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Men had come from all Asbaln and beyond to see if the Sword might be theirs. But the family of the Guardian had been content only to guard it, keeping it while man after man failed to bring the Sword from its sheath. The ambiguity of Arvandal’s prophecy had led them to think of themselves only as caretakers until the time that the foretold hero should come. Some have said that the prophecy, by that same ambiguity, led to the fall of Avantir.
-Book of the Sword
Kerran Berandis
In the morning, opening the door to let in light, Rorick was amazed. All around the walls were racks of weapons and armour, most of the blades carefully wrapped in oiled cloth. Obviously, someone had considered the possibility of arming a small war-host. A closer look revealed something else of interest. The styles of decoration and the forms of the helmets showed that the bulk of the material there was of the era of Arvandal. Some of the perishable items, war-cloaks and the like, were newer, and he suspected that Guardians through the years had augmented and replaced certain items there.
He found a good sword which fit his hand, a helmet which felt right on his head, and a shield as well. He took a bow and a quiver full of arrows, and completed his equipment with a five-foot spear, suitable for thrusting or throwing, and set out.
Outside, there was something unexpected. A small rowboat lay beside the mound. The boat was in reasonable condition, though a bit dry, and if Rorick used it, he would be doing a good deal of bailing.
It was certain, though, that using it would be preferable to going overland. He set the boat in the water.
Before stepping into it, Rorick glanced back through the thick trees at the turrets of Avantir. “Well, father, I came here by a route other than the one you had shown me, but I am here.”
Here, so near the mouth of the river, the current of the Ilcaniar was weak. As Rorick was rowing against the current, toward the Icarian Hills unseen beyond the gnarled trunks of the swamp-trees, he looked down on the face of the shield on the bottom of the boat, at the emblem of Avantir upon it, the leather gloved fist holding the Upraised Sword.
“Fair towers of Avantir, I go, I go,
Fair towers of Avantir, I grieve.
Home of my heart, great is my sorrow,
For bound by my duty, I leave.
Ye folk of the East land, stand forth, stand forth,
Ye folk of the East land, take heart.
The Red Dragon sleeps where Icar’s folk dwell,
And the Sword is awaiting its part.”
The journey was not easy. For though Rorick was not forced to follow the twists and turns of little-used paths, he had to fight the current of the River, and had to stop to bail out the boat several times lest it sink completely.
Of the wild Derrakos of the swamp, he saw no certain sign. He thought on several occasions that certain flashes of movement which touched the corner of his eye might have been watchers of that mysterious people, and one night he was kept awake until dawn by a continued eerie chanting among the trees.
In two days, he was out of the Swamp. By now, the planks of the boat had swelled enough that he was no longer forced to bale so frequently. Still, all the area for miles on either side of the main river-channel was marsh. Though the marsh held none of the dread mystery of the Swamp, where old dark trees, hung and looped with moss and vines, resembled prisoners of some sorcerer, turned into chained statues at his whim. The marsh was still tedious to pass through. Only in scattered places were there more than a few yards of relatively dry ground, and rarely was it elevated enough to allow him to see over the miles of tall marsh-reeds. The marsh was a lonely and comfortless place.
During all this journey, constantly turned his mind to the problem of the Hygerians. Surely there must be a way to defeat them. Surely there must be tactics available to the Asbalnians which would give them the victory. Idea after idea he considered, many he rejected, others he reserved for more consideration.
By the middle of the fourth day from departing Avantir, the current was becoming too strong to row against, though by now he was nearly in the Hills. Abandoning the boat, he set out on foot. He had some idea of where the prince might be, though with some of the Icarians having sold out to the Hygerians, nothing was certain.
That night, just as Rorick had finished making his fire, he looked up to see a troll step into the small circle of light. Its appearance was like that of many of its kind. A race of which Rorick had seen only two at a distance. The troll stood half again the height of a man, with green, hairless skin, arms hanging to the knees, a snarl, a stench, and a light of flaming madness in the eyes.
It was not impossible to kill a troll, but it was very difficult. The only wound which would not heal in an instant would be one to the heart. Yet few could come to close quarters to make the necessary thrust, and fewer still could survive.
Then too, none could outrun a troll, so battle was the only chance, no matter how slim. Rising, Rorick threw his spear. The beast grinned, pulled the spear from the wound, and cast it aside. Stepping in, Rorick struck with his sword as the troll moved. The blade carved through its shoulder halfway down the chest. The massive tree-trunk bulk of the other arm strung, catching Rorick’s shield to send spinning backward, his sword flying free from his grasp.
Half stunned, he rolled aside as the beast rushed in with a noise which must have been a cry of triumph. Rorick came to his feet; his sword lay over against a rock, the blade broken off some inches above the hilt. A few feet away, beside the fire, the Sword lay in its scabbard. He leaped for the Sword and had his hand on it moments before the troll’s latest rush brought it pounding up behind him.
With no thought of what to do with a sheathed sword, save perhaps to use it as a club, he whirled and brought the Sword up to a guard position. The Sword swung free from its sheathe. He felt a light tingling in his hand, and was shocked into momentary immobility while the troll, after an instant’s pause, flung itself at him with wide open arms.
The instant in which he was allowed to react gave Rorick only time to step forward in a thrust aimed at the green chest, then dodged aside as the large body crashed forward, almost trapping him. He thought, for a moment, that the beast cried out in a nearly intelligible voice, just before it died.
He was not sure how long he stood there afterwards, staring at the blade glowed gently with its own inner light. Thoughts chased through his mind; might he have saved Avantir, had he known that the Sword was his to wield? Might he not even have saved the day earlier, at Dryx field? Or was it perhaps that the Powers had allowed for this in their grandiose plans?
But wielding the sword would definitely make the raising of a war-host in the Hills a possibility.
“Arvandal rode out armed for war,
The bared blade raised up on his shield;
The knave who stole his lady love,
Was slain because he thought to yield.
Then other foes fenced in the maid,
And sterner men set bar and ward,
But cleaned the blade mud smote and flashed,
And towers reeled before the Sword.”