Power surged from the sword, and Huma screamed. The shockwaves threw the knight to the floor. It felt as if every fiber of his body were being torn apart. He could see only green, could feel only the pain, and could hear only the incessant command of the Sword of Tears as it sought to overcome his will.
“Huma!” Another voice, familiar, sought to assert its influence on him. He took the lifeline and concentrated.
“You must be willing to part from it—totally—or the demon sword will have your body and soul!”
Totally? Huma struggled against the pain. He saw now that the Sword of Tears worked only for its own wily purposes and would never truly be anyone’s servant. That realization gave Huma the willpower he had lacked.
“I deny you!” He held the sword at arm’s length, sickened by it. “I will have no part of you and, therefore, you have no power over me!”
The pain diminished and Huma pressed his advantage. Slowly, he forced the outside presence from his head, reviling it, confident now that it had no true power. The presence seemed to shrink back from his determination, and the emerald brilliance diminished dramatically.
“Master,” it called. “You are truly master.”
It cowed before his mind. Huma’s confidence grew, until a thought flashed through his head. Now that he had defeated it, could he not use it safely?
No! Huma pushed the thought away. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His skin had gone white.
Huma threw the demonic blade wildly across the corridor. As he did, he thought he heard, or felt, a maddened cry. The sword clattered against the opposite wall and dropped to the ground. The glow had all but vanished.
“Never,” Huma panted. He leaned against the wall, his hands on his knees. “Not for all the power in the world.”
Slow footsteps indicated the near presence of the gray man. A strong hand fell on Huma’s shoulder. “There is no more reason to fear. The Sword of Tears is nothing. No more than smoke in the wind. See?”
Huma looked up. The demon sword was wavering and beginning to fade, to sink through the stone to nothingness. Within seconds, there was no trace of its physical form or the sinister presence within.
“Where is it?”
“Hopefully, back where it belongs. The thing has a mind of its own, but you know that. I think I’ve put it in a place where it will take some doing for it to break free.”
The knight looked up. “You saved me—and my soul.”
“I?” The gray man looked slightly amused. “I did nothing but make a few friendly suggestions. It was you who had to face the real battle. You persevered, though.”
“What happens now?” Huma stood slowly. His body ached. His head ached. He did not think he was capable of anything just yet. Huma slumped against the wall.
“Now?” The gray man sounded amused. Huma could not see what was so funny. “Now . . . you step through and claim your prize. You have defeated all three challenges.”
“Defeated—” The knight shook his head sadly. “You’re mistaken. I barely escaped with my life, much less my soul.”
“You live. Yes. That is the purpose of everything. To strive for life, for purpose.”
“Wyrmfather. The Sword of Tears. That makes only two challenges. Unless—” The truth struck Huma forcefully.
The gray man smiled a sad, gray smile. “Your trip through the mirror was no accident. A dark stain had spread itself deep within the fabric of the knighthood, and who better to cleanse the knighthood of that foulness than one of its own? Most, I think, would have been pleased to slay Rennard without permitting him a chance to surrender. You wanted to save him, even then. That—the passion for life—is what the knighthood truly strives for, above all else.”
Huma straightened, stared at the seemingly endless tunnel behind the gray man, and then turned back to the hooded figure.
“Are you Paladine?”
The gray mage smiled mischievously and tapped the side of his nose. “I could say I am, but I won’t. Let us just say that the balance between good and evil must be maintained and I am one of those chosen to see to it—much like yourself, though I fear my part is small compared to your own.” He gave Huma no opportunity to reply. “It is time you went through this last tunnel and claimed your reward. As I said before, you must go weaponless. Weaponless, save your faith.”
As Huma stared, the gray man raised a hand, which held two daggers, gingerly, by the tips. Huma reached instinctively to his own belt, but his daggers were gone. They belonged to the gray man now, only the gray man was gone, too. Only the gaping tunnel stood before Huma.
He took a step toward the darkened passageway.
Huma said two prayers—one to Paladine and the second to Gilean, Lord of Neutrality—and walked into the darkness.
Huma could not judge time, but he was sure that he had been walking for a long period when the first echoes of the hammer reached him. They seemed neither far nor near, and the intensity never changed. It was not as it had been in the great chamber, where the towering, maddened leviathan had shrieked out at such torment. Rather, the familiar sounds of a smith at work put the knight at ease as he recalled a point in his training where he was taught the basics of the trade. All knights had some knowledge of the craft, for each might be called upon to mend armor or shoe a horse. A good smith, as the knighthood dictated, could do virtually anything with an anvil, a hammer, and fire-red metal.
Whoever worked at the anvil had to be a mighty man, Huma decided, for the fall of the hammer went on with such regular rhythm and for such a great length of time that most men would have fallen to their knees by now. At that, who said it must be a man? Might it not be Reorx himself? Here, he knew, was a place of gods and power. Anything might lie ahead.
Then, when he had not noticed it somehow, Huma found himself standing in the massive armory.
Countless implements of war and peace hung, stood or lay from wall to wall, as far as he could see in the dim light, and even from the ceiling high above. A sickle whose blade, if straightened, would be at least the length of Huma’s body. Swords of all shapes and sizes, some curved, some straight, some thin, and some heavy. Jeweled and plain. One-handed and two-handed.
Here he saw even more suits of armor than in the chambers below. The suits ranged from the most primitive breastplates to the latest full armor as worn by the Ergothian emperor. Shields hung above the suits, representing every crest ever created, including that of the Knights of Solamnia.
There was so much more, and Huma longed to see all of it. He felt as if he had stepped into the lost tomb of some great warrior. Yet this was no lost resting place of the dead, for the weaponry and artifacts here were devoid of dust or any sign of age. Each piece he inspected might have been made only yesterday, so sharp were the edges and smooth were the sides. No rust infected the armor; the wooden handle of the sickle had not rotted. Huma knew, however, that these creations were even older than the chambers below, that before all else in this mountain maze, this set of chambers had been first. He could not say how he knew, just that he knew.
The fall of the hammer had become a pattern in his ears, and he did not notice at first when it stopped. When he did, he had already wandered midway through the armory, his gaze flickering back and forth. Huma paused then, momentarily unsure. It was at that moment that he saw the flicker of light from ahead and heard the unknown smith resume his work. Only two massive doors barred his way.
Huma reached forward to knock upon one of the doors, even as it swung open. The slight movement was accompanied by a tremendous squeak, and it amazed the knight that the hammer kept falling as if its wielder had heard nothing or did not care.