Sword-Master

The metal of the blade must be tempered. Hardened, beaten and cooled in turns. It must be folded, beaten again, all but crushed between the hammer and the anvil, returned to the forge and heated to a bright orange before meeting the blows once more. Thus it is for the blade. So it is as well for they who wield it.

Every land has its story. From the sea of clouds that surrounded the incessantly smoldering peaks of Mount Faal in the west to the Undying Sands in the east, the continent of the Sky People had amassed through their travels many lifetimes worth of legends and tales, factual and fanciful alike.

As was said of the Sky People, they traveled the world but never left their homes – though the more recent generations found themselves keeping to but one continent in all of Aerthos. Aloft on great Citadels forged out of the beating heart of the wild itself, they were possessed of equal parts impossibility, evolutionary whimsy and certain danger; just like the lands they floated above. They sailed the leylines of the world, as the melodies conveyed them, and in those songs were woven the words that told them of the lands that both bade farewell and greeted them again. There were the Forgotten Gardens that lie along the Gold Sea, whose fruits and vegetables could feed an entire world for months having been planted and organized centuries ago by a civilization who had otherwise been lost to the amnesia only millennia can give birth to; or the natural springs which crisscrossed the Ma’iin river, whose bubbling waters were said to speak for the dead souls who had passed on. Tales were told in cautious tones of the winter grazing lands which were found just south of the poisoned forest of the Tuer’th Moraan; the green grasses were safe, but the red grasses found too close to the woods meant certain death.

All these wonders and marvels were possessed by their songs, their stories; and each seasonal visit, when the terrain would pass beneath their flying homes, the Sky People would find themselves singing those songs and sharing those stories once more. But there was one area of their lands which had few songs. The leylines did not carry the Citadels to one island, far to the west of the mainland roads. It was a dangerous island, and its few tales shared but a single message, plain and pure.

It was Baril Tor. And it was an island of Death.

The cliff stood high above the water’s edge, churning and roiling with undeniable fury against the unyielding stone at the base. Jagged teethlike rocks rose from the dark blue rage, as defiant as the cliff of which they once had been part. The lone figure pulled his cloak tight around him as he surveyed the war between sea and stone below him.

Across the depths, a dark smudge upon the horizon, he could see his destination. His year-long journey had brought him here, in the hopes of being tested. The past seasons had been prelude; the true test awaited him there. No Sword-Master had ever been found worthy of the title by birthright or wealth. Among the Sky People, a Sword-Master had to be forged. And only the petitioner could be the most accurate judge of their own worthiness.

Tarik pulled back the hood of his cloak, running his fingers through his thick, black hair. As the ocean winds whipped the dark strands across his face, he frowned in annoyance. It was long enough to tie back at his neck, but he had not yet bothered to do so. He pulled a thin strip of cloth free from the hem of his cloak and used it to gather and bind his hair back from his face. When he had left home, his head had been shaved clean, a symbol of rebirth and the passing away of the previous eighteen years of his life. Since that time, it served as a reminder of just how long he had been away.

As was the tradition, he had left everything but the clothes he wore. All else, he would need to find or make use of as he went. The remaining terms of his journey were vague; he was to continue until the gods gave him a sword.

Tarik, however, had added an additional milestone. Though the many implications were varied, he simply thought of it in two words – be worthy.

Food and water had been his first obstacles, though simple enough to overcome. He knew how to forage, hunt and gather to make his way through the wilderness. He had fashioned a stone blade, sharpened to a fine edge, with rawhide for a handle. Clothing and boots had given way to the distance since he had left his home; they had been replaced by leather wraps he had learned to cure as a child. He had spent more than a month on his own just in the acquisition of his equipment. He had devised a few different weapons for himself over this time – a spear, a sling, a few additional balanced knives for throwing – and had done his best to keep his makeshift knapsack filled with dried fruits, a waterskin and assorted other objects – and spent the last week or two near the ocean. He had walked up and down the coast and discerned that this was the best place to cross. It would still be a few kilometers, and though he was certain he could swim it, he wasn’t confident with the sort of sea life that might take a more carnivorous interest in his passage through their domain.

He looked back over his shoulder at the last few projects he had been constructing over the last few days, mostly through stalks of bamboo he’d found in a thicket nearby, and several hundred feet of yellowed grass he had secured from a field just down from the cliff. He wound and braided the grass into ropes which he then used to secure the bamboo poles into what looked like the opened wings of a feranzanthum, wove the remaining rope into a tight netting and wrapped the wings with a loose covering that he then affixed hundreds of leaves and topped it off with his old cloak, the last of his belongings with which he had left his home. He tied it off with a long thin strand of hide, and checked it until he was confident that it would hold.

Coming back would be another problem, he thought distantly, but that was a problem several steps from where he stood now. First, he had to cross the ocean to an island whose indigenous fauna was so dangerous that precious few visitors had ever survived. Second, he would need to find the blade he knew the gods had left here for him, waiting to be held by his hand and his hand alone. Then he would need to find some way to stay alive long enough to secure a way off the island, and eventually return to the Citadel.

As he considered the chances of his successful completion of these tasks, he heard himself chuckle. The sound was stolen from his lips by the wind and soon lost behind him. A moment later, the wind stilled, and slowly began to whistle past him again, but this time from behind. The tides had shifted, and the winds now favored his path. Nodding to himself, he moved quickly, shouldering his pack and hefting the light but large construct up and onto his shoulders. A thick coil of rope fit down beneath his shoulders, and once it was in place, he took a final glance around his camp, and, satisfied, took a running start at the cliff.

The wind was already doing its best to pull the wings from his hands as he reached the last moments of land. He gritted his teeth, and subconsciously held his breath.

“I will be worthy,” he whispered.

 His right foot was the last to touch the ground, and, for a brief moment, he feared that gravity would prove too mighty an opponent. Gathering his focus, he loosed a faint whistle from his lips – and a song followed, summoning every scrap of breeze under his manufactured wings to lift him high and send him soaring across the abyss between the two land masses. The frame and its textile held, and he was borne up in the air, well above the water, speeding towards the smudge upon the horizon.

The island of Baril Tor waited for him.

In spite of the buffeting he received on the journey, his handiwork managed to retain its integrity until he was very close to the far shore. He had just been admiring the tall dense jungle and three tall, narrow mountains that loomed high before him when a loud snap startled him from his thoughts. The bamboo pole that comprised the central beam of the harness rig cracked, and the weight shifted off-balance. Tarik struggled to hold it tight, but without the central pole acting as a fulcrum for the ropes which held the rest of the glider in place, the ropes began to bunch up on one side, while going slack on the other. The water began to rise up to him, and quickly. He pulled a safety rope in the harness and grabbed his pack with the other, spinning himself free of the collapsing frame. The water would prove enough of a challenge without getting tangled in the rope and beams of his broken wings.

He clutched the pack to his chest and straightened his legs, grabbing a deep breath before dropping into the water feet first. The impact was so strong that for a moment he feared he might have broken bones, but thankfully he was mostly uninjured. He kicked hard against the crushing black of the watery depths, following the promise of light and the rising bubbles that tracked his descent.

 Tarik broke the surface in a spray of ocean water, blowing out before taking in another breath of air. He wasn’t an expert swimmer, but he could paddle for a few hours, if necessary, or tread water for a bit longer. His initial concern was the current. He kept himself afloat, keeping his attention on the island ahead of him, and was relieved to note that the current was not very strong. Keeping a firm grip on his pack, he rolled to his side and began to swim towards the shore. Less than a third of a kilometer, he told himself. He could run that far in full armor under the noontime sun, and still fight for a few hours before the heat would start to tear him down. Surely, a bit of a swim in the ocean should not prove too…

His heart lurched in his chest. It felt as if his right leg had brushed something; or, worse, something had brushed him. He knew the sea was alive, teeming with living creatures. Sjora had been on a handful of flights with her mentor, bringing back stories of such creatures and sights that had left him dizzy and not a little worried. The sense of fear clawed at the edges of his reason. He could feel his pulse quickening, could sense the rising delirium that terror brought with it. Fear was a poison, and once in the blood it was very hard to clean it away. He would have to push it back now, at the outset, lest it erupt into a full panic within him.

It is nothing, he told himself. A small fish, curious about this sudden arrival, nothing more. I do not smell like food, I certainly do not taste like food, and I’m quite likely far too big –

“Hah!” Tarik yelled, and a wall of force erupted underneath him, throwing him up and out of the water. Below him, an explosion of grey flesh and jagged teeth broke through both the water and Tarik’s calm interior monologue. Black, rounded eyes pulled back into its head as the creature opened its horrific mouth in search of Tarik’s flesh. Had he not been of a calm mind, he would not have felt the creature’s approach and summoned up a barrier between them. The beast was easily five times as long as Tarik was tall, with a pale white underbelly and an enormous fin jutting high out of the center of its back. In its mouth, Tarik could see several rows of sharp teeth, which could likely carve through bone as easily as flesh.

He took this all in in a flash, in the pair of seconds he had above the surface of the water. The barrier only lasted with the sound of his voice, and Tarik had pushed out most of the air in a single push. He gulped in a quick breath and pushed out another single barrier beneath him to keep him above the water and throw him another pair of meters closer to shore. Two dozen more barriers just like that one and he should find himself in water too shallow for the creature below him. Two dozen more deep breaths, not enough to make him dizzy.

The creature was close behind him, its powerful tail driving a spray of water up each side of its dorsal fin. Tarik gulped as much air as he could manage and pursed his lips to let out a high-pitched whistle. The note was in perfect pitch and the world responded with a resonating wave of energy that vaulted him high up and out of the range of the sea creature. It tried to follow him, even launching its entire body up and into the air in an explosion of mist and droplets of sea water, but only managed to clear the surface for a few moments before gravity wrenched it back into the briny depths.

Tarik felt a deep breath of relief well up within him, but he managed to sustain the single pure note until he was able to lower himself, slowly down to the narrow shore. He struck the beach hard, but rolled backwards until he was back in a crouching position. One eye on the water, one eye towards the thick jungle, he stayed as low as he could towards the ground. He saw the dorsal of the sea creature follow the edge of land for a few minutes while he caught his breath. Eventually, it vanished beneath the waves and was gone from view. Well, now I know I will not be swimming back. I will need to find a way back across, since my wings did not work as well as I had hoped. He opened the pack he had made, and examined the supplies that remained. Only a little water had gotten inside, and his water skin and handmade cord were in usable condition. All in all, it could have gone far worse, he decided. And he still had his handmade stone knife. Food, water, tools, weapon – he checked them mentally off his list. Next item in order of urgency: shelter. He would need to find a place to rest safely, and soon.

It’s all salt water here at the sea’s edge, he reasoned. Few of the monsters on the island will be patrolling for food or water. At any rate, the logic would not keep him safe for long. According to the stories he had heard about this place, he would soon be discovered by the smell of his flesh, the heat of his blood. The island was filled with the most dangerous predators Aerthos had to offer, and he had just landed upon their doorstep.

He smiled slightly. What better test of a young Sword Master than to find his blade here, among the other monsters?

Shouldering the pack, he chose the north route around the island, arbitrarily. He had not gotten a clear look at the island from the trip over, but thought he had seen a river and cliff face on the north side. A towering set of three mountains rose high and unevenly in the center of the island’s greenery, one of them even tall enough for the rainfall to freeze white, or so the tales went. At the moment, all three were dark grey in color, streaked and cracked with the furrows created by frequent runoff. From the tallest, a thin column of acrid smoke rose towards the sky. As Tarik caught glimpses of them through the tangle of trees and vines, he thought they looked like three old men, wrinkled and stern, and disapproving of their new intruder.

He was suddenly aware of how far he was from his home. The Citadel felt very distant, floating around in the sky on the other side of Aerthos. If he died here, they would never know how he had perished. Perhaps they thought he had fallen already.

I wonder if she would ever mourn for me, he allowed himself to wonder for a moment before chasing the distracting thought away.

The beach turned towards the northeast, giving Tarik his first good glimpse of the cliff. He hadn’t seen it before, but the cliff formed the far side of a curving inlet, mostly hidden by the tree line which came to within meters of the beach. There it was thinner, the thick and vine-entangled trees being replaced by a sort of tree he’d never seen before. Rather than being broken up by branches, they were tall and curved, their scale-like bark leading up to a crown of long, jagged leaves. The young man paused to examine them for a moment, his sense of concern and self-preservation interrupted by the unusual find. Then, however, he heard the howls.

They were close, whatever they were. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. It was an autonomic response, the physiological need to run and hide or stay and fight. His body recognized the roar of a predatory animal, even if his training had taught him how to overcome the impulses. He crouched low near the base of the one of the strange trees, doing his best to conceal himself among the jagged rocks that formed the nearest point of the inlet. The howl sounded again, this time much clearer. To his trained ears, he noted the difference in tone and timbre. A third sounded, from further away, and a fourth, from further still. Tarik frowned. The herd is coming together, he realized. And I will make a very simple meal.

He scanned the area, searching for an alternative to the meager hiding place he currently used. The inlet was, he now realized, a lagoon, with a thin waterfall at the innermost point of the water. Fresh water, he noted, seeing the clarity and scent of the water when compared to the ocean behind him. Clouds were already gathering to the west, holding a promise of wind and rain. Each could either help or endanger him. He had to hurry.

Tarik began moving slowly towards his left, towards the inlet’s opening, slipping his foot into the cool water just as the first of the creatures broke through the tree line near the waterfall. It hooted again, barking out its call to the others, who answered moments later. They were a large, six-legged lizard, with a parted tail and darkened spines lining the ridge of their back. The first of the pack looked around the lagoon, and, if it saw Tarik at the opposite end, his presence didn’t seem to disturb it. As it lowered its head to drink from the deep, clear water, Tarik moved as quickly and quietly as he could. The other creatures arrived at the water’s edge just as he reached the opposite side of the lagoon, at the base of the sheer cliff. It was a fair sixty meters high here, only dropping a few meters at the waterfall before falling away completely before descending to the lagoon’s beach.

His original plan had been to move on past the lagoon, until he spotted a few crustaceans and medium-sized fish swimming in the water. Assuming he would be on the island for long, a good source of drinkable water and food would be welcomed. Assuming he lived that long.

As he made his way along the cliff, he saw a section jagged enough to provide hand and footholds all the way to the top. It seemed sturdy enough, so he secured his pack over his shoulder and began the slow and cautious climb. On this side of the lagoon, the water was dark and deep, descending into unseen depths at the base of the cliff. If he fell, there was only the narrow walkway to concern him. He just needed to try not to fall, he told himself. The cliff itself was not terribly high – twenty meters or so, and he made good time.

As he neared the lip of the wall, he paused to glance back over his shoulder at the island. It was beautiful, he thought. Perhaps he should have questioned all the warnings and rumors of Baril Tor; perhaps it was not nearly as dangerous as he had been led to believe…

His speculation was cut short, however, as he cleared the top of the ledge and looked straight into the eyes of a large feline predator. All he caught in that moment was a glimpse of eyes like a raging flame and a mouth full of jagged, jaundiced teeth, and he reflexively kicked back from the ledge, hoping he would clear the rocky path below him. Either way, it was a better chance than waiting for the creature to snap his head off. The creature swiped a paw at him, but he was already gone.

The deep lagoon engulfed him, burying him in dark, fresh water. He kicked back up to the surface, quickly looking around to see if the beast had followed him down. Fortunately, it hadn’t, and Tarik bobbed at the surface for a few moments to choose his next path. High ground had been ideal, but that creature’s presence complicated things. He glanced to his right at the waterfall, considering for a moment if there might be enough of a washout for him to curl up. He would need to be satisfied with raw meat, though, he conceded, and pushed the idea to one side; an emergency shelter, perhaps, but nothing he would be able to manage for very long. The sun was high up in the sky. He needed to get to safe ground, and fast; there was no telling what manner of creatures wandered the jungle under the cover of darkness.

Also, he reminded himself, he was not here on a simple survival mission. He was here to find his blade. Rare ore could be found up in those mountains – up in the veins of those three old men he had seen earlier – and that had been the entire reason he had come to this particular place, in spite of the warnings.

He heard the catlike creature above him snarl, but as he looked up, he saw the creature’s tail pointing straight out over the cliff face. The end was twitching, reminding Tarik of some of the other feline species he had encountered. It was a gesture of defensive aggression – something up there had the animal spooked, and it was trying to warn it off. Something spooked the small band of creatures that had been drinking from the other side of the lagoon, and they nearly ran over one another to get back into the relative protection of the thick jungle flora.

The sudden silence was cut short by a low whine that filled the air, setting Tarik’s teeth on edge. He climbed up and out of the water as quietly as he could, his thoughts racing to try and discern the source of the noise. It built in volume and intensity, and sounded now as if multiple things were making the sound. The hairs on his arms stood on end as Tarik realized something else of the strange tones – they were making magic!

Those are old melodies, he realized. There is no structure or pattern to those notes, it is the pure voice of nature itself. They are singing one of the songs of Aerthos.

His eyes widened. He had been taught about the wild magic, but it was too difficult a thing for man to control. The songs they were taught – from taming the winds to creating fire to healing flesh and seeing the past or future – were culled from these primal songs, but tailored into constructs mild enough to pass through a person without tearing them apart. He had never heard these songs in all his travels; but he knew the songs of magic when he heard them.

After several moments, the sound came to an abrupt end, and silence again claimed the jungle. Even the sounds of the wind and the waves and the waterfall seemed muted, only finally returning after several panicked breaths.

I have to see it, he thought. Taking a deep breath to calm the shaking in his hands, he once again climbed the cliff face. He tried to move more cautiously this time, as he was still wet from his fall, but a sense of urgency drove him on.

He peered carefully over the lip of the cliff, this time, however. It was a solid base of stone, granite, easy enough to get a grip on, and even so the sight that greeted him nearly caused him to slip.

The feline creature – or what was left of it – still stood where it had been standing before, but with its back turned to the lagoon. Now, however, every bit of flesh, fur, organs and blood were gone, stripped cleanly away from the bone. A pure, pale, dry skeleton rested on the gray and white flecked stone, looking as if it had merely been resting, sleeping, while something came and stole its life away in an instant. The life and color had been somehow cleansed from it in moments.

And just when I was starting to think I was prepared for this place, he thought bitterly. His eyes were suddenly drawn by movement at the far side of the small clearing at the cliff’s edge, as a tiny creature crawled from the foliage and into the sunlight. It was no larger than one of his feet, with rust-colored fur and a black banded tail. Dark and light smudges of fur alternated around tiny eyes that appeared deeper than the night sky, giving the creature a quizzical yet adorable expression.

Tarik’s gaze shifted slowly to the skeletal remains of the large feline and back to this tiny new arrival. His instincts briefly wrestled with his curiosity; certainly, this tiny creature hadn’t been responsible for the destruction of the much larger beast, he convinced himself.

Certainly not.

Just to be cautious, though, he moved slowly and quietly around the edge of the cliff until he neared the growth of the verdant jungle, keeping his distance from the tiny creature. It seemed to be young for its species, as far as Tarik could tell; which meant, presumably, that its parents or pack could not be too far away. He had the striking sensation that he would not want to cause its family to think he meant their offspring harm in any way.

The creature, for its part, kept its eyes on Tarik, its dark eyes wide with curiosity. As the young man reached the thick leaves at the base of the trees, the creature let out a soft trill, like a bird’s whistle and took a short step towards Tarik.

He held up his hands to the animal, and shook his head slowly. “No, no, little one,” he whispered. “You stay here until your mother and father come back, that’s a good beast.”

Mewing again, the creature began padding more quickly towards him. Tarik turned towards the jungle and ran, as rapidly and quietly as he could. As he made his way, he hummed a simple melody which sent a gentle but effective curl of wind trailing along behind him, mussing up his tracks and erasing any trace of his scent.

In an effort to put as much distance as he could between him and the tiny creature, Tarik pushed on, eventually coming across a strip of flattened soil that resembled a game trail. A brief glance indicated that it led up the hill on his right, so he followed that direction until it brought him far up the terrain and plateaued in a small clearing that overlooked the island. A few rocks were smoothed by rain and wind, which stood as if protecting a small overhang in the mountain above. He explored the area briefly and it seemed that no other creatures had recently made this their home. Its location was ideal; he could hear the evidence of a stream only twenty meters off, and the guardian stones – as he now thought of them – would allow him to build a small campfire without drawing the attention of too many of the island’s inhabitants. The day was quickly moving on toward the afternoon; he would need to start preparing for nightfall, and soon.

He searched the jungle’s undergrowth for dead or decaying wood, little of which was very dry. This he set by the interior of his designated campsite, bringing along as well a large quantity of creeper vines and large leaves. He also made a quick survey of the stream he had heard, and nodded in satisfaction. It sang to him softly, its melody one of clean rainfall runoff and no presence of anything that might cause him sickness. He took a deep drink, filled his waterskin and went back to his camp to prepare for the sun to go down.

However dangerous the jungle might have seemed during the day – and, he had to admit that for the most part it had not seemed quite as dangerous as its legends inferred – any land the wild controlled became far less hospitable to humankind without the sun beating down. As shadowy night reclaimed the land, the precious sight which kept people safe was of little use, whereas creatures had evolved many methods to track without such dependencies.

Tarik did the best he could to prepare for this, however. He spent the hours until sunset constructing nets to suspend between the stones and covering the top not protected by the stony overhang. Using the large leaves he had gathered, he pieced them together in a latticework that kept the entire campsite covered. Another song, this one which summoned the winter’s breath, then caused the moisture in the leaves to freeze, all but sealing the small area in a congealed casing. He knew of many creatures which tracked by heat – this would keep them from sensing him.

He later sang the counter melody to the winter spell, and extracted the moisture from the rest of the sticks and vines, and heated a set of smaller stones to keep the area warm while he rested from his day’s exertions.

Alone in his protected camp, Tarik chewed on a carefully rationed amount of his food supply while he pondered his next step, and listened with increasing concern at the noises of Baril Tor. The island had seemed barely populated during the day; at night, however, the air was filled with terrifying screeches and howls, ranging in timbre from low, bone-shivering growls to high-pitched screams that set his teeth on edge.

More than twice, he could hear creatures directly outside his makeshift hut; each time, they sniffed around briefly and then moved on. Each time, also, he felt his concerns lift from his shoulders, and his optimism about his chances increased. For better or worse, he had no choice but to remain here until daybreak. And with that thought, his childhood fears crept back to the edges of consciousness, taking him back to his years before he embarked on his quest.

He had left his home, knowing he might never return. The three previous initiates had failed, which had resulted in a lack of Sword Master for his home citadel now for more than five years. It was not a horrible lacking for the moment – the militia was trained, and they still had leadership in place to guide them should danger threaten them – but going forward, someone had to bear the responsibility. Though no army had confronted the Sky People in generations, the threat remained a distant possibility, and it was better that they remained prepared than be caught defenseless.

It was a role he felt was essential but one which he hoped was never necessary.

And yet…. To leave the citadel had been a terrifying thought. Feet upon the ground, walking the surface of Aerthos; short of gathering supplies, harvesting, hunting, it was seldom done. Many of the Sky People went years without coming down from the protection the citadel afforded them. Tarik had only done so for the first time a handful of seasons before.

He could recall with stark detail the cold fear which had gripped his chest when he first stepped down from the back of the winged animal that had carried him to the ground. There was no trembling of the soil and stone of Aerthos, no swaying gracefully as the citadels did when they followed the winds. The breeze blew calmly, playfully. All of it twisted into the single most terrifying moment he had ever experienced. 

His fearful memories were interrupted by another incursion upon his small alcove that almost made him cry out in surprise. It was a smaller creature, this time; he could infer as much from the sound of its footsteps and the higher-pitched sniffing at the edges between the stone and frozen plant walls he had created. But unlike the previous animals, this one was more insistent, and clearly not dissuaded by the cold leaves and lack of scent. One of the walls trembled, as if a pressure were being applied to it; then the lower corner cracked and began to fold inwards.

Tarik drew the stone blade he had ground down to an edge while he had been traveling towards the island, and whispered a faint and fast series of notes while sliding his thumb along the flat of the blade. The stone heard the song and responded in a shimmer of pale yellow light, illuminating the small space. If I am to fight, at least allow me to see my enemy….oh.

The young man sighed, shaking his head. “I told you not to follow me,” he whispered, looking down at the small creature that had wriggled its way into his makeshift tent. It looked back up at him as if all was right in the world, trilling again softly, and sitting down in front of him.

Its whiskers twitched as it sniffed the air, and it made a softer, more high-pitched sound this time, opening its tiny mouth and mewing plaintively.

Tarik chuckled, placing the knife beside him so it could keep the room bathed in the dim light. “You’re hungry?” he asked. “Nobody to feed you, hmm? Well, I still have some food left, and judging by your tiny teeth, I’m going to you could probably eat almost anything, but we’ll start you on some fruits first.”

He fished out some of the fruits he had dried and offered them to the animal, but it simply sniffed them, uninterested. So Tarik pulled out some of the cured meat and held it out, and the creature nimbly plucked it from his fingers and began to chew on it voraciously.

“That’s wonderful,” Tarik mused. “So I’m sharing my room with a meat-eater. If I keep you well fed, will you promise not to devour me in my sleep?”

The animal had already finished its small portion of meat and remained sitting, licking its lips until it yawned, walked in a small circle at Tarik’s feet and laid down. It was asleep almost instantly.

Tarik couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “It would seem I have little choice but to trust you,” he whispered. He leaned back against the cool but thankfully smooth rock wall and soon allowed the noises of the jungle lull him into an unexpectedly sound sleep.

When he awoke at first light, he was surprised by how rested he felt in spite of the uncomfortable conditions, but more that he hadn’t been awakened during the night by other predators. Either they had left him alone, or he had been even more tired than he had thought and had managed to sleep through it all. He glanced down at the still-sleeping ball of dark red fur, silently appreciative to the creature for being something of a good luck charm.

As Tarik quietly rummaged again through his pack for what he would need for the day’s exertions, the creature stirred, uttering its usual rolling whistle. He handed the creature another strip of the jerky from its pouch, and the animal sniffed it briefly before chewing it up.

“We have a big day ahead of us, little one,” Tarik said softly. “Today I have to go find material for a sword.”

Saying it aloud made him suddenly aware of the monumental task that lay ahead of him. Although the original task of a potential Sword-Master was to go away until he found mastery over the blade, Tarik had only thought of it in a distant sort of generality. He knew of smithing, he knew how to wield a blade, but in order to come home with a mastered blade, this would require all his education and training, including the effort required to create the sword itself. The magical arts would help him in the heating and shaping of the metal – assuming he found ore worthy of the process – but… there were still so many steps on the path ahead of him, he decided he needed to focus on the step he was now on in order to not succumb to the normal human tendency towards panic.

They enjoyed a brief but quiet morning meal, after which Tarik bundled up what he absolutely needed, leaving himself as light as possible for the climb. He tried to bid a polite farewell to the small creature, but it continued to follow him, so eventually he picked the animal up and set it across his shoulders beneath his hair. The creature held on to the back of his tunic and they set off in the direction of the three old men – specifically, the one which continued to emit its column of angry smoke.

“If there is refined ore in these mountains, that is where I shall find it,” he said to his companion. The animal chirped back a satisfied reply and they followed the rising landscape towards the slopes. As they walked, Tarik explained to his companion about the importance of finding the perfect balance of the right elements. Too much of the softer elements, and the sword would never hold an edge; too much iron, and the sword would shatter. Too few folds when forging and the sword would never be beaten free of impurities. It was a perfect balance, one that all smiths had to master before they could be allowed the privilege of working the forge.

They encountered very little in the way of other animal life, and the only few obstacles were in the actual climb. Between Tarik’s natural physical condition and the occasional dependency upon his magical skills, they made good time, eventually coming to a crevice in the smoking mountain. A crack had formed in the wall of the mountain several dozen meters shy of the summit, and erosion or quakes had widened it to be large enough for Tarik to walk through. The heat was impressive even before they entered, and it was not long before he had to come to a halt. He could feel the hot stone through his handmade shoes, and he knew it would soon begin to harm his feet inside them. But not far ahead of them, through the waves of heat, he could see the bright orange glow of the heated rock inside the mountain, heated to a thick liquid.

He was close enough, he decided.

Every element had at least one song, one indelible melody which rang to its core and could be used to understand it, find it, govern it, all depending upon the variation applied to the melody and the spiritual control of the singer. Tarik had learned many of the songs of the sword – forty-one of the rumored sixty-one – as well as many more songs for the individual components. He needed to summon iron ore, tin, copper, as well as several other minor elements. As he whispered their various tones, he could feel the ambient reflections of their harmonies through his skin. Everything he needed was here, either lining the walls or deep within the roiling molten core.

Tarik pulled a set of three short pieces of bamboo he had specifically prepared for this moment. He held one in each hand, and placed one between his teeth. He readied himself mentally, checking against the impatient exuberance that he could feel pulling him forward like a leaf on the wind. At last, he felt the clarity fill his mind; untouched by distractions, he could feel the songs playing in his mind like a faint symphony. It was time.

The rhythm was first – the heartbeat of Aerthos. He tapped this with his right heel, feeling the gentle impact rise up his leg and play along his body. It was a steady beat, two recurring thumps with a slight pause in between repetitions. The heartbeat of mankind, the heartbeat of the world. One rhythm.

Placing his tongue across the mouthpiece of the bamboo, he started to hum a simple tune. It was the song of sunrise, of sky, of sunset and stars. It was the melody of the Sky People, a song they said was the song that brought the world into life. It was a simple song, but it was a good melody, and all people and creatures in the world recognized it when it was sung to them.

As the song built within him, he struck the two additional pieces of bamboo against the walls of stone in syncopation with the stomped rhythm. Each had been cut to different lengths, matching with the key of the song, and they were long enough that by allowing more or less of the sticks to slide from his grip, the tones changed further. All told, he could strike out twelve different notes between the two pieces of bamboo.

He could hear the metals now, as they caught the notes of his melody and resisted his will. This would be the hardest part, he knew: it was one thing to find the elements, and another thing to convince them.

The bamboo in his lips now whistled to life, tying the parts of his solitary music together. Ahead of him, in the fiery cauldron, the glow intensified, as it struggled to oppose his call. These were wild elements, stubborn and proud. His song changed slightly, introducing himself as an aspiring sword-master, his mind filled with images of protecting the citadels of the Sky People, sword in hand, against innumerable foes.

Unexpectedly, however, the ground began to shake, and an explosion of gases bellowed towards him, knocking him and his animal ally to the ground. His bare arm struck the ground, and he heard before he felt the sizzling of sweat on heated stone. The creature screamed in pain as it hit the stone as well, rolling around in an effort to not put its tender paws down. Tarik quickly scrambled to his feet, dropping one of his bamboo sticks so he could carry the creature safely with him. He ran from the crevice back to the safety of cool air and they did not pause until they were a safe distance away.

The rumbling quieted several minutes later, while they sat down on a rocky outcropping and Tarik examined their injuries. Neither one of them were appreciably harmed, though an angry scarlet welt had risen up on Tarik’s left forearm. He poured water into one hand and gently dipped the animal’s paws in it until the creature seemed calm again, and they remained there to rest for a moment while Tarik pondered his failure.

“I don’t understand,” he said at last to the creature. “I have sung those songs to molten steel before, and sang the elements into armor, weapons, all manner of things. Why would this resist me? How is that even possible?”

The little animal of course said nothing, but regarded him with its dark eyes quietly. A moment later, however, its whiskers twitched nervously, and its tail went rigid. The creature whistled nervously, looking back towards the mountain face.

“No, it’s okay, little one, I’m not going to…” before Tarik could finish his sentence, another shockwave erupted through the ground, and an ear-splitting roar echoed from the mountain top. Smoke, which had previously just been casually drifting up from the top now bellowed out in great gouts, along with an astonishing amount of sparks and ash.

Tarik’s breath caught in his throat. He again reached for the creature, but it spun around in his hand and dropped back to the ground, staring ahead and hissing.

“What is it? What do you…?” But Tarik’s question was answered by itself as a large pair of clawed hands curled out from the center of the mountain’s cone. At last he understood why the magma did not obey him. It was not just liquid stone inside the mountain – something inside there was alive.

As it pulled itself up over the rocky ledge, Tarik could see dark eyes like unforgiving holes above a lizardlike maw, scanning the mountain… for him, he realized. It opened its mouth and roared again, fiery rocks and sparks shooting up and out into the sky. But it was more than noise and fury, Tarik could sense. He had awakened it from hibernation with his song, and it was hungry.

“We have to go, little warrior,” Tarik insisted, picking up the struggling animal and turning to run back down the mountain rubble. Down was easier than up, he recognized, the main concern being foot placement. Most of the way they slid rather than ran, each leaping drop covering a full two or three meters followed by another three or four as the small rocks and pebbles slid along with them in a sort of uncoordinated human landslide.

He dared not look behind him, but he could hear the roaring and impacts of the beast lumbering along after him. Considering its size, Tarik knew it would not be long before it caught them; his only hope was to lose it in the treeline or get it to follow him all the way down to water. Assuming he lived that long, he countered.

In minutes, he covered the space it had taken them hours to climb, and he grabbed onto tree to slow him down and allow himself a moment to steal a glance behind him. The creature was at the top of the scree, smoke still billowing off its glowing scales as it looked down at the fleeing human. It seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to risk losing its footing on the steep slope or take the long way and chance losing its prey. Seeing Tarik standing at the treeline seemed to make its decision for it, and it leaped down the mountainside, angling right for where Tarik was standing. It landed at the halfway mark between them, pointed its snout towards the human and slid the rest of the way.

Whistling the song for air, Tarik took a quick pair of steps to the side, smiling with relief as the gusts blew in behind him and lifted him a fair twenty meters for each additional step. When the fiery monster reached the trees, he was already long gone.

The woods burst into flame as soon as the creature landed among them, and a moment later it was in pursuit of Tarik, leaving a trail of blazing destruction behind it. When he got to the stream near the campsite of the night before, Tarik turned left, following the course of the water downhill. The glow of the monster was bursting through the trees all around him, and Tarik imagined he could already feel its hot breath upon his back. The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears was drowned out by the crushing and tearing of the monster which pursued him through the trees, each moment bringing it closer to catching him.

As far as Tarik could tell, the trees were barely slowing the creature down. He hadn’t gotten a clear look at it, other than its long head and large mouth, a serpentine neck and several legs. He’d counted at least four, there might have been as many as eight, with the front two being longer and more agile than the others.

He hadn’t seen any evidence of this sort of monster on the island, and he wondered how long it had remained dormant before he had awoken it – he also realized with an ache in his chest that it would likely do a great deal more damage to this island, and it was all his fault. He looked down at the small animal in his arm as he ran. That little thing shouldn’t have to suffer for, what had it been? Hubris? Overconfidence? Narcissism?

Who was he to think Aerthos was his to plunder, to take from as he saw fit? He hadn’t considered that side of the quest to be a Sword Master. He had only considered the eventual triumphant return to the Citadel, sword in hand, victorious and proud.

A Sword Master serves the people, he reminded himself. It is not his to wage wars, but to defend against them. The blade swung recklessly can cut the wielder. The metal of the blade must be tempered.

He drew his short knife and hummed the song of fire, slicing it down cleanly through a long stalk of ironvine he saw growing up from the side of his current path. Its free end now began to topple along his own trajectory, and he skidded to a stop so he could catch it as it dropped. It was heavy – nearly as dense as the metal for which it had been named – but he dropped the angularly cut end into the moist soil, humming now the song for terrum, until the soil had taken in a meter of its length. He then lowered the far end like a pike, bringing it to bear just as the bright hot creature burst into view. The point of the ironvine caught the creature in the opened jaw and jammed up into its head. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was enough to slow it down for now.

The impact had broken off a pair of its teeth, one of which landed, hissing upon the ground near Tarik’s feet. It was as half as long as he was tall, but as narrow as his wrist, thin as a blade on one side. He pulled off his pack in a single motion, and tossed it and the small creature he had been carrying safely to one side. Tarik hoped the little creature would have the sense to run away and be safe. He wondered if he had as much sense as that, but doubted it.

Calling again the song of fire, he pushed as much of the heat from the long narrow tooth as he could and picked it up, feeling the balance in his hands.

Steaming hot viscera and the creature’s blood dripped from the end of the tooth where the ironvine had forcefully extracted it. The young fighter gripped it tightly in his hands, even as he felt the searing heat burning his palms and fingers. He then raised his arms, pointing the slightly curved tooth like a great and glowing scimitar towards the angry creature.

“Thank you for your gift,” he said aloud, feeling his warrior’s smile crossing his lips. “I graciously accept.”

He felt naked without his armor, exposed. This was as large a beast as he had ever confronted, and even then he had had the entirety of his armory at his disposal. Now, he had a small knife and a long tooth. Taken at face value, it was going to be a quick battle.

But Tarik M’Haren was not a man to be taken at face value.

Calling up the song of winter, he leaped forward and swung the tooth through the ironvine, now suddenly brittle with frost. It shattered at the end, freeing the beast but keeping the shaft deeply imbedded in the roof of its mouth. By the time he continued to within range of the creature’s molten aura, Tarik was nearly screaming the melody, weaving plates of dense ice across the sheaths of leather and hide that made up his clothing. The cold stung the creature, and it reflexively reared back, exposing its tender underbelly for a series of quick thrusts with the improvised sword.

It managed to pierce the scaled, stone-like texture twice, eliciting new screeches from the beast. It brought one of its arms down to swat away its now pain-inducing enemy, but Tarik rolled quickly away from the attempt. He was back on his feet and blocking the next swing, catching it heavily on a strike which nearly twisted the sword free from his hands.

He gritted his teeth against the impact, wondering how he had gotten away without two broken arms. “You’re strong, sure enough,” he snarled. “But you will not defeat me so easily.”

The melody returned to his lips, dropping the temperature of the area almost instantly by several degrees. He could see the effect the reduced temperature was having on the lava beast, as its skin began to grow darker and take on the aspect of stone. As the air continued to chill, the creature became sluggish, its movements easier to predict. Tarik managed to score a pair of additional wounds, and for a moment started to believe he might actually stop the creature.

As a sudden rumble and explosion of the trees to his left showered him in ash and embers, Tarik felt his confidence leave him in a single whoosh of air.

A second creature arrived, even larger than the first. It opened its mouth with a loud roar and filled the area with bright hot fire, throwing Tarik up into the air. He couldn’t breathe; he could only try to pull his limbs close in the hopes that when the ground came back up to greet him, he might survive.

But it was in fact a tree that stopped his flight, sending him abruptly into the waiting arms of unconsciousness.

His last thought before it all went dark was of the beautiful eyes of the young girl who did not think him worthy.

The ground tasted like blood. And smelled like burning hair. Or maybe it was the other way around, he couldn’t tell at first.

Everything hurt. His face, his back, his legs, his arms. His right foot felt particularly bad, and throbbed with a constancy that suggested it might in fact not be turned in exactly the right way. The ground was pushed down against his face – or perhaps it was the other way around – but before he could sort that out, he became aware of the song.

It was everywhere around him, above him and surrounding him, a dozen dozen voices singing it at once. Different parts merged together, harmonies intertwining, counterpoints and staccato flitting along the sustained core notes, and then switching places and soaring up again into the clouds. It was all elemental music at once, it was everywhere and every moment; it was the song of the universe itself.

The world spun below him. With great effort, he managed to roll over onto his back, sucking in the painful cry the spikes of agony from his leg tried to induce. When he was finally able to shake his hair from his face and make his eyes adjust to the light, what he saw defied his own belief.

There, sitting between him and the two lava creatures, sat the small animal he had fed and carried with him – the same one he had thrown to safety only minutes before. Its back was to him, but it turned briefly and glanced at him while it sang. The two much larger creatures stood side by side, their heads inclined inexplicably in deference to the small animal.

“You…? But – but how?” Tarik at last managed to say. But then he saw the answer for himself. For his small companion was not alone. Far from it. In the branches of all the trees crouched a hundred – a thousand – of the same species, all singing the parts of the great harmony.

 It was beyond an impressive display – it was breathtaking. He could feel their intent – it was a soul-embracing song, spoken to the two fiery creatures, reaching out to touch their minds. Tarik could feel the song sapping the creatures of their anger, of their hunger, and, impressively, willing the creatures back to sleep. As he watched, the song had its effect, and within moments, they turned and lumbered back up the mountainside until they finally crawled back into the core of the mountain and vanished from sight.

The song, as heartbreakingly beautiful as it was, finally slowed, and faded altogether.

Most of the small red and black furred creatures turned and vanished back into the jungle, leaving Tarik alone with his small companion and only a few others. The largest dropped down from one of the trees and briefly nuzzled the small one.

It then walked closer to Tarik and looked the young man over. Whiskers flickering, it looked up to two of the remaining creatures, and chirped at them. They dropped down and moved towards Tarik’s leg.

He began to pull away defensively, but the large creature shook its head.

“Relax, man creature,” the words appeared in his head. “They will heal your paw.”

Indeed, as he heard those words, the two creatures hummed a sequence of soft notes and Tarik felt the bones in his leg realign and seal back into place. The sensation was not without pain, and it was sharp but fleeting.

When he could speak again, Tarik thanked them. The tall creature nodded at him, and then at the two others, giving them permission to follow the others into the depths of the jungle.

“You awakened them, and so they believed you were their meal. We healed them and sent them back to sleep, but you should not wake them again or we will let them eat you.” The voice was very matter-of-fact and there was no anger in its voice whatsoever. Before Tarik could ask a question, it spoke into his mind again. “We call ourselves the barrowisks; it is the name the world gave us, and we choose to keep it. We saw you arrive on our land and sent our son to watch you, and test you.”

“Test me?” Tarik breathed. “And, did I…?”

“You are not food, and you are not our enemy,” the voice explained. “So you have passed, yes. But you do not belong here. We cannot spend our time protecting you, so we will help you leave and return to your people.”

It chirped at another one of the barrowisks, who nodded and ran off into the jungle.

“A tarn will carry you wherever you wish to go,” it explained, “and we will send our son along with you to ensure that you behave appropriately.”

The small barrowisk sat down beside him, his tail swirling contentedly.

“He does not do the man-speak, but he understands. And what he understands, we understand. Do you accept this?”

Tarik nodded. “But… I cannot return to my people yet,” he explained. “I am on a mission. A quest.”

The barrowisk glanced at the others, and they engaged in a brief series of chirps until the tallest turned back to him. “You must do something, then? For what reason?”

“I am to be the Sword Master for my people. Their protector, their guardian. I have to show that I have mastered the weapon in order to be who they need me to be. I - - I have to prove that I am the man they need me to be.”

The creature blinked its dark eyes at him. “But you are a man, are you not?”

“Yes, but a Sword Master has to be….” Tarik paused. Suddenly, he found that sentence very difficult to complete.

“We do not understand that word. Sword Master. We can see the image it creates in your mind – a long, metal claw?”

“Yes.”

“And you must do what with it?”

Tarik moved slowly up until he was sitting on the ground in front of them. “It is….complicated.”

He had the distinct impression that the barrowisk laughed at him. “Nothing is complicated. The world is and is not. You do not see what is in front of you because you are looking away. Perhaps it is not that you must master a sword at all,” it said to him. “Perhaps the sword you are meant to master is yourself.”

A great wind filled the area as a large winged creature landed near them. It had four short legs supporting a broad back covered in dark brown fur, and a great mane from which a face with six eyes and a mandibular-framed mouth projected. Its tail was short but capped in a split fin that looked almost like a fish. 

“Our son will help guide you home,” the barrowisk said. “He will feel where your heart belongs and will lead the tarn to your people. Along the way, you should think of our words. If you do, you will be ready when you arrive.”

One of the others was dragging his pack to them; Tarik stood slowly and picked up the pack, slinging it across both shoulders. He gingerly put weight on his right foot and was pleased to see that it felt as good as ever. The small barrowisk nuzzled the others before climbing back up onto Tarik’s shoulders.

Lastly, the tallest of the band of creatures lifted the long tooth up for Tarik, but the latter did not immediately take it into his hands.

“It is yours, Sword Master,” the barrowisk said. “It will be replaced by others, but it will be a reminder of your journey to our island. And of your debt to us.”

“Of course,” he agreed and took the long tooth, sliding it into the space between his belt and tunic. “Thank you.”

The barrowisk bowed its head slightly. “Thank us by being a good man.”

With a last nod, Tarik climbed up onto the tarn’s back, and in moments they were airborne. The island quickly dropped beneath them, and, wind whistling through his hair, they soared towards the east, in search of his citadel, countless thoughts racing through his mind.

He wondered what his own experiences would add to the mysterious legend of the island of Baril Tor, and whether his stories would keep the unwary well away from its shores. He wondered about the small creature he carried with him; he spent so much time training – training which would only increase if he in fact became the new Sword Master – that he worried he wouldn’t have time to care for him. The sudden realization occurred to him that perhaps the small animal was not meant for him at all, but rather would better befriend another. That thought made him smile. Sjora might not think him so terrible a person if he gave her such a clever and unique gift.

He continued to think upon his failure on the mountain, however. He would definitely need to train harder, longer, more intently. He would never be the man he wanted to be if he continued to allow others to save him.

And above all, one thought prevailed in his mind: he had to be worthy. He would be. He couldn’t accept anything less.

Atop his shoulders, the tiny barrowisk heard all these thoughts and more, sighing softly into the night sky. He feared for his new friend. His stubbornness might fail him, one day. And just like the swords that constantly played through his mind, he would someday need to learn to bend, or one day, he might shatter.

He hoped, for all their sakes that the young man learned to bend.

Learn more of the life of Tarik M’Haren and the world of Aerthos in the Tales of the Dead Man, Book One: Steel & Sky