Chapter Twenty-Seven

By Kalen's crown, but he disliked dealing with Gods. Pound for pound he wore a better sword, which of course was not the point. Since meeting Torrocka, his life had changed drastically. Child of prophecy; liberator from evil; Guardian. "Bah." When he reached the surface, he had it in mind to head inland and seek the valley raiders on his own. What use did he have to the ancient Atlantean. And then he remembered Shaurii and the other children, remembered what had been done to his village. Heart-rending images of his slain kith and kin flooded back to him. His rash impulsiveness had overruled his good judgement. Again he had let his emotions overwhelm good sense. Torrocka's spiel on the wisdom of patience rang in his head. Regret made his heart heavy. The old priest's huffing and puffing as he hurried to catch up to him replaced his earlier thoughts.

"Slow thy feet, Tarn. I'm not a spry sixty-year-old any longer," Torrocka gasped, out of breath.

"Sixty! What be thy age, ancient one?"

"If ye bear the burden of this jar, I'll tell thee." Tarn put the jar under his arm, waiting for Torrocka to recover his wind. After a brief respite, he said, "Let's see. I was sixty-four summers when I became a guardian of the Sword Chamber, so that would make me—eighty-five summers. Give or take a few."

"No one in my village has lived beyond fifty-seven winters and only a handful past sixty."

"Kalen's gift of long life lad. Why, I knew a man who lived well into his ninety-eighth summer. Of course, there was Luetta. She lived—" Tarn spun on his heels and walked into the darkness. Some moments later Torrocka noticed Tarn's absence, and that he spoke to thin air. "If ye didn't want to know, ye shouldn't have asked," Torrocka chastised when he caught up.

An expressionless glance met Torrocka's words. He would drop the priest off in the first city they came to. Torrocka slowed his pace. From there he would acquire supplies and directions and go south, alone. A faster pace may benefit those abducted. The bracer on his forearm scraped against the wall. He had forgotten its presence. He examined it closely. Not a scratch. He curled his hand into a fist and banged the bracer forcefully against the rock wall. Nothing. Perhaps Kalen was of some use after all.

* * * * * * *

"Be ye curious to read the scroll?" Torrocka asked when they stopped to sleep.

"No. What use have I for making steel?"

"'Tis not for harvesting or working steel," Torrocka said knowingly. "When ye chant the words on the scroll, no magic may harm ye, reducing thy battle to weapons of steel alone. Only the gods are immune to magic, or so I am told."

"My father said naught of this. He thought it a recipe to forge steel of superior strength and lightness."

"Aye lad. That's what we told the people. Who would seek a scroll to do what they already could do without it?"

"Then I'll not ever use it."

"Because thee fathom its true nature won't change thy need when it arrives."

"Speak no more of need and trickery. Sleep," Tarn ordered, missing the hint of a smile that pulled at the corner of Torrocka's mouth.

Tarn doused the flame, brooding in the darkness. He would not employ magic, even if it was magic to counter magic. What if there was magic to counter magic, which in turn countered magic? The endless possibilities hurt his head. Steel. He trusted steel, not devious priests who spread lies and relied upon trickery for their own means. Let this Imaran try to speak sorcerous words when his chest sprouted a yard of forged steel. Gods, wizards, and priests, all of them were as unpredictable and untrustworthy as a rock rattler.