A Pilgrimage of Swords

Anthony Ryan

Chapters (10)

by Anthony Ryan.

by Didier Graffet.

by Desert Isle Design, LLC.

Electronic Edition

ISBN

978-1-59606-925-1

Subterranean Press

PO Box 190106

Burton, MI 48519

subterraneanpress.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

This story is dedicated to the late, great Ray Harryhausen—filmmaker, animator and true magician who crafted many wonders to light my childhood imagination and continues to provide a well of inspiration, for this tale and many others.

Map

Put not thy faith in steel,

For flesh is always the stronger.

—Injunctions of the First Risen.

One

Chapter One

The Valkerin Road

W hy do you hate me so? Do we not do wondrous things together?

The questions were accompanied by a small pulse that coursed through the sword’s handle into his palm, combining heat with an electric thrill that spread from his arm to the rest of his being in an instant. The sensation it provoked caused as much pain as it did delight and, no matter the countless times he had experienced it, had never become familiar.

A few yards away the raider spent his few remaining seconds staring at the tall man with the sword. The dying bandit swayed on his knees, one hand clutching the gaping wound in his throat whilst the other swished his scimitar about in automatic reflex. He seemed particularly transfixed by the tall man’s sword, staring at the untarnished gleam of the blade, lacking the smallest speck of blood despite having just spilled so much of it onto the sands. The raider’s horse, a fine wild-bred stallion, trotted back and forth in confused distress before coming to an abrupt, shivering halt as the tall man pointed the sword at it.

He loves his master, the voice observed as the tall man strode towards the animal, the sword handle pulsing again, this time with a sense of contrived compassion shot through with poorly concealed amusement. Found him alongside the corpse of his mother when just a colt and raised him. Together they rode the fringes of the Execration for years and much booty did they garner from pilgrim and priest alike…

“I have few thoughts to spare for bandits,” the tall man cut in. “Regardless of how nice they may be to orphaned animals.”

He jabbed the sword point into the raider’s chest as he passed by. The pulse this time was full of the ravenous, raw need of something inhuman at feast. The raider’s blood had completely faded into the steel by the time the tall man took hold of the horse’s reins.