Fealty

by Gene Bostwick


Templar Jarmon's eyes strained in the  dim light to pick out Lord  March's body.
The debris-laden  cellar smelled  more than  a little  of recent  enchantment, a
honey odor  that hung  in the  dusty air.  Thick, blood-red  wine oozed from the
seams of huge  casks along the  basement's far wall,  and rats with  oddly human
faces stared from the shadows. March had dabbled in strange magics.

Wide pine planks from the deck above hung down with jagged edges, and a long oak
ceiling timber, roughly  hewn and broad  as two men,  lay splintered and  broken
across the stone floor. One end had crushed March's chest.

A shiver ran down  Jarmon's back, not entirely  due to the cold.  He hunched low
and worked his way forward, smudging the patterns of frost that decorated crates
and stores for the coming winter.  His chain mail and braced leather  armor were
not meant for these tight quarters, but the Delfland border was close enough  to
demand caution. As he  neared the body, something  larger than a rat  stirred in
the shadows, and he pulled out his dagger. The rats squealed and retreated,  and
the  shuffling noise  stopped, replaced  by an  eerie quiet.  Jarmon had   heard
stories of how an exposed blade could dampen the effects of magic, but he wasn't
sure what had aided him here, anti-magic, or the simple threat of the weapon.

As he  reached the  body, he  kept his  dagger ready  lest some residual sorcery
still animated  the flesh.  March had.  already stiffened  with rigor.  His eyes
bulged from  the shock  of the  impact, and  blood had  pooled in his mouth. The
tyrant was dead.

Under a shattered  scrap of beam,  the Sword lay  nearby, still sheathed  in its
scabbard. March had stretched out his left hand and clutched the hilt, but  he'd
died before he managed to bare the enchanted blade.

The priests at the Temple of  Dawn had prayed to Aurora for  divine intervention
against Lord March. The goddess had obliged, striking a blow before March  could
react. Her immense fist had shattered the small lodge, piercing roof and  floor,
and pinning  March where  he now  lay. Templar  Jarmon 'glanced  up through  the
jagged hole, half-expecting to see her radiant face. The first stars of twilight
glinted back at him.

He turned his attention to the Sword. The scabbard was splintered and torn,  and
what showed of the long  blade glimmered with intricate scrollwork.  It retained
its  fine twin  edges despite  the mayhem  recently at  work around  it.  Jarmon
brushed a shred of  wood aside and studied  the hilt. Half concealed  by March's
fingers, the only adornment was a simple banner. Mindsword. The Sword of Fealty.

An urge seized him to take it up, and his hand reached out. He stopped short  of
touching it. "Gods devour me," he  cursed, low and angry. "The temple  has sworn
me against you." He glared at the Sword as if it could reply. "The world  cannot
stand another empire from your hand."

The urge diminished, and Jarmon gritted his teeth as he set to work. He used his
dagger to cut through March's arm  at the elbow, a slow, grisly  process without
saw or hatchet. March's  death-grip on the Sword  held, and Jarmon slid  arm and
blade aside. The unearthly quiet lifted abruptly, and sounds of evening  drifted
down to him, cold wind in the pine trees and the flutter of bats' wings. Up  the
canyon behind the ruined lodge, an owl hooted twice.

Other creatures would be prowling  soon, and Jarmon hurried. Starting  under the
arm, he sliced  March's side open  with his blade.  The dead man's  innards were
still soft, and  they bubbled out  as Jarmon cut  through belly and  intestines.
When he reached March's groin, he  paused, sweating from the effort, and  took a
measure.  March had  been a  tall man,  a hand  short of  two meters.  With  the
Mindsword's point shoved through his neck  and into his skull, the weapon  would
just fit inside his body.

Jarmon used March's hand and his own dagger  to set the tip of the Sword at  the
body's neck. A hard shove  drove it7 upward into the  head, and a final kick  of
his boot  buried it  in the  cold flesh.  As March's  body swallowed the weapon,
Jarmon lost any remaining urge to take up the Sword. Jarmon fell back,  panting.
His stomach churned, and the smell clawed at his throat, but he'd completed  the
worst of the job. Satisfied, he felt himself relax.

In the next hour he levered the beam aside and dressed March in fresh  servant's
clothes from the quarters above. As cold seeped into the dead body, the smell of
death  ebbed.  He  borrowed  from March's  finer  wardrobe  to  replace his  own
splattered garments, and cleaned  his mail and leather  with icy water from  the
kitchen cistern.

March's followers  had fled  with his  riding-beasts, but  Jarmon found  a small
wagon and hitched his own mount to the  yoke. With a blanket and a few bales  of
straw to cover the body, he pointed beast and wagon northward and departed  from
Lord March's  once-grand abode.  A half  moon hung  overhead, and  the clear sky
promised a very cold night


Keaf crouched among the scrub oak and watched as the young men from the  village
of Palmora  played a  rough game  of football.  He wanted  badly to  join in the
competition, but Keaf  lived in the  graveyard hut, and  at seventeen he'd  just
inherited his stepfather's profession. Gravediggers were the shunned people,  in
a class with sin-eaters and demon dancers.

Among the players, Lane  was the biggest, and  he used his size  cruelly against
the others. He charged into Kaye, the village barber's youngest son, and knocked
the boy over into  half-thawed mud. Kaye sprang  up, fists clenched and  charged
after the wool-stuffed ball.

The young men didn't like Keaf hanging around, but most of the time they ignored
him in favor  of the game.  Chancing that they  would leave him  alone today, he
toed his own ball around in a  small circle, practicing a few moves as  the game
continued. It felt good to stretch his muscles in the cold.

He'd fashioned his  ball out of  leather taken from  a corpse's tunic,  and he'd
watched Lane  and the  others until  he knew  every play  by heart. He still had
aspirations that extended beyond the cemetery fence, and in those dreams he  was
one of the team, a good player,  admired by his friends. Friends. Keaf had  only
had one in his life, his father,  and he'd buried him six months past.  Time had
dulled the hurt, but it hadn't reduced his need for friendship.

Kaye deflected a pass intended for  Lane and sprinted down the field  before the
bigger lad could catch him. Two teammates helped finish the play, scoring easily
against Evar. The moneylender's  son was too slow  and too lazy to  really play,
but the other boys  knew, even in their  teens, that he was  destined to inherit
power in Palmora.

Lane stormed up  to Kaye after  the goal was  made and cuffed  him alongside the
head. "Cheater!"

Keaf watched from a dozen paces away, excited at the prospect of a fight as Kaye
curled a fist. "It was a fair goal," Kaye shouted.

Lane raised himself  up to tower  above Kaye. "I  say you cheated."  He swung at
Kaye again. Kaye ducked, and Lane sprawled forward into an ice-scaled puddle. It
was too much for Keaf, and he burst out laughing.

Lane scooped a handful  of mud and flung  it. Kaye dodged and  laughed, and Lane
came raging up from the puddle. He lunged at Kaye, missed, and landed in the mud
again. When he lifted his head, he  was only a few paces away, facing  Keaf. His
anger shifted immediately.  "Damn ghoul-lover!" He  flung a stone  at Keafs head
and charged.

"Leave him  alone," Kaye  shouted. "Let's  play ball."  Alone among the villager
boys, he never picked on Keaf, but the others ignored him and followed Lane.

They chased Keaf into the woods with  hurled stones and clots of mud. One  stone
hit  his  back, but  he  was quick,  and  he was  used  to the  forest,  and  he
outdistanced the rest. He wound deliberately through thick brush and over fallen
logs, and the shouts  dwindled behind him. Well  after he'd lost the  others, he
kept running, caught  up in being  a part of  the group, even  if it was  as the
prey. His father  would have laughed  as his foolishness  and warned him  not to
make a  habit of  enjoying it.  We're shunned,  his father  had often  said, but
gravediggers have dignity.

Keaf choked back other  memories and kept going.  Before he knew it,  he cleared
the far side of the woods and burst onto the cart path where he nearly  collided
with a small wagon.

"Whoa, boy," the driver said as his beast skittered. "Where are you rushing to?"

"Home," Keaf stammered, puffing steam in the cold air. He backed away, wondering
why  a  riding-beast  was  hitched  to a  cart,  and  bowed  his  head. "To  the
graveyard," he added. A faint but familiar smell emanated from the wagon, and he
glanced sidelong at the straw in the back.

The man looked  at Keaf with  open surprise. "A  gravedigger?" He turned  to the
east and made  a quick sign  with his right  hand. "Goddess, you  have guided me
true."

Keaf retreated another step, but the man slid to one side of the buckboard  seat
and motioned for Keaf to join him.  "Would you like a ride, then ...  your name,
boy?"

"Keaf," he said, startled. He kept his eyes pointed down at the dirt, mindful of
his proper station.

"Well, Keaf, come along."

"I can't," Keaf said. "I dig graves."

"Too good for  Jarmon's company?" The  words didn't challenge.  "I'll admit that
Templars aren't well received in some circles, but I've never been ostracized by
a gravedigger."

Keaf looked up in bewilderment, and the grin that lit Jarmon's face reminded him
of his father. Underneath his heavy overcoat, the fellow was dressed like a lord
or noble with chain mail and leather armor. A temple banner decorated his chest,
white with  rainbow-fringed edges.  He didn't  seem to  understand the custom of
shunning. "No, my Lord Jarmon," Keaf  said, confused. "I'm the outcast one.  You
can't let me ride with you."

A moment later, Lane and the other  young men charged out of the woods.  The day
was already warming, and their panted breaths dissipated quickly. "There he is,"
Evar wheezed. He bent low, gasping for air as he pointed with a stubby hand.  As
Lane led and  the others advanced,  Keaf jumped behind  the wagon, ready  to run
again. The smell was worse there, and  he spied the edge of brown blanket  under
the straw.

When Lane was a few steps away, Jarmon stood and pulled a long bright blade from
the sheath at his side. "Do you have business with me?" he asked. His voice  was
loud and booming deep.

"Not you," Lane said.  "But that ghoul-lover is  going to learn who  his betters
are." He pointed with a thick hand, and someone threw a stone. It hit the  wagon
and disappeared in the straw.

"And I think my friend  Keaf and I will be  going." Jarmon pointed his sword  at
Lane's chest.

Lane stepped back. "You can't defend him, he's shunned." His voice was close  to
whining. "We need to teach him a lesson."

"Ten against one," Jarmon growled. "I think you'd better reconsider." He twisted
the reins of his beast  around a notch in the  seat and hopped to the  ground in
one smooth motion. His size hadn't been  apparent until then, but he was a  head
taller than Lane and  broader at the shoulders.  "You had better run  along home
and think about whom you bully."

Lane dropped his stone, and all the boys retreated before Jarmon's glare. "We'll
get you,  Keaf," Lane  said. He  turned on  his heels  and led  his fellows back
toward the woods.

After they disappeared into the trees, Keaf came around and bowed before Jarmon.
"My Lord. I can never repay you."

"Well, now," Jarmon  said, "I think  you can." He  reached over the  side of the
wagon  and raised  the blanket  enough to  reveal a  body. "Even  with the  cold
nights, old Wend is growing foul. I've been traveling north these past two  days
looking for a good omen on where to bury him, and I have found my omen in  you."
He let the cover fall and brushed a handful of straw over it.

Jarmon hiked himself back onto the wagon seat. "Don't waste more time, boy."  He
offered a hand and plucked Keaf off his feet as he pulled him up. "Now where  is
this graveyard of yours?"

Keaf pointed down the road. "Not more than ten minutes' walk, and then take  the
lane up toward the Ludus Mountains."

The riding-beast pulled them along quickly, and Keaf was glad they traveled into
the wind. As they reached the trail up to the graveyard, Palmora came into  view
down the valley. Dormant winter air and  too many fireplaces made for a band  of
gray haze over  the jumble of  cottages and shacks,  but a few  larger buildings
stood out.

"A crossroads?" Jarmon asked.

"A branch of the Eastern Highway  comes along the foothills here. It  connects a
few villages."  Keaf rocked  nervously on  the seat,  unused to  being close  to
people, and  especially not  someone like  Jarmon. At  the same  time, there was
something familiar  about the  Templar, an  air of  quiet trustworthi-ness  that
continued to remind Keaf  of his father. "The  graveyard's just up the  way," he
said. "I can run on ahead and start digging."

"Easy,  boy," Jarmon  said. His  huge hand  found Keafs  shoulder and  squeezed.
"After this long, my friend in the back isn't in that big a hurry."

"Why bring him  so far?" Keaf  asked. As soon  as he said  it, he remembered his
father's admonition against questioning people.  You won't like what you  learn,
his father would say.

"Wend was a  faithful servant," Jarmon  said. "He was  born near the  mountains,
though he never said exactly where, and he requested that he be buried near them
when his time came."

As they turned up the path, a gust of wind carried the smell of rot, and  Jarmon
covered his mouth and  nose. Even this late  in the season, flies  buzzed in the
straw. The clouds of the past few days had gone, and the sun was at work.  "It's
time to lay old Wend to rest," he said.

Keaf looked back and  wondered. There were plenty  of mountains in this  part of
the country, and  one hardly had  to travel for  two days to  reach them. But he
held back any more questions.

They followed the trail Up to the base  of steep foothills and reached the  tree
shaded graveyard. A neat split-rail fence surrounded the cemetery proper.  Keafs
father had worked hard to build it, to give the place a respectable quality, and
•Keaf maintained it out of that  respect. Every grave was neatly squared  off by
small stones, and an orderly pile of rocks waited to mark the new digs. Keaf had
seen many  a body  laid to  rest here,  and he'd  buried some  five souls in the
months since his father had died. The ground was a series of names and faces  to
him, a macabre resume of his family's works.

"I have a good spot for him," he said. "One that looks up toward the peaks."

"Fine," Jarmon said, somber now that his task was nearly ended.

Keaf hopped  down and  reached for  the body  to haul  it over to the gravesite.
Wend's left arm was missing below the elbow-oddly, his sleeve was neither pinned
up nor cut short-and his chest  looked caved in, perhaps from long  sickness. He
didn't look old. Keaf had him half upright before Jarmon stopped him.

"You get to digging," Jarmon said. "I'll bring him."

Keaf looked  at him  and frowned.  "He's too  many days  dead. You don't want to
touch him."

Jarmon's expression agreed, but he insisted. "I'll do it. Go dig."

As Keaf let the body back down  he was surprised at the stiffness in  the torso.
Wend's head remained straight  and facing forward as  if it were on  a spit. All
the strange things  about the body  added up in  Keafs head, but  he ignored the
mysterious total  in favor  of Jarmon's  story. His  father had  taught him  the
importance of trust, and Keaf wanted to trust the Templar.

It took little time to dig the hole. The frosts of winter hadn't penetrated very
far, and Keaf knew how to break the  ground and make it yield. He squared out  a
hole a meter and four hands deep and extra long for Wend's height.

Jarmon sat on the rear  of the wagon and watched  until Keaf was ready to  climb
out. "Deeper," he said. "I want two full meters of good soil on him."

Warning words sounded  in Keafs head.  Two meters- twenty  hands, as his  father
said, was the demon's deep. He scrambled out of the hole and gripped his  shovel
like a staff. "I won't bury a devil-held soul in my cemetery."

Jarmon's expression hardened. He stood slowly  and drew his sword. "Lad, I  will
only tell you once. No  devil or demon possesses this  body. I have sworn on  my
Templar's oath to see him buried. He will rest in that hole this day, even if  I
have to lay you alongside him."

Trapped between Templar sword and  graveyard demon, Keaf felt the  confrontation
smoulder.  An urge  told him  to run,  but his  father's wisdom  held him  fast.
Trouble was  like a  weed. The  longer you  ignored it  the bigger  it grew.  He
considered Jarmon's words and tried to imagine a truth that would fit them. What
could be so awful, other than a  possessed soul, that it required two meters  of
earth to bury it?

Finally,  Jarmon lowered  his blade.  "Please, Keaf.  I give  you my  word as  a
Templar of the Goddess of Dawn. No evil spirit possesses this body. It's just  a
custom in some parts to bury bodies deeper."

Keaf let his instinct to trust the Templar win. More than ever, Jarmon  reminded
him of his father, a big  man whose soft-spoken words carried truth  and wisdom.
He felt  the tension  inside him  drain away,  and he  let out  a long breath. A
little more depth wouldn't take long.


With the last of the dirt patted into place, Keaf went to select some stones  to
mark the grave. Other than carrying  the body over and laying it  carefully into
the hole, Jarmon had watched from the wagon seat. Now he stood.

"No stones, boy. I don't want the grave marked."

"But how will anyone know where it is?"

Jarmon let  out a  long sigh  and ran  a hand  through his graying hair. "You're
smart enough  to realize  that Wend  didn't die  under usual  circumstances," he
said. "I don't want to bring his troubles down upon your head. With luck, no one
will know he's here." Jarmon pulled a small sack from under his tunic and  shook
it. Metal coins clinked. "How much do you get for a burial?"

Keaf ran a dirty hand through his hair  and used the sweat to wipe away some  of
the grime. "I get five coppers usually, but this was deeper digging." He thought
of demons again, and his shoulders bunched.

"Will three gold delvars do?" Jarmon held out the coins, large and shiny in  the
afternoon sun.

Keafs lips  pursed into  a reflex  whistle, and  he nodded.  He didn't know what
delvars were, but three of them  looked like a king's treasure. He  hurried over
and held out his hand.

"Good," Jarmon said. He let the coins clink one at a time into Keafs palm,  then
he moved to the front of the  wagon and unhitched his mount. "And I'll  throw in
this cart if you'll promise to lay another grave atop that one in the spring."

Keaf understood now,  and he didn't  argue. Wend, one-armed  and stiff as  a rod
from waist to neck, was no servant,  and Jarmon wanted to make sure that  he was
never discovered. A lord, perhaps, murdered and spirited away by an usurper.  Or
an enemy of Jarmon's temple-that would explain the Templar's presence. "I will,"
he said.

"You're a  good lad,"  Jarmon said  as he  saddled his  riding-beast. "Don't let
those bullies push you around. Take them one at a time and show them you're  not
afraid, and they'll respect you after that."

Keaf snorted laughter. "Lane will beat me into the ground. He's done it before."

"You're quicker than he  is," Jarmon said. "Big  men tire fast. Stay  out of his
grasp for a little while, and he'll fall like any of the others." He mounted and
pulled his beast around toward the path. "Take care, boy."

Coming from the Templar, it sounded  sensible, like the advice Keats father  had
always given. Keaf felt  a rise in his  confidence that lasted until  Jarmon was
halfway down the road. Then he ran to hide the coins before Lane and the  others
came around.


Keaf lay on  his cot next  to the crude  stone hearth and  watched orange sparks
dance over the fire.  Quiet on the outside,  inside he fought a  battle with his
morals. Jarmon had been gone for two days, and still all Keaf could think  about
was the secret he  buried with Wend. In  his imagination he saw  not devils now,
but treasure. Treasure that could mend many wounds.

The deepest scars in Keafs life were not those from mud and stones. Shunning cut
wounds  that never  healed, wounds  in the  mind and  wounds in  the heart.   He
survived as  his father  had, by  growing a  tough hide,  by callousing over his
emotions and his thoughts so that each subsequent injury hurt a little less.

Was it fair that he  had to live alone and  away from everyone else? Was  it his
fault that he'd been left on  this particular hut's doorstep, a baby  abandoned?
It wasn't unusual in these parts for unwed mothers to give their children to the
shunned folk instead of the wolves, but which was the worse fate?

More than anything  in life, Keaf  wanted to be  a part of  the village, to have
companions,  to share  laughter and  raise a  mug. And  he wanted  a wife.   His
thoughts turned to the blacksmith's daughter, Toya, with her long yellow  braids
and slender body. If he  could have her, all the  world would be perfect. If  he
could have  her? Hah-if  he were  rich and  powerful, perhaps.  If he had Wend's
treasure.

Keaf had believed Jarmon's story, not so  much in the facts, but in the  message
behind it. Wend carried  some important secret to  his grave, a secret  that the
Templar had thought  it vital to  hide. But was  that fair to  Keaf, to put  the
burden on him without the reward?

The waxing moon rose  above the eastern hills,  and a shaft of  light cut across
Keafs straw bed. Sleep was as far away  as the moon, and he rolled to his  feet,
pulling his tattered wool blanket  around his shoulders. Outside, the  night was
quiet with winter chill. Wood smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent  of
fresh dirt.  Down in  the village,  families snuggled  together with friendship,
closeness, love. All things that Keaf had barely tasted.

His eyes  strayed across  the cemetery  to the  fresh grave.  The frost would be
working deep into the loose soil by now, and the worms would have found Wend  to
be a  ready feast.  And Wend's  treasure would  serve no  one. Keaf  grabbed his
shovel.


Wend's body  had collapsed  under the  pressure of  the dirt,  and his left side
oozed with the  stench of rotting  innards. Keaf cleared  away the worst  of it,
rising frequently  to gasp  cold clear  air. The  longer it  took, the  more his
determination wavered. Jarmon had trusted him. Whatever secrets this body  held,
they were meant to remain  here. But what good was  treasure to a dead man,  and
what harm would a little prosperity do to a gravedigger?

Keaf  straddled  Wend  and began  to  search.  He found  nothing  in  the ruined
clothing, not even  the usual bits  and scraps of  a servant man,  until he felt
along  the  body  and discovered  the  gash  in the  left  side.  Something hard
protruded, a knob of  metal, a dagger, perhaps.  Was that how Wend  had died? He
sucked a deep breath and tore open the shirt.

The odor of death reached out. Worms crawled in Wend's ruined flesh, and maggots
thrived in festering lumps despite the days underground. Keaf stood, his stomach
sick, and waited for the revulsion to pass. After the cold air cleared his head,
he went for  the metal knob.  As he pulled,  Wend's body twisted,  and a meter's
length of slime-covered blade slid free. From down in the village, a brief  roar
rose up, as though everyone were cheering for some champion.

On impulse, Keaf held up the blade,  and his head reeled with a strange  feeling
of  triumph,  like a  warrior  at the  end  of a  great  battle, or  a  traveler
completing a long journey.  The beauty of the  sword captivated him despite  the
filth that masked it. It was the finest metal he'd ever seen, and its edge split
the moonlight like a silken thread. As he studied the small banner emblazoned on
the hilt, something moved at his feet.

Wend's remaining hand  moved slowly up  in a death  salute, i Keaf  slammed back
against the dirt side of the deep pit. j "Demon!" he screamed. He scrambled  out
of the  hole with  the sword  and stumbled  over his  shovel. As  he fell to his
knees, his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. "Gods forgive me, I've
loosed a demon!"

Dry maple leaves swirled around him,  and the owls up the canyon  hooted frantic
calls into the night. The earth between Keafs hands heaved and puffed a wisp  of
smoke.  A sulphurous  odor betrayed  the doom  that stalked  him. Creatures   of
darkness and  death would  take him  to their  deepest hell  and torture him for
eternity.

A scaly arm burst from the crack in the ground. Keaf pitched to the side  before
it clutched him, and a body emerged, a thing more hideous than Keafs imagination
could ever  invent. It  was the  yellow of  a dead  man's eyes, a deranged human
shape with  bent limbs  and bloated  belly. Sulphur  stench enveloped  it, and a
constant moan quivered within its breast.

Keaf couldn't breathe to cry out his  terror, nor could he find the strength  to
flee. His bladder  emptied, and tears  leaked from his  eyes. Jarmon had  warned
him, but he had not listened. His father had raised him to respect the wishes of
others and to live by his word, but he'd done neither of those tonight. He would
die a fool's death with the taste of guilt on his tongue.

The demon floated a foot off the ground and looked down at Keaf with black holes
for eyes.  "You summoned  a demon,"  it thundered.  A rending  sound of breaking
bones accompanied each word, and its face twisted through imitations of all  the
people that  Keaf and  his father  had buried.  "This is  my death-yard, mortal.
Would you have it?"

Keaf found the barest trace of voice. "You possessed Wend's body?"

"No." An agony-twisted face appeared in the bony plate of the demon's chest, and
the moaning grew louder until it vibrated in Keafs head. "This one I possess."

The moan  became a  scream, and  Keaf covered  his ears.  "Stop!" he  cried. "It
hurts. Please, stop!"

"At your command," the demon said. It opened its mouth, and a long black  tongue
reached out to carve a rent in its chest. Red ichor sprayed outward,  spattering
the ground at  Keafs feet. He  skittered back and  held the sword  across him as
some meager protection. The opening in  the demon's chest widened, and the  body
of a naked woman, raw red and  hairless, spilled out. She moaned as she  hit the
earth and raised her head to look at Keaf with bottomless red eyes. Then she lay
still.

"You can  have her  now," the  demon said.  It settled  back to  the ground  and
hunched forward until its  head nearly touched the  ground at Keafs feet.  "What
would you have me do? Bodies broken? Enemies tortured? Command my cruelty."  Its
voice rasped in Keafs ears.

Keaf shuddered at the idea of choosing his own fate. Body broken? Torture?  What
else would the demon do  to him? He hugged the  sword to his chest and  wept. "I
beg you, spare me," be sobbed. "Go away, and I will never call you again. Begone
to the furthest hell and spare me."

"Done!" The demon reared up  tall as an oak and  sucked all the fire and  stench
back inside its body. "Fare you carefully, lord and master," it said.

As it sunk back into the earth, a great whirlwind surrounded the graveyard,  and
the edges of the  sky burned with fire.  Keaf curled into a  ball, awaiting sure
death, and prayed for the salvation of his soul.


Keaf awoke with a pain in his side,  and he rolled over to find the hilt  of the
sword caught in his shirt. Dawn was close,  and a cold mist hung in the air.  He
sat up and  rubbed at the  very real pain  in his temples.  Inexplicably, he was
still alive.

Close by, a flock of crows had gathered on the mound of dirt beside Wend's  open
grave. A good sign. Crows avoided demons. Looking around, he saw the woman.  She
lay where  she'd fallen,  a tangle  of arms  and legs  and bright pink skin with
alluring curves. Pink, not  red, and a head  of long black hair  where there had
been none. A crow lifted from the  grave site and fluttered over to land  beside
her. Its beady eye stared for a moment,  and then it pecked at her arm and  drew
fresh blood.

Keaf pushed to his feet. "Get away, damned bird!" He lurched forward on  cramped
legs. The crow hopped once, eyed Keaf up and down, and flew off with the  others
to circle noisily overhead.

Keaf knelt beside  the woman and  pressed a finger  on the nick  in her arm. The
blood was warm, but she was very  cold. He scooped her up-digging had given  him
strong  arms- and  carried her  to his  shack as  the crows  returned to   their
decomposed feast.

Rekindled fire, fetched water, corn mush  and the last of a trapped  pheasant, a
too-large shirt and trousers  to cover her nakedness.  In an hour Keaf  had done
the meager things he knew to do, and the woman seemed to rest comfortably on his
bed. Other than a twitch or two, she hadn't moved.

He settled by the fire and nibbled  at the pheasant, and he had time  to wonder.
Last night might  have been a  dream except for  the person now  in his bed. The
demon had been  almost servile in  the way it  dumped out the  woman, and it had
spared him when he begged. Lord and master, it had said. But that made no sense.
Perhaps the sword had scared it away. The Sword. He dropped his bowl and  dashed
out the door.

It lay in the graveyard where he'd dropped it, glearning in spite of the smudges
and dirt. He  picked it up  carefully and wiped  both sides of  the blade on his
sleeve, fraying the coarse cloth along the sharp edges. Patterns danced deep  in
the metal, swirling and looping in  designs that almost looked like words.  Keaf
gripped the hilt, and  once again he felt  a power within himself,  and he heard
the distant  roar of  the crowd.  His father  had told  him stories of magic, of
mighty wizards and strange  beasts, but Keaf had  always taken them to  be fairy
tales. Might as well fancy himself a king. But this Sword cried out with  magic.
It had to be worth very much gold.

He glanced at the  open grave, decided Wend's  body could wait, and  returned to
sit by the fire. The woman still slumbered. He planted the blade's point between
his feet and leaned his chin on the pommel in what he supposed was a very  royal
pose. Before he knew it, he drifted off to sleep.


"My Lord."

The words nudged Keaf awake, and he  opened his eyes to find the woman  kneeling
at his feet. As she bowed her head, her long black hair fanned forward to  touch
his moccasins. Words  stuck in his  throat, and his  mouth hung open.  The woman
looked up and smiled, and her face went from ordinary to beautiful.

"You saved me,"  she said. Gold  flecks twinkled in  the dark green  other eyes,
there was an earthy aroma to her that was not bad. "You banished Gemlech."

"I did?" Keaf didn't remember it that way. "Are you all right?"

"After two hundred seventy-six years in a demon's chest?" She stretched her arms
and scratched at the sides other head. "I could be worse."

Keaf watched  her body  move and  his heart  galloped with  a different  sort of
terror. He'd never been so close to  a living woman, and though he'd explored  a
few dead bodies, she was an exotic mystery to him. He fumbled a cup of corn mush
from the pot and  snatched the pheasant's carcass  from near the fire.  "Are you
hungry?"

She  looked at  the grimy  mush and   greasy bird  and nodded.  "If my  Lord  is
through."

"I'm just  Keaf," he  said, embarrassed  by her  words. "Please,  take what  you
want."

"My name is Dellawynn."  She sat back on  her haunches as she  took the pheasant
and tore hungrily at it.

"I don't know how we survived last  night," Keaf said. "But I saw you  come from
the demon's chest."

Dellawynn's look grew distant. "I caused a lot of mischief once. The gods wanted
to punish me."

"I thought that monster was going  to kill me," Keaf said. "Something  must have
changed its mind."

"It was you," Dellawynn answered through a mouthful of mush. "You made him  give
me up and banished him."

Keaf was  dubious at  best. And  Dellawynn's reaction  seemed to  fit in a fairy
tale. The princess  is rescued by  the prince, she  is eternally grateful,  they
fall in love, and live happily ever after. This would be the middle part.

"If I may ask, my Lord," Dellawynn said, "when do we depart for your castle  and
keep?"

Keaf looked around his  hut and felt his  elation at having a  woman's attention
collapse. This was where she discovered he was a gravedigger, a shunned man.  He
pointed wordlessly at the hut's bleak walls.

Dellawynn's eyes  followed his  gesture. She  set down  the pheasant's bones and
empty bowl, and  a small sigh  escaped her lips.  "If this is  your home, then I
know my purpose. I will help you get a castle." She reached out and touched  his
knees, leaning forward so that Keaf saw  the curve of her breasts. She was  much
more woman than Toya, the blacksmith's daughter. "I once brought the kingdom  of
Delfland down in fire, and I made  the Prince of Borhas give up his  crown," she
continued. "Getting  you a  castle and  servants and  treasures shouldn't be too
difficult, and I will be your queen  if you will have me." She looked  down, but
the hint of a smile lingered on her lips.

"But this is all I have," Keaf said. "I dig graves."

"Why don't you go somewhere else then? Start over?"

Keaf had once asked his father that  same question, and the answer had made  him
proud. Only a decent, honest person  can be a gravedigger, his father  had said.
Any lesser man would run from  the responsibility and the burden. Keaf  believed
that to his soul. "I  am Keaf," he said. "I  dig graves. I don't know  how to be
anyone else."

"Then I shall serve  you here, if that  is your wish. I  am bound to you,  and I
cannot think but thoughts of you." Del-lawynn's hands slid up his legs and found
his groin. Less than gently, she tugged at him and reached for the twist of rope
that held his trousers.

"Wait!" Keaf sprang to his feet and pulled his belt tight. Dellawynn's  boldness
scared him worse than  demons. "I think I  need to tend the  fire. ... I have  a
grave open. ... I have to wait. ..."

Dellawynn managed to look understanding. "I  have offended you, my Lord. I  will
go make myself better able to serve you." She stood and bowed like a noble. "May
I have your leave, my Lord?"

"Please," Keaf stammered. "Don't go  on my account. I mean  you .. . you can  if
you want, but you don't have to."

"I think it best for now," she said. She marched to the door and was gone.


Keaf was nearly done  refilling Wend's grave when  a stone hit him  in the back.
The pain  made him  turn, cursing,  and he  saw Lane,  fat Evar, and three other
village boys at the cemetery fence.

"Digging up your  supper?" Lane sneered.  He reared back  and let another  stone
fly,  sailing  it  high over  Keafs  head.  Evar's throw  was  better,  but Keaf
deflected it with his shovel.

"Is that  shovel your  sword?" Lane  asked. He  kicked at  the fence and knocked
loose the top rail.

Keaf dropped his shovel, ready to fight. A stone caught him in the elbow, and  a
sting ran like fire up  his arm. He snatched up  the rock and hurled it  back as
hard as he could. It caught Evar square in the forehead, and the boy dropped  to
the ground.

"Damn you!" Lane shouted, and they charged.

Keaf dashed for his  hut and slammed the  door behind him. As  he leaned against
the coarse wooden slab,  he looked desperately around  the room. The hut  had no
other exit, no windows, and only a small chimney hole in the roof. And he  could
never hold the door against four people. Pushed by fear, he grabbed the Sword as
the door burst inward.

The boys stopped, Lane with his fist raised to throw, as Keaf held up the Sword.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," Keaf pleaded. "It was an accident. I'm sorry...."

Lane lowered  his hand,  a look  of surprise  plain on  his face.  "We should be
sorry, Keaf. I mean Master Keaf. Can you ever forgive us for attacking you?"

Keaf couldn't discern  any sign of  a trick. The  other young men  dropped their
stones and cowered behind  Lane with their heads  lowered. One of them  began to
recite a prayer of repentance. Keaf had  never held a real sword before, and  he
understood suddenly  why Templars  and knights  garnered such  respect. The mere
sight of the weapon could cow one's enemies. "I'll use it," he said uncertainly.

Lane turned pale and backed into the others. "We'll do anything," he said. "Just
tell us."

Keaf wondered if he'd changed somehow, if  the weapon in his hand made him  look
bigger and stronger. He took a step  forward and leveled the blade. "Get out  of
my hut and my cemetery, and don't come back."

The group rushed to depart, knocking  the door off its hinges. Keaf  hurried out
and called after them. "Don't forget Evar. Make sure he's all right."

One  of the  young men  darted over   to Evar's  side and  helped him  up.  Evar
staggered sideways, blood flowing down his face. "Damn," he cried. "Did you  see
what he did to me?"

Lane rushed over, nearly choking with  horror. "Quiet, Evar! Can't you see  that
he's a great warrior? You'd be lucky to lick his boots!"

Evar paused, holding his head, and then remarkably, he agreed. "Oh ... I see.  I
didn't know...."  The others  hurried him  away, glancing  backward as they went
down the trail. Remorse filled their eyes, and something akin to sorrow.

It was a look that Keaf knew too well.


Keaf sat in a patch  of warm sun on the  hillside above the cemetery, the  Sword
across his lap.  Confusion twisted his  thoughts like wind  swirling through the
fir trees. If there was magic within the blade, it seemed to affect everyone but
him. Or perhaps only him. Would he know if he were under an enchantment?

Learn to use it, or get rid of it as quickly as possible. Two choices, one  hard
decision. Krohn, Evar's father, would have the money to buy it, but Keaf  didn't
think it wise to approach the man just now, not after this morning's fight.  Use
it, then. " But he was no warrior, and he had no desire to be one. If this blade
could win him friends, well, that would be one thing, but he suspected that  the
sudden change  in Lane  and the  others wouldn't  last, and  they would be back,
angrily in search of vengeance.

Best then to put the Sword away, somewhere safe and well hidden, and search  out
a buyer. Three days east, there were  mages in Amon City, and there was  the Red
Temple a week  to the north.  It would be  a long trip,  but frozen ground would
soon idle him until spring, and he could hunt along the road as easily as  here,
perhaps better.

His plans set, he started down the hill. Halfway to his hut, he heard a  whining
voice and spotted two people coming up  the path from the village. If they  were
coming to punish him, they were fewer than he'd expected.

He hid in the  shadow of the trees  until he recognized Del-lawynn's  long black
mane. She'd found other clothes,  leather skirt and laced sandals,  a sleeveless
tunic of purple  cloth, and a  wide belt that  glinted with silver.  And a sword
that she  held at  a man's  back. It  was Krohn,  Evar's father,  and he  whined
steadily about abduction and false pretenses.

Keaf trotted down  to the cemetery  fence. At the  bottom end of  the graveyard,
Dellawynn stopped the little man's crying with a poke of her sword.

"My Lord," she called to Keaf, "I have brought you this swine from Palmora. He's
the richest man I  could find in that  sty of a village,  and he can help  build
your castle."

Krohn looked around for  someone other than Keaf.  "You said he was  a king. You
forced me all this way to  meet this worthless gravedigger?" He turned  red with
anger. "I demand you release me. I am a powerful man...."

Dellawynn poked him in  the chest with a  finger, and he stumbled  and landed on
his backside. "What shall I do with him, my Lord Keaf?"

Keaf hurried  over, hoping  he could  make amends  with Krohn  before the  whole
village was  up in  arms. The  little man  scooted backward  from Dellawynn  and
bumped into Keafs legs. Keaf could smell his fear like oily sweat.

As Krohn  looked up,  he spotted  the Sword  in Keafs  hand, and  his expression
changed. "My dearest young man!" He climbed to his feet and clasped Keaf by  the
shoulders. He was a full head shorter, in part because of the crook in his  back
that some said  was from hunching  over his money  box too long.  "I had no idea
that you  wanted a  castle. I  think it's  the finest  idea I've ever heard." He
turned a rusty smile  on Dellawynn. "And you!  You might have told  me that this
fellow was royal blood. Obviously, he's been sent out to prove himself among  us
common folk."

Keaf thought he'd  been confused before,  but this was  unbelievable. "I'm sorry
about Evar. I didn't mean to hurt him...."

Krohn's laugh grated like  the chatter of the  crows. "Forget that lazy  boy. He
needs to learn  manners, and he  should know better  than to bother  a gentleman
like you."

Dellawynn prodded Krohn again. "What about that treasure?"

"Certainly. If Master Keaf would like, I can bring it up here. It's quite a pile
of gold." Krohn's face pinched in thought.  "It might be safer to keep it  in my
strong boxes and simply give you the keys."

Keaf had heard of insanities and  maledictions of the mind, but he'd  never seen
anyone  afflicted.  Maybe this  was  Krohn's secret  to  wealth. Total  madness.
"You're most kind," he  said as he detached  himself from the small  man's grip.
"But maybe you'd better go home now. Your family will be worried." He looked  at
Dellawynn, hoping  she'd understand.  Sooner or  later, Krohn  would come to his
senses, and then...

Krohn's expression dropped, and  Dellawynn stepped up to  take his arm. "I  will
see  that  he  gets there  safely,  my  Lord Keaf."  She  licked  her lips,  and
mischievous  fire danced  in her  dark eyes  as she  unbuckled a  finely  tooled
leather scabbard from her  side. "And then I  will come back to  serve you." She
stepped up and strapped the leather  around Keafs waist, and her hands  lingered
on his hips a bit longer than necessary.

Keaf swallowed hard and motioned them away. As Dellawynn and Krohn tramped  back
down the  trail, he  thought he  was beginning  to sort  out this day's madness.
Somehow the demon had changed him so that everyone saw not Keaf the gravedigger,
but a great lord, maybe even a king. At his hut he grabbed the water bucket  and
set it between his feet. As the water settled, he bent to look at himself.

No  majestic  features,  no  special  fire  in  his  hazel  green  eyes. Nothing
different. Just the adopted son of a gravedigger with a smudge on his left cheek
and stubbly hair on his  chin. He sat down hard  and shook his head. Was  it the
Sword then? He picked up the  blade and examined its mottled surface.  The faint
roar resounded, from a distance, and yet from within the metal. Could it  affect
men's minds? It seemed  a stretch of imagination,  but Keaf knew little  of such
things.

At arm's  length it  glimmering, beckoning.  Let the  crowd cheer  for Keaf  the
gravedigger. Let them  pay for shunning  him and his  father and all  those like
him. Let them see how it feels to be less than worthy, less than equal. He shook
his head to clear away the ugly thoughts, and slid the Sword into the  scabbard.
Maybe he could learn its power, but he would have to be careful how he used it.


Keaf paused at the edge of the village as angry voices rose in a commotion  from
below. His self-confidence faltered as he  imagined a mob preparing to come  for
him, but he was determined to discover what magic he held sheathed at his  side.
If he was right about the Sword, no crowd could withstand it.

On the main  street, he spotted  the mob outside  the inn. Innkeeper  Ganton was
Lane's  father,  and he  stood  tall above  the  others as  he  raised a  sickle
overhead. Cornered against the wall, Dellawynn faced them defiantly while  Krohn
cowered behind her.

"You  stole that  sword from  one of  my patrons,"  Ganton said.  "And left  him
without a stitch of clothing."

"She threw stones in my mill when I would not give her bread," old Hagga  added.
Welk, the  thatch-cutter, accused  her of  seducing his  son. Dellawynn had been
busy for one day.

"Harlot!" another old woman shouted. "She's cast a glamour on Krohn!"

A stone flew and hit the wall near Dellawynn's head. She slashed with her sword,
but the crowd didn't back down.

"She'll have to be  burned," Ganton said. Welk  held up dry bristle  and thatch,
ready to light.

Ignored, Keaf marched to within a dozen  steps of the mob and planted his  feet.
"Stop!" he shouted over the noise. "She's with me!"

Heads turned, and  mouths gaped. Someone  laughed and lobbed  a stone that  fell
short of Keafs feet.

"Get back to  your graves," Ganton  sneered. It was  easy to see  where Lane had
gotten his manner.

Keaf held his  ground and pulled  out the Sword.  As he raised  it, the sound of
cheering  drowned out  all other  noise, not  with volume,  but with  undeniable
energy. "I command you to leave her alone," he said.

Incredulous looks turned to  adoration, and those nearest  to Keaf knelt to  the
ground. Murmured praises  rose up-my lord,  my liege, prince,  and king-and Keaf
knew that any of them could be true. He only had to wish it.

"Ganton," he called out.

The big man stepped forward and pulled his cap from his head so that the balding
spot showed as he bent low. "Sir?"

Keaf reached into his pocket and tossed a gold coin at the man's feet. "I'd like
your best room for the night."

"Any room, my young master," Ganton said, bending for the coin. "The inn, if you
desire it. I would gladly make it a gift to you."

Keaf listened for strain in Ganton's voice, some indication that he suffered for
his sudden devotion, but his  words were completely sincere. A  consoling magic,
at least for  those it spelled,  but it robbed  Keaf of much  of his feeling  of
vengeance.  He  supposed  he  could command  them  to  suffer,  even to  inflict
suffering upon each other, but that  would bring no better satisfaction, and  it
made him feel uneasy to realize it was possible.

Dellawynn  joined his  side, and  the crowd  cheerfully escorted  them into  the
tavern hall of the inn.

"I had no  idea who you  were before this,"  Ganton said. At  the serving bar he
ordered his bartender to pour his best brew.

"A king's son," Krohn  declared. "He must be  out to prove himself."  He waved a
finger at Keaf and grinned. "You can't fool us, young sir."

"Or he's on a mission," Ganton said,  pulling at his ruddy beard. "Are you  on a
quest,  Master Keaf?  We can  help, you  know. We  can do  quite a  lot here  in
Palmora."

"I  only  want  a room  and  a  good meal,"  Keaf  said.  Those were  enough  to
demonstrate his newfound power.

"And so you shall have them," Ganton said.

Lane  and Kaye  returned with  a freshly  killed silver  boar, and  a feast  was
declared in Keafs  honor. He'd tasted  bitter ale once  or twice, but  the heady
stout that Ganton served made the room too warm and the laughter too easy.

Every girl of the village knelt at  his feet to praise him during the  course of
the evening,  including Toya,  who seemed  far too  sweet to  be bound by magic.
Dellawynn chased them all  away in between teasing  the men. Keaf basked  in the
adoration, sure that he'd finally discovered the secret to friendship.

Late in the night,  as the room began  to spin, chamber servants  carried him to
his  room and  laid him  to bed,  and Dellawynn  was there,  warm and  soft  and
faithful as he passed out.


Keaf  began  the morning  by  puking in  the  vicinity of  the  chamber pot.  He
staggered back to bed and fell  across it before he realized that  Dellawynn was
still there, rolled in the covers. She shifted against him, and one hand tousled
his hair while the  other slid between his  legs. Startled, he pulled  away, but
dim memories-her  excited cries,  her nails  raking his  back-told him he hadn't
shied earlier in the night. He flexed his shoulders and winced.

As he sat up, a knock sounded at the door.

"Who is  it?" he  asked. For  a moment  he pictured  reality breaking in, Ganton
hauling him out to be whipped in the square, a line of villagers hurling insults
and stones. Instead, a young chambermaid peeked inside.

"I have your bath water drawn,  my Lord, and fresh clothes waiting."  She opened
the door a bit wider, and Keaf saw more servants with steaming pots and a  large
oblong tub.

The bath was a truly wonderful experience, even when the maid got a little fresh
with her scrubbing. Dellawynn awoke and  watched from the bed, giggling when  he
squawked about the  soap in his  eyes or the  coarseness of the  bristles on his
tenderer parts.  Breakfast was  fresh berries  that someone  had spent the night
obtaining from a  city to the  south, and cream  that clotted on  Keafs fingers.
Afterward, in fur-trimmed trousers and ermine-collared shirt, with jewels on his
belt and fine leather boots with real  heels and soles, Keaf found it easier  to
believe in his new superiority.

The villagers had been busy while he slept. Krohn's manor was no castle, but  it
was the biggest house in Palmora, and it included a stable with six fine  riding
beasts. Krohn had moved into another abode, displacing the family that rented it
from him. His staff, now at  Keafs disposal, was determined to polish  every bit
of the manor before their new lord arrived. An entourage of Ganton and Krohn and
every other important man  of the village accompanied  Keaf to the front  gates,
and they waited patiently while he made an absurd show of inspection. He knew no
more about manor houses than he did  about being a king, but the people  hung on
his every word and leapt to fulfill his every request. No one grumbled.

Through the morning, during  a lunch of rabbit,  fresh bread, and red  wine, and
into the  afternoon, Keaf  was attended  and administered  and fussed  over. The
local magistrate  only visited  Palmora once  a month,  but now  Keaf became the
village judge. A farmer came  to ask him what to  do about a wolf that  had been
raiding his wool-beasts over the last few days, and an angry wife dragged in her
husband, accusing him of dallying with another woman. Keaf suggested a hunt  for
the wolf-Kaye had done it before, and he volunteered-and he sent the husband  to
stay home  with his  wife for  a week.  Everyone marveled  at Jus  wisdom, and a
scribe wrote down his  every word. Dellawynn grew  tired of it before  noon, and
begged  excuse  to  go  find  whatever mischief  she  could.  Keaf  had  come to
understand her well enough to know  that she thrived on challenges, and  he made
everything too easy. He also knew that she would be back.

While Krohn was presenting his riding-beasts for Keaf to select one or all, news
came that an old man who'd been sick for some days had died.

Ganton interrupted  Krohn with  anxious words.  "Master Keaf,  this is a serious
problem."

Keaf nodded.  He was  the only  one in  the area  suited to  bury the fellow. "I
understand." He cracked his knuckles and flexed his shoulders. It would be  good
to do the digging after two big meals in one day.

As he started away, Ganton stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. "My  Lord.
Your disguise is  ended, and your  mission is far  too important. You  need only
tell us who is to  replace you as the gravedigger.  I would gladly take the  job
myself, but my back  is not what it  used to be." He  reached behind and made  a
poorly faked grimace of pain.

Keaf stood there stunned. All adoration aside, it had never occurred to him that
he would no longer be digging graves. He had assumed that he would simply be the
best-treated digger in the land.

But Ganton was serious, whatever mission  he thought Keaf was on, and  Krohn and
Lane and the others looked genuinely worried that he might actually do something
besides let  them serve  him. "N-no,"  he stammered.  "You shouldn't  do it, Sir
Ganton. Get  someone younger."  A malicious  choice came  to him,  and he  spoke
before he considered more. "Let Lane do it."

Lane stepped forward, looking grim and huge. "I am honored," he said with  total
sincerity. "Thank you  for thinking of  me." He turned  and lumbered off  in the
direction of the cemetery with a whistled tune on his lips.

Keaf watched him go, and he almost yearned to follow. The irony of casting  Lane
among the shunned had a second edge. Power took as well as gave, and it had just
taken away Keafs purpose in life. He would have to work at finding a new one.


By evening, Keaf was growing convinced  that his new occupation was to  give his
followers  someone to  follow. He  was waited  on and  tended to  with  unerring
devotion,  and the  village seemed  happier than  he'd ever  seen it.  They  had
purpose as  never before.  And they  used up  their small  supplies of  food and
stores as never before.

During the supper feast, travelers arrived seeking room and board for the night.
Their leader, Baron Mallorin,  was a dashing figure,  a young nobleman from  the
Western Empire. Ganton couldn't offer them his best room, but he made his second
best sound even  better. While he  and the baron  bargained at the  serving bar,
Dellawynn sat beside Keaf and stared.

"I should see to your new guest," she said as Mallorin glanced around the tavern
hall. Even his smile glearned. Dellawynn  had discovered a silk dress that  left
her stomach en-ticingly exposed and did fine justice to the rest of her. A Gypsy
dancer  had  left  it  at  the  inn  sometime  past,  departing  under   hurried
circumstances that Ganton did not speak of around his wife.

Keaf  was growing  impatient with  Dellawynn's roving  eye, or  maybe there  was
little else to rouse him, and he let his irritation show. "Wait until the  baron
comes to greet us," he said. "Then we'll see who best captures his interest."

Dellawynn  sat  back pouting,  but  her eyes  remained  on Mallorin.  As  Ganton
concluded his arrangements, he took the baron's arm and led him toward Keaf. The
villagers had set up two fine chairs  on a raised platform of rough planks,  and
from there Keaf held his meager court. Meager but absolute.

The hall grew quieter. Mallorin's brow wrinkled, assessing and speculating as he
met Keafs gaze. When he looked at Dellawynn, his expression turned hungry.

"Lord  Keaf,"  Ganton said,  "may  I present  Baron  Mallorin from  the  Western
Empire."

Mallorin bowed slightly. Keaf stood and drew his Sword. As the distant  cheering
rose up, the baron dropped to one knee. "My Lord," he said. "I did not know that
you  possessed  one  of  the  Twelve  Swords.  Allow  me  to  pledge  my eternal
allegiance." He bowed lower and offered his glove.

"You see," Keaf said to Dellawynn,  loud enough that everyone heard. "He  serves
me, and none of my followers would ever  go behind my back to you." He took  the
glove and tossed it beside his chair.

Dellawynn's pout melted away as she gazed  at the Sword. "It was wrong of  me to
ever think it," she said. "Serving you is all I ever want."

Keaf sighed as  he put the  Sword away. Too  easy. Everything was  too easy, and
everyone was too doggedly obedient. Contemplating bigger challenges, he motioned
Mallorin to sit. "You know this Sword?" he asked.

Mallorin nodded. "It is one of the  Twelve, forged by the Gods in the  mountains
north of here. I held the one  called Sightblinder for a short time. Anyone  who
looked upon me saw a different face."

"And this Sword?" Keaf patted his side but left the blade sheathed. "It seems to
work a similar magic."

"No," Mallorin  said. "The  Sword of  Obedience was  made for  you to  wield. In
another man's hand it might make him seem great, but that would be delusion.  In
your hand it only confirms what my heart tells me. Once you throw off this cloak
of meager birth, you will be the ultimate ruler, a god among us."

A shiver ran down Keafs  back. To hold such power  in a single blade? He'd  seen
practically nothing of the world in his  short life, but now it was his  for the
taking. That was irony beyond measure, that a gravedigger could rule the Earth.

"Thank you, Baron," he said. "You may attend to your dinner and your duties.  We
will talk more in the morning."

"I  await your  call." As  Mallorin steered  himself back  to the  serving  bar,
Dellawynn sat quietly, her hand light on Keafs arm.

The evening wore into night, and  Keaf drank more stout and more  wine. Mallorin
had put visions in  his head, visions that  went far and promised  much. Visions
that made  Keafs desire  for simple  friendship seem  ridiculously small.  As he
staggered off to bed, there was a knot in his stomach and a cloud in his head.


"Please, my Lord Keaf, I beg you, wake up."

Keaf  wasn't  sure  how  many  times he  heard  the  whispered  words  before he
understood. He  raised his  head and  lowered it  again as  drink-inflicted pain
thrummed through his skull.

A servant girl stood at the foot of the bed and begged him to rise. "It's urgent
business, the man says." She pointed to the door. "Your welfare is at stake,  he
says, and he must see you tonight."

Keaf reached out to tell Dellawynn that  he'd be back, but she wasn't there.  He
rubbed at his  forehead and felt  the ache at  his temples. "Get  me a drink  of
water," he rasped.

The girl slipped out and returned a minute later with a mug. The water was  cool
and sweet, and it  reduced the fire in  Keafs belly. He sat  on the edge of  the
bed, holding his  head while she  worked him into  pants and shirt,  tied on his
boots, and draped a cloak over  his shoulders. "Please, my Lord." She  urged him
up, guided him down the corridor, and they slipped out the door into the night.

As the cold hit  him, Keafs head cleared  enough to realize his  oversight. He'd
left the Sword behind,  and all of his  loyal followers were asleep.  He grabbed
the girl by the arm. "Damn, girl! Fetch me my Sword!"

She darted away.

"You shouldn't have dug it up," a deep voice said from the dark.

Keaf turned to see Jarmon step from shadow into moonlight. "Templar?"

"You've been busy,"* Jarmon said. "News of a great new lord has traveled as  far
as the Temple of Dawn." His sword rang as he drew it from its sheath.

"I-I'm sorry," Keaf stammered. He stepped back as the servant girl returned with
the Sword still  in its scabbard.  She knelt at  Keats feet and  stood the blade
against him.

"Begone, girl," Jarmon said.

She looked at  Keaf, and he  nodded her away.  After she'd gone  back inside, he
reached for the Sword's hilt.

"Don't," Jarmon said. His  voice was tight with  warning, and a stone-hard  look
glinted in his eyes.

Keaf pulled his hand back. "I didn't know it was magic. Truly, I only thought to
sell it for a few gold pieces."

"I doubt you'd get that for it,"  Jarmon said. "A kingdom, an empire, maybe  the
whole world, but not a few gold pieces."

"I'm sorry," Keaf said, and he'd never felt any emotion stronger in his life. "I
only wanted to make them like me."

Jarmon stepped forward and wrapped a mailed fist around the Sword's scabbard  as
he touched the point of his weapon against Keafs chest. "And I paid you to do  a
job. I trusted you."

The words  cut twice,  like the  twin edges  of the  Sword. Jarmon  had expected
trust, but he hadn't shown it himself.  And Keaf had broken the trust that  he'd
accepted. He believed in trust and integrity, things that his father had  taught
him to value, and he'd looked upon Jarmon as a noble man. The truth was,  they'd
both failed. "You didn't trust me at all," he said, letting his shame  translate
into anger at the Templar. "Otherwise,  you would have told me about  the Sword.
You tricked me into burying it."

Jarmon drew back his sword, and the  look in his eyes softened. Before he  could
answer, an arrow whizzed past Keafs  head and pierced the heavy leather  padding
at the Templar's shoulder. The impact knocked Jarmon back, and the Sword fell at
his feet.  Keaf turned  to look  for the  bowman, and  Kaye charged  out of  the
darkness with another arrow nocked.

"Get back, Keaf," he shouted. "I'll defend you."

Jarmon reached to tear  the arrow free and  growled deep in his  throat with the
pain. Keaf sprang for the Sword, but Jar-mon's boot caught him in the chest  and
sent him sprawling to  the side. Kaye's next  arrow shot past Jarmon's  head and
hit the wall of the inn with a dull thump.

The Templar didn't wait for a third arrow. He wrapped both hands around his  own
sword and advanced to attack. Kaye pulled out his hunting knife and planted  his
feet, apparently willing to die for Keaf.

Keafs chest ached from the kick, but he managed to roll to his feet. "Stop!"  he
shouted, but only one man there was bound to him.

Kaye froze, torn between defending Keaf and obeying him, and Jarmon struck.  His
sword slashed across Kaye's left hand and knocked the knife away with a trailing
spray of blood. Kaye fell back clutching his wounded hand as Jarmon stepped over
the Sword to  deliver another blow.  Keaf had only  an instant to  react, and he
lunged.

He hit the Templar in the  knees and knocked him off-balance. Jarmon  stumbled a
half step sideways and  his blow missed Kaye's  head by the barest  margin. Keaf
grabbed for  the  Sword. Before  he  could unsheathe  it,  Jarmon twisted,   off
balance, and swung his  blade. The blow tore  the scabbard from Keafs  hands and
sent it cartwheeling  upward. The Mindsword  slipped from its  sheath. Moonlight
caught the spinning blade, and it seemed to hang in the air for an eternity.

The sound of the roaring crowd echoed off the black outline of the mountains. At
the edge  of the  darkness, Dellawynn  appeared with  a gash  in her leg and her
small  sword badly  notched. Dripping  blood, Kaye  reached for  his knife,  and
Jarmon's mailed hand reached for Keafs neck.

As the Sword reached the  top of its arc and  began to fall, Keaf saw  the fight
that would ensue, saw that it would end in death. And he saw the Sword glearning
with its strange designs written for gods and not for men. Not for men.

He pushed away from Jarmon and sprang toward the Sword. The Templar snagged  him
by the foot to stop him, but Keafs right hand reached far enough. Far enough for
the tip of the  blade to slice through  flesh and bone and  pin his palm to  the
hard ground.

He shrieked with  pain and curled  around his skewered  hand as Jarmon  and Kaye
regained their feet. Jarmon took a step toward Keaf, but he stopped as Dellawynn
raised her weapon.

"Leave him alone," she warned.

"He's hurt!" Jarmon snapped as he backed away. "That cursed blade."

"It's that blade that you were going  to kill him over," Kaye said. He  held his
wounded hand  inside his  belt and  circled to  trap Jarmon  between himself and
Dellawynn. His eyes strayed to  Keaf, but as much as  he wanted to help, he  had
first to defend his master.

Keaf struggled to his knees, each movement an agony as his impaled hand  flexed,
and he curled his fingers around the hilt of the Sword.

"I must  help him,"  Jarmon said.  As he  dropped his  guard, Dellawynn moved to
strike.

"No!" Keaf cried as  he yanked upward. His  shout froze Dellawynn and  Kaye, but
not Jarmon. The Templar  threw his weapon down  and rushed to Keafs  side as the
Sword came free. Keaf started to collapse, but Jarmon's strong arm caught him.

"My liege!"  Jarmon cried  as he  pulled off  his glove  and tore  out the cloth
lining. "I have been a fool!" He reached for Keafs wounded hand and pressed  the
cloth against the flow of blood. Another wave of pain made Keaf nearly faint.

Kaye and Dellawynn recovered from their  shock and leapt to help. Kaye  stripped
off his woolen vest to drape over Keafs shoulders, and Dellawynn added her scarf
to the temporary bandage.

"I'll get help," Dellawynn  said. She started toward  the inn, but Kaye  stopped
her.

"This  way," he  said, motioning  down the  main street.  "Lara is  the  village
midwife. She knows medicines."

As  they  hurried  off, Jarmon  slipped  out  of his  heavy  coat,  exposing the
bloodstain at  his shoulder.  He draped  the wrap  over Keaf,  and its lingering
warmth eased a little of Keafs misery.  Tears welled in his eyes, and he  turned
away from the Templar.

Nothing had turned out right with  the Sword of Fealty. Three people  were hurt,
and Keaf felt more alone than ever before. If he kept the Sword, he wouldn't  be
able to trust anyone not under its power, and he could never afford  friendship.
His one dream would remain forever out of reach.

He turned to face Jarmon. "Why did you do this to me?"

Jarmon bowed his head in shame. "I  was blind to your greatness. Master Keaf.  I
hope you can forgive me."

"But this," Keaf said, lifting the Sword with his good hand. "What about this?"

"In my heart," Jarmon said as he tapped his fist on his chest, "I believe it  is
a bad thing. You would be better off without it. Then people could see your true
noble nature without magical deceit."

Keaf shook his head. Jarmon was as spellbound as the rest, but there was a truth
in his  words that  the Templar  could not  see. The  truth was  that the  Sword
enslaved its  owner as  surely as  it enchanted  those around  him. "For  my own
good."

"Yes," Jarmon said. "I have seen what it does to those who wield it."

"Servant Wend?"

"Servant Wend, Lord  March. He was  an unfortunate man,  ordinary where you  are
extraordinary, and that magic blade brought him to ruin."

Keaf felt a shiver, not from the  cold. Lord March! His land holdings were  well
known even  in Palmora,  and he  conferred with  kings and  emperors. Such a man
might have been able to rule the  world with the Mindsword in his hands.  Yet he
now lay in an unmarked grave.

"Bury it before it  harms you," Jarmon pleaded.  "Bury it demon's deep  where no
one will dig."

Keaf heard  footsteps on  the road,  and he  forced himself  to sit up straight.
"Please, go home," he said quietly to Jarmon. "I release you from any service to
me."

Out of the darkness, Dellawynn, Kaye, and old Lara arrived with clean cloths and
a doctor's  satchel. Kaye's  hand had  been bandaged,  but Dellawynn's leg still
seeped blood.

Lara muttered with each step. "I don't  see why I couldn't fix your leg....  And
that hand  needs more  than a  wrap of  linen.... Cold  night to be out trapping
wolves...."  She saw  Keaf, and  her eyes  grew wide  for a  moment before   she
returned to her interior dialogue. "Cold night  for a lord to be out.... Need  a
warm hearth and strong brandy... ."

She passed by Keaf on her way to the inn. Jarmon helped him to his feet. Inside,
Ganton appeared in his long nightshirt,  and he was mortified to see  Keaf hurt.
He offered drink and food and had his servants stoke the fire as Lara began  her
work. The old woman fussed over Keaf, crabbing to herself about kings and nobles
and why hadn't anyone told her it was Keaf. She tended Dellawynn and Kaye  next,
and came back to fuss over Keaf  some more. He finally insisted that he  was all
right, and she left, still muttering.

A stiff drink of brandy loosened some of the knots, and Keaf sent Ganton and the
servants back to bed. Ganton offered anything from his considerable stores,  and
Keaf  silenced  him by  ordering  a repayment  to  everyone who  had  used.their
supplies over the  last two days.  After a dozen  more assurances that  they had
done everything they could to make him comfortable, the staff retired.

Next, Keaf  looked across  the tavern  bench at  Jarmon. "Go,  now. Templar," he
said,  repeating  his earlier  dismissal.  You have  duties  to attend  at  your
temple." He smiled at Dellawynn. He would miss her, but he knew she would  leave
as soon as she was no longer Sword-bound,  and he wanted to set her on a  better
course than the one she might choose herself. "And you go with him. I think  you
could use some time in a temple."

"But Master Keaf..." Jarmon said as he stood.

"A temple?" Dellawynn asked.

"You will  be serving  me by  going," Keaf  persisted. "I'm  counting on both of
you."

Jarmon and Dellawynn looked injured, but neither could disobey a direct command.
"As you wish," Jarmon said.

Dellawynn slid  around the  table next  to Keaf  and kissed  him harder than she
might. "I will miss you, Master Keaf. She turned to Jarmon and linked her arm in
his. "Temples are  quite wealthy, aren't  they, Sir Jarmon?"  Where she'd walked
with no trouble  a little earlier,  she now let  him ease her  weight on her bad
leg. Keaf hoped he wasn't sending Jarmon's temple too much trouble.

After they'd gone, Keaf turned to Kaye. "Thank you," he said.

"It was nothing," Kaye said. "I was  out hunting the wolf that's been after  the
wool-beasts. I saw you were in trouble, and it was my duty to help."

Keaf held up his right hand and felt it throb. "It looks like we're both useless
for a while."

Kaye raised his left  hand. "One pair between  us." His voice was  flat, but his
face showed worry. A man's hands were his living in these parts.

"Maybe we can work together," Keaf said. "I could use your help yet tonight."

"Anything, Master Keaf. I'm here to serve you."

"Not service," Keaf corrected. "I want your help working with me, not for me."

Kaye looked beyond tired, but his Sword-driven enthusiasm still ruled.  "Command
me."

Keaf shrugged. There was no stopping the power. "Jarmon made the mistake of  not
trusting me, but  I won't do  that to you.  We're going to  bury this Sword," he
said softly, lifting the blade from the bench.

"It's a fine weapon," Kaye said. "Why throw away such a thing?"

Keaf pushed to  his feet. "Let's  head for the  cemetery, and I'll  tell you all
about it."

Kaye nodded and stood. "I appreciate your confidence in me. Master Keaf."

Keaf smiled. "We'll be friends after tonight or not, but either way we'll  share
a trust." He slid the Sword carefully  into a loop of his belt, and  together he
and Kaye headed out into what remained of the night.