Chapter 7

            The night was cold and clear and the three moons of Dolaria were full. It was a rare night, a condition that only occurred once every twenty years, and a night of power for those sensitive to such things.  A lone figure rode in the moonlight, its dappled horse making good time across a large field in a valley deep in the Kidarn Mountains.  The figure was dressed all in black—black boots, black trousers, a black doublet, and a long black cloak with a deep hood—and ghosted through the valley with barely a sound.  It slowed to a stop near the edge of the field, and dismounted from its horse.

            “It is nearly midnight,” the figure said to its horse.  The horse whinnied in reply, and started pawing at the earth.  “I know,” the figure said, “But we both have to rest.  I wish we were wherever we were going as well, but the Grand Master said only that I would know the time.  Now, let us rest.”

            The figure went about setting up a sparse camp consisting of a bedroll beside a fire.  It had a small meal of dried meat, cheese, and hard bread it had bought at a small village a couple of days ago, and then sat at the fire contemplating its life.

            The figure had never wanted to become an assassin.  It had started out simply enough.  It had grown up on a small farm outside Hertha, one of four other children.  One day, the figure had gone berry picking in the forest nearby, and returned to find the farm in flames.  Frantically, the figure searched for its family, finally finding them near the barn.  The figure’s mother and little sister had been obviously raped and mutilated, then beheaded.  The figure’s father and two brothers had been tied together, forced to watch helplessly.  Then they were mutilated and burned alive.  The figure, being only eight summers old at the time, did what any child of that age would do.  It cried.  For hours and hours it cried, until finally a neighbor came over to see what all the smoke was from.  Finding the child and the murdered family, the neighbor called everyone he could think of, including the local magistrate to try to get to the bottom of it.  The trail from the culprits ended at the shore of a swift flowing stream.  The magistrate concluded that they had obviously traveling the stream to hide their tracks.  A search was conducted five miles up and down the river, but no sign of the criminals were found.

            The young orphan was taken in by a neighbor, but quickly became unruly in its new home, and ran away.  Life on the streets of Hertha was hard, but the young figure became quite adept at sneaking into places it shouldn’t have been.  At first, it was merely sneaking into some place dry and warm.  But as the years went by, it started sneaking into more and more risky places.  It had learned that money was another way to make itself safe, and it started stealing more and more.  After a year or so of full time stealing, the figure snuck into a very large mansion and found itself face to face with the leader of the Thieves Guild.  The Guildmaster was very impressed that the figure had managed to infiltrate his mansion, and started teaching the young thief some of the more subtle secrets of the trade.  For over a year, it worked for the Guildmaster sneaking into the hardest and most heavily guarded buildings, until it snuck into one building too many and landed in prison.  It spent two years in prison before it could break out.  Once out, it tried to find the Guildmaster again, only to discover that a rival in the guild had hired an assassin to kill him and had taken over.  Finding the thief had been quite simple, and sneaking into its modest apartment was also simple.  The act of killing the traitor had been a sweet wine to the figure.

            Several days later, the figure was surprised to find a strangely dressed figure sitting in its room.  It was surprised, because the figure didn’t think anyone knew where it lived and because whoever managed to get in its room managed to do it without upsetting its traps and safety devices.  The mysterious person, who turned out to be a man, gave the figure a strange offer.  Its activity of vengeance had been noticed, and they wanted to offer the figure a job.  The Children of the Night, they called themselves, was one of the oldest and most highly respected assassins guilds there was.  The figure accepted their offer; hopeful that now it could finally find the people responsible for killing its parents.  It worked tirelessly for five long years, until one night it finally figured out whom had killed its family.  The figure stalked the four men mercilessly and finally slaughtered them one at a time.  After that, it realized how bottomless its life had become, and how distasteful its job really was.

            So the figure planned to retire.  It started saving as much as possible, and had a tidy little next egg saved for getting out of the business and opening an inn or festhall, perhaps in Dolaria.  The figure wanted to leave Hertha and all the bad memories there, and Dolar was far enough away for its enemies not to find the figure.  Dolaria was one of the largest capitol cities in the world, only slightly smaller than Hertha, and it would be a bustling place ripe for its business.

            That was until the last contract.  After the Grand Master had sent the figure away with the fantastic sword on its back, the figure’s future was uncertain.  The only thing it knew was that the nest egg was still sitting in a very secure place where no one would think to find it.  So when this affair was over, it could go back to its original plan.

            Drawing one of its daggers so fast that it appeared by magic, the figure threw a dagger into a nearby tree.  Quickly flipping to its feet, it drew another dagger and waited.

            “If you can’t be quieter than that,” it told the nighttime air, “You’d better come on into the light.  I didn’t have to miss with that first dagger.”

            “Peace, Child of the Night.  I mean you no harm.  If I did, you would already be dead.”

            If the taunt affected the figure, it didn’t show it.  “What do you want of me?” the figure demanded.

            “Merely to talk,” the voice said, stepping into the firelight.  It was a man of average height with long, graying hair and hazel eyes.  He was dressed in a loose fitting shirt and trousers, but wore no shoes on his feet.  “I have come to meet you, face to face.  My name is Lynard.”

            The figure merely stood its ground, dagger still in one hand, and waited.

            “You aren’t very trusting, and that’s good for one in your occupation.  However, you have no reason to fear me.  I merely wished to meet you.  The sword you carry is like a beacon to those who can feel it, and I wished to meet the bearer of the sword.  You have not yet bonded to it, I take it?”

            “That’s why I’m out here,” the figure said, lowering its guard slightly.  “What do you know about it?”

            “Only that it is powerful.  I can’t even tell what kind of power it is from, but I can tell you that it is very powerful.  You must bond with it as soon as possible.”

            “That’s the whole problem.  I don’t know how.”

            “Now that, I can help you with.  Two longlegs from here is a Druid’s grove.  In there you will find an ancient stone ring with a large stone altar at the middle.  Place the sword on the altar, a bough of oak and mistletoe on the sword, and four drops of your blood on the branches.  The bonding will occur then.”

            “How do I know I can trust you?”

            “An understandable question.  I do not know how I can prove it to you, but I am sincere.”

            “He speaks the truth.”

            Both Lynard and the figure looked around suddenly, trying to find the source of the voice.  Looking back toward the fire, they both saw the figure’s sword glowing a slight reddish color.  It slowly slid from the scabbard of its own accord and floated in front of the figure.  It spoke again, a silvery female voice emanating from the sword.

            “The werewolf speaks the truth,” the sword repeated.  “The time has come for us to be bound together.”

            “You…you can talk?” the figure asked fearfully, seeming not to notice that the sword had called Lynard a werewolf.

            “That isn’t all I can do,” the sword replied.  “Once we bond, my true power will emerge, and I will tell you my true name.  However, it is not something I will do in the presence of others.”

            “Why ever not?”

            “Because if a wizard were to somehow overhear her speak her true name, the wizard could take control of the sword and use it to his own ends.”

            “The werewolf again is correct.  When we start the binding process, something happens and the world is shut out for a time.  I’m not sure what exactly happens, but it will be safe for us to share at that moment.  But we must hurry.  The binding must be completed before Donalis sets.”

            Lynard and the figure looked at the sky.  Donalis, the largest of the three moons, was just over their heads.  The middle moon, Dener, had barely risen on the horizon, and Sonda, the smallest of the three, was about a quarter of the way between Donalis and the far horizon.

            “You should have about 5 hours before Donalis sets,” Lynard said after glancing at the other moons. 

            The figure merely nodded.  It reached down for its scabbard and settled it on its back, and then it reached for the sword floating toward it.

            “If you would like,” Lynard began, “I can watch your camp while you are gone.  You can return here when you are finished, because I daresay you’ll be quite exhausted.”

            “That is fine with me,” the figure told the werewolf. “I think you can be trusted enough to do that, as the only thing of value that I own is going with me.”

            “Your confidence in me is overwhelming,” the werewolf snorted.  “Werewolves do not lie.  It is against our instincts.  However, seeing as you obviously don’t have experience with my kind, I will let it slide.  That, and you are probably one of the few humans that could give a werewolf a decent fight, and the outcome of the fight wouldn’t be all that certain.”

            The figure said nothing, but nodded once in understanding.  It looked around the camp once more then trotted off into the night.  Lynard looked after her for quite a few minutes, then absently doffed his shirt and trousers and changed form into his hybrid wolf form.  He was a large werewolf with sleek, powerful muscles and shaggy gray fur.  Sniffing a couple of times, his excellent sense of smell smelled nothing but the scents of his pack, and his amber eyes saw nothing in the abundant light of the moon except one of the younger cubs padding toward him.  She was in her full wolf form, a rather small form that hid deceptive power.

            “Father, what would you have the pack do?” she asked.

            “Lucia, I want you and Georyn to follow her, and keep her protected.  The rest of the pack is to range out and scout for danger.  When the bonding occurs, it may draw unfriendly eyes to the grove.

            “But be careful daughter, ” he warned, “She is very edgy.  Do not approach her unless her life is in danger.  She is more than capable of taking out a younger werewolf easily, and would stand a good chance against two.  In her current mood, she’s edgy and unpredictable.  She might attack you if you get close enough, and I don’t want any messy incidents.”

            “She’s that good, father?”

            “Lucia, I’ve told you before that werewolves only get faster and stronger with age.  I’ve been alive over three hundred years, and I’m one of the strongest and fastest werewolves alive.  I think she would give me a hard fight, and I’m not sure who would win.  She can’t match my strength, but she’s fast daughter.  She’s also very smart, and that magic sword of hers is an unknown.  Since it’s magical, I wouldn’t heal any wound immediately, and that means that with her speed, it would be a hard fight no matter what.  I’m not sure who would win.  Whoever got lucky, probably,” Lynard shrugged.  “Now, off with you cub.  Get Georyn and do as I’ve ordered.”

            “Yes, father,” Lucia said as she turned and trotted off into the bushes.  Lynard sat watching the fire for a long time, waiting for the figure to return from its bonding.

            Trotting through the forest, the figure quickly traversed the two longlegs to the grove.  It was very apparent when it reached it.  Suddenly the trees changed from a mix of pine, elm, and sycamore to large, old growth oak trees.  The trees were massive, the figure noted as it slowed to a walk through the trees.  As it stopped for a moment to get its bearings, it felt a curious sensation.  It felt like a tingling, starting at the top of its head and working down toward its feet.  It passed quickly, but was strange nonetheless.

            “Lynard said it was near the center of the grove,” the figure noted quietly after shaking off the sensation, “but how do I know where that is?”

            “I can feel it…it’s about three hundred legs ahead of you and slightly to your right,” the sword said.

            The figure didn’t reply but started heading in the direction indicated.  Soon, it came upon the first stone.  It was a massive stone, nearly ten legs high and almost three legs wide at the base.  It was roughly rectangular in shape, and as the figure peered at the stone, it noticed another stone similar in size about twenty legs away to either side of the stone.

            “This must be the stone ring Lynard spoke of,” the figure said, “I must be close.”

            The figure continued to slowly walk deeper into the trees, eventually coming to a large granite stone.  It was just as large as the stones in the ring, but this one was flat on top, and was carved with strange, curving lines and symbols on its side.  On the top was carved a single symbol: two concentric circles around a strange, curved triangle.  Between the two circles were four smaller triangles.

            Remembering what Lynard said, the figure looked around in the surrounding oak trees and saw a fairly large bunch of mistletoe growing on a branch not far from the alter.  Walking over to the tree, she drew one of her daggers to cut the branch when a voice called out to her.

            “Do not touch the sacred tree with iron!” the voice exclaimed.

            The figure whirled on the sound with its dagger ready to throw, only to be facing a small, elderly human man.  The figure slowly lowered the dagger, seeming to realize that this small, old man couldn’t possibly be any danger to it.

            “The sacred trees must never be touched by iron,” the old man said.  “Please, use this instead.”  The old man reached into a small pouch in its waist, and produced a small, yellow colored sickle.  The old man gently placed the sickle on the altar and stepped back from it.

            The figure nodded and resheathed its dagger.  Stepping lightly over to the altar, the figure picked up the sickle and was surprised at its weight.  Glancing quickly up at the old man, the figure realized that it was not bronze like it had originally thought.

            The old man chuckled, “Yes, it is pure gold, which is why it is so heavy.  Only the purity of gold can cut the sacred trees without diluting their power,” he explained.

            The figure wondered at this.  Gold was much too soft to hold an edge strong enough to cut through the wood of the tree, yet the old man seemed quite sure of himself.  Well, the figure thought, when it doesn’t work I can always use my dagger.

            The figure quickly walked back over to the branch it had seen earlier, and preceded to cut the branch.  When the gold sickle touched the oak branch, a bright glow emanated from the contact.  The figure was surprised when the sickle passed through the branch with absolutely no resistance and the oak branch fell into its hand.  It marveled at the sickle for a moment, then walked back toward the altar.

            “Thank you,” the figure said as it handed the sickle back to the old man.

            “You are welcome.  I leave you now.  I don’t know why you are here, but I know you are not evil.  The grove itself will defend against any evil coming into its heart, so I know that neither you nor your intentions are evil.  I take my leave of you now.  I’m sure what you are doing will be best left alone.”

            The figure realized suddenly that that was the sensation it felt when it reached the grove.  The magic of the grove was checking for evil somehow.  The figure didn’t want to know what would’ve happened if it had failed that test.  The old man left without another word, and left the figure there.

            The figure slowly drew its sword and placed it directly over the symbol carved into the top of the altar.  Placing the oak and mistletoe branch on top of the sword, the figure pulled one of its daggers and was just about to cut its finger when the sword spoke up.

            “Place a drop on each of the smaller symbols and a drop on me,” it said, “then place both of your hands on me.”

            The figure hesitated a moment, “Lynard said four drops.  Why the change?”

            “This will bind us slightly differently.  It will make the binding even stronger.  You will also have more access to my power.”

            The figure nodded absently, then cut its finger.  It squeezed a drop of blood onto each of the symbols and a drop on the blade of the sword.  When the blood hit the sword, it started to immediately sizzle.  Not knowing what else to do, the figure place a hand on the hilt of the sword and a hand on the tip of the sword.  As its hand touched the tip, the sword exploded with a dazzling light a thousand times brighter than the sun.

            Several hundred leagues away, Jonathan, Hope, Jagal, Kamama, and Midaen were sitting around the table having a cup of spiced wine before bed.  They had had a wonderful time at the celebrations, and Jonathan was starting to trust these people.

            “Well, I particularly enjoyed the sword competitions,” Jagal said, fingering the new dagger he’d won that evening.  The sword competitions had been non-lethal, all combatants having to use wooden swords instead of metal, and all wearing padded leathers for safety.  The rules were simple, a cut with the wooden sword meant that the corresponding injury would be imitated.  For instance, a cut to the arm would disable that arm.  A match was won with either a killing blow or incapacitating the opponent.  The warrior in Jagal had had to enter the competition, and he quickly proved the reason he was the High Priest of Ares, the God of War.  Jagal had absolutely dominated the competition.  He was never even touched by his other opponents.

            “You would,” Jonathan jibbed him, “but did you have to embarrass the last fighter like that?”

            “He was a braggart,” Jagal shrugged.  “He needed to be taught a lesson.”

            “Yes, but not even drawing your own sword and still beating him seems a bit excessive.”

            “It’s not my fault he can’t keep a hand on his own sword,” Jagal shrugged to the chuckles of the others.

            “He certainly wasn’t bragging after you beat him,” Jonathan said, “In fact, he looked about ready to get a real sword and…”

            Jonathan stopped as he, Hope, and Kamama sensed a tremendous power coming from the northeast.  The three all jerked their heads in that direction, Jagal immediately jumping to his feet and facing that direction too with a hand to his sword.  Midaen looked confused at the actions of the four, but said nothing.  He hadn’t sensed any minds or emotions coming toward them, so he didn’t think there was any immediate danger.

            “What was that?” Jonathan asked after several tense, silent moments.

            “I…do not know,” Hope said. “It was explosion of power the likes of which I’ve only felt once before,” she said, glancing at Kamama.

            “What do you mean?” Jonathan asked.

            “It felt similar, but different to the time your axe and you bonded,” Hope said.  “I can only guess that a similar bonding occurred, but to whom and where I can only guess.”

            The four turned back to the table and returned to their original conversation.  Jonathan, however, kept looking to the northeast, toward the bonding.  He couldn’t tell how, but he felt it was more important than Hope or Kamama thought.

            “Where am I?” the figure asked.  The figure looked around at what was supposed to be the druid’s grove, but there were no trees, no altar, no moons, nothing.  A featureless white landscape visited the figure on every side.  There wasn’t even a difference between the floor and the ceiling, and the figure couldn’t really tell what it was standing on.  Quite some time went by before the figure noticed anything at all, and when it did notice a change, it wasn’t what it thought it would be.

            Through what the figure had decided to call white fog came what looked like a woman.  She calmly approached the figure, quickly coming to stand directly in front of the figure.  She was a woman of average height with shoulder length red hair and vibrant green eyes.  As she approached the figure she smiled widely.

            “At last,” the woman said.  “We are complete.”

            The figure gasped when it heard the voice both in its mind and in its ears.  When it realized that the voice coming from the woman was the same as the voice that it had heard coming from the sword, she gasped again and stepped back slightly.  The woman’s smile widened, and she said, “Yes, I am your sword.  Our bonding is nearly complete.  In a moment, I will tell you my name, and I will give you a new name.  But before we do that, I need to give you some information.  After you awake, you will have access to some of my powers.  You will heal much faster than you used to, and your reflexes and speed will be almost triple what they were.  You also need to be aware that you now have magically augmented strength, so be careful when you awake.  Other powers will emerge as you practice, but until you find the one you are looking for, they will not be apparent.”

            “The one I am looking for?” the figure asked.

            “Yes.  Unfortunately, this is all I can tell you.  It is male, and he is an extremely powerful magician.  He will also be to the southwest of here, but other than that I don’t know.”

            “How do you know all this?”

            “I am not sure.  But I know that I was forged for something great, and he is involved in it some way.  I don’t know what it is, but it is a task that only I will be able to do,” the woman looked worried.

            “Well, whatever it is, we will face it together.  What must we do to complete the binding?”

            “Merely the Naming.”

            “The Naming?” the figure asked having caught the emphasis on the word.

            “There is much more to a name than what someone calls you.  It is that, but it is also the root of your power.  If someone knows the name of a being of power they can control that being.  For instance, a wizard must know the name of a demon before they can be summoned.  For us, it is even more important.  Someone who knows our name could take our power permanently.”

            “But I don’t have any powers,” the figure stated.

            “I didn’t realize they never trained it.  How is it that you’ve been so successful as a thief and an assassin?”

            The figure thought about it for a moment, and said, “I’ve always thought it was just because I was good.”

            The woman laughed delightedly, and then said, “Yes, you are good.  But you’ve also been unconsciously augmenting yourself with magic.  But it matters not at this point.  From now on, we will both share a secret name with each other that is our true name, and we will both have a name that we call each other.”

            “Is it safe to do that?”

            “In this place only is it safe to speak our true names.  Called names are very easily changed.  Think of it as a nickname.”

            “But people know my true name,” the figure said uncertainly.

            “Do they?” the woman asked. “How long has it been since someone has called you by your name?”

            The figure thought about it for a moment or two, and realized that it had been many years since anyone had called it by its name.  The last time it had heard someone else speak its name was with the family that had taken care of it after its family was slaughtered.  After it ran away, it was called wretch, or vermin.  In the Thieves Guild it had been, at least after it gained some prominence, called My Child by the Guildmaster.  In the Assassins Guild, it was merely called Child of the Night.  No one had said its name in many, many years.

            “Exactly,” the woman said, “No one now alive remembers your name, if they ever knew it in the first place.”

            The figure thought about it for a moment and realized that no one knew that it even existed.

            “Fear not, for your name shall be remembered for all time.  Just have patience.  Now, our time grows short.  My name,” the woman paused dramatically, “is Regwyn.  I know your true name, Saranna, but what would you call me in public, and what would I call you?”

            Saranna thought for a moment then said, “I shall call you Kayleigh, after my mother.  And from henceforth, I shall be known as Isadora.”

            As she said her new name, both Isadora and Kayleigh felt a tremendous power swell up and join them.  The two were drawn inexorably together, drawing closer until they kissed.  It was a very platonic kiss, but the power transferred was incredible.  As the kiss ended, the light faded and the real world returned to normal.

            The ceremony ended, Isadora immediately felt the changes.  She could feel every inch of her skin, and her eyesight had improved remarkably.  She could see two small wolves making circuits around her position, and realized suddenly that Lynard must have sent them to watch over her.  She looked down at the sword, and realized that it had changed.  The pommel still looked like her father’s, but now it was a matte black color, as well as the blade.  When she picked it up, she realized that the entire sword was now the same metal.  Gently putting a finger to the blade, she recoiled suddenly when dark red blood oozed from where she had touched it.  The blade was obviously razor sharp, and if it retained the cutting ability from the night she had received it, it was a very formidable weapon.

            “Kayleigh, can you hear me?” Isadora asked outloud.

            Of course I can, Kayleigh chuckled in her mind.  And we can also communicate silently.  Just think to me, and I will hear it.

            Like this? Isadora asked in her mind.

            Perfect.  Now no one will think you’re going crazy.

            That could be good.  Now what do we do?

            I would suggest going back to Lynard.  You noticed his followers, I take it? Kayleigh asked.

            Yes, I assumed that they were here to protect us.  They didn’t seem to be acting dangerously,  Isadora said.

            Indeed, Kayleigh said.  I can scan their active thoughts, and they seem centered on looking out of the Grove, not inside.  We’re safe.  Let us return to Lynard, then we must head southwest.

            Southwest? Isadora asked in her mind.

            To find the one we must find.

            Isadora slowly made her way out of the grove, using her new senses to keep track of the werewolves following her.  They didn’t act in any hostile manner, but her awareness was on the fact that Lynard thought she needed protection.  From what she didn’t know, but she would be cautious. 

            Seems like I have nothing but surprises anymore. She lamented.

            Don’t worry about it, Isadora.  All will be well in time.  Just have faith in that.

            I will, Isadora said, But I wish I knew who we were looking for.

            When you find him, you will know, Kayleigh said mysteriously then fell silent.

            Isadora slowly worked her way out of the grove, and then broke into a trot, eager to make it back to camp where she could rest until the morning.  Or so she thought.

            As she exited the grove, unseen eyes followed her every move.  Eyes that were drawn to the power of her sword, and eyes that followed her all the way back to her camp, unseen by all.