The Wizard's Sword

By Paul Vanderloos

Giant serpents, bat-winged people who live in trees, underground dwellers, a six-headed monster, a pyramid on a island, and a sorceror and sorceress bent on destruction. These are some of the dangerous and the odd that the humble erfin Mirrortac must encounter on his mission to save all the worlds from an encroaching evil that has already begun to take hold. It is an epic adventure that takes Mirrortac beyond what was thought as the end of the earth - the Netherworld - through many incredible places inhabited by varied races of beings, each with their own world-view. And it all started with a magic sword found in the woods of the erfin homeland Eol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Vanderloos
• Release date: Jun 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458096623

Paul Vanderloos

Paul is a journalist, freelance editor and author living in Mackay, on the central Queensland coast of Australia. He has had numerous articles published in newspapers and magazines, published two fantasy novels, had his stage play performed, and his poetry published in anthologies.

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The Wizard's Sword

Paul Vander Loos

Published by Paul Vander Loos at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Paul Vander Loos

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1 MOUNTAIN AT THE END OF THE EARTH

The woods were a forbidden place for erfins. The scent of the fir trees was pleasant as the erfin Mirrortac went in search of firewood for his hearth, his paw-like hands deftly picking out the dry twigs and branches as he kept a wary eye at the woodland deep for any danger. Beyond the woods were the steep slopes of Mateote – the Mountain At The End Of The Earth – its snow covered summit partly obscured in cloud. Erfins were afraid of the mountain and believed the oblivion of the Netherworld awaited anyone foolish enough to attempt to cross over. Even before one reached the foothills there were nite-wolves to contend with – vile smelling creatures with shaggy hair, fanged grins and cold yellow eyes.

Mirrortac stumbled and cursed the ground. He bent down to massage his sore toe and saw the faint sheen of metal winking up at him from amongst the litter of fir needles. Coming down into a squat he sifted away the litter with his fingers, exposing more of the metal. His eyes widened and he sighed with awe. Beneath his hands was a short sword of exquisite design; its hilt adorned with three stones of precious amber and its blade gleaming as though it had only been fashioned yesterday. Glancing into the dark of the wood, he picked it up and handled it with reverence. The sword was weighty yet balanced easily in his grip. He stood up and swung the blade through the air, feeling at once the clean gliding motion and a sense of strength and power. He tested it against the grey fur on his legs. Its cut was precise, deadly. Where had such a weapon come from, he thought. No erfin owned a sword though there were tarnished examples on the walls of the Halls-of-Eol and the High Halls of Mateote. The high priest was keeper of a ceremonial sword that was rarely used and was unlike this one, though it had been kept sharp and in good order. No, this was a warrior’s sword and countless seasons had passed since erfins had been feared warriors. All their enemies had been conquered and none remained to challenge the might of the fierce erfin warrior. The last to be conquered were the Madin, who were mountain people, but in the end, it was the mountain that brought their demise. Forced upwards, the Madin were trapped on the edge of the earth. The erfin warriors were remorseless in their pursuit and sent the last of the Madin warriors over the edge and into the great abyss beyond. Both peoples were from the same stock. The erfins were grey of fur and thickset with pointed cat-like ears and large eyes. The Madin’s fur was courser and they were slightly taller than their erfin cousins.

Now, gone were all the warriors. The last had died many moons ago but the stories of their conquests had been passed down from generation to generation until they had attained mythological status alongside the great god of the mountain and the gods of the day and night skies, Luma and Mogog.

Mirrortac brushed fragments of soil off the crevices in the hilt and looked up as his neighbour, Fillytac, approached from across a meadow of nif-grass. His was the portly figure of an elder erfin, his fur shaggier and exhibiting the silver tips of age. His eyebrows lifted theatrically above luminous green eyes and his voice betrayed surprise.

‘Mirrortac, what have you there? Is that a sword?’

The younger grinned. ‘Yea! I must have walked over it dozens of times. I can’t imagine how it has escaped my notice all these moons.’

Fillytac bounded the last few steps and stood staring at the sword while he regained his breath. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

‘What will you do with it? Present it to the priests to display on the walls of the great hall?’

Mirrortac ran his fingers along the blade.’That would be the place for it,’he said, uncertainly.’But I think I shall keep it for a few days; show it to Yenic and the child-fins. It is such a fine piece of work!’

Fillytac glanced sideways at his friend. ‘Why would you want to do that? The child-fins might cut themselves on that nasty thing. It would be safest on the walls of the hall without delay ... they can see it there.’

‘You are an untrusting wretch,’ Mirrortac grinned. ‘I’ll nought let the child-fins handle it. I found it so I should be allowed to keep it for just a few days; then, I’ll take it to the hall where it can hang until time stops.’

Fillytac huffed. ‘Suit yourself. Though I nought see the sense in it. I have my fowl to put to roost, Good day!’

The elder ambled off through the nif-grass, leaving Mirrortac holding the sword. He smiled to himself, then tied the sword to his waist with a few lengths of grass before returning to his task of gathering firewood. When he had finished, he hurried away with his arms loaded up, his padded feet quietly wading through the last of the warm season’s crop of nif-grass, which so many erfins depended on as a herbal seasoning and medicine. A howl echoed through the deep of the wood behind, reminding him of the increasing menace of the nite-wolves which were growing in numbers and beginning to raid the village fowl runs under the cover of night. Mirrortac saw ahead the familiar log huts of Fotwood village, which was in the southern part of the valley of Eol. Skirting the southern edge of the village was a large lake - The Waters of Three - forming the drainage bowl for the Werd Stream, which originated on the western ridges between the mountains of Elfa and the great Mateote in the north.

The sun of Luma sank below the trees as Mirrortac turned up the front path of his home. He dropped the wood into a large pile near the front door and was greeted with the glee-filled faces of his two daughters, Fentil and Wynper. They leaped up to be nuzzled and cuddled while he took care to keep the sharp blade of the sword away from their small bodies. Wynper noticed his find and her eyes opened as wide as two bright moons. ‘What is dat, daddy?’ she shouted, alerting her sister who now too was curious about the strange object. The two she-erfins reached out their hands to touch it.

‘Nay!’ Mirrortac grabbed both their hands in a grip. ‘It is very sharp. I will let you look but you must not touch.’ he said firmly.

The two girls nodded and Mirrortac released his grip.

‘Now, inside with you both. I want to show your mother too,’ he said.

The girls raced inside, babbling excitedly as their father followed, bowing once to Mateote as he crossed the threshold onto the matted floor. Yenic raised up her head from before the hearth where she slowly stirred the contents of a stone pot with a wooden implement. ‘Did you get enough firewood?’ she asked, ignoring the sword dangling from her husband’s waist. He nodded quickly and winked at his daughters. They burst into giggles, their attention focussed on the sword. ‘I suppose you better show us what you got,’ Yenic allowed. ‘Something from the hall elders? In thanks for carving a new door for the hall, no doubt.’ she guessed.

Mirrortac dismissed the suggestion. ‘Nay. I found this in the Wood-Of-The-Nite-Wolf where I collect the firewood!’ He produced the sword and laid it on the floor before them. ‘A warrior’s sword ... I must have stepped over it many times in the seasons. The blade is perfectly preserved!’

Yenic looked upon the sword with astonishment. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said. ‘It is so beautiful, yet so cruel in purpose.’ she shuddered. ‘Put it away, somewhere out of reach of the child-fins. It disturbs me.’ She withdrew and held the children close to her.

Fentil put on her best serious face. ‘Daddy, will you be going into battle like the old warriors you told us about?

Mirrortac brushed her head affectionately. ‘Nay my child-fin. We have no enemies now, except the wolves, and one sword is no match for them I’m afeared.’

‘Then, why not make more swords and kill all the nasty nite-wolves?’ she offered, exhibiting the typical logic of a child.

Mirrortac half smiled at this. ‘There is no sword-stone in the valley, my little one; and no furnace hot enough to melt it down. We are prisoners to the nite-wolves in the woods and the lorcs in the stream and the waters of the lake.’

Wynper edged forward and sat in her father’s lap. Turning her head up at him she asked, ‘What does a lorc look like, Daddy?’

‘They are nought kindly in appearance. A lorc is a fat creature with ugly sharp teeth and a very big mouth. It is twice as big as an erfin and black like the night; and it has a tail like the slups fish with tiny eyes. Lorcs will eat any beast that walks too far into the water, and it likes erfins most, so never give it the chance ... hmm?’ his eyebrows lowered as he narrowed his eyes at his children.

‘Nay daddy!’ they chorused. Wynper opened her mouth wide and roared at her sister. Fentil screamed and ran off with Wynper after her. Mirrortac picked up the sword and strolled over to the wall where he stood for a time pulling at his beard in thought. He disappeared out the door and returned soon after with a mallet and two wooden pegs, which he drove into the wall and secured the sword beyond reach of his children. Yenic withdrew the cooking pot and placed it on the table nearby. She called the children in and they all ate, munching noisily on the seasoned foté - the fowl that constituted the primary source of food for erfins.

Mirrortac awoke with a start. The hut was silent, and beside him, Yenic was making shooshing sounds in her sleep. He shook his head, trying to shake away the dreams he was having. He could still hear the screams as if they were real; screams to turn the blood, screams of rage and hatred. And with them the vision of warriors in the pitch of battle. He shut his eyes then flashed them open. He was still dreaming! He frantically rubbed his eyes, moaning as the dream images took form in the air before him.

On either side of him, he could see a great army of erfin warriors, their many swords gleaming sharp silver in the light of Luma. The warriors were in the battle dress of wolf-hide belts and breastplates of tempered metal inscribed with the mystic symbols of protection and the head of a nite-wolf. He could feel the weight of his own armour, sharing the sensations of the warrior he had become. He felt his throat constrict and a harsh rasping voice cry out in defiance. ‘Warriors of Erfin! Before Luma reaches the end of the earth, we will drive the Madin out of their caves of dung and beat their flesh into the stone of their mountains. Death to all the Madin!’

The warriors answered with one voice. ‘Death to the Madin!’ – their anger carrying across the plain and into the foothills of the mountain range ahead of them. One of the warriors nearby turned towards Mirrortac and said, ‘I say to you, Merftac, why do we stand here wasting the light of Luma when our blades ache at our sides. Let us be rid of these hairy-sons-of-the-Netherworld. Let us splatter the rocks with their blood!’

Merftac’s voice answered out of Mirrortac’s mouth. ‘Yea, you need be patient no longer, Narssup,’ he said, and unsheathing his sword, he stabbed it out towards the mountains. ‘Erfin warriors! Let us show these Madin the might of the empire! To the hills!’

With these words, the warriors let out loud hoots, baring their teeth in rage. In a single mass they charged towards the foothills. A call rose up from behind a series of boulders ahead. Madin warriors leapt into the open, answering the erfin charge. The erfins fought fiercely, driving the Madin back. Metal blades clashed and the ground was soon littered with the bodies of warriors from both sides, their blood mingling and dripping over the stones. The Madin bore swords of smoky quartz and wore animal hides bearing the symbol of the great predatory bird of the mountains, the gakar, its wings outspread, cut into the leather.

Merftac and his warriors drove the Madin farther and farther into the foothills where they were ambushed. Many warriors were lost but the fury of the erfins and the superior might of their metal swords and breastplates eventually overcame the brave Madin warriors who turned and retreated towards the safety of the high mountains. Merftac and his warriors set after them, keeping close behind their heels as they traversed a thick and foreboding woodland and up the slopes of the largest mountain they had ever seen. Mirrortac recognised it immediately: the sharp ridges and the mists that haunted its summit were of the great Mateote.

Upwards went Merftac and his warriors, unafraid and filled with the battle rage. The Madin scattered but none could escape the relentless net of the erfins as they encircled every avenue of escape. One brave Madin warrior held his ground and was able to disable and kill eight erfin warriors before he ducked between his pursuers and escaped into a cave above a waterfall. Merftac ran after him, leaping down from a rock ledge above the cave and wading ankle-deep in the cold waters of the stream. When he reached the cavern, he caught sight of the Madin’s feet scrambling into one of a series of narrow tunnels that led away from the cavern and deeper under the mountain. Merftac crawled in behind him, shuffling on his belly in the darkness. Around a bend, he saw the Madin in a shaft of light and realised he was trapped at a dead end that opened above a cliff. Grinning at the helpless Madin who was unable to turn around in the narrow space, Merftac shouted curses at him. He tried to get at his sword but found the space was too tight around him. The Madin inclined his head at him and cried out, ‘What vexes you wolf-dung? Have you forgotten that the Madin are kin of the tall stones? Kill me and I shall take you into the Netherworld with me!’

Merftac flew into a rage. ‘Cursed seducer of demons! Merftac is nought afraid of this spittle of gakar such as you! I will fight you with my bare hands and send you to the Netherworld alone!’

He tried to grab the Madin by the feet but he kicked back as hard as he could then flung himself beyond the edge of the cave; flipping back quickly as he held on to the side of the cave with his clawed paw-like hands and thrusting himself back to face Merftac. The two locked arms and wrestled, all the time cursing each other as they writhed and twisted their bodies in the narrow space of the tunnel. Merftac pinned his feet into the stone walls and levered them towards the precipice, pushing the Madin inexorably nearer the edge. The Madin kept a firm grip on Merftac as his feet slid over the edge but with another huge shove, Merftac forced him out and he fell against the cliff face, still holding the erfin so tight that his claws dug into Merftac’s shoulders. The erfin was hanging inverted, his leg muscles straining as he hooked his feet into the rock walls of the passage. Beneath them, the rock face fell down sharply and disappeared into a thick bank of cloud. The Madin grinned up at the erfin with a wild look in his eyes, and then threw back his head and laughed hideously. Suddenly his face went pale and his eyes seemed to stare back with incomprehension. Abruptly, he let go of the erfin and fell, his body tumbling and slapping across the protruding overhangs, finally to disappear into the cloud.

Merftac reached back and pulled himself up into the entrance. Then, glancing up the cliff face above, he heard the distant sound of battle and watched the bodies of the last Madin being cast over the cliff and into the nothingness below. The tired warrior surveyed all around him but could see no more land, only a long series of cliffs, falling away into oblivion. ‘We have come to the end of the earth,’ he said to himself.

Finally, darkness.

Mirrortac found himself at the doorway. He lifted his hands that were shaking uncontrollably. His whole body was soaked in sweat and he could feel tingles all through him. He was startled as a hand gently came to rest on his shoulder. ‘What is the matter?’ Yenic said from behind him. ‘I heard you yelling; it was horrible. It gave me the shivers to hear it’.

Mirrortac turned into her arms. ‘I must take the sword to the hall at dawn and present it to the priest. It is bewitched with a warrior’s madness,’ he said, breathing in gasps. ‘I saw him kill and throw the Madin into the Netherworld. May Mateote spare us from any such battle. They were nought heroes but wanton killers.’

Yenic looked up at her husband with luminous eyes, caressing his brow with loving fingers. ‘What is clouded in the darkness shall be clear in the daylight,’ she whispered. ‘Come, you must rest.’

As the first light filtered through the slats of the windows, Mirrortac arose. He had decided that there would be no delay in removing the sword from his home and putting it under the safe protection of the priests who knew what to do to lock in the madness haunting the sword. Outside, the day was fresh and there was no hint of the trials of the night. Small birds chattered and sang in the fir tree branches and a cool breeze swept up from the lake waters, sending the nif-grass seed heads nodding. Mirrortac reached up to lift the sword from the wall but discovered it had somehow become stuck. Applying considerable strength, he pulled vainly at the hilt and cursed it. In a huff, he gathered his mason’s tools and attempted to prise the blade from its place. It held fast. Then with tongs, he removed the two pegs and was amazed when the sword remained unmoved. He swore at it again. ‘You demon’s blade! If you will nought yield to me then I will bring a priest here to release the spell.’

Mirrortac left the hut and followed the path onto the avenue leading up to the Temple of Mateote. Above the village, the mountain summit was shrouded in a thick cloud. A frosted breeze brought with it a hint of snow, warning of the coming of the season of the White Veil. There was still nobody stirring at this early stage of the day except for an elder she-erfin who was sweeping her step. She glanced up for a moment as the erfin passed by then went on with her work. Mirrortac reached the wide marblelite stairs leading up to the temple courtyard and sighted a priest emerging from under the archways of the temple itself. The priest saw him and immediately started toward him, as though already summoned. Perhaps he wanted some masonry work done, Mirrortac thought, as this was his tasking; with the proof of his skill standing in his midst in the sleek marblelite arches and columns of the temple. The priest met him at the centre of the courtyard, his earthen-coloured robe sweeping over the smooth stone paving.

‘How did you know that I was seeking you?’ the priest gasped, somewhat breathless. His silvered whiskers sprayed out in bunched long strands from the top of his lips and his eyes were like pearly slivers from beneath thick eyebrows.

‘I have come to you on my own matter; one of utmost urgency,’ Mirrortac replied.

‘Oh!’ the priest puzzled. ‘I too have come to call together the he-erfins on a matter most urgent to the whole village.’ The elder frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘What be this matter of yours?’

Mirrortac told him all about the sword, the dreams and how the sword was now held fast to the wall of his hut. The priest, whose name was Witherelle, frowned some more when he heard this. ‘Perhaps the two matters are related,’ he mused, unwrapping bony fingers and resting his hand upon the erfin’s shoulder. ‘You know that the nite-wolves are coming nearer the village?’ Mirrortac nodded. ‘And that they have begun to attack our foté?’ The erfin nodded again. Witherelle squeezed the erfin’s shoulder. ‘We have few foté remaining now, and no wild foté in the woods. The season of the White Veil will soon be upon us and we shall have nought to eat; we shall grow weak and the nite-wolves will have their feast of us.’

‘This is indeed a terrible matter, but what has it in common with the bewitched sword?’ Mirrortac enquired.

Witherelle looked troubled. ‘I am not certain, but I fear that a time of great darkness may be upon us. These beasts are the hounds of demons and a bewitched sword speaks of evil powers in the woods.’

This further troubled the erfin. ‘Then come hasten and unbind the spell upon my hut and let us be rid of this demon’s sword!’ he tugged at the priest to follow.

Witherelle stooped down the stairs, trudging behind the erfin as fast as his frail body would allow. They reached the hut to find a grim-faced Fillytac waiting, his hands grasping at bloodied feathers. Mirrortac shook his head at the sight. ‘Yours too, my friend! We shall all be meeting today at the Halls of Eol. Wait here!’ He brushed past his friend with the priest close behind.

‘What is going on?’ said a bemused Fillytac, but neither Mirrortac nor the priest offered an explanation. Instead, they swept into the hut where Yenic was tending to the erfin children.

Mirrortac picked up the children and marched them outside then turned to this wife. ‘You must wait outside with the child-fins. I have brought the priest to cleanse the hut of the darkness of the sword.’

Yenic complied, leaving the two alone with the sword, which still hung securely upon the wall. Witherelle examined the sword with a thorough eye, expressing mumblings of surprise as he took in the three amber stones, the sharpness of the blade and strange symbols on the hilt, which had escaped the erfin’s notice. The priest muttered softly to himself as he seemed to read the symbols, and stopped as he contemplated deeply.

‘These symbols are in the Maja tongue,’ he explained, with a tone of surprise in his voice. ‘Maja is an ancient tongue which we sometimes use in our most sacred rituals. It was usual for the warriors of our ancestors to have the priests inscribe their swords with symbols of protection, but they are not the symbols used on this sword. No, this one has the marks of the most sacred mystery hidden in the seasons before the Erfin Empire. This is a sword of the Werd, which means Wisdom of the ancients...’

‘But it is full of a warrior’s madness; it is bewitched!’ Mirrortac interrupted.

Witherelle pulled at his beard. ‘It has the memory of a great battle, and of a great warrior, but there can nought be any evil in it; such sacredness can abide no darkness. No ... but if it pleases you, I will bestow the blessing of Mateote upon it and put the warrior’s memory to rest.’

Mirrortac sighed. ‘That would please me, and you can take it with you to the temple, since it is such an object of sacredness.’

Witherelle seemed doubtful. ‘I can try to take it with me but I feel it has chosen you in sacred trust.’

The erfin frowned at this. ‘Chose me? That is silliness!’

The elder priest smiled and shook his head. ‘Who knows what purpose the ancients have divined for the finder of this sword. It is nought by some accident that you have come upon it in the woods where you have walked all your life.’

Witherelle lifted up his arms and began to chant in the secret maja tongue reserved only for the priesthood of Mateote while Mirrortac watched the sword with expectation. In just a few moments, the sword dislodged and fell with a clang to the floor. The erfin sighed with relief, thanking the priest as the elder bent down to pick up the sword. But the old erfin struggled to lift it. ‘See, it will nought let me take it. I can barely lift it,’ he puffed.

Mirrortac smirked with suspicion and reached for the sword, lifting it easily in his grip. ‘The sword is nought heavy. My child-fin can lift it,’ he said. ‘Here, put out your arms.’ Mirrortac placed the sword into the priest’s beckoning arms but the elder collapsed as though trying to bear the weight of ten erfins.

‘See! This is proof that the sword has chosen you as its keeper,’ Witherelle proclaimed.

‘Then I will carry it to the temple for you. We have a meeting to attend, have we not?’ Mirrortac insisted.

Witherelle smiled. ‘You have always been a stubborn one, Mirrortac of Fotwood. Come then, bring your sword with you.’

‘Clever, oh sacred one!’ the erfin countered. ‘I will take the sword and put it in the temple where it belongs.’

‘Yea, as you wish,’ Witherelle grinned, then becoming serious, ‘Enough of this. Whatever it means, we have grim matters to discuss with the he-folk.’

Witherelle stepped out of the hut to be greeted with the questioning faces of Yenic and the others. Addressing Fillytac, the aged priest took on a commanding manner. ‘I want you and all the he-folk to meet with me at the Hall-of-Eol now. Go and tell all your neighbours without delay.’

Fillytac collared Mirrortac, as he too burst out of the hut, sword in hand and looking very annoyed.

‘What is going on? Why did you have that priest here?’ he asked, but his friend only shoved him aside.

‘You heard what the priest said. I will explain later!’

Fillytac turned to Yenic with rising frustration. ‘WHAT in the name of Mateote is happening?’

Yenic shrugged at him with apology. ‘I think it has something to do with the sword he took home last night. It gave him bad dreams.’

An expression of self-satisfaction swept over the stout erfin’s features. ‘So, that is it. I did warn him nought to take it home. I told him to take it straight to the priests.’

Fillytac thanked her and hastened off to alert his neighbours of the meeting. He cleansed his hands of the blood from the feathers of his dead foté before meeting with the other he-folk at the hall at the centre of the village of Eol.

A crowd of sober erfin faces surrounded the long timber table within the hall with Witherelle at the head. He was seated on a tall backed throne of pine carved in a modest design. The he-folk chattered amongst themselves while they waited for Mirrortac to return from the temple.

Mirrortac stopped at the threshold of the temple and bowed to Mateote which had all but disappeared under the thick cloud. He turned and bowed again, deeply from the waist, as he was entering the sacred preserve of the temple. A single marblelite altar stood in the centre of the floor and on top there was a hollow filled with a thin layer of ash. A sheaf of dried nif-grass was burning slowly, sending a steady stream of aromatic smoke up into the dome of the ceiling where it escaped through small gaps into the sky above. Benches were arranged in a circle around the altar but these were unoccupied except for one where someone was seated with his back to the erfin. He was wearing the priestly robe, which fell over a slim form, and his hair was strangely golden, falling in beautiful locks over his shoulders. Mirrortac stepped with soft reverence, taking care not to disturb the priest who was bowed in silent meditation. The erfin held the sword carefully now, resting in the palms of his outstretched hands, as he crept around the border of the temple interior. The priest raised his head and stood up, alerted by the presence of another in the holy place. Mirrortac stopped, not because he had disturbed a priest, but because he now realised something even more strange about him - he was much taller than any erfin and the hands he now revealed were hairless. The stranger turned, showing his face, which was also hairless and un-erfinlike. His skin was a pale alien sheen; his nose small and slightly pointed while his eyes were a brilliant hue of blue with round black pupils, not like the oblong pupils of erfins. Mirrortac immediately assumed a fighting stance, sword held firmly in the grip of his right hand.

‘Who are you? God or demon?’ he uttered, astounded.

‘Neither,’ the stranger answered, his voice fluid and unearthly. ‘I am Ni-Do, keeper to the Sword of Thaum and it falls upon me to explain your duty to the worlds against the spread of the coming age of darkness.’

Mirrortac stood stunned and perplexed. ‘Ni-Do? We have no such name under Mateote. What is this vexing talk of worlds and my duty to them? There is only this world, and it ends at the mountain of Mateote!’

Ni-Do’s eyes flared. ‘You foolish erfin! The darkness is already taking hold of your blessed Eol. You have not enough food to last the season of the White Veil and the nite-wolves grow bolder and hungrier with each day. If you stay in Eol and go on believing that there is no world across the great mountain, then you will all perish … but worse than this, all hope for the other worlds will perish with you.’

Mirrortac wished he could collapse but his legs were locked. He wanted to challenge the stranger but his strength had left him. He knew the danger to Eol was great but the stranger was confusing him.

‘You vex my spirit, weird one. What could an erfin such as I do against the powers of darkness? What use is an erfin and a sword?’ he pleaded.

The stranger’s expression softened but his voice remained firm. ‘My master comes from the world of Men but he is different to many men in that he is a wizard, a man of white magic, which in itself is tainted. He was captured alive by the powers of black magic, an evil sorcerer called Krak and the sorceress, Helok, who together created Hopocus, a place to entrap the souls of the dead. They also created an abyss into which all that is good, from all worlds, is gradually being absorbed, effectively spreading evil everywhere; an evil that will destroy you and all that exists. Once he realised that his magic would also be absorbed into the abyss, he devised this sword, which has the power to fight the spreading darkness at its edges, but cannot succeed in Hopocus until it has been given sacred power through the blessing of a holy person. White magic alone cannot conquer this evil and it needs one with great courage and a pure spirit to bring final victory.

‘This is where your duty is needed, Mirrortac. As an earth-spirit, I was able to escape Hopocus with my master’s sword and the gateway led me to your world. We needed a warrior’s madness in it firstly to enmesh it with courage then we had to wait until all my master’s magic had been absorbed into the abyss, signaling the time for the sword to appear in the woods where you found it and it laid claim to you. Your mission is to strike a path north until you reach the land of mists and waters where you will find the gateway to Hopocus, and your ultimate task – to cast the sword, which you will call Moonbeam, into the Well of Lost Memories where it will be empowered with its final sacred purpose. Remember this, I shall remind you when you forget.’

The erfin vigorously ran his fingers through his fur, trying hard to comprehend all that he had been told. ‘The sword is blessed now; couldn’t you take on this mission yourself? How am I able to do all this, even if I should believe there are worlds beyond the great Mateote?’

Ni-Do continued to be patient with the erfin. ‘I have no power in the physical world. I am merely a projection of my master’s mind, created only to bring to you this message and to guide you into the next world beyond the mountain. When my task is complete, I will become nothing again.’

Mirrortac blinked at the floor and scratched his head. ‘I must surely be dreaming this. What will I tell Witherelle and the he-folk when I get to the hall? That I spoke to a spectre who told me I must go on a mission across other worlds to fight against demons?’ The erfin addressed himself more than Ni-Do.

‘Speak only to Witherelle about me. He has seen me in his dreams and he will believe you. He will help you. No one else may know of your ultimate purpose. Go now, seek your fellow erfins who await you in the hall.’

******************************************************************

Mirrortac made an awkward entrance into the hall; all the time hiding the sword behind him as he made his way to his seat, which had been reserved for him near the top of the long table where Witherelle was waiting patiently. Fillytac glimpsed the sword as the erfin edged past, and spoke up without regard. ‘I thought you were presenting the sword at the temple. How is it that you still have it?’ he said.

Mirrortac grimaced. ‘The tale is long in the telling, and you would not believe me in a thousand moons even if I did tell you.’

Fillytac lifted a suspicious brow. ‘Try me.’

Mirrortac waved him away. ‘I cannot. You shall hear more than enough in time; more than you would want to hear, erfin-friend.’ This only deepened the frown on the elder erfin’s face but he remained silent.

Witherelle nodded to Mirrortac as he sat down and cleared his throat to gain the attention of those still talking among themselves. All the able he-erfins of the village were seated around the table - fowl herders, nif-grass tenders, priests, minor workers and the brawny seeker-erfins used to seek out the spellbound for ritual execution. Servants brought goblets of sparkling spring water collected from a well near the foothills of Mateote, and flatbread made from nif-grass flour. Mirrortac lifted the goblet to his lips and swallowed the contents in a gulp, then reached for the urn for a refill. Witherelle raised an arm to gain everyone’s attention.

‘Fellow erfins of Eol!’ he began in his priestly formality. ‘You must all be aware now that the nite-wolves have been attacking the foté herds. But you may not know that there are now very few left; too few to last us the season of the White Veil, and none to gather from the woods. Soon, they too will be gone and our child-fins will become their next meal, and then all of us as we weaken from hunger. Unless we take arms against the nite-wolves, our lives are in peril from these demon hounds.’

‘And how are we to do this, holy one? With a few old swords and he-erfins who know nought of the ways of warriors?’ one of the erfins shouted. Others supported his argument and a discussion led to a rally of voices.

Mirrortac listened without a word then abruptly stood up. ‘I will make spears from the Fotwood oak and we will kill them all, to the last animal!’ he shouted, startling all, and especially himself. Everyone fell silent,

Reviews for The Wizard's Sword

[Juan Luis y Matilde Fotografía · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great !! I like !!