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Legend surrounds it, and of its origin we have only legends. It is said that the Mountain Dwarfs forged it long ago. But its origin is entwined with the mysterious appearance of Arvandal of Avantir himself, of whom it is known only that he passed through the Mountains to King Coerl and, by the Power of the Sword, aided in quelling the rebellious barons.
The name of the Sword is to be spoken only in the direst peril to the land, when it will answer the call but will almost certainly bring the destruction of he who calls it as well. It is called the Sword Which is Not to be Named, or more simply, the Sword.
On his deathbed, Arvandal said, “The Sword is not for any to wield, but must go to its master. There will be a time when a hero shall draw the Sword and use it in a mighty and desperate war.”
His family therefore set the Sword aside until this time and were eventually known as Guardians of the Sword.
One hundred and fifty years later, the Hygerians attacked out of the west. King Gunn, attempting to gather his forces, took refuge east of the Mountains. Fighting in their traditional manner, the men of Asbaln were overwhelmed by the Dark men of the West. The King was killed, his army scattered, and the young Prince was taken to hiding in the Icarian Hills.
For five years Avantir was left alone, its position on the edge of the Korochinda Swamp making attack difficult. Then, with the rest of Asbaln firmly under their control, the Hygerians began the siege. For three months the ailing Ardan, with his brother Ross and son Rorick, held out.
- Book of the Sword
Kerran Berandis
“They come again, Lords!” It was not a shout, but the young messenger’s voice through the half-empty hall where Rorick was taking his evening meal with his uncle Ross and the other captains of the Guardian’s Warriors.
“Which wall?” asked Rorick, buckling on his sword. He was some four inches taller than the tallest in the room, blonde hair over blue eyes, long nose, and thrusting chin reminiscent of Arvandal as seen in his portrait in the Guardian’s Quarters.
“The west wall, Milord. And the power lorn Icarians aid them with their bows.”
“True barbarians, these Hygerians,” declared Rorick as he donned his red-crested helmet, “for who else would choose the hour of the evening meal to launch an assault on our walls?”
The others in the room smiled, then they trooped out to the walls. Ross was at his nephew’s elbow. “Two days, three, perhaps a week more,” he murmured quietly. “The wielder of the Sword had best come soon, lest there be no more reason for him to come.”
As they mounted the walls, Avantir’s archers were already using their carefully hoarded supply of arrows. Rorick, his judgement sharpened by the months of siege and assault, could see that the coning fight would be a hard one. He walked along the sector of the wall allotted to his command, exchanging a quiet word here or there with the men. They had all fought together now, common danger making comrades of lord and commoner.
He looked out to the mountains standing tall end blue in the west, and his thoughts went to Draxon, who had been given the responsibility for the Guardian’s Pass after the King’s magicians had blocked the Old Pass forever. At either end, two hundred men could hold the Guardian’s Pass. Draxon, with five hundred, had made not even token resistance. After a night meeting with the Hygerian leaders, he had led his men out to be trapped and killed.
Shortly after this, Gunn of Asbaln, though not yet ready, had led his hosts to Dryx field where they died. For all the great deeds of that day, the valour of Asbaln’s men had not been enough to give them victory.
“White the hair that wore the crown,
Old the hand that bore the sword;
Sad the day that foreign warriors
Waded north across Dryx ford.”
He remembered the heat and the dust and the noise of that day. He remembered when Gunn’s ragged standard had fallen and did not rise again. When Ardan looked at the battered remnant of the contingent, he had led to the battle and said, “All is lost. Let us save what we may.”
They had received word later on that some loyal servants had taken the young Prince, Conel, to a hiding place in the Icarian Hills, and it was shortly after this that the first of the Icarians spurned their age-old kinship with the men of Asbaln and offered their services to the Hygerians.
Avantir was strong, for at this point the Ilcaniar River reached the edge of the swamp, and the east wall of the city was just above it. This left three sides to attack from, and the Hygerians were relatively unversed in siegecraft. Their usual tactics against walled cities consisted of continuing to storm the walls until the garrison was too worn down to hold them back, and ferocious unchecked slaughter within the walls of any storm that resisted, to bring others to surrender more easily.
At Avantir, the Icarian archers were making a difference. There were not many of them, but there was no need for many. Avantir’s garrison had been near a thousand before Dryx, and the plague, which had struck this past Winter, had cut them to around five hundred.
But the time for musing was past now, with the Dark men swarming up ropes and ladders and the Asbalnians attempting to fend them off. Rorick tried to put himself wherever the need was greatest. But too often found himself having to rally his men to drive back the Hygerians where they seemed to have a foothold.
With the usual suddenness, which Rorick had not gotten used to, it was over. The last Hygerians had retreated down the ladders or had died on the walls, and Asbaln’s men slumped exhausted at their posts.
As Rorick was completing his assessment of the result, along with Ross, whose grim face told his own thoughts, a messenger found him. “The Guardian wishes to speak with you, Milord.”
Dismissing the messenger, Rorick descended the stone stair into the courtyard. Then entered the inner keep where his father lay. The man on the bed only resembled superficially the warrior who, by the force of his will, had brought the remnant of his force back from the red ruin of Dryx field. Brought them back in a running fight with the Hygerians. “How do we stand, my son?”
“We have four hundred and twenty-three presently able to bear arms, perhaps one hundred fifty of them unwounded. We have thirty who will not fight for some weeks, if ever. And we have another hundred or so nearly healed from their wounds, who will be able to fight again shortly.
“With the luck of Thumill of the Three Rings, we might stop two more attacks such as tonight’s. May the Dragons of Lycar hunt the Icarians! And if the next attack is pressed with great determination, we will go down. If the Wielder of the Sword is indeed to come to give aid in a mighty and desperate war, then this one is as mighty and as desperate as he could wish.”
His father sighed. “As I had thought,” he said, “But I needed to have it said for certain. Well, the time has come at last. Help me from this cursed bed.”
“Father—-“
“If I die now through rising from this bed, or die tonight hacked to bits by Hygerian blades, what difference will it make? But I tell you, we must try to keep the Sword from their hands if it lies in our power. Now help me!”
In that instant, he was Ardan of Avantir, Guardian of the Sword. His orders were to be obeyed. Rorick helped him up, and they went down into the storeroom in the lower levels of the keep, and into a room beyond that. Within that room was a small wooden table, upon which lay a sword, plain enough in appearance save for the ruby in the pommel, cased in a similarly plain scabbard.
Ardan leaned momentarily against the doorjamb, then pulled himself erect. “Where is your responsibility, Rorick? Take it, wear it, until the hero finds you.”
Rorick shook his head in refusal, “Why can’t you carry it with you?”
“No, no, we know that I am dying,” replied Ardan, “that there is no hope of my taking it away safely. My lot shall be to surrender the castle.”
“Surrender Avantir?” Rorick touched the hilt, wooden, bound by three brass rings, then began to belt on the Sword. “You will allow the home of our fathers to pass into the hands of the barbarians while there are yet warriors capable of fighting?”
Ardan sighed. “What point is there in killing the last of our Warriors to delay the entry of the Hygerians for a few hours? Better they should live and try to join with Conel in the Hills.”
“But the Sword! They know of it, and will never let it leave here even though we surrender.”
“Before the surrender, you will take it and most of the remaining warriors away to join with Conel.”
With all these shocks following one on another, Rorick was silent for a time. Before he could speak, Ardan continued, looking directly into his eyes. “Yes, that cursed pride of yours forbids your leaving the castle before the last blow is struck. I tell you, Rorick, your task and responsibility is to take the sword end bring it to Conel in the Hills, to be with him until the Wielder comes.”
Then, as though the argument were over, he turned to a portion of the wall. “Look over here.”
He pushed a loose stone in the wall with his hand, and moved a second with his foot, then pushed on the wall. After a moment’s fruitless effort, he stopped. “Put your shoulder to the wall here.”
Rorick complied and nearly fell on his face as a section of the wall swung back to reveal dark corridor. “There,” said Ardan, “is the way out of Avantir. It comes out in a small house in the Swamp, from whence you shall have to make your way around the rear of the Hygerian camp. I would suggest that you and your men go in small groups, by widely separated routes, to avoid their scouts. “
“Father, I am under your orders and I obey. But must tell you that I very much dislike this business of skulking off and leaving home to be conquered. I see my duty to Avantir.”
“Duty! Your duty is the Guardianship of the Sword. I know not when or how the Wielder will appear, but it is your task and your duty to care for the Sword until it is required. Now let us go back.”
Having shut the door, they returned to Ardan’s room, where Ross joined them. Ardan explained the plan to him, and he nodded, saying, “It is as well; all we could do now is kill more men for no purpose. I will select the group to go with you, Rorick, the best and steadiest men so far as possible. Sunrise tomorrow?”
“The sooner the better,” said Ardan, “I hope that we have not already waited too long.”
It was dark, Rorick judged about midnight, when one of the Warriors shook him awake. “An attack prepares, Milord. On all sides save the River, and the Icarians are spending arrows like the gold of a drunken sailor. In this light, they can expect to hit with one in twenty.”
“After today’s attack, they come so soon again? They must be confident of success.” Rorick was dressing swiftly. “How do the men take it?”
Young Tumell said, “If they are truly coming from all sides, how do they think to escape us this time?”
Rorick grinned, fastening the last buckles on his harness. He strapped the Sword to his waist and his own blade, then took up his shield and strode out. He went up to the walls, taking the steps two at a time. It was then that he heard the scraping as ladders went up against the walls and the clink as grappling hooks found their hold on the stone.
Then the dark helms showed over the ramparts. The dark faces showed below them, and swords glimmered and shimmered like pools of moonlit water. Now the noise of battle began as sword met sword, and shields rang under hard blows.
The Guardian’s Warriors were stretched thin to hold the whole of the wall. Though they fought like the heroes of the Elder Legends, here and there, the dark ones found a foothold.
Three times Rorick rallied small bands of Warriors to destroy such footholds before they could be strengthened. And each time he saw another breakthrough before he was done. And each time, the Warriors available to deal with the situation were fewer.
Then, following his third success, he looked around him as he leaned on his blade, huffing. Was it growing pale in the West already? Powers above, how long had they been at this? In four places that he could see, black cloaks and black helms and spiked shield-bosses ruled the wall. While down in the courtyard, Ross and a handful of others were keeping the Hygerians from the gate.
Then Hygerians were advancing on them with harsh yells and bright blades, and he had to fight for his life. When he had respite again, his available force was small indeed. While in the courtyard, Ross stood fighting alone, forced aside from the gates, while flickering torches painted the scene a bloody hue. The shouting hordes were swarming in the open gates.
Even as Rorick watched, his uncle fell, but around him was a noble corpse’s guard of enemies. There was another battle going on as well, on the steps of the inner keep. With a start, Rorick saw it was his father, bearing only sword and shield, but fighting well. But pride, strong will, and remembered skill can only partly make up for a body weakened by illness and fever, and Rorick knew himself to be the last of Arvandal’s line.
He remembered too, the take and burden laid on him by his father, that the Sword should be brought to Conel in the Hills. But as he looked around, the swarm of Hygerians made that task seem impossible of achievement. After a moment, he said:
“Arvandal’s line were warriors all,
And his House was born in strife;
Should I succeed, or should I fail,
I have lived a warrior’s life.”
He turned then to the five Warriors left to him. “My friends, my brothers, Avantir is lost. There is one more thing which I must attempt. You owe me no further service; go now, and may the Powers go with you.”
One of the Warriors bowed and said, “Guardian, we did not agree to serve you merely when victory was ours. Where you go, there go we also, though death should wait at the road’s end.”
Rorick returned the bow. “Come, then.”
They moved in behind him and struck the first Hygerians like a thunderbolt. The enemy were a small group, and Rorick’s band cut through them as much by force of will as by arms. They made for the nearest stairway to the courtyard. When they reached it, however, descent was clearly impossible, for it was crowded with Hygerians coming up. They continued to move along.
Rorick now had only two Warriors left, and when they had fought their way past the next group of enemies, he was alone, with more barbarians advancing toward him. He could not possibly reach the next stairway.
He saw one slim chance remaining to him; gripping his sword firmly, he ran toward them. Then, just out of sword-range, he vaulted up into an embrasure of the wall. From there, Rorick sprang to the merlon and ran along the top of the wall, passing the first of the stupefied Hygerians before they were aware of what was happening.
Suddenly, short Hygerian javelins flew at him. As he leaped between merlons, he was forced to dodge one that threatened to come too close, a movement which caused him to land off-balance. Hopping sidewise to retain his balance, he missed his footing and began to fall towards the waters gleaming darkly below.
Rorick released his sword and shield. Then he contrived to turn his fall into some sort of dive. The weight of the Sword and the war-shirt on his back carrying him all the way to the muck at the bottom of the water. He thanked the Powers that the spring had been a wet one, and the waters deep. He was a strong swimmer and was thus able to bring himself to the surface somewhat beyond the light of the torches which were being cast down from the walls.
“Ah, they want to be sure of me, then. That is a compliment, I think.” At last, weary with the exertion, he pulled himself out onto a moderately wet bank. Thinking of finding some kind of shelter before morning, lest the enemy send parties to search for him, he pushed and plundered his way through bush and deadfall until he fell against a mound of earth in the center of a grove. His questing fingers found what was most certainly a door, covered in cobwebs.
Finding the latch, he opened the door and carefully felt his way inside. There was no light at all, but he ran against something soft, a bundle of cloth which he finally made out to be cloaks. Opening the bundle, Rorick removed his sodden garments. Then he wrapped himself in a cloak and dried his armour as well as he could with another. Then spread another two on the floor to make a bed of sorts. Rorick lay down and, despite his certainty that sleep would be long in coming, was asleep very soon.