Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga Regina Watts (e book reader online .TXT) 📖

the remains of the bonfire and golem to see what was salvageable and what was destroyed, the villagers retired to their homes to fulfill the other side of the catalogue—their own precious objects, missing or destroyed. Beds had to be remade, kitchens had to be cleaned, traumatized (and, no doubt, baffled) animals had to be comforted that their disappearing masters had returned.

Throughout all this, I arranged for Erdwud to return to Skythorn with us. Branwen went to fetch the horses while he readied himself. Alone together at last and semi-free to speak, Valeria looked at me.

“What will you do about Strife?”

My eye trailed back over the path to Rigan’s house. Soon we stood before the building of the outraged smith, who mopped his brow and sat on his porch looking exhausted from the effort of inventorying his weapons.

“Those bloody gimlets stole all my swords,” he lamented.

While I, wholly unsurprised to hear this in the way of those who were accustomed to divine coincidence, went on to ask if we could help him straighten up his place, he shook his head.

“No, no, but thanks for the offer. Something I ought to do myself…or maybe I’ll have my grandson come ‘round and sort it. It’s time I had an apprentice, I think. Be a good opportunity to show him a few basic example pieces…with what’s left, anyway. In truth, I had too much sitting around. Good opportunity to go through it all…that armor of yours comes from a few bits I already had sitting around. Your friend see it? What’d he think of it?”

“He’s a fellow of few words,” I told Rigan, earning a brief glance from hooded Valeria. Pretending not to notice, I took Strife’s pieces from her hands and showed them to the old blacksmith. “Now—I’m sure you’ll have enough to do for the foreseeable future, and if I’m reading the winds right, Weltyr will not be leading me back to Soot anytime soon…but, maybe if I return for it, or someone returns for it on my behalf, you might take the time to repair this sword and have it ready? I’ve a few coins now—”

Eyeing the blade and taking its pieces from my hand, he studied the point of the break before looking into my face with a shake of his head.

“Keep your money,” he said. “You won me back my house, Paladin. It’s the least I owe you. But isn’t this your sword from the Order? Thought these never broke…I once saw one said to be a thousand years old. Looked forged the day before.”

Heart stinging, unable to look at the pieces of the broken blade, I focused on Rigan’s aged face and told him, “It was the will of Weltyr that shattered my Strife…no man can truly know why anything happens in this world.”

With a snort and a shake of his head, Rigan agreed, “That’s the only thing that really is for certain. All right, Burningsoul…I’ll fix your sword. If you’re not back by the time my Selectrix takes me to the Hall, I’ll see to it that my grandson knows to keep it for you.”

“Thank you, Rigan.”

Spirit overflowing with emotion, I took one last look at Strife. While the blacksmith stood to go inside, I set my hand upon the cool flat of the blade.

“Good-bye, Strife, old friend…thank you. Weltyr bless you, and whosoever next wields you, if our paths do not cross again. Ah!”

Beset by that awful heart-pain again, I drew my hand away and nodded at Rigan. “Take care of it, and of yourself. Weltyr bless your house.”

“And yours,” said the old smith, disappearing inside.

The door shut behind him, and I knew that I would not see Strife again.

THE DUEL’S APPROACH

WHILE THE JOURNEY was long and tiring, we pushed the horses exchanged at the Dardries’ ranch to the limits of their endurance and made excellent time back to Skythorn. Erdwud rode with us, as did the Dardrie boy: the horses still in Skythorn were needed to repair the fields, and at any rate I couldn’t fault the family for wanting to keep their steeds close to home in case they needed to take sudden flight. Once bitten twice shy, as a teacher of myself and Elishta-bet used to say sometimes.

Elishta-bet was the subject weighing most urgently on my mind as we headed back to the city. Even as, by night, the tavern-keeper and I took turns regaling our fellow travelers with tales, I could not chase anticipation of the duel from my head.

Zweiding was twenty years older than I was. An orphan, as were we all. He was a powerful warrior with twice my experience—and an actual battlefield veteran, which I, born to peacetimes, was not. Having raided terrorist cells, worked as an officer of the law in Skythorn and trained cadets for years, the Commander responded very well to unexpected battles, let alone planned duels.

And there was me—not having had a full night’s sleep in days, journeying all over the face of creation. Missing a sword.

I had no idea what I was going to do…and every time I tried to think of a solution, my mind went in circles. What could I do to best the Commander when I hadn’t even a broken weapon? There wouldn’t be a blacksmith in all Skythorn open to me before the coming of dawn. Perhaps Sharp would let me borrow his gun when he saw I had returned Erdwud alive and well…now that would have been quite unjust! But I had no other solution.

Father Fortisto—I needed to ask him about the Ring of Roserpine, anyway. Perhaps he might also find me a sword somewhere in the Temple? It was a strange request and somehow absurd, but all the same I felt that somewhere in the sacred halls there had to be something of use to me. There was always Elishta-bet, too: if I saw her before the duel, she might also be tasked with finding a solution.

We arrived in Skythorn around midnight, leaving