Drien desperately gripped the sloping, yielding surface. Instinctively knowing he should not loose his hold on the sword, he gripped the blade with his teeth while he pulled himself onto the firmer surface with both hands.
The thunder of the gods was deafening—triumphant rumbles of six gods and outraged roars of Azrai—but not even they blotted out the scream of the cat-man as it fell. Its voice, growing thinner with distance, seemed interminable as it fell toward Aebrynis far below. Then the creature was too far away to hear, but it would still be a long time falling through the empty air.
The black cloud that was Azrai disappeared.
As Drien rose to stand on trembling legs, one of the shrouded gods drifted toward him. The small column of cloud that covered him seemed to drift, yet remained a part of the surface. Within it, Drien could barely see the white figure of Vorynn.
“You were a worthy champion, elf lord.”
Knowing the power of the immortals he faced, Drien held out the sword, offering it to the god, but Vorynn made no move to take it.
“Such a blade is made for the use of those who are condemned to walk the lands below. It is not for those of us. You have used the blade with courage, and it is yours if you choose to keep it.”
“It is a wondrous blade, and more reward than the winning of one battle deserves,” Drien said, turning Starfire in his hands.
“Reward?” Vorynn thundered softly. “A curse as well, I think. Our enemy has dropped below the clouds. He cannot prevent the death of his champion, but he can retrieve Deathirst. He will give that sword to another he chooses as his champion, and the two blades will be drawn together in the future. Think well, elf lord. Do you accept the challenges you and your descendants may face in the years to come?”
Drien considered the words of Vorynn. By will rather than strength he gathered himself to stand his straightest and tallest.
“If Deathirst is to enter our world again, it is as well that Starfire is there to meet it. By such power as I possess and by the honor of my name, neither I nor my descendants will fail in fighting the evil of our joint enemy.”
Drien was not aware of having moved, but he opened his eyes to see dawn breaking over the Sielwode. He lay wrapped in his cloak. Beneath him was a pile of fallen leaves, hastily pulled together to make a bed.
Around him, the warriors who had survived the battle at the encampment of the beast-men were also rising. They watched him covertly, some with confusion, some with a judgmental look, quickly hidden.
He understood their feelings. Though they had been willing enough to escape the lightning that fell on them, they expected him to lead them in another attack and could not understand why he had not.
Drien neither understood nor questioned it. His night had been filled with strange dreams. Powerful beings had shrouded themselves in clouds. They had split swords and mountains. He had fought a battle on a white surface. A strange dream, caused by his need to drive away the intruders in the forest, he decided. He had slept with a mind full of the fight to come.
As he rose, he adjusted Starfire within its sheath. To him, it had always been his weapon. His mind never questioned its history, nor did he connect it with his dream. He pulled the blade from its sheath and held it aloft. The elves around him looked on it and smiled, as if they had long experience of seeing that blade leading them into battle.
“Forward!” he shouted to his warriors. “The battle will be swift and sure, and no longer will we suffer intruders in the sacred forest of Sielwode!”
About the Author
Dixie Lee McKeone’s first motto is, “If I haven’t tried it, I don’t see why I can’t do it.” This belief has led her into the lifelong adventure of discovering just why she can’t. The process began when she was ten and decided to “fix” a bicycle, and continued through the collapsing wall of the first commercial building she designed (helped by a reckless forklift), the falling first ceiling she installed (which dropped with no help at all), and the needle bearings that fell out of the universal joint of an old Chevrolet.
And for seventeen years, they let this woman work as an architect and a civil and structural engineer?
These experiences led to her second motto: “If at first you don’t succeed …” which has been followed by a number of alternatives (e.g., fleeing the country, though Germany didn’t want her, either).
All her experiences became grist for the writer’s mill and have helped to produce seventeen published novels. These books are brought to you courtesy of her electronic repair man, who won’t let her open the case of her computer.