about romantic love?”

  “You have a point,” said the king. “You know, don’t you? She thinks she is going to ride with you.”

  “Let her,” Gilmanza said. “Windsor and I will keep a close eye on her. And I’m sure Nuvatian won’t take his off her. She might not have the strength of a man but she has the sharpest archery skills of anyone I know. She has a gift you know.”

  “I’d be glad to keep an eye on her,” murmured Navi.

  “Do you really think I should let her?” asked the king, ignoring Navi.

  “She has a gift you know,” Windsor said echoing Gilmanza. “Need I remind you that when she was but an infant I told you she would be like a delicate pearl among warriahs and that she would be gifted with the pulling of a string. It is probably best if you send her with your blessing.”

  “Yes, well I had hoped that you meant the strings of a harp. She just seems so fragile and –well delicate.”

  “I also told you that she would be your only child and would be more precious to you than ten sons. She would perform her duties to the kingdom more efficiently than any son you could have had and that she would play a key role in the unfolding of major events.” The king listened patiently to the voice of the prophet, remembering the words like they were yesterday. “You must not interfere with what is to be or I feah, my friend, that you will be removed from your post.”

  The alarming words of the wizard brought him back to his senses, though his heart could never be pried away with the desire to pull his daughter close and shelter her.