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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Sword

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect. 

—William Shakespeare

Karl's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled.

But why? In and of itself, the sword didn't look unusual.

It was a fairly ordinary two-handed broadsword, three inches wide at the ricasso, tapering at first gently, then suddenly, to a needle-pointed tip; a cord-wound grip and long, thick brass quillons proclaimed it a sword for use, not for dress.

The blade was free of nicks and rust, granted, but Karl had seen many swords just as good. Perhaps a sword like this was worth sixty, seventy gold. No more.

So why was just looking at it like an electric shock?

"Part of the spell." Wohtansen chuckled thinly. "It affects everyone that way."

Karl tore his eyes away from the sword and the ghostly hand gripping it. He turned to face Wohtansen. "What . . . ?"

The Mel shrugged. "I don't know much more about it than I've told you. There are two charms on it that I can see." He tapped the middle of his forehead. "With the inner sight. One holds it there, waiting." He gestured at the bands of light clutching the sword. "For the one whom Arta Myrdhyn has intended to have it."

"The other?"

"A charm of protection. Not for the sword, for the bearer. It will protect him from magical spells."

Karl couldn't keep his eyes off the sword any longer; he turned back. His palms itching for the cord-wound hilt, he took a step forward.

"Wait." Wohtansen's hand fell on Karl's shoulder. "What do you read on the blade? What does the blade say?"

The blade was shiny steel, lacking any filigreed inscription. "Say? Nothing." Karl shrugged the hand away.

"Nothing? Then we may as well go; the sword was not left for you." Wohtansen stared intently into Karl's face. "I'd hoped you were the one," he said sadly, then bit his lip as he shook his head. "But hoping never did make it so."

Karl took another step toward the sword. It vibrated, setting up a low hum that filled the cavern. As Karl leaned toward it, the humming grew louder.

He reached up and fastened both hands on the hilt, while the radiance grew brighter, the humming louder. The fingers of light dazzled his eyes; they gripped the sword more tightly.

His eyes tearing, Karl squinted against the light and pulled. The vibration rattled his teeth, but he gripped the hilt tightly and pulled even harder. The light grew so bright that it made his eyes ache even through closed eyelids, but the sword didn't move at all.

Goddam it, he thought. Here I am, trying to grab a magical vibrator when I should be home with my wife and child and— 

The sword gave a fraction of an inch, then stopped, frozen in place.

"Karl." Wohtansen's voice was shrill. "It's never moved before. Pull harder, Karl Cullinane. Harder."

He pulled harder. Nothing.

He gripped the hilt even more tightly, then braced his feet against the stone altar, and pulled on the sword until his heart pounded in his chest, and the strain threatened to break his head open.

Move, dammit, move.

Nothing. He set his feet back on the floor and released his grip.

The light faded back to its original dimness; the vibration slowed, then stopped.

"I can't do it." Karl shook his head. Wohtansen tugged at his arm.

"A pity," Wohtansen said. "When it moved, I was certain you were the one."

He pursed his lips, then shrugged, as he led Karl back through the tunnel, the radiance diminishing behind them. "But it's not the first disappointment in my life; it won't be the last."

Wohtansen waved a hand at the window and walked to the far wall. "I have to reimprint some spells; if you'd like, amuse yourself with the Eye while I study." He seated himself tailor-fashion in front of the wall opposite the glass, folded his hands in his lap, and began reading the invisible letters, moving his lips as he studied it.

Karl stared intently at the wall. No, it was just a blank wall to him; since he didn't have the genes that allowed him to work magic, he couldn't even see the writing.

That hardly seemed fair.

Then again, damn little was fair; damn little even made sense.

Although some things were beginning to. Arta Myrdhyn and the sword, for one.

Things on this side were often reflected as legends on the other side, at home. A great broadsword, somehow involved with the plans of a powerful wizard, held immobile until the right man appeared to claim it . . . that sounded like the story of Excalibur. The legend had been garbled, granted, but that wasn't unexpected.

The Excalibur story had never made sense to Karl; if whoever could remove Excalibur from the stone were automatically to become king of England, England would quickly be ruled by the first stoneworker to happen along and chisel it loose.

No spell could prevent that; magic worked erratically back home, when it worked at all.

But what does all this add up to? Deighton had brought a group of Vikings through to this side, not primarily to guard the sword, but to guide the right one to the sword, a sword that protected its bearer against magic.

And the right one was supposed to take it. To use it. To use it for what? 

Karl shook his head. He couldn't follow the thread any further.

What are you really up to, Deighton?  

He shrugged. Ahira was right. It would be a long time, at best, before they knew.

Karl turned to the window that looked out on the sea. He pressed his fingers against the left side of the glass and spun the view shoreward. A procession of Mel was engaged in bringing canvas sacks down the beach and depositing them on the sand just above the high-water mark. The pile was already well over six feet high.

Karl shrugged. Ganness' copra, no doubt. Too bad for Avair that he couldn't bring it directly to Pandathaway, but would instead have to sell it in Ehvenor to some Pandathaway-bound merchant. The dried, impressed coconut meat would bring a high price in Pandathaway; after it had been run through presses, what oil the wizards didn't need would find its way into gentle soaps and balms, while the remaining meat would end up in breads and cakes.

But why were they bringing it down to the beach now? Ganness and the Warthog weren't due until tomorrow. Right now, the Eriksens should be celebrating Aeia's return.

Karl spun the view seaward. Just over the horizon, a black speck grew. A ship.

That explained it. Ganness was on his way a day early, and the Clan Erik coastwatchers had spotted the Warthog. Undoubtedly, the watchers had sounded the alarm, which had then been canceled when Wohtansen's men explained that there was a friendly ship en route.

Karl opened his mouth to tell Wohtansen about it, but changed his mind; the Mel was still studying the wall, his whole body tensed in concentration.

Wish I'd asked how long this was going to take. Idly, he centered the ship on the screen and pressed his fingers to the center of the glass.

The Warthog grew in the screen as it seemed to sail directly toward Karl. The ship rode high in the water, since most of its cargo had been unloaded in Clan Wohtan. As it moved closer, Karl could make out Ganness at the prow.

That was unusual; Ganness generally ran the ship from the main deck, where he was midway between the lookout in the forward mast and the steersman at the stern. That way, he could lounge in his chair while still able to hear warnings and give commands easily.

Only when the ship needed careful handling did he act as either lookout or steersman himself. Beaching the ship in the lagoon had needed that careful handling; beaching it here should just be a matter of sailing the Warthog slowly toward shore until it wouldn't go any farther.

Ganness' figure grew in the screen. Trembling, he raised a hand to wipe sweat from his brow.

What's Ganness nervous about? I guess there could be underwater boulders near the shore, but that shouldn't scare him like this.  

Karl moved his finger to scan the rest of the ship, but his control wasn't fine enough; the Warthog scudded out of the Eye's field of view.

Damn. He removed his finger from the screen, centered the ship as soon as the field widened, and zoomed in carefully, making fingertip corrections to the aim of the Eye.

Standing next to Ganness was a young man. His face was dark and thin, his hair straight. A cruel smile flickered across his lips as he examined a dark glass ball, slipped it into his pouch, then turned to say something to the men behind him.

He looked for all the world like a younger version of Ohlmin.

Karl's heart pounded.

"Wohtansen, look."

The Mel wizard scowled at him. "Not now, please. This is difficult."

"Shut up. This is important. That's the slaver who tried to take me on the docks at Ehvenor. He and his men have taken the Warthog. They're going to be sailing right up to the damn beach, and the Eriksens won't know—"

"—that they are slavers." Wohtansen whitened. "We've told them to expect friends."

"Right." Karl's right hand ached for his sword. Got to figure out exactly what they're going to do. The slavers had the element of surprise. How would they use it?

They would probably drop anchor or beach the ship, and let some Eriksen dugouts come out to meet them, just as if this were a normal trading session. Then the slavers would kill or capture the Mel in the canoes, and use the canoes to go ashore, their wizard protecting them all the while from the Mel wizard's spells.

They would work it something like that. The slavers had clearly gone to some trouble to gain the advantage of surprise, and they would make good use of it.

"Karl," Wohtansen said, his voice shaky, "they must have already raided my clan. Otherwise someone would have chased after us, to warn us."

"Be quiet for a moment." That was true, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it right now. "We've only got one edge. You and I know what's going on, but they don't know that we know."

But how could they use that single advantage? Karl and Wohtansen couldn't take on the slavers all by themselves. "You swim to shore, and quietly warn my people, only my people. Tell Ahira to get into the treeline with his crossbow; have Chak take Tennetty and Rahff, and hide themselves along the path to the village."

"But the Eriksens—"

Karl shook his head. "If we let them know, they'll sound the alarm. All that would do is turn this into a standard raid, with Clan Erik taking to the hills, and the slavers scooping up a few dozen stragglers. We've got to stop them; that wouldn't do it."

The Pandathaway wizard, he was the key; Karl would have to take the wizard out. "Just keep quiet until you hear from me. If you raise a fuss, all you'll do is bring their wizard down on your head. Now, move."

"But you can't take on the wizard, not by yourself. You don't have a chance."

"I won't be by myself. Get going."

Wohtansen ran toward the tunnel that led to the entrance pool.

Karl didn't wait for the splash; he turned and sprinted toward the cavern of the sword.

He seated himself tailor-fashion on the cold stone. "Deighton, can you hear me?"

No answer.

"I know you put this sword here for a purpose."

Still no answer. Nothing. Held firmly by the fingers of light, the sword hung silently in the air. "Arta Myrdhyn, talk to me. Say something."

Nothing.

He stood and walked over to the rough stone altar and gently laid his hand on the sword's hilt. As though he were holding a baby's arm, he pulled on the sword, as gently as he could.

It didn't move.

He pulled harder, harder; the light brightened, the sword vibrated.

Karl loosened his grip. Force wasn't the answer. Reason had to be.

Why would Arta Myrdhyn create or procure a sword that rendered its user immune to magical spells? What was such a sword good for? The answer was obvious: It was good for killing wizards. That was Arta Myrdhyn's intention.

Not all wizards, of course. Myrdhyn wouldn't go to all that trouble to wipe out his own kind; he wanted a specific wizard killed.

So. The sword had been left here for a purpose, and that purpose was for the right person to take it, to use to kill an enemy of Deighton's. That made sense.

But why would a wizard as powerful as Arta Myrdhyn need to do this in such a roundabout way? Why not just kill the wizard himself?

There was only one answer: Deighton wasn't sure that he could win, not in a fair fight.

Unsummoned, a vision of the Waste welled up. It had been lush green forest, until a battle between two wizards had scarred the land forever.

And the Shattered Islands lay across the northern part of the Cirric. Legend had it that they once were one island, one kingdom. But the name of that island had been lost.

Lost? That didn't make sense. There were records of everything in the Great Library of Pandathaway; knowledge couldn't be lost as long as the library stood. Unless . . .

Unless the name had been excised. Not just from paper, but from minds. And who could do that better than the grandmaster of Wizards' Guild?

Hypothesis: Deighton fought the grandmaster; their battle created the Waste and shattered the island.

And while Deighton wasn't killed, he had lost, and had either created or found the sword, brought some Vikings across to guard it, then fled to the Other Side.

And, eventually, brought us across.  

That had to be connected. If this was truly part of his battle with the grandmaster, Karl and the rest being sent across had to be some sort of attack on his enemy.

Then why hadn't Karl been able to take the sword? If all that was true, then the sword should have practically jumped into his hand. All it had done was move a little.

Then I can't take the sword because, for some reason, I'm not the one who is supposed to kill the grandmaster. But I am somehow connected with the right one, or the sword wouldn't have twitched.  

No! Deighton hadn't sent them across until the night Andy-Andy joined the group. That was what triggered it.

"Connected with? As in 'the father of'?"

He rested his hand on the sword's hilt. "And if I were to agree to take this for the purpose of bringing it back to the valley, giving it to my son when he's ready—"

Black shapes flickered across the silvery blade, forming themselves into thick black letters.

Take Me. 

Karl blinked. The letters were gone.

The ghostly fingers faded, then vanished; the sword clanged on the stone.

Quickly, he stopped to pick it up; the steel was blank, unmarred.

"Okay, Deighton, you've got yourself a deal." There's going to be an accounting between you and me, one of these days. 

But, in the meantime, I'd damn well better work out how I'm going to use this.  

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Sword

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect. 

—William Shakespeare

Karl's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled.

But why? In and of itself, the sword didn't look unusual.

It was a fairly ordinary two-handed broadsword, three inches wide at the ricasso, tapering at first gently, then suddenly, to a needle-pointed tip; a cord-wound grip and long, thick brass quillons proclaimed it a sword for use, not for dress.

The blade was free of nicks and rust, granted, but Karl had seen many swords just as good. Perhaps a sword like this was worth sixty, seventy gold. No more.

So why was just looking at it like an electric shock?

"Part of the spell." Wohtansen chuckled thinly. "It affects everyone that way."

Karl tore his eyes away from the sword and the ghostly hand gripping it. He turned to face Wohtansen. "What . . . ?"

The Mel shrugged. "I don't know much more about it than I've told you. There are two charms on it that I can see." He tapped the middle of his forehead. "With the inner sight. One holds it there, waiting." He gestured at the bands of light clutching the sword. "For the one whom Arta Myrdhyn has intended to have it."

"The other?"

"A charm of protection. Not for the sword, for the bearer. It will protect him from magical spells."

Karl couldn't keep his eyes off the sword any longer; he turned back. His palms itching for the cord-wound hilt, he took a step forward.

"Wait." Wohtansen's hand fell on Karl's shoulder. "What do you read on the blade? What does the blade say?"

The blade was shiny steel, lacking any filigreed inscription. "Say? Nothing." Karl shrugged the hand away.

"Nothing? Then we may as well go; the sword was not left for you." Wohtansen stared intently into Karl's face. "I'd hoped you were the one," he said sadly, then bit his lip as he shook his head. "But hoping never did make it so."

Karl took another step toward the sword. It vibrated, setting up a low hum that filled the cavern. As Karl leaned toward it, the humming grew louder.

He reached up and fastened both hands on the hilt, while the radiance grew brighter, the humming louder. The fingers of light dazzled his eyes; they gripped the sword more tightly.

His eyes tearing, Karl squinted against the light and pulled. The vibration rattled his teeth, but he gripped the hilt tightly and pulled even harder. The light grew so bright that it made his eyes ache even through closed eyelids, but the sword didn't move at all.

Goddam it, he thought. Here I am, trying to grab a magical vibrator when I should be home with my wife and child and— 

The sword gave a fraction of an inch, then stopped, frozen in place.

"Karl." Wohtansen's voice was shrill. "It's never moved before. Pull harder, Karl Cullinane. Harder."

He pulled harder. Nothing.

He gripped the hilt even more tightly, then braced his feet against the stone altar, and pulled on the sword until his heart pounded in his chest, and the strain threatened to break his head open.

Move, dammit, move.

Nothing. He set his feet back on the floor and released his grip.

The light faded back to its original dimness; the vibration slowed, then stopped.

"I can't do it." Karl shook his head. Wohtansen tugged at his arm.

"A pity," Wohtansen said. "When it moved, I was certain you were the one."

He pursed his lips, then shrugged, as he led Karl back through the tunnel, the radiance diminishing behind them. "But it's not the first disappointment in my life; it won't be the last."

Wohtansen waved a hand at the window and walked to the far wall. "I have to reimprint some spells; if you'd like, amuse yourself with the Eye while I study." He seated himself tailor-fashion in front of the wall opposite the glass, folded his hands in his lap, and began reading the invisible letters, moving his lips as he studied it.

Karl stared intently at the wall. No, it was just a blank wall to him; since he didn't have the genes that allowed him to work magic, he couldn't even see the writing.

That hardly seemed fair.

Then again, damn little was fair; damn little even made sense.

Although some things were beginning to. Arta Myrdhyn and the sword, for one.

Things on this side were often reflected as legends on the other side, at home. A great broadsword, somehow involved with the plans of a powerful wizard, held immobile until the right man appeared to claim it . . . that sounded like the story of Excalibur. The legend had been garbled, granted, but that wasn't unexpected.

The Excalibur story had never made sense to Karl; if whoever could remove Excalibur from the stone were automatically to become king of England, England would quickly be ruled by the first stoneworker to happen along and chisel it loose.

No spell could prevent that; magic worked erratically back home, when it worked at all.

But what does all this add up to? Deighton had brought a group of Vikings through to this side, not primarily to guard the sword, but to guide the right one to the sword, a sword that protected its bearer against magic.

And the right one was supposed to take it. To use it. To use it for what? 

Karl shook his head. He couldn't follow the thread any further.

What are you really up to, Deighton?  

He shrugged. Ahira was right. It would be a long time, at best, before they knew.

Karl turned to the window that looked out on the sea. He pressed his fingers against the left side of the glass and spun the view shoreward. A procession of Mel was engaged in bringing canvas sacks down the beach and depositing them on the sand just above the high-water mark. The pile was already well over six feet high.

Karl shrugged. Ganness' copra, no doubt. Too bad for Avair that he couldn't bring it directly to Pandathaway, but would instead have to sell it in Ehvenor to some Pandathaway-bound merchant. The dried, impressed coconut meat would bring a high price in Pandathaway; after it had been run through presses, what oil the wizards didn't need would find its way into gentle soaps and balms, while the remaining meat would end up in breads and cakes.

But why were they bringing it down to the beach now? Ganness and the Warthog weren't due until tomorrow. Right now, the Eriksens should be celebrating Aeia's return.

Karl spun the view seaward. Just over the horizon, a black speck grew. A ship.

That explained it. Ganness was on his way a day early, and the Clan Erik coastwatchers had spotted the Warthog. Undoubtedly, the watchers had sounded the alarm, which had then been canceled when Wohtansen's men explained that there was a friendly ship en route.

Karl opened his mouth to tell Wohtansen about it, but changed his mind; the Mel was still studying the wall, his whole body tensed in concentration.

Wish I'd asked how long this was going to take. Idly, he centered the ship on the screen and pressed his fingers to the center of the glass.

The Warthog grew in the screen as it seemed to sail directly toward Karl. The ship rode high in the water, since most of its cargo had been unloaded in Clan Wohtan. As it moved closer, Karl could make out Ganness at the prow.

That was unusual; Ganness generally ran the ship from the main deck, where he was midway between the lookout in the forward mast and the steersman at the stern. That way, he could lounge in his chair while still able to hear warnings and give commands easily.

Only when the ship needed careful handling did he act as either lookout or steersman himself. Beaching the ship in the lagoon had needed that careful handling; beaching it here should just be a matter of sailing the Warthog slowly toward shore until it wouldn't go any farther.

Ganness' figure grew in the screen. Trembling, he raised a hand to wipe sweat from his brow.

What's Ganness nervous about? I guess there could be underwater boulders near the shore, but that shouldn't scare him like this.  

Karl moved his finger to scan the rest of the ship, but his control wasn't fine enough; the Warthog scudded out of the Eye's field of view.

Damn. He removed his finger from the screen, centered the ship as soon as the field widened, and zoomed in carefully, making fingertip corrections to the aim of the Eye.

Standing next to Ganness was a young man. His face was dark and thin, his hair straight. A cruel smile flickered across his lips as he examined a dark glass ball, slipped it into his pouch, then turned to say something to the men behind him.

He looked for all the world like a younger version of Ohlmin.

Karl's heart pounded.

"Wohtansen, look."

The Mel wizard scowled at him. "Not now, please. This is difficult."

"Shut up. This is important. That's the slaver who tried to take me on the docks at Ehvenor. He and his men have taken the Warthog. They're going to be sailing right up to the damn beach, and the Eriksens won't know—"

"—that they are slavers." Wohtansen whitened. "We've told them to expect friends."

"Right." Karl's right hand ached for his sword. Got to figure out exactly what they're going to do. The slavers had the element of surprise. How would they use it?

They would probably drop anchor or beach the ship, and let some Eriksen dugouts come out to meet them, just as if this were a normal trading session. Then the slavers would kill or capture the Mel in the canoes, and use the canoes to go ashore, their wizard protecting them all the while from the Mel wizard's spells.

They would work it something like that. The slavers had clearly gone to some trouble to gain the advantage of surprise, and they would make good use of it.

"Karl," Wohtansen said, his voice shaky, "they must have already raided my clan. Otherwise someone would have chased after us, to warn us."

"Be quiet for a moment." That was true, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it right now. "We've only got one edge. You and I know what's going on, but they don't know that we know."

But how could they use that single advantage? Karl and Wohtansen couldn't take on the slavers all by themselves. "You swim to shore, and quietly warn my people, only my people. Tell Ahira to get into the treeline with his crossbow; have Chak take Tennetty and Rahff, and hide themselves along the path to the village."

"But the Eriksens—"

Karl shook his head. "If we let them know, they'll sound the alarm. All that would do is turn this into a standard raid, with Clan Erik taking to the hills, and the slavers scooping up a few dozen stragglers. We've got to stop them; that wouldn't do it."

The Pandathaway wizard, he was the key; Karl would have to take the wizard out. "Just keep quiet until you hear from me. If you raise a fuss, all you'll do is bring their wizard down on your head. Now, move."

"But you can't take on the wizard, not by yourself. You don't have a chance."

"I won't be by myself. Get going."

Wohtansen ran toward the tunnel that led to the entrance pool.

Karl didn't wait for the splash; he turned and sprinted toward the cavern of the sword.

He seated himself tailor-fashion on the cold stone. "Deighton, can you hear me?"

No answer.

"I know you put this sword here for a purpose."

Still no answer. Nothing. Held firmly by the fingers of light, the sword hung silently in the air. "Arta Myrdhyn, talk to me. Say something."

Nothing.

He stood and walked over to the rough stone altar and gently laid his hand on the sword's hilt. As though he were holding a baby's arm, he pulled on the sword, as gently as he could.

It didn't move.

He pulled harder, harder; the light brightened, the sword vibrated.

Karl loosened his grip. Force wasn't the answer. Reason had to be.

Why would Arta Myrdhyn create or procure a sword that rendered its user immune to magical spells? What was such a sword good for? The answer was obvious: It was good for killing wizards. That was Arta Myrdhyn's intention.

Not all wizards, of course. Myrdhyn wouldn't go to all that trouble to wipe out his own kind; he wanted a specific wizard killed.

So. The sword had been left here for a purpose, and that purpose was for the right person to take it, to use to kill an enemy of Deighton's. That made sense.

But why would a wizard as powerful as Arta Myrdhyn need to do this in such a roundabout way? Why not just kill the wizard himself?

There was only one answer: Deighton wasn't sure that he could win, not in a fair fight.

Unsummoned, a vision of the Waste welled up. It had been lush green forest, until a battle between two wizards had scarred the land forever.

And the Shattered Islands lay across the northern part of the Cirric. Legend had it that they once were one island, one kingdom. But the name of that island had been lost.

Lost? That didn't make sense. There were records of everything in the Great Library of Pandathaway; knowledge couldn't be lost as long as the library stood. Unless . . .

Unless the name had been excised. Not just from paper, but from minds. And who could do that better than the grandmaster of Wizards' Guild?

Hypothesis: Deighton fought the grandmaster; their battle created the Waste and shattered the island.

And while Deighton wasn't killed, he had lost, and had either created or found the sword, brought some Vikings across to guard it, then fled to the Other Side.

And, eventually, brought us across.  

That had to be connected. If this was truly part of his battle with the grandmaster, Karl and the rest being sent across had to be some sort of attack on his enemy.

Then why hadn't Karl been able to take the sword? If all that was true, then the sword should have practically jumped into his hand. All it had done was move a little.

Then I can't take the sword because, for some reason, I'm not the one who is supposed to kill the grandmaster. But I am somehow connected with the right one, or the sword wouldn't have twitched.  

No! Deighton hadn't sent them across until the night Andy-Andy joined the group. That was what triggered it.

"Connected with? As in 'the father of'?"

He rested his hand on the sword's hilt. "And if I were to agree to take this for the purpose of bringing it back to the valley, giving it to my son when he's ready—"

Black shapes flickered across the silvery blade, forming themselves into thick black letters.

Take Me. 

Karl blinked. The letters were gone.

The ghostly fingers faded, then vanished; the sword clanged on the stone.

Quickly, he stopped to pick it up; the steel was blank, unmarred.

"Okay, Deighton, you've got yourself a deal." There's going to be an accounting between you and me, one of these days. 

But, in the meantime, I'd damn well better work out how I'm going to use this.  

Back | Next
Contents
Framed