Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon) (16 page)

“This is of a bereaved mother who lost her young child,” a gentle manly voice said from behind him.

Ilfedo gazed at the enormous hand in the picture. Was it the hand of Creator God?

“The innocent child is given into the hand of its Maker while the mother grieves for her loss. All the woman can see is her dead child. God sees another life delivered into His hand.”

“Are you Brother Hersis?” Ilfedo studied the white-robed monk.

The man nodded back up at him, then his beady eyes flicked to the next painting. Yimshi’s rays poured through the colored window panes, playing on his shoulder-length black hair. His shoulders spread too broad for his height, and his fingers engulfed Ilfedo’s hand when they shook.

“Blessings be given to you on this glorious morning, stranger. I am Brother Hersis. God is my witness, savior, and judge. Can you say the same?”

Ilfedo laughed. “Yes, I believe I can.” He wrenched his hand from the shorter man’s iron grip and turned back to the paintings. “Whose work is this?”

“Does the artist deserve the credit for the work he does? Or is the praise due to the Artist who designed the artist and gave him the inspiration to paint?”

“I’ll take that to mean
you
painted them.” Ilfedo strode to the next one. In this one an elderly couple smiled down at a man lying on his bed. In the background the Grim Reaper stood inside the doorway, but a man robed in white held him back. “What do these pictures portray?”

The monk followed him and waved his hand before explaining each of his pieces. “Sometimes God takes away, as you saw in the first painting. In this one he sends his angel and restores the sick man to his father and mother.”

Ilfedo walked to the next one. Here a man in wealthy clothing stood in the midst of a street. Beggars reached out to him while he clung to his bag of gold. Lacerations scored the man’s back, and behind him stood a fierce angel with a whip in its hand.

“Pity that soul,” Brother Hersis said. “God gave him much, and he hoarded it. Now his end will be bitter; the scourge of the Lord will follow him to death and beyond.”

“I don’t need you to explain this next one.” Ilfedo looked at the fourth painting. A man dressed in rags knelt on a cobblestone street to wrap a starving child in his only coat. He offered a slice of bread in his other. A great tear fell from an empty sky with an angel inside it. “This is the man with whom God is pleased.”

“Indeed.” Brother Hersis smiled and led him across the room. “These other paintings are not lessons, just reminders of what we who follow God should become.”

Brother Hersis had painted a soldier on the field of battle, standing over his wounded king. Lightning zipped from black clouds overhead. A path of escape lay through the enemy, but he stood over the king, sword drawn, while blood ran down his armor.

The next painting depicted a woman washing the feet of her weary husband. Another showed a family on a woodland picnic. In the last painting, a beautiful young woman knelt in prayer, a serene smile on her face.

Putting an arm around Ilfedo’s shoulders, the monk led him into an adjacent room. “Allow me to show you the painting I am currently working on.” His white habit swept the floor as he moved an easel, rotating it toward Ilfedo. Two children knelt in prayer beside a fallen warrior while a glowing angel holding a partially-painted sword rose over him. “I have still to finish the sword. And, as you can see, I have not painted in the mother, yet.”

After gazing upon the painting for a long, quiet moment, Ilfedo walked with the monk out of the room and into the parish.

Ilfedo lowered his hood and draped the cloak over a chair.

“Ah, so it is you! Word of God’s intervention on your behalf spread quickly over the last couple days.” Brother Hersis folded his hands and grinned. “We must offer praise to Him for your escape from death, my lord. Such an event has not happened in our recorded history. It will be remembered, embodied in the painting for everyone to consider.”

Ilfedo raised his hand. “Just don’t raise me on a pedestal in the eyes of your parishioners; be very careful that does not happen. Understood?”

The monk bowed. “Of course. Now, if it please you, tell me why you have come. I did not expect the Lord of the Hemmed Land to visit my humble parish.”

“I need you to introduce me to someone who, as I understand it, you met recently.” Ilfedo crossed his arms and gazed at the man. “I’m looking for the sword smith, Linsair.”

“Ah! Linsair. Well, I cannot say as that surprises me. It has been an honor to host that stranger. But his skills qualify him for many other things.” Brother Hersis heaved a sigh. “In times like these our nation needs men like him. Men who will proclaim truth unabashedly and without fear, even with boldness, and men working diligently with their hands in the cause of the innocent.” The monk led him outside and around the back where a few shacks lined a vibrant green lawn. Monks walked to and fro between the cottages, tending small gardens and gathering carrots, lettuce, and potatoes from the ground.

One man loomed out of the monks’ midst, hulking over them. He left a basket of carrots in the garden and met them.

“This is the sword smith you inquired of,” Brother Hersis said.

Ilfedo looked up at the man and marveled at the broadness of his shoulders and the thickness of his arms. His legs were hidden beneath the white habit of a monk.

“It is an honor to welcome you to my humble abode, Lord Warrior.” Linsair bowed and his white hair fell around his face. He straightened, unsmiling. “I assume that you have seen my handiwork and wish to enlist my aid in forging swords and more armor.”

“Yes,” Ilfedo admitted. He craned his neck to look deep into the man’s pink eyes. It felt strange to gaze
up
instead of at eye level or below. He couldn’t help but feel a bit threatened by the man’s size and strength. Yet there was something in Linsair’s eyes that conveyed honesty. Something about this man struck him as familiar.

Linsair rolled his shoulders and took off his habit. His every muscle stood out hard and strong. “I am a valuable addition to your forces, yet I sense that you desire to know more about me—my origin, perhaps?”

Ilfedo wanted to ask. He wanted to know. “You came from the Sea of Serpents.”

“That is correct. I washed ashore and made my home among your people.”

“Can you tell me anything about the strange coinciding of your arrival with that of the meteor that reportedly crashed into the sea just prior to your appearance on my shores?” Ilfedo studied the man for any wavering of eyes or body that would indicate deception.

Linsair’s eyes flared. “No. I cannot.”

Ilfedo narrowed his eyes. “Are you willing to tell me how you came here?”

“Know this, Lord Ilfedo.” Linsair rolled his shoulders again, every muscle rippled. “I came not to harm thee or thy people. My service I now offer; my skills are at your disposal. If you fear or distrust me, then accept not my offer. However, if your heart tells you that I am to be trusted, accept me as a blessing from the hand of the Creator.”

Ilfedo did trust Linsair. He shook the man’s hand, cringing in the powerful grip. There was a sober honesty in his new ally’s face.

“Brother Hersis, my thanks for the hospitality.” Linsair embraced the monk. “God will bless thee for all you are doing.”

“Farewell for now, Linsair.” Brother Hersis slapped him on the chest. “When you return this way, pay me a visit.”

Linsair heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid such will never be, my friend. Farewell.” Then he fetched his tools from one of the shacks and followed Ilfedo into the street.

They made their way out of town. On every hand people whispered as Linsair passed but kept out of his path. They reached the forest and journeyed on until they came to Commander Veil’s encampment.

At their hail, Veil barreled out of his tent, the noon sun glistening off his chain mail like millions of diamonds. “Form up!” he ordered, and the men marched into parallel lines straight as two arrows.

With a deep bow Commander Veil greeted Ilfedo and then grinned up at Linsair.

“Commander,” Ilfedo said. “Give this man whatever he requires.”

Linsair strode down the long lines of men. Every twenty feet he paused to stare into the soldiers’ faces. The men held formation with rigid formality. The sword smith returned to Ilfedo, and his huge chest heaved as he drew in a mighty breath. “The construction of their weapons is inadequate.”

“Inadequate?”

Linsair rumbled in his throat and, turning to one of the men, commanded. “Hand me thy blade!”

The soldier glanced at Ilfedo and rested his hand on the pommel of his sheathed weapon.

“What are you waiting for, soldier?” Ilfedo pointed at the man’s weapon. “Do as he asks.”

The man drew his sword with grace and speed. He laid it in Linsair’s hands and stood at attention.

Facing Ilfedo, Linsair grasped the weapon by its handle and poised it above his head, its blade aimed at the sky. “Draw thy weapon, Lord of the Hemmed Land.”

Commander Veil’s eyes widened and he frowned. He stood in Linsair’s path, his hand clawing at the pommel of his own sword.

The sword smith’s shoulders relaxed. “I do not intend harm. But this weapon’s blade must be tested against the best before it is committed to battle.”

Ilfedo drew the Sword of the Dragon and widened his stance as flames covered his body. He laid a hand on Veil’s shoulder, and the man looked back at him. “Step aside commander.”

Veil nodded, still wearing a frown, and stepped out of his path.

The albino man came at Ilfedo like a bear, and their swords clashed with such force that sparks flew. Ilfedo grasped his sword with both hands. The impact of Linsair’s attack left his hands stinging. Nevertheless he advanced. As the larger, more powerful man attacked, Ilfedo grimaced.

Linsair’s blade struck with great force, but the metal cracked and the blade broke in half.

Sheathing the Sword of the Dragon, Ilfedo shook his head. The sword smith had made his point. The soldier’s blade now lay in the dust divided in two.

Commander Veil stared aghast. “Oh my.”

Ilfedo looked up at Linsair. Those pink eyes stared back. “Do what you must. I will see to it that you are well-paid for your work.”

“Payment.” The man growled. “Did I ask thee for that? My services are free. I do not want payment. Simply require your men to follow my instructions.”

“So be it.” Ilfedo summoned two men and placed them at the sword smith’s disposal. Linsair led them to one of the tents and ordered them to pull it down.

Then he spun about and returned to Ilfedo. His hand clawed toward the Sword of the Dragon, and he drew it from the sheath.

“Step back! How dare you draw the Lord Warrior’s blade without permission!” Veil drew his sword, charged the large man, and swung for Linsair’s sword arm.

Living fire sprang from the Sword of the Dragon, enveloping Linsair instantly, and armor grew over his body like dragon scales. Yet the flames did not subside as they had on Ilfedo.

Commander Veil’s blade struck the scale-armor. He struck again, but Linsair parried with the Sword of the Dragon. The man’s pink eyes flared; the blade of Ilfedo’s sword pulsed white light as it made contact with Veil’s blade and cut through the metal.

Holding the short end of his blade in his hands, Veil stepped back, shaking his head as he gazed at it. “Well, I guess I can’t use this one anymore.” He picked up the severed blade.

The armor vanished from Linsair’s body, and he held the flaming sword before his face.

Ilfedo held up a hand, staying Veil with a sober glance. The man dropped the hilt of his broken weapon, and his hands hung limply at his sides.

“Only dragon blood could create weapons suitable for the battles your men will face, Lord Ilfedo.” Staring unblinking at the Sword of the Dragon, Linsair nodded. “A thousand swords I will make for thy men—a thousand blades to defend the helpless in a manner similar to this blade.”

“Dragon blood?” Ilfedo frowned as a chill breeze struck his back. “What do you know about dragon blood?” He remembered Dantress and the passion with which she had loved and the joy she had been in his life. He remembered also that her veins had flowed, not with human blood, but that of her dragon father. Her life was in her blood, and she had given it to their daughter.

“It is ancient knowledge that the life of a dragon is, quite literally, in their blood.” Linsair lowered his voice, drew near, and thrust the Sword of the Dragon back into Ilfedo’s sheath. “If a dragon sacrificed a drop of blood—sacrificed willingly and knowingly—one drop for me to blend with each sword I forge for these, thy men, then would I create beautiful weapons of light. They would be superior to other blades, though not as magnificent as thy own.”

Ilfedo gazed beyond the man to the trainees. Many of them were young, too young to die on the field of battle. But what battle? The Hemmed Land was at war with no one. Well, there were the Sea Serpents, and the Art’en creatures attacking the northern boundary. But were they a nuisance, or an indicator of a broader struggle to come?

“Darkness will come before the dawn, thou Lord of the Hemmed Land,” Linsair said. “Do not permit it to linger through inaction.”