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Authors: Hilari Bell
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could. And I taught you because I needed to learn the secrets of your shilshadu magic, and how to apply them to my craft. I think this is the sword that will prove how well we’ve learned.”
His smile widened and he held out the sword to Dai. Dai wasn’t a smith or a swordsman, for there were no swordsmen among the Suud. He wasn’t the strongest man in the tribe either, though he was no weakling. What he was was the only Suud who had provedwilling to strike the post with all his strength. For all the peddler’s coaching, the others swung the swords hesitantly, reluctant to break something it had taken so much labor to create. Dai tried to break it, striking as if he understood the price that would be paid by a soldier whose sword broke in the midst of combat.
Despite her skepticism, Soraya tensed as he stepped up to the post. He drew back his arm in preparation for the blow that had broken so many blades, then swung with all his might.
The sword sank two inches into the wood, and stuck there. It vibrated, but it didn’t break.
Dai let go of the hilt, grimacing, and shook his hand. The crowd’s tension dissolved in laughter.
But the peddler wasn’t laughing. “Pull blade out straight,” he commanded in Suud, not needing eloquence for this. “All sword break if it pull side.”
Dai evidently knew that already, for he cast the peddler an exasperated glance and worked the sword out of the post. He seemed to feel he had something to prove; he took the wooden hilt in both hands this time and swung even harder.
A chip of wood flew from the post—the sword held. Dai attacked the post as if it were an enemy, swinging again and again, using the dull edge as well as the sharp one, even stabbing with the point. There were times when Soraya could have sworn she saw the blade flex … but it didn’t break.
Panting, sweat covering his white skin, Dai glared at the blade. Then his glare lightened and faded into a huge grin. He handed the sword back to the peddler.
The Suud burst into cheers, but Soraya waited, knowing there was still a test to come. Ignoring the Suud, who were slapping each other’s backs, even dancing in their excitement, the peddler held up the blade and scraped the sharp edge carefully over his arm.
Dai had used that sharp edge almost constantly, sending fountains of chips into the air. Now, in the slowly growing light, Soraya could see the fine hairs on the peddler’s arm fall away from the blade.
He looked up then, his eyes seeking hers. Even if she’d never had a trace of shilshadu magic, Soraya could have read the triumph there—and the message.
We’re going to Mazad. Soon.
O N A FAIR AUTUMN DAY ,
an elderly smith approached the Farsalan army.
“I am too old to work,” he told them. “So the Hram cast me out, giving my forge into the hands of younger men. Now I am starving.”
“We can give you some food, Grandfather,” the soldiers told him. “Enough to help you on your way, but you’ll have to find another place. We’re here to fight the Hrum, and our own resourced are small We can’t feed those who can’t work.”
The smith turned away, and clouds rushed to cover the sun. Sorahb didn’t notice the clouds, but he did see the dejected slump of the old mans shoulders.
“Let him stay,” said Sorahb, stepping forward. “His muscles may be old, but how much wisdom, how much craft has he gained in his years of labor?As all men know, our swords break like green sticks upon the Hrum’s blades. Let him stay, and let our swordsmiths learn from his great knowledge.”
The clouds slid from the face of the sun as the old man smiled. “You’ll not be regretting this, young master,” said the ancient smith. “Showing true farr is a thing men never regret.”
The smith was as good as his word, for he taught the Farsalan swordsmiths to make blades with the power of the storms own lightning. The blades they forged were as strong as those of the Hrum, and Sorahb watched their
His smile widened and he held out the sword to Dai. Dai wasn’t a smith or a swordsman, for there were no swordsmen among the Suud. He wasn’t the strongest man in the tribe either, though he was no weakling. What he was was the only Suud who had provedwilling to strike the post with all his strength. For all the peddler’s coaching, the others swung the swords hesitantly, reluctant to break something it had taken so much labor to create. Dai tried to break it, striking as if he understood the price that would be paid by a soldier whose sword broke in the midst of combat.
Despite her skepticism, Soraya tensed as he stepped up to the post. He drew back his arm in preparation for the blow that had broken so many blades, then swung with all his might.
The sword sank two inches into the wood, and stuck there. It vibrated, but it didn’t break.
Dai let go of the hilt, grimacing, and shook his hand. The crowd’s tension dissolved in laughter.
But the peddler wasn’t laughing. “Pull blade out straight,” he commanded in Suud, not needing eloquence for this. “All sword break if it pull side.”
Dai evidently knew that already, for he cast the peddler an exasperated glance and worked the sword out of the post. He seemed to feel he had something to prove; he took the wooden hilt in both hands this time and swung even harder.
A chip of wood flew from the post—the sword held. Dai attacked the post as if it were an enemy, swinging again and again, using the dull edge as well as the sharp one, even stabbing with the point. There were times when Soraya could have sworn she saw the blade flex … but it didn’t break.
Panting, sweat covering his white skin, Dai glared at the blade. Then his glare lightened and faded into a huge grin. He handed the sword back to the peddler.
The Suud burst into cheers, but Soraya waited, knowing there was still a test to come. Ignoring the Suud, who were slapping each other’s backs, even dancing in their excitement, the peddler held up the blade and scraped the sharp edge carefully over his arm.
Dai had used that sharp edge almost constantly, sending fountains of chips into the air. Now, in the slowly growing light, Soraya could see the fine hairs on the peddler’s arm fall away from the blade.
He looked up then, his eyes seeking hers. Even if she’d never had a trace of shilshadu magic, Soraya could have read the triumph there—and the message.
We’re going to Mazad. Soon.
O N A FAIR AUTUMN DAY ,
an elderly smith approached the Farsalan army.
“I am too old to work,” he told them. “So the Hram cast me out, giving my forge into the hands of younger men. Now I am starving.”
“We can give you some food, Grandfather,” the soldiers told him. “Enough to help you on your way, but you’ll have to find another place. We’re here to fight the Hrum, and our own resourced are small We can’t feed those who can’t work.”
The smith turned away, and clouds rushed to cover the sun. Sorahb didn’t notice the clouds, but he did see the dejected slump of the old mans shoulders.
“Let him stay,” said Sorahb, stepping forward. “His muscles may be old, but how much wisdom, how much craft has he gained in his years of labor?As all men know, our swords break like green sticks upon the Hrum’s blades. Let him stay, and let our swordsmiths learn from his great knowledge.”
The clouds slid from the face of the sun as the old man smiled. “You’ll not be regretting this, young master,” said the ancient smith. “Showing true farr is a thing men never regret.”
The smith was as good as his word, for he taught the Farsalan swordsmiths to make blades with the power of the storms own lightning. The blades they forged were as strong as those of the Hrum, and Sorahb watched their
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