Part 1

Chapter 1

With perhaps only minutes left before Rabsha returned, Rowann was taking no chances on losing command. I watched her order Immortals like they were infantry and to my disappointment, they never argued. Her troops were arranged cleverly with Immortals supporting Warriors and Rogues and pairs of strong Mages and Poets behind them. Everyone had a clear priority... target our Zibong Mages.

We had no objective, having moved into a defensive posture all we could do was protect the Zibong Mages and hope their spells kept us from being Summoned by Immortals.

I drew my axe again and prepared for the end, scanning Rowann's army for any exploitable weakness. A small flurry of activity on her left flank caught my attention, as one Guardsman went down, slain away from the battle. I seemed to be the only one that saw a flash of magic and a brief appearance by a man dressed in black. Then another soldier fell.

As if taken by surprise, too, my connection to the Spirit Sword suddenly flared to life. Somehow, the blade was very close.

"Too late, Kraki," I muttered, but watched raptly as the tall black clad figure popped in and out of visibility, moving closer to our line. Ruthlessly assassinating any Guardsmen in his way, the body count grew, unnoticed by the Kugnaens.

The line of murders led to a young Guardsman that looked pretty confident he would best the exhausted Reborn Warrior he was facing. His confidence was short-lived as he slid off the end of Kraki's dagger. Now fully visible, the Rogue flicked off the blood and saluted the Reborn warrior, who barely nodded. Rather than rest, the warrior moved up to help the Reborn next to him who was equally exhausted.

"Hail, General!" Kraki called as he skipped up the rough-hewn stairs. "Mission accomplished."

Up close, Kraki didn't look nearly so confident or healthy. In fact, he smelled like he went through a forest fire and took no delay in sitting down. Actually, it was more of a graceful fall.

"What kept you?" I asked, noting that not all the blood on his rent armor was fresh and that much of it was likely his. "You weren't moving much, then suddenly you are here?"

"Ran into a couple problems," Kraki chuckled, then grimaced, holding one hand against the side of his armor. "That Shaman is one mean old lady. She hit me with a Retribution spell that nearly toasted me!"

"My poetry-loving, tea-serving little lady friend? Mean?" I smiled. I never told Kraki she was likely the most powerful Shaman in the Kingdom. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah, I guess. I did what you said and went through the broken masonry, around your clock tower. I am lucky I didn't try the front door!" Kraki was definitely paler and must be losing a lot of blood. He will have to hold on, as we can't spare the Poets to heal him. "After she blasted me, some of the roof came down on her; knocked her out."

The Rogue struggled with his pack, pulling out a well-wrapped bundle. "I hope this was worth it!"

I took the bundle from him and carefully unwrapped it.

"How did you get here so quickly?"

"Funny thing... I was barely moving after your Shaman friend blasted me, when who do I run into but good old Winder, heading back to the battle."

"I bet he was surprised." I removed a plain handled short sword in a simple leather sheath from the wrappings. "Did you kill him, too?"

"You bet!! But not before I got him to tell me the name of someone here that would summon me to the battlefield. I just told him I was a friend of Winder's. He was sure surprised!"

Normally, assassination turns my stomach, but in this instance, I felt their temporary inconvenience in dying was more than overweighed by our need. After all... the enemy was having no trouble getting resurrected.

I hesitated to draw the sword. Although it looked like an ordinary short sword, in the hand of Spellblaster, who wore only one of the God's gloves to control it, the sword summoned Zibong and controlled spirits and spirit magic. I wore both Gods' Gloves under my gauntlets. Not being a Mage I had no idea if anything would happen if I held it, but I had to try something.

When Spellblaster held the sword, it had produced a small mist similar to Zibong magic, not very dramatic. I doubted Rowann would even notice.

"Gareth..." A hoarse whisper brought my attention back to Kraki. If I don't make it... tell Wildroses I was sorry I wasn't there with her. She will know."

"You'll tell her yourself, old friend," he looked much worse than before. Somehow, he must have gotten Revoked, as most wounds heal by themselves. It must have been sheer will that got him this far. I started to call the attention of one of the sweating Poets around me, when I realized Kraki wasn't breathing.

I drew my precious White moon axe and laid it on his chest.

"Thank you, Kraki. If we make it out of here at all," I watched Rowann signal for more warriors at her front line. "It won't be by using that axe. I hope you make it back, old friend."

Somehow I knew I had to try the sword.

My titanium gloves resisted my efforts to remove them, then gave up and fell to my feet. Under my gloves were the gods' gifts. One had been given to me inside a fish by Briar, who was now fighting with my enemy. Perhaps she didn't know the true power of even one glove; or perhaps she did. Using just one glove, Spellblaster could control the Spirit Sword well enough to threaten both kingdoms. After defeating him, I took his glove. No one had ever asked for them back.

In the late afternoon sun, the dull white metal barely glimmered. Fashioned in a distracting seemingly random pattern of links, it was hard to look at the gloves without blinking. They seemed otherworldly. In all the battles I had been through, they had never shown any wear... which was good, because Beard the Smith refused to touch them, after he saw they stayed cool to the touch even after sitting in his hottest forge.

I looked around. The battle had been running itself, everything I could do I had already done. Slowly, Rowann was knocking down our defenses. Overhead, the sun was breaking through some wispy clouds.

"A beautiful fall day," I said quietly, and drew the Spirit Sword. Somewhere I could hear the sound of insane laughter...

The blade was wider than my hand, but far too short to be used in battle. It was plain polished metal without design or blood-grooves, yet as I stared at it, there seemed to be a pattern just below the surface. I held the blade up into the light of the late afternoon sun.

Starting at the tip of the blade, a small wisp of white began to trail, soon joined by others. My arm began to feel heavy as the streamers reached for the ground, so I took the hilt in both hands.

A shock like lightning seared from my palms through my body. The tendrils of mist waved confusedly and stopped trying to draw the blade down, instead wrapping around my arms. Except for the weight lessening, I felt nothing from the blade. I guess I expected dancing skeletons or something rising from the earth.

Of course, Spellblaster had years to study the weapon; even the magic-wise Shamans took a few days to work out even it's most basic powers. Yet, somehow I had to learn to use this sword or be destroyed by it.

One tendril unwrapped from my arms, waving in the air, as it sniffing out a scent.

"Get back in there!" I ordered, then regretted opening my mouth, as all the Poets around me turned and stared... jaws dropped. "Everything is under control, continue healing. This battle isn't lost yet!"

The tendril stretched thinner, longer, following its unknown scent toward Rowann's old camp. It ignored my mental commands completely.

"What is it doing? What can it want in Rowann's camp?" I watched the tendril disappear into the distance. At least the sword wasn't getting any heavier, though the knots of mist around my gloves continued to become more complex, building on itself. A soft glow came from the tendrils covering my left hand, oddly enough, not around the God's Glove, but from my bare fingers.

Well, almost bare fingers, the only other thing I wore on that hand was my love ring given to me by my wife when we wed.

"Oh, no!" My wife was in Rowann's camp. The exhausted poets around me moved away some more, giving me as much room as the narrow ledge allowed.

"I need Zibong shields!" I shouted, turning a few heads in our Mage corps. They obviously wondered why I would need shields in the best-protected place we had. After the shock of seeing me surrounded by the tendrils of mist from the spirit sword wore off, one young Mage clapped his hands. Nothing happened.

"Sorry, General," he said, turning back to the battle. "I can't target you."

Assuming he can't, therefore Rowann can't either... I dropped my protections against whispering.

"Pteri!" I whispered urgently to my wife, "Get out of there!! Run!!! There is a tendril from the Spirit Sword after you!"

"Gareth?" she seemed surprised, but didn't sound worried. "So you are on the other end of this?"

"It's got you??" My heart fell. "I'm sorry. I haven't been able to make this sword obey me!"

Laughter came back through my link, along with the curious mental image of PteriDae standing in the middle of a tent leading a white wispy tendril of fog around the room with her fingertip.