Chapter 17: 17

Barrin left the duty of reuniting Gaharri with his daughter to Maeal. He had no interest in it and he doubted the man would have the wits to answer questions. Questions he had hoped to have answered by the nameless commander of the outpost, clearly the one that had instigated Gaharri’s acceptance of the contract to transport Barrin and the others.

Whether Gaharri was an honourable man or not mattered little. The Company of the Golden Moons had performed that duty, under duress or not, and the money had to come from somewhere. Gaharri may not have the answers, but Barrin had one, tenuous stitch to pull upon. A merchant in Dakkesh. Little to work with, but Barrin had a way of persuading others should the need arouse him.

For now, he tended to his wounds in the fortress’ smithy, the smith standing some distance away, watching him as though he would erupt into violence at any moment. Barrin could not blame the man. He had returned to the fortress of the Company covered in blood, his own, but mostly that of others. That he had returned at all, with the captain’s daughter in tow, had set whispers susurrating around the courtyard. Many a man and woman had taken a moment to pause and assess him and Barrin accepted it. Let them see what awaited should they try anything foolish.

The heat of the forge had brought the poker to a red hot glow and as he took it, pressing it against those wounds he could reach, he allowed sharp intakes of breath to escape from his throat. He was not unable to feel pain, but Father had always taught him to never show it. Weakness made cracks. Cracks could become split wide. One weakness could lead to downfall. Barrin could never show weakness. Not in front of anyone but Kahri and even then it had taken some time for him to expose any part of himself to his lover.

The quenching tub offered some respite from the pain and he allowed the waters to cascade over filthy arms, dousing his head and dripping from his hair to the ground about him. He should sleep. Eat and rest, but he could not afford it. Weeks. Weeks without Kahri and, every time he felt he had a chance of coming closer to finding him, the chance seemed to slither away, taunting him. He cupped some water in his hand and took a sip, tainted by the filth from the forging processes, and nodded to the smith as he left the smithy.

Outside, others still gathered. Not as many as before. Those that had shown loyalty to their captain had taken custody of those that had opposed him and the Company had suffered. Perhaps a quarter of the mercenaries now sat in overcrowded cells, awaiting judgement. Barrin had his thoughts about how to deal with them, but they were not his to pass sentence. He roved his eyes around, catching those of the mercenaries and holding them. Some balked, turning away, others tried to match his gaze and failed.

“He has put the child abed.” Maeal appeared at his side and Barrin almost turned to look at her, impressed she could move with such stealth. “He says he’s ready to answer your questions.”

“Good.” He eased the black, curved sword in its sheath and began to head back to Gaharri’s quarters.

The gathered mercenaries parted before him, each powerful and mighty in their own ways, but Barrin could sense the nervousness about them. He didn’t enjoy their reactions, nor did he dismiss them. Putting fear into people often gave worthy results. At least the fear would cause shaking hands and legs should any begin to think about attacking him. He never had need to foster a reputation, but it did tend to follow him.

Gaharri sat in his chair, as he had before, but his entire demeanour had changed. He no longer fidgeted, nor appeared strained and worried. He had his daughter back, another weakness that Barrin would never accept, and his Company had, he hoped, purged the errant elements within their ranks. He smiled as Barrin entered, the smile flickering as his eyes fell upon the sheathed crescent-moon sword. Twice, now, he had looked upon it with some dark interest.

“Please, sit. Ask whatever questions you have. I shall answer truthfully to the best of my knowledge.” Gaharri swept his hand toward two seats opposite his own before standing and moving to a table by the wall. “Wine?”

“No.” Barrin did not sit, standing with arms crossed against his heavy chest. “A merchant in Dakkesh. Clearly an intermediary, but who is he?”

“She. I never met her but I believe she is called ‘Fahssir’. Lattash, my former commander, dealt with Fahssir, not me.” Gaharri returned to his seat, nursing a plain, copper goblet. He shook his head, musing about the past. “If I had only seen the ...”

“I do not care for your reminiscences. Is it true that Shumma-Vohk is behind all of this? Why? Is it truly him? What can you tell me of any rumours?” Barrin leaned upon the table, looming over it and Gaharri. He could not waste time with the captain’s regrets. “The woman, this Lattash, she spoke in a strange language, one I have never heard. ‘Shumma-Vohk che khassh, Shumma-Vohk che hattesh’. What do those words mean?”

The captain’s mouth opened and closed several times, his head shaking as he tried to answer. Barrin had assaulted him with too many questions, too much to think about. He knew better than that, but his patience had worn thin, especially when it came to sifting the truth from the chaff of folk tales. Gaharri looked toward Maeal, hoping for an ally, or for her to enlighten him more. She had sat, her legs crossed, hands resting in her lap, but she shifted forward.

“Have you heard anything about Shumma-Vohk? Anything at all.” She appeared calm, her voice little more than a whisper and it seemed to appease Gaharri. He smiled at her. “It may prove important.”

“I thought you would know more than I, considering you carry that.” Gaharri turned back to Barrin and a hesitant finger pointed to the hilt of the black blade. “I’m old enough to remember people who said they fought against him. That his might as a sorcerer knew no equal. That he commanded the denizens of the Underworld as he would pets. That the one who opposed him bore a blade as black as coal and more sharp than any other.”

Barrin held the surprise within himself, forcing his hands to remain where they were, folded beneath his crossed arms. He wanted to reach for the sword, to look at it even though he had seen it often. It meant nothing. Any smith worth the name could put pigment into a blade and make it black. At least, he surmised as much. Otherwise, to think of the possibilities, would involve accepting certain things that he could not, would not, believe in. Things like ...

“Destiny.” It came as a whisper and Maeal looked up, cupping her hand beneath her chin in supplication to her god. “Aa provides. Praise Aa! Praise him!”

“It is only a sword. A tool, nothing more.” He stopped himself from removing the sword and tossing it aside in a display of petulance, and from decrying Maeal’s desperate superstition. “Shumma-Vohk lived? You know this for certain? Can the sorcerer be the one behind all of this?”

“As far as I know, yes, Shumma-Vohk lived. I did not see him first hand, but I believe the accounts I heard. The testimony. Yes. Shumma-Vohk existed, but I thought he had died at the point of a blade like that one.” Again, Gaharri’s eyes fell to the crescent-moon sword. “For certain, I have never encountered a sword like it and weaponry is a passion of mine.”

He could afford to look amused, as he used both arms to indicate the weapons that adorned the walls of the room, knowing his daughter now lay safe in her bed. An impressive collection that Barrin had admired, inwardly, the last time he had stood here. It meant nothing, however, only that Gaharri had little experience of the world beyond his grasp.

Truth told, however, Barrin had also never known the like of this sword. Not once in any of his travels, or in the many battles he had fought, had he ever seen a blade of its like before. A blade so black that the word did not do it justice. Curved so, with edges on both the inner and outer curves, and those edges so sharp that Barrin didn’t doubt he could cleave a stone in two and leave nary a chip upon the sword. Not any other sword like it.

Not only that, but, according to Gaharri, a blade like it had aided the defeat of a sorcerer of the ages. Barrin put little weight in rumour and folk tales, but it was not the first time he had heard tell that the mythical Shumma-Vohk had commanded demons and devils when, people generally believed, it was the demons and devils that controlled the sorcerers.

That wasn’t an area that Barrin had much knowledge. Both wizardry and sorcery bothered him. The ability to call magical energies to do a man’s bidding did not sit well in Barrin’s view of the world. He trusted himself, his hands, and the weapon he wielded. He had, however, heard it told many times in his life. Sorcerers gave of themselves in exchange for power. The demons controlled that exchange. They had the upper hand. What kind of a man could command demons and devils and could any such man truly ever die?

“Enough. It is but a sword, nothing more!” Fingernails bit into the flesh of his palm as he fought against himself, wishing to drop his hand to the sword. “I have enough to move forward. If you have nothing but ghost stories, then I no longer need stay. I will leave in the morning.”

“Don’t you wish to know the full story of the blade?” The man continued his tale, like a fool trapped in childhood. “It is said the smith that forged the blade placed all of his ire and fury into it, his family murdered by Shumma-Vohk, and, with the aid of a wizard, put a curse upon the blade. That any who bore it would suffer no other to touch it until it took the life of the one it was created to kill. Make of that what you will.”

That didn’t match the facts. Barrin knew it. He had found the sword in the ancient, forgotten and buried city. Shumma-Vohk had died almost a century ago, if he died at all. This blade came from a time long before that. Long before the war that had almost seen the known world conquered by the sorcerer. No, this was not that blade, if any such blade existed. Barrin berated himself in silence for even giving the myth a moment of his time.

“I leave in the morning for Dakkesh. You will ensure I am fully supplied.” It was not a request. “And remember, captain, you are in my debt. I may never recall it. You may live your remaining life and never hear from me again. But, if I should call, you will answer. I would not be as forgiving with you as I was with Lattash and her minions.”

“I can assure you, he means every word.” Maeal had no need to support Barrin. She rose to her feet, bowing to Gaharri. “May Aa’s blessings fall upon us all, and may you never hear that call for I foresee it will not end well for any of us.”

It appeared Maeal intended to continue travelling alongside Barrin. She could do as she wished as long as she did not interfere. Once again, he had completed a task and another awaited him. The journey to Dakkesh would take yet more time that he could ill afford, but he had nothing else. He needed to know the fate of Kahri and he needed to wreak his vengeance upon those that had a hand in it. He paused before leaving the room, turning back.

“You should kill those that turned against you.” He could see that thought did not sit well with Gaharri. “I would.”

An honourable man. Barrin had no use for honour, but, it seemed, Gaharri did, and Barrin could use a man like that.