BEFORE HE RECOVERS from the next reality shift, the impact with the floor causes it to collapse beneath him. Reynard’s stomach flips, wanting to expel food not present in the new reality. He swallows back the bile accumulating in his throat.

His upper back impacts with masonry, radiating overwhelming pain into his limbs. The cold of the stone prevents him from being able to lie there and recover. He scans the darkness, darting his eyes, unable to find any light. The inky murkiness panics Reynard. He contemplates if such unnatural black means he’s gone blind.

Pain.

Get up!

I can’t move. I can’t see.

There’s a Sandman—moron.

Reynard forces himself to roll over. Needles pierce every joint. Pain may let you know you’re alive, but how do I fight if I can’t see?

Reynard reaches out, using his fingertips as eyes. Nothing. More agonizing pain shoots through his body as his disjointed shoulders ache. As he gets his feet under him, he questions how to fight Sandmen blind.

A warrior needs no eyes—

A year of his life dedicated to the training of Calthos swords, the constant repeating of a lesson when he failed to master a form echoes, “When you seek the perfection of the warrior path, you must understand that the eyes, the ears, the smells can be great allies. They can also be great deceivers. Your skill comes in mastering them so you know which they are.”

Do Sandmen make a sound? They smell when destroyed.

He closes his useless eyes. Controlled breath. He restores his thumping heart to a normal rate. He slows the beats, achieving clam.

Fear’s in the mind.

Sandmen make no sounds.

Listen!

Listen beyond what you hear.

Control. You must learn control.

Oh, wait, that’s Yoda.

Reynard snatches the revolver from his belt. The hammer clicks. The cylinder locks into firing position.

“There is that moment when you become one with everything around you,” echoes his Calthos sword master.

Slight energy tingles around the chamber.

His grip on the revolver tightens. His finger pulls back within a hair of releasing the round—last bullet.

Reynard’s breath quickens.

Energy. The revolver hums in his hand.

The vibrations of energy draw Reynard. He holds his thumb on the hammer, pulls the trigger and secures the hammer back in an unfired position. Shifting the weapon to his left hand, he stretches out his right toward the calling hum. Chanting energy whirls around him. The tip of his middle finger brushes cold metal. Through closed eyelids, light, brighter than the transporter beam, floods the antechamber and shuts his pupils.

The light won’t release its grip on his pinhead-sized pupils. It touches his thoughts—exploring his mind. Unlike the Sandmen, it doesn’t linger or fondle any one memory.

The radiance dims. The force withdraws from his head.

Light emanates from a broadsword driven into a stone altar. Electricity jumps from the blade, surging through Reynard. He stumbles back from the bite. As he attempts to shake off the sting in his hand, the chamber packs with humanoids. Each warrior brandishes edged weapons glowing with the brilliance of the broadsword.

His right hand scoops his magnum as a Tibbar sporting a cleaver steps forward. A copper-skinned girl wielding twin-curved hatches places herself between him and the Tibbar before Reynard shoots.

Bowing with respect, a bearded man, in medieval chain mail, yields an identical broadsword. The crown on his head remains in place.

Reynard lowers his magnum and the revolver. “You’re not real.”

“We are,” the copper-skinned girl assures.

“You are at a crossroads,” the kingly Osirian speaks.

“I always figured you’d speak some leftover Latin/Old English,” Reynard says.

“We’re in your mind. We speak what you understand,” the King says.

“What if I shoot you?”

“The weapon would discharge and fail to kill a Sandman.”

“They’ve been in my head,” Reynard admits.

“We’ve all faced darkness.”

“We were given this choice,” the copper-skinned girl adds.

All warriors nod.

“What choice?” Reynard asks.

“To become a part of the sword,” the copper-skinned girl says.

“If you take up this mantel then you—”

Sandmen! The sword screams in Reynard’s mind.

The revolver, knocked from his hand, spins across the cobblestones. Bone claws reach for him as the ivory mask lifts.

Limited choices force Reynard to reach for the broadsword.

Choose wisely.

Know the commitment you make.

No going back.

Evil must be defeated.

Dozens of voices echo in his head. Each warrior warns of undertaking the covenant with the sword. Reynard wraps his fingers around the blade’s hilt, completing the grip. He spins like a panther to face a room of warriors to find them replaced with a single hovering Sandman. Before he hefts the blade into a striking position, it grows into his hand, merging with every fiber of his existence. As the edge cleaves the air, it molds into the weapon of his choice. Becoming the extension of his arm as the Calthos warriors trained him to treat a sword.

The broadsword transforms into a katana-style weapon as its razor edge slashes the robes of the Sandman. Tearing through the cloth, the hilt shifts from the brown wooden handle to engraved ivory, forming the spine of a dragon. Exquisitely balanced, the razor edge shears open the Sandman. A blend of sulfur mist and yellows goop flows from the gash—blood.

Schwarzenegger’s voice from Predator fills his ears: “If it bleeds…we can kill it.” He never thought they would bleed, even as he’s watched dozens of them be destroyed.

The mask browns like aging ivory piano keys. Flowing rain of sulfur-smelling sand spills out. The physical transformation of the sword completes as the ivory mask crumbles to sulfur mist. The metal gleams and the Sandman explodes.

The tingle—as if his hand wakes from a numbing sleep—subsides. Reynard draws into a kata form, enjoying the exquisite balance of the weapon. Not even the most refined blade from the Calthos armory cuts with such agility and swiftness. He helicopters the blade in his right hand, moving into his next kata, slicing through the mask of an appearing Sandman. Sulfur flashes and vacant robes fall. Reynard smashes his katana into the neckline of a third Sandman. The faded ivory mask explodes, sending a shower of yellow pebbles to the floor. Its robes drop to the ground, empty.

Reynard kicks the cloth. “I should start a collection. I’d rival any Sand Killer.”

His own clan sword rests on the floor. He retrieves the blade, sliding it upside down in the designated loop on his gun belt.

The sword’s glow fades, returning the chamber to darkness.

The march from the antechamber leads to darkness. I need light. As if granting his wish, the sword glow increases, illuminating the passage.

He waves the sword as if playing with a Fourth of July sparkler. Before he writes his name in the air, the radiant energy shoots backward, engulfing him. He staggers back from the blast, slumping against the wall. The burn sucked all the breathable air away, leaving him without oxygen for seconds.

The copper-skinned woman grabs his arm to prevent him from collapsing.

“What happened?” he gasps.

“You accepted Calesvol.” Reynard notices her copper skin dims as she steadies him. “We all were offered the choice. It brought the blessing of the sword’s knowledge and the ability to control the weapon.”

“How do I control this weapon?”

“I will instruct you in—” Boney fingers punch through her chest, spraying Reynard in orange blood.

Reynard stabs the monster through the hole in the woman’s chest. The monster explodes in a rain of sulfur mist. He grabs for the copper girl as she fades from reality. Spitting more orange blood, she says, “The sword’s not…incorruptible.”

She vanishes.