Broken World Book Two - StarSword (15 page)

The sand turned
a deeper gold as the sinking sun withdrew its light and guidance.
With its fading rays, its warmth receded and the fierce cold nipped
his skin. He pulled his short cloak closer and slogged on, knowing
that the only warmth he would gain now would be from his exertions,
and without it he would freeze to death. This precluded any hope of
rest, and he prayed that his strength would last the night.

Chanter stopped
and raised his head, his nostrils flaring as if he scented the wind
like a wild creature. Shern, following close behind him, watched
him doubtfully, his eyes resting on the Mujar's sharply etched
profile. The rest of the chosen, who dragged leaden feet after the
arduous march from the city, sank down for a moment's respite.
Since leaving the road, Chanter had paused only twice to allow the
people to rest and eat during the night and day that had passed
since then. Now the gathering gloom added to the peoples' weariness
as another night descended. Tired children, most of whom were now
carried by adults, whimpered as they were laid on the ground and
wrapped in blankets. Shern had longed to ask Chanter for time to
rest, but could not find the courage. The Mujar seemed
unapproachable, and none had dared to complain as yet. Chanter
turned to Shern, breaking his silence.

"Wait
here."

As the seer
nodded, the Mujar vanished in a rush of wind and beating wings, a
raven arrowing skywards. Shern walked back to the huddled chosen,
avoiding their enquiring looks. None chose to question him, all too
grateful for the rest. They passed food and water around and
massaged aching legs. Shern sank down with the rest, wondering, as
they all doubtless were, where the Mujar had gone.

Chanter soared
on the wind high above, tilting his wings to steady himself. The
wind spirit he had sensed below stayed with him, tossing him
playfully. Ignoring its antics, he glided down to alight in a
clearing. With a rush of Ashmar, he resumed his man form, the
Shanar close by. He raised a hand to touch its wild cool substance,
running his fingers through it in a caress. The Shanar responded
with a gentle gust that lifted the hair from his neck.

"Shyass," he
addressed it.

"Blessed One,
good greeting." The wind's whispery voice tickled his ears.

"Did the girl
summon you?"

"The wild heart
is caught, the wind denied."

"Who can deny
the wind?" Chanter asked.

"None but one,
know you. The Law of the Land denies all, neither Life nor Death
may defy it, yet trapped it is within its realm."

"The Staff of
Law." Chanter's eyes roamed the empty skies. The Shanar's unseen
presence was a cool whisper against his skin, moulding his face and
running fingers of air over his features. "She is within its
sphere." He nodded. "Did you see the one I sent after her?"

The wind
chuckled, a breathy whisper of mirth. "Crawling across cold sand,
soon to perish, with Mujar power at his side."

"Also within
the sphere."

"Know you, ask
me not," the wind breathed. "Foolish errands I abhor, freedom and
skies I adore."

Chanter
frowned. "I did not ask you, Shyass."

"Blessed One of
Land and Skies, chastise not the wind who seeks to aid. The wild
heart in danger lurks, and not the black ones, beware."

The wind gave a
low moan as it rushed away, bowing the trees on one side of the
clearing with the power of its passing. The Mujar gazed after it,
his brows drawn together. What was Talsy doing in the sphere of the
Staff of Law, and who had taken her there? No one could live in the
blood-red desert that surrounded the staff unless they controlled
it. He had never given much thought to the three staffs, for they
were passive, holding the boundaries of the world in place, and not
intended for any other use.

The Staff of
Life was his own, and for a Mujar to call on it was a simple thing.
He held out his hand, palm up in the Mujar gesture that Lowmen so
misunderstood. Not a gesture of pleading or surrender, but of Life
abounding, springing from his palm as now the image of his staff
did. It took the aspect of a warm brown egg that nestled in his
palm. Chanter smiled, rubbing the smooth shell that held the
promise of quickening life, growing and flourishing within its hard
shelter.

Turning his
attention to his left hand, he frowned and closed it into a fist,
the denial of Life, symbol of Death, the staff that rejected his
power. The Staff of Death responded to his summons, its image
appearing on the ground beside him. As with death, its aspect was
ever changing, from a pile of bleached bones to a grave, to a
broken sword and then a bedraggled dead bird. For an instant it
became a spot of utter darkness too deep to look at, then changed
again.

Chanter looked
away. Now that he held the images of the two lesser staffs, he
summoned the image of the Staff of Law. The greater staff required
a trifle more power, and he sensed the swirling of the four Powers
around him as he summoned Law. Fiery flickers flashed amid
Shissar's gentle mist, Dolana's cold seeped into him and Ashmar
gave movement to all. Their slight manifestation was brought about
by the exertion of his will to draw the Staff of Law's image to
him, for he had not summoned any of the Powers.

A shining
globe, like the sun's image, formed before him, hovering in the
air. Its gentle, golden warmth brought him joy, and its simple,
splendid symmetry was a wonder to behold. The Staff of Law held
none of the burgeoning of Life, or the withering of Death, but the
steady, all-powerful constancy of Order. As he gazed at it, he
noticed the slim black lines that marred its perfection, shimmering
in its light. Like a cage, the lines criss-crossed its image with
dark scars, trapping it in an unknown web of force.

Chanter
frowned, likening the black lines to the tar webs around Lowmen
cities. Holding the images of the staffs of Life and Death and with
the power they bestowed, he summoned the Staff of Law's reality.
The golden image flared, almost obscuring the dark lines, and
filled the clearing with light. He was forced to avert his eyes
from its blinding radiance as it obeyed the Mujar summons,
strengthened by the lesser staffs.

Prince Tyrander
woke with a scream, clawing at the burning strand that cut into his
neck. The gold chain dug deeper, redoubling his agony as he strived
to rid himself of it. He bellowed with pain and indignation,
twisting in the tangled sheets. The door of his bedchamber flew
open, and several wide-eyed servants ran in, amongst them his chief
advisor, Ardel. The rumpled group, clad in various stages of
disarray, gawped at the grimacing Prince, spellbound.

Tyrander tried
to pull the chain away from his neck, but the force was far too
strong. It dragged him from his bed and across the room. He fell as
his night gown tripped him, sliding across the polished floor
towards the far wall. Ardel broke from his trance and rushed to the
Prince, fell to his knees and added his strength to Tyrander's
struggle to remove the chain. Others joined him, and three of them
pried the chain over the Prince's head.

The monarch
shouted, "Don't let it go!"

Ardel hung onto
the chain that cut into his hands, as did the two servants.
Tyrander clasped his bloody neck and stared with bulging eyes at
the glowing stone within the golden cage on the chain. The size of
a hen's egg, the previously inert and ugly pebble burnt with a
brilliant red light. The servants used cloths to pad the chain that
sliced their hands, but even with three people hanging onto it, the
stone dragged them across the floor. Tyrander glanced in the
direction they were heading, straight for a solid stone wall.

His eyes
narrowed, and he snapped, "Let it go."

"Highness?"
Ardel shot him a surprised look.

"Let it go! It
won't get far. You're wasting your energy."

Ardel and the
servants released the Staff of Law, and the stone flew across the
room to slam against the wall, trapped within its cage. It hung
there, the chain dangling, glued to the wall as if it was a magnet.
Tyrander rose, brushed himself off and pushed away the servant's
hands as they tried to dab the bleeding gash in his neck. He walked
over to the stone and gazed at it with wonder.

"What are you
doing?" he asked the burning pebble.

Fiery lines
appeared in the air and formed into flowing writing, as they always
did. This was how the Staff of Law spoke, since it had no voice, by
writing its answers in runes. The sentence was brief and readable
for Tyrander, who had learnt to decipher the staff's strange
writing in his youth.

“
I am summoned.”

"By whom?"
Tyrander demanded.

The lines of
fire twisted and reformed into a single burning word. “Mujar.”

"Refuse."

The fiery
writing changed again. “I cannot.”

"Nor can you
obey," Tyrander snapped. "You're bound to me. It's useless to try
to answer the call."

“
I have no choice,” the runes wrote. ‘I must try.”

"Try then."
Tyrander smiled. "It will do you no good. The gold binds you. You
cannot even pass through one of your illusions while you're in the
cage."

“
True.”

"Where is this
Mujar?" the Prince asked.

“
Many leagues away, in a forest.”

Tyrander
twisted fretfully as his servants, having fetched a stool to combat
his height, tended the cut on his neck. He tried to ignore
them.

"Is he coming
here?"

“
No,” the lines of fire answered.

"Can you bring
him here? Summon him as he's summoning you?"

“
No. Mujar command the staffs, not the other way
around.”

Tyrander
frowned. "Yet you are more powerful than he."

“
No, I am not. Nothing is more powerful than Mujar, nor can
they be gainsaid by any.”

"Show him to
me," the Prince said.

The fiery
writing smeared together and became a burning ring. Within it, an
image of a dark clearing in a forest formed. A black-haired man
stood there, his eyes glowing in the darkness. In his right palm he
held an egg, and beside him lay a pile of bleached bones. Before
him, a brilliant globe floated, scored by dark lines.

"Explain this,"
Tyrander growled.

Part of the
fiery ring detached itself and formed into writing again. “He is
Mujar. In his right hand, he holds an image of the Staff of Life,
on his left is the Staff of Death, and before him is my image.”

"Why only
images?"

“
He does not need to wield the staffs; he only seeks to see
them. He has seen the force that holds me, that is why he has
summoned my reality.”

Tyrander looked
smug. "So now he'll come to free you, even if he cares nothing for
the stupid girl."

No,
the staff denied. “He will not. I
cannot be used for any evil purpose, and the Hashon Jahar will free
me.”

"But they would
also kill the girl."

“
Yes.”

The Prince
grunted and shrugged away the servants who tended his wound. "Then
he must come for her."

Chapter Seven

Chanter sighed
and released the images, waiting until all three vanished before he
turned and strode back towards the chosen. The Staff of Law was
trapped within a cage of the alien metal that disagreed with
everything in this world, especially Mujar. Whoever held the Staff
of Law also had Talsy, and he was glad that he had armed Kieran
with the Starsword. The wind's report of Kieran's plight worried
him, but surely the warrior would find a way to cross the desert
and find Talsy.

Chanter emerged
from the trees to find the huddled people sound asleep, their faces
drawn with exhaustion and their heads pillowed in each other's
laps. Even Shern had succumbed, and lay propped against a tree, his
mouth open as he snored. The Mujar paced amongst them, wanting to
push on, but aware that people needed rest and sleep. Perching on a
log, he settled down to wait, his ears tuned for danger. He hoped
that he would not have to leave the chosen to save Kieran, for that
would place them in danger, too. If the warrior thought about the
gift he had received, he would find the answer to his problems.

"Use the sword,
Kieran," Chanter muttered.

The Staff of
Law stopped glowing and fell to the floor with a soft clatter.
Tyrander bent and picked it up, holding it by the long gold chain.
Within the cage, the smooth pebble lay inert, as plain and ugly as
ever, a common sea-washed stone. This disguise had guarded the
staff since the world's creation, lying as it had done on the
shores of an inland sea surrounded by the cold red desert. One
pebble amongst millions, with nothing to distinguish it from all
the others. Until King Roane, Tyrander's grandfather, had used a
Mujar to find it, the Staff of Law had been safe. Tyrander often
wondered why it was called a staff when it was only a pebble. He
placed the chain around his neck once more, over the fresh bandages
that protected the ugly gash, and tucked the caged stone under his
nightgown.

Turning to
Ardel, he smiled. "The Mujar has given up. He has failed."

The tall,
balding advisor bowed. "Your Highness is wise. But perhaps you
should not wear the stone, in case he tries again."

"Why should he?
No, I will wear it as I always do, so it is safely with me at all
times."

Ardel bowed
again. "As Your Highness wishes."

Kieran gasped
cold dry air, his numb brain's commands forcing his aching legs to
take staggering steps. Never had he been so tired, thirsty and
cold. The sand hampered his steps, making each one an effort, a
task almost too great to achieve. The moon had risen and the night
was almost half over, yet he doubted that he could last much
longer. His armour seemed to weigh a ton and the bag of supplies
another. He longed to throw it off, but common sense prevailed. His
knees buckled and he sank down, glad of the dangerous rest even
though the cold attacked through his clothes. With icy fingers, he
opened the water flask and drained the last few drops of frigid
liquid. He chewed a little dry meat and bread, but what energy it
imparted was used to warm him.