Chapter One

A shadow snaked across Rone’s face, giving his eyes a brief respite from the punishing rays of the sun. The tears welling up in his eyes only helped to focus the rays, stinging his eyes and forcing him to cover them with his bloody forearm. Rone lay on his back, cowering from the approaching owner of the shadow.

A fleeting question went through his befuddled mind: what had he tripped on? Rone lowered his thin forearm, peering out from behind it at his aggressor. Torg, the blacksmith’s son, towered over him, a half smirk, half snarl on his face.

Rone tried backing away, his arm still up, shielding his face, showing Torg how afraid he was. Something poked Rone in the backside as he tried to scramble away.

“My dad said he knows you stole his tools,” Torg growled. “Where are they?” Torg advanced, kicking at Rone’s legs.

“I didn’t take anything. I was just walking by, on my way home. Honest,” he pleaded.

Rone turned over on his stomach to avoid another kick. He curled up his legs and tried to crawl away from Torg, back in the direction they had come from. He only got a few feet before he felt a hard grasp on the back of his neck, fingers tightening almost all the way around his neck. He was trying to yank Rone back up.

That’s when Rone saw what he had tripped on. A blue stone, like a jewel, stuck out of the ground. Claws or talons of some sort gripped it tightly, but the rest was buried in the dirt.

“Look what I found, Torg,” said Rone, despite the tight grip on the back of his neck, hoping any type of distraction would help him escape.

Torg wasn’t falling for any tricks. He continued to pull Rone upwards, and also grabbed him under his arm with his other hand. Rone was on his feet quickly, testimony to Torg’s strength. He pointed to the ground, at the blue gem, but Torg was already loosening his grip on Rone. For a moment, the two boys stared at the ground, as if they were seeing a spirit rise from its grave.

Torg soon gathered himself, and reached for the item. He pulled on it and Rone thought he would soon see what it was that had tripped him and prevented his escape. But, the gem held firm. Torg tried again, with obvious strain, to retrieve the item. No luck. It did not even appear to have been moved at all by the force of Torg’s pull. Torg mumbled to himself, bent over once more, put both hands around the blue gem, and heaved upwards. He promptly let go and fell over backwards, looking up at Rone with a glare that dared him to laugh, or even grin just the slightest bit.

But Rone had other ideas. He bent over, reached for the gem, and grasped it in his right hand. Immediately, Rone felt something, like a burning sensation on the palm of his hand. He quickly let go, and examined his hand. There was no visible burn.

Torg, scrambling to his feet, shoved Rone aside.

“There is no way you can pull it out if I can’t, dummy.”

Torg bent over again and with great effort and grunting, yanked on the blue gem. He let go, cursing, his hand bleeding, apparently scraped by the claws. Rone worked up his nerve and reached down again. The burning returned as he put his fingers around the gem and the claws that gripped it. But, it seemed not so bad as the last time. Slowly, Rone pulled back on the item, and felt it begin to give way, slightly.

Torg saw it begin to slide upwards, too. He advanced intent on claiming it. Suddenly, with a brilliant flash and a sharp crack, a blade appeared in Rone’s hand, and glowed so brightly, it was difficult to look directly at, even in broad daylight.

Rone gasped, stepped back, and the blade seemed to dance at the end of his arm, as if he were a master swordsman. The gleam of the blade faded, but the blue gemstone in the hilt still glowed, and Torg stared alternately at Rone and the dagger in disbelief.

“Give me that,” he finally growled. “My old man will take that as payment for all the tools you stole.”

“But, I…I didn’t steal anything from your dad, or anyone else,” said Rone.

Torg advanced again, and Rone instinctively stepped backwards. He heard a quiet voice in his head.

“Swing.”

Rone didn’t have much time to think before his hand holding the dagger quickly swept from his right side to his left in a smooth, downward angle. Again, he must have looked to Torg like an expert fighter, perfectly balanced, relaxed and certainly able to defend himself now that he had a weapon. Torg thought a moment, and then remembered with whom he was dealing: this was Rone Hargrin, an amazingly clumsy, malnourished orphan, who had been taken in by the town’s drunk as slave labor, and rented out to pay for more ale.

He quickly advanced on Rone again, certain he could disarm him and take the brilliant dagger (which looked incredibly clean for having been buried in the dirt). Torg lunged.

“Parry...riposte.” The voice in Rone’s head again.

Without much time for either boy to think, Rone had rebuffed Torg’s advance by moving his reaching hand out of the way with the forte of his blade. But it caught Torg perfectly flat and did no damage, just effectively blocked the attack. Then, as if in a dance, Rone thrust the blade forward between Torg’s left arm and body, cleanly entering his shirt and the tip of the blade exiting it on the other side. Torg looked down, checking to see if he was hurt, but he saw that Rone had missed.

Torg saw an opportunity. He quickly clamped his arm down, capturing the blade between his torso and his strong arm, hoping to wrench it free of Rone’s grasp.

“Retreat,” the voice insisted. Immediately, Rone stepped back, the blade easily exiting Torg’s awkward hold on the dagger. Torg was angered, almost to the point of exploding, when Rone pointed to his side.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’m sorry, the blade must be very sharp. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Torg felt his side and did feel something wet. He pulled his hand back up to his face and saw a smear of red across his fingers.

“Oh, you will get it for this!” he screamed. Rone predicted he would attack him savagely now. But instead, Torg turned and ran back towards their village, holding his side and cursing loudly until he was out of earshot.

Rone felt exhausted. He moved to a fallen tree trunk nearby and sat on the ground with his back to it. He could not believe what had just happened. He looked at the dagger in his hand. It was too big for him, almost the length of a sword. It must have been a great warrior’s dagger at some point in its past.

He wondered how it came to be buried in the earth near his small village. He also wondered how no one else had found it before if it had been there very long. He and the other children often played and explored in this lightly wooded area just south of the village. Maybe it had been hidden under some rock or plant that was recently removed.

Rone looked again at the sparkling blade. The blue gem still shown a bright blue, giving off enough light to see in the dark, he imagined. He put the blade down gently. A brief, but noticeable rush left his body, as if he had just exhaled all of the breaths he had ever taken in his entire life. He looked at the hilt; the gem no longer glowed. In fact, the entire dagger looked much more worn. It showed its age now. There were nicks in the blade and the handle was scuffed.

Rone picked it up again. Immediately, he felt another rush, only inwards this time. He felt empowered. Nothing could stop him with this dagger in his hand!

He looked at the blade; there were no nicks. He looked at the blue gem and saw that it glowed fiercely again. Clearly, it was a magical weapon, Rone determined. It would fetch a lot of money at auction. But, before he finished his thought, Rone knew he would never willingly part with such a powerful ally. He would hide it, and use it to someday go out on his own and leave behind the old man and his terrible friends, and this village of accusers and bullies. Rone quickly tucked the blade into his pants, and under his shirt. He noticed he didn’t feel the exiting rush he had before, possibly because he didn’t really put it down; it still was near him.

Rone had one more thought as he briskly walked home: where had that voice come from that seemed to guide him, or instruct him, during his confrontation with Torg?

Chapter Two

Rone lay in his bed that night, uncertain what the morning would bring. Often, he was roused before dawn by the old man and sent off to work for some small pittance that he was always forced to hand over. He hoped that tomorrow would be different. He wanted time to examine his new dagger, play with it, and learn more about it.

He did feel quite a bit more secure than he ever had since coming to the village of Faras. With the blade by his side, under the blanket, gripped firmly in his right hand, he felt certain he could protect himself from anyone, or anything. Before long, he was soundly asleep…and dreaming.

Arrows rained down on him from above. The' plunk' sound made by those that stuck in his shield was terrifying. He continued to hunker down beneath his shield, hoping to wait out the onslaught. He had time to wonder how he found himself in such a horrendous and overwhelming battle.

He looked around trying to assess whether he was alone, or joined in battle by others. He did not see anyone, not even fallen friends or foes. That was not good news. It probably meant that all of these arrows were just for him. They kept coming, and finally, one found its mark and embedded itself in the backside of his exposed left calf. He grimaced, reached back to pull it out and almost got another in his back for his trouble.

He needed to find shelter quickly. He looked around and saw a structure, like a fortified battlement. But it wasn't exactly close. He decided he had to attempt to reach it. Keeping his shield up with one arm, he sheathed his dagger, which he hadn't even realized was in his hand. Slowly, he crept towards the battlement, the arrows still pouring down on him as if the very clouds above were targeting him.

Rone awoke from his dream sweaty and breathing heavily. He looked around, saw that it was almost daylight out, and got up out of bed. His right hand still clutched the dagger he had found yesterday. He let it lay on the bed, and as he did so, he felt that same rush, like his breath leaving him. He noticed, too, the gem stop glowing, and the dagger appeared quite worn again.

That's when he remembered his dream. The dagger was the same one he had sheathed in that terrible nightmare. Rone quickly covered the dagger with his pillow and went to find some stale bread for breakfast, and maybe a swallow or two of milk.

Not finding anything edible in his house, and the old man apparently already gone, or, more likely, not back from last night, Rone decided to get some practice in with his new dagger. Rone quickly ran back to his room, got his dagger, secured it in the waist of his pants, and headed for the edge of town where he could be alone for a while.

When he found a good spot with plenty of good-sized trees, Rone pulled his dagger out and held it in his hand, admiring its beauty and perfect balance. He quickly switched it from hand to hand, realizing that it felt almost weightless to him, even though it was clearly too big for him.

He practiced swinging it, thrusting, and even slicing imaginary enemies. He felt completely in control, not a bit clumsy as he maneuvered around the trees and rocks, dealing deadly blows to invisible foes. He noticed a leaf from a bush climbing up a tree trunk. He was about twenty paces away when he decided to heave the dagger at it.

"Step into the throw, then release."

The voice was back. Before Rone could wonder where it had come from, he had released the dagger. It was a perfect throw. The dagger completed one full turn and then impaled the leaf, embedding itself deep into the trunk of the tree. Rone felt the rush leave him, and then looked on in amazement at his perfect throw. He ran up to the dagger, inspecting the leaf. It was a very clean entry. Rone grabbed the dagger's handle, felt the rush enter him, saw the gem light up, then easily removed the dagger from the tree.

As he held the dagger in front of him, wondering whose voice that was apparently training him, he heard the sound of wagons and horses. It was coming from beyond the forest, and over a hill. He quickly decided to investigate. Travelers to Faras were few and far between normally. Rone ran through the forest, his dagger held out in front of him, until he reached the crest of the hill.

Sure enough, there was a group of people coaxing oxen, horses, and mules to pull several wagons and carts. He could not tell the contents for they were all covered. Rone decided to follow them and investigate these strangers. Maybe he could scrounge something up, or find some work that would earn him breakfast.

When Rone found himself at the edge of the fairgrounds , he stopped and looked on in awe at the proceedings. Apparently, many of the entertainers and traveling salesmen were still preparing for the day, for there were tent poles standing without tents, and booths half built, and people scurrying back and forth hanging goods and trinkets, hammering walls up, and laying down straw for customers to walk on. It was all very exciting to Rone. He had never been allowed to go to a fair before, though he had heard plenty about them.

He moved quietly among the booths and tents trying not to get in anyone's way, and trying not to even be noticed. He was looking for something in particular: someone who might need help. Before long, he came across a completed booth. A carved sign hanging from a pole read "Armory." Rone peered into the booth and saw an amazing assortment of weapons hanging on the side walls, and the back wall. Swords of all types and sizes, spears, spikes, daggers, maces, and even giant axes all adorned them. Rone was mesmerized. He had never before seen such a vast assortment of weapons, not even at Torg's dad's blacksmith shop. Of course, he primarily worked on tackle and horseshoes, but he had the occasional light sword or set of throwing knives, or spear head, in case a hunter traveled through and was in need of such items.

Rone didn't see anyone nearby tending the shop, so he went around back to look for work. As he turned the corner he was almost run over by a great bear of a man, with a short black beard and blacksmith's hammer in his hand.

"Whoa, there little man. You weren't trying to make off with one of my weapons now were you?" he said. The man looked him over from head to toe. "You know I need those to make a living, don't you?"

Rone was still reeling from dodging this giant man, and wasn't fully aware of what the man expected for an answer to two different questions.

"Uh, no…sir. I was actually…" Rone began.

"Well, then what's that you got there in your shirt?" The man's tone was quite serious.

Rone's heart dropped. How could he possibly explain such an exquisite blade in his possession? There was no good answer, so he figured he would tell the truth and hope the man didn't claim it as his own.

"Sir, I found…"

"Oh, I'll bet you did. Found it in my booth, on the back wall, third dagger from the bottom, is my guess. Out with it. Let's have a look. Your parents won't be any too thrilled, I'm guessing, to hear you been out thieving at the fair."

Rone thought about running, but decided that wouldn't help much. In the end, the whole town would be looking for him, and Torg's dad would surely tell a story about how he stole his tools. It was no use. Better to come clean. Rone lifted his shirt, placed his hand on the hilt, and pulled the dagger out. The gem shined as usual and the blade practically glistened. And the rush filled him.

"Oh my…" the blacksmith started. "Where on earth did you get that, boy? You've been pilfering somewhere you definitely shouldn't have been. I suppose you came to me to try to sell it for a few bucks."

"No, sir. Truly, I found it yesterday, buried in the ground, just south of the village." Rone explained. "And I wouldn't sell it for all the gold in the world. I am looking for work."

"Work?" the man laughed. "What can you do that I can't do twice as fast by myself?"

"I could fetch things, or clean your booth, or anything. Really, I could."

"Well, I suppose any young master with a blade like that can be trusted not to steal my other items…tell you what, you drop by after the noon rush, help me clean up, and I'll show you how to use that fine weapon of yours. How's that?"

"Very nice of you sir. But I already know how to use it. I was hoping for lunch or some money to buy a roasted leg."

"What? Already know how to use it? You don't have me convinced of that yet. But, I like your confidence. Come back after lunch."

Rone nodded and quickly ran off to see what else he could drum up. On the run, he put the dagger away, wondering how the blacksmith had seen it so easily under his shirt. Was it that obvious?

Before long, the fair was in full swing and Rone found himself surrounded by hundreds of people. Everyone was shopping, bartering, or scolding misbehaving toddlers; but by and large, most were generally enjoying themselves. He recognized many of the people, but not nearly all of them. The fair had probably drawn visitors from all across the countryside, he thought to himself as he wandered the temporary paths created between the shops and booths. Another thought soon crossed his mind: where were the games? Surely a fair this size had games of chance, or games of skill, or performers doing skits at least. Where was all that?

It wasn't long before Rone came across just such games. There was more than he had ever imagined! There was a ring toss, a ball throw, mules for the kiddies to ride, and much more. But one thing in particular caught Rone's eye: the knife-throwing competition.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Rone strode confidently over to a young gentleman's booth to learn more about the knife-throwing competition. It turned out the games would begin shortly and Rone was just in time to put his name on the list of competitors. Rone quickly scanned the names on the list until he found the one he hoped wouldn't be there: Torg Bucklance. Of course. Torg wouldn't miss a chance like this to show off his self-proclaimed skills.

Rone was just about to sign his name, when he noticed a second list. He read the heading, which said "Adult Contestants", then he looked back at the list he was about to sign. It read "14 and Younger Contestants." He quickly switched lists and signed his name at the bottom of the adult list, certain that he would be automatically rejected when they found out that he wasn't an adult. But it was better than giving Torg a chance to beat him, and he felt very confident that his new dagger would come through for him, no matter the skill of even an adult opponent. Nearby, Rone heard a man call out.

"14 and younger, line up and get ready to pit your skills against the best Faras has to offer. Win the competition, and win…these!" The man held up a nice set of three throwing knives, complete with a strap-on sheath. The young contestants all shouted for joy, each one secretly resolving to win the top prize.

Rone watched as the contest got under way. The format was pretty simple. There was a two-track obstacle course and ten targets spread out over the course. Whoever hit the most targets won. In the event of a tie, there would be a decision match where the final two would compete head to head for speed and hits.

Naturally, Rone watched as Torg easily won the kid's competition by hitting sixty percent of the targets. He figured if Torg hit that many, then he would have to hit at least eighty percent or higher to win the adult contest.

Torg received a great round of applause from the crowd as he accepted the nice new set of throwing knives. Torg's dad stood by him with his arm around Torg, and a smile so wide it looked painful. Torg held up the knives and smiled at the crowd. Rone thought he might have looked his way, but if Torg saw him, he didn't give it away.

Finally, the adult contest was about to get going, but first the young man running the show stepped up again and began to speak.

"Adult contestants, line up and get ready to pit your skills against the best Faras has to offer! Win the competition, and win…this!" This time the man held up a coin purse, then emptied its contents into his other hand. Out rolled what must have been almost a dozen gold pieces. The crowd frenzied. Women fainted, children screamed for joy, and the men grinned from ear to ear. Those gold pieces were worth more than the entire town might have made from its yearly harvest. Rone was taken aback, and wondered if he weren't in over his head. Men would kill for riches like that. He knew this much from living with the old man for the last few years. In fact, he was surprised this young man holding it up wasn't rushed right then and there!

However, the young man soon put the gold away, pocketed the coin purse, and then began to read the names of the first two contestants. Rone figured he would go last because his name had been the last on the list. He was right.

After the first several runs, Rone appeared correct on his prediction about how the men would do. Several were hitting between seventy and seventy five percent of the targets. One or two had even gotten close to eighty percent. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Rone's name was called, but not before he heard his opponent's name: Tregor Bucklance. Of course, it was Torg's father, easily the best marksman in the village. Rone groaned inwardly, but he knew it didn't matter. All he had to do was hit the most targets; it wasn't important who he was running the obstacle course against.

As they lined up at the starting point, Tregor pulled out his homemade, handcrafted, perfectly balanced throwing knife. It was a fine blade, and the crowd showed its appreciation. Rone pulled out his too-long dagger, with its glowing blue gemstone, and its dazzling blade, not really wanting to draw attention to himself, but knowing it was coming anyway.

"Son, aren't you a little young to be in the adult contest? We just finished the kid's. That's where you should have been," the young man said striding up to him.

"Hey, that's my dagger! The one I told you I found, Dad. Rone stole it," said Torg, standing near his father.

At this point all eyes were on Rone, and he was feeling very nervous and unsure about what to do or say. He hadn't really thought this whole endeavor through while he was signing up.

"Excuse me sir, but I figured it wasn't fair for me to enter the fourteen and under contest. And," looking at Tregor and Torg Bucklance, "I didn't steal this dagger from you. I found it yesterday fair and square and you ran off," he said meekly. "Besides, how could I have taken it from you? You are way stronger than I am, Torg." With that, Tregor looked at his son, dismissed the idea, and decided to focus on preparing for the competition.

"Not fair? Son, you do realize that this is a knife-throwing contest, and you've brought a dagger that is about twice your size? You won't even be able to throw that heavy thing the required distance to hit the targets, will you?"

"I hope to hit every target, sir."

The crowd burst into tears of laughter. Rone Hargrin, clumsy orphan, was in rare form today and putting on quite a show. But not everyone was laughing. A few were taking note of the fine blade that Rone held in his hand, as well as the coin purse in the folds of the young man's shirt.

"Ok, well, we have a competition to finish here. Contestants, take your mark."

At this point, everything became a bit of a blur for Rone. He looked out towards the track laid out for the obstacle course, and all he could see was the target a good thirty paces away. In between, he noticed that he had to manage a few alternating tree trunks laid out to trip him up, reach a throwing point, then aim for the first target.

"Begin!" shouted the young man, and Rone vaguely became aware that Tregor had started running, making for the first throwing point on his path of the course.

"Steady yourself and throw." The voice was back. Rone looked at the target, saw that it was in the form of a circle, two red rings surrounding a white one. The inner red circle was what you had to hit to count the target.

Rone drew back, fluidly, stepped forward into the throw, and released the dagger from the starting point. The blade flipped end over end one time only, gliding straight into the heart of the target.

The crowd, the target judge, the young man, and even Tregor Bucklance stared in complete awe at the perfect throw, and the perfect hit. With the rush gone, Rone clumsily made his way across the pitfalls of the obstacle course, and reached for his blade. It came out easily, and the rush was back. Rone turned and looked for the next target. Different obstacles in the way, but the same distance as the first. He released…and scored…again and again.

Soon, the competition was over, and just as he had hoped, Rone had hit every target dead on. Rone pulled his dagger out of the final target, and walked back to the makeshift stage where the young man and the crowd were waiting for him. Rone was a little confused. He had thought the crowd would be cheering for him, practically lifting him up to the stage to accept his award. But it was not so. In fact, the crowd had a very different opinion of Rone now. One of magic user.

Rone climbed up onto the stage at the young man's request, as did Tregor Bucklance. Tregor looked a little unsure as to why he was up there. He had hit only ninety percent of the targets. However, he shot a glance at Rone that was meant to be as piercing as any of the blades he had just thrown.

"Ladies and gentlemen. We have our winner." He pulled out the coin purse and raised it high again for all to see.

"Now, son, what's your name?" the young man asked.

"Rone Hargrin."

"Rone, do your parents know that you practice the arts of magic in order to dupe honest people of their rightful awards and money?"

Rone could think of nothing to say. He simply stared at the young man, holding back tears. The crowd began to boo and yell at Rone.

"These two gentlemen behind you will be returning that fancy dagger to its rightful owner, and returning you to your parents for a good lashing, I presume, after they hear of your exploits."

Two men Rone hadn't noticed advanced on him, and Rone immediately drew his dagger and turned to face them.

"I don't want to hurt you," Rone said through clenched teeth and streaming tears. He was backing away from the men, when the young man grabbed him from behind.

"Open your palm, spin the blade, drive it straight backwards," the voice commanded.

For the first time, Rone didn't want to follow the advice of the voice. He struggled with the man briefly, trying to free himself as the other two men advanced ever closer. Finally, realizing he could not escape, Rone let the rush take control.

His right hand opened briefly, and his fingers worked in unison, like bricks falling one after another, to bring the blade around. Now its point was facing downward, and Rone plunged it hard straight back, unable to see what he might be about to hit. The blade drove into the young man's thigh. Rone could not tell if the blade went in deep, but it was enough. The young man let go and Rone pulled his dagger and made his escape. He quickly leapt off the stage near the back side, and began running for all his worth.

The two men followed, but Rone was soon lost among the maze of booths and huts that had been set up for the fair. Before long, he found himself at the same weapons dealer he had spoken with earlier.

Rone went around back again, and the blacksmith was just finishing up his lunch.

"I see you made it on time. Good. I wasn't sure you would make it," said the blacksmith. Rone, still panting and gasping for air, sat down, his dagger still in his hand.

"I won the knife-throwing contest, but they thought…" Rone began.

"They thought you were practicing magic," he finished for Rone.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Well, for one, that blade looks as magical as anything most of these people have ever seen. That, and the way you couldn't even come close to missing dead center of even a single target."

"So, I should have tried to miss a bit?" Rone asked, puzzled.

"Nah, that wouldn't have helped. They were still going to string you up just for having a dagger like that," the blacksmith chuckled. "You obviously don't know what you have there do you, boy? What's your name anyway?"

"Rone Hargrin. What's yours?" Rone asked.

"Brugard. Brugard the Blacksmith is what they call me. Nice to meet you. Now, where did you get that fancy blade, Rone?"

Rone felt he could trust Brugard. He was about the only person who had been nice to him, let alone interested in him, in his whole life. So, Rone relayed the story of the accusations by Mr. Bucklance, the struggle with Torg, and then the finding of the dagger.

"So you see, right away this dagger saved me from a good beating for sure," Rone continued.

Brugard shared some leftovers from his own lunch with Rone.

"Yes, well, that is a fine story, Rone. But, the funny thing is, you've got no clue just how dangerous that dagger is, nor why it even works like it does for you."

"Do you know anything about it?" Rone asked.

"Well, rumors and myths, mostly, I suppose. But, I guess that is more than you know."

* * * * *

Chapter Four

A cool, dead breeze always surrounded him, regardless of the season, regardless of the weather, regardless of whether it was midday or midnight. That's what made him especially dangerous in the winter months; you didn't know he was there, until he was there. Summertime always brought with it a false sense of security. People figured if they could feel the cold wind in the summer, they would have time to escape or fend him off. But they didn't. They were only fooling themselves. If he was close enough for you to feel the dead breeze, he was as close as he needed to be.

Ghuyle stopped to sniff the air. He smelled blood; it was faint, but definitely spilled. He turned around, nose still in the air, a quarter turn. That way. He began to move rapidly in the direction his senses pointed him. While the scent was fresh, he had to make good time or risk losing it, had to get there before the wound healed, or before the body was disposed of.

As his stride stretched out, his dark gray cloak swirled around him from the constant vacuum of the dead breeze. Ghuyle's prey was marked, and it was a good wound.

* * * * *

Rone sat impatiently, waiting for Brugard to begin his story. But Brugard was worried about other things. For one, his booth. Valuable clients were probably getting impatient and walking away without giving him their money, or worse, walking away with his inventory. For another, he knew Jarett and the crowd would be searching high and low for Rone. And they wouldn't be too kind to Brugard for harboring him, even though he was considered one of the more prominent figures of the fair.

"Rone, you are a danger now. To yourself, and to me. That crowd will be knocking on every door and visiting every booth until they find you."

"But, can't you stop them?" Rone asked.

"I may be able to convince them to let you alone, but not if they know you are here. I can't be known as a defender of the defiled arts." Brugard winked, and Rone felt not at all better.

"Follow these instructions, son. Go to some hiding spot that only you know about. Preferably outside the village. Stay there tonight, all night. Tomorrow at sun up, I'll meet you at the edge of town, near the bridge that crosses that stream on the way in, before the caravan is ready to move on. You know the bridge I mean?"

Rone nodded. But he was getting more and more nervous. He trusted Brugard, but he just couldn't believe that things were suddenly this dire.

"Which of your parents have you lost, son? Your mum or your dad?" asked Brugard.

"Both," said Rone.

"I see. Well, better get moving, son."

Rone turned to go, but Brugard called to him one last time.

"Oh, and you better learn how to hunt if you want to eat tonight. But don't use the dagger. Remember that."

As Rone left the village, he felt very confused. There was a lot of information to digest, and his young mind wasn't quite certain what to do with it all. He decided to take things one step at a time, which was a rather mature decision that belied the confusion and worry that he felt inside.

He needed to find a place to sleep for the night. He didn't really have a special hiding place, other than under his cot at the old man's hut. But Brugard had told him to get outside Faras. He really felt like he could trust Brugard, who had, at the very least, shared his lunch with him today. He tried to look on the bright side. Maybe this was a chance to get away from the Old Man, once and for all, and begin a real life. A life where someone cared about him, made sure he had food and clothes.

But, for now, he was on his own again. Rone made it into the forest of Sangora before long, and without incident. He knew he was east of town, and he also knew that there were dangers waiting for him inside Sangora, besides the ones waiting for him in the village. There were wild animals, wolves mostly, to worry about. Without a decent fire, they wouldn't feel inhibited in the least about approaching and dining on a tender morsel like himself. But a fire wouldn't keep him very well hidden from anyone who might still be looking for a young, thin, magic user with a stolen glowing dagger.

Rone decided to look for something in the trees, off the ground at least, where he could wait out the night. The trees of Sangora were not that big on the edges of the forest, and he would have to travel deeper into it in order to find something up high enough that would also hold him. He was only slightly worried about falling off in his sleep, but he figured he wouldn't get much sleep tonight anyway.

He walked deeper into the forest, always on the lookout for an appropriate tree. As he searched, he couldn't help but think about what had happened, and he wondered what was wrong with him. He didn't seem to be able to find his place in life. He tried to remember what his parents looked like, how they might have cared for him when he was young, but the memories just wouldn't come. They seemed to be blocked, like a dam holding back a stream. Every now and then a few drops would seep through the porous parts of the dam, but they weren't enough to create a complete picture. Rone figured he had just been too young to remember much about his early childhood.

The light was dimming because of the thickness of the foliage, but he was pretty certain it was still early in the afternoon. He had a long wait ahead of him before he was to meet with Brugard tomorrow morning.

He pulled out his dagger, looking it over once again. It was still majestic, and definitely looked magical. Rone wondered what its history was. He figured it must have been owned by a grand king of some important land. Or maybe it was a valuable secondary weapon of a fierce warrior who dominated battles and won wars in the name of his kingdom.

Although he would probably never know its true history, he still liked to imagine himself as that grand king, or even the fierce warrior. Rone plunged the dagger into the soft earth of the forest floor, pretending to slay a beast of unimaginable size. He quickly yanked it out again, and swung his body around, the blade leading the way, as he sliced a vicious opponent in two that was about to attack him from behind.

"Let me guide you." That voice again, stopping Rone in his battle tracks. At first, Rone didn't know how to react. It seemed as though every time Rone was using the sword, the voice spoke to him.

"Um, ok, you can guide me." Rone said aloud. "But, who are you?"

No response. Rone thought a moment longer, then pretended to thrust the dagger.

"Yes. That's it. It gives me power and energy," said the voice.

"When I use the dagger, you get power?" asked Rone.

No response. Rone swung the dagger and waited for a reply.

"Rone, listen. I lose energy fast," said the voice. "You must practice with this dagger to give me energy."

"Are you living in my head?" asked Rone.

"I am imprisoned within this dagger," answered the voice.

As surprised as Rone was just to be hearing the voice in his head, this answer was completely unexpected.

"Who, uh…how did you get in there?" Rone asked.

He got no immediate response. He swished the dagger through the air, half-heartedly.

"Long story. If you swing like that in a real fight, you will find yourself on the receiving end of someone else's blade, or worse," said the voice from the dagger.

"But, I just wanted to talk to…" Rone began.

"Rone, you have many enemies now. You must take your training seriously. And always be alert and aware of your surroundings."

"I'm just a kid…no, not even a kid. Just an orphan. I don't understand why?" Rone lowered his head. He didn't need any more warnings or talk of people out to get him. He just wanted to find a home, find someone who loved him.

Rone waited a bit, didn't receive a reply, and decided to continue looking for a crook in the tree branches where he would be safe. Not long after that, he found one. It was a good-sized tree with a few low branches that Rone decided he could use as the first steps up to his future hideout. He put the dagger in his waistband, and under his shirt, then climbed up to have a look around.

There was a nice spot where the tree branched off in three directions about twenty feet up. The base was large enough for Rone to stretch out, maybe even fall asleep, and not feel too much like he was about to roll off and plunge to the ground at any moment. He leaned back, folded his arms behind his head, and stared up at the tree tops. The sun was coming through in horizontal bars wherever the branches and leaves chose to spread out enough to grant access to the golden rays. Rone figured it was getting close to sundown and he was starting to think about the grumbling in his stomach. Brugard had mentioned something about learning how to hunt. He didn't know anything about hunting. He wasn't even sure what he would do with something he did manage to catch. He had no way to start a fire and didn't want to risk being seen anyway. What was one more hungry night? he thought to himself. He had certainly been through more than a few of those in his life.

He turned his thoughts to the dagger. It was certainly very strange and had quickly changed his life after finding it. He wondered who it was that was imprisoned within the dagger, or if that was even real. Probably his mind playing tricks on him. He realized he had quite a bit to think about. Brugard was expecting him tomorrow morning. He wondered what Brugard had to tell him. He seemed to know a lot about the dagger, and his situation.

Rone noticed a slight burning sensation on the side of his right leg. He pulled at his shirt and saw that the blue gem in the hilt was glowing fiercely. It shown so brightly that when Rone lifted his shirt, a light blue hue was spread out over the tree trunk, the nearby branches and leaves. It even overpowered what little the dying sun had left to offer after fighting through the foliage.

Rone was almost afraid to touch it. But, he also didn't want his leg to get burned, so he grabbed the handle of the dagger, careful not to touch the glowing gem. It was warm to the touch, but Rone went ahead and pulled it out of his makeshift sheath. The blade glowed with a shining brilliance that negated even the blue light of the gem.

"I am getting stronger, Rone. I can hear your thoughts," the voice said.

Rone sat up, holding the dagger at arms length. The glare began to dim. He stared at it, as if he were trying to see who it was that was held captive inside. All he could see was his own reflection in the blade. His dark brown hair was a straggly mess down to his ears, and his face had streaks of dirt and dust running all across it.

"What's it like inside there?" asked Rone.

"It's not like what you might think. All I have are my thoughts. Before you found me, I didn't even have that. It feels like I am awakening from a long and deep slumber."

"So, when I found you is when you woke up?" said Rone.

"Apparently so. I don't have much memory prior to that. I think it is coming back in pieces, though. I have dreams that seem very real."

That triggered something in Rone's memory; he thought of his own recent dream, arrows raining down on him, the searing pain when one notched itself into the calf of his leg. That was one of the most real dreams Rone had ever experienced.

"Yes! That was the dream I had," said the voice.

"You really can hear what I am thinking?" asked Rone, slightly taken aback.

"Well, it's even more than that, really. I can see what you are thinking. As you remembered that dream, I could see the man in the dream, hunkering down below his shield, arrows slamming into the ground all around…it was the same dream I had," said the voice.

"What is your name?" asked Rone, eager to learn more about this being who seemed so connected to him.

"I don't know," said the voice. "I am hoping it will come back to me soon."

Hmmm, seems like we are both orphans, Rone thought.

"I can't remember my parents very much," said Rone.

"Maybe we can help each other out, somehow," said the voice of the dagger.

* * * * *

Chapter Five

Ghuyle's squinting, hazel eyes scanned the horizon. Tiny swirls of dust flailed at the ankles of his boots, kicked up by the ceaseless currents of air that enveloped him. He could see the usual signs of a nearby village at twilight: the occasional flickering lights from inside a tavern or inn, a few columns of rising smoke from fireplaces, even a couple of tardy farmers getting their livestock penned up.

He was close now. He sensed the wound that he was creeping up on was still seeping, though it had been tended. No matter, though, he could still find it so long as it remained relatively fresh.

He moved off the marginally traveled roadway and into a nearby thicket of bushes and saplings, the leaves and branches swaying in the midst of his constant dead breeze. While it would have been difficult to spot him in broad daylight in the middle of the road because of the magic of his cloak and armor, he needed to make absolutely certain he had the advantage of surprise on his side. This was too important to him.

He made his way forward for the next several minutes, silent despite the dried twigs and grass crunching beneath his feet. Before the farmers had even had time to corral all their cattle, or the sun time to complete its disappearing act, Ghuyle was upon the caravan of fair merchants, craftsmen, and workers. He sniffed his way right up to the tent that housed Jarrett, unseen and unheard. He listened closely for a moment, his ear up near the fabric of the tent.

"I can't seem to stop the bleeding," a voice inside said.

"Well, we maybe should see if there is a nurse or a cleric in the village who can do something," offered another voice.

"We have to do something. I can't travel to Berksen tomorrow morning like this. And I can forget about my act. That damn kid," said a third voice. Ghuyle immediately knew this was for whom he had been searching, and from whom he would most likely get the information he required.

"What's that?" said the owner of the first voice.

"What do you mean? What's what?"

"Didn't you feel it? A chilled draft just blew in from somewhere. Gave me the skin pricklies."

"Ah, you don't…" began Jarrett, when Ghuyle sliced the tent wide open with a single swipe of his long sword and stepped in through the hole he had made.

The men's faces all contorted into strange versions of themselves that their own mothers would not even have recognized. Mouths were agape, eyes wide open, chins dropping. The dead breeze flapped the two openings to the tent, and dried the air inside to the point that the three men felt immediately thirsty, and their eyes began to itch. Hair on their arms and the back of their neck stood on end, whether from the chill of the dead breeze, or their sudden fear, neither could say.

They saw a man, at least what appeared to be a man, dressed all in a dark gray. He was in full battle armor, something rarely seen these days, and a matching cape or cloak that shuffled here and there in the wind. The man towered above them, eyes they could not see peering down on them from within a helmet adorned with ornate designs of some sort of animal with horns and wings and claws. It matched the animal that was on his chest plate.

An oily, garbled, commanding voice grabbed their attention.

"Who gave you this wound?" Ghuyle demanded, pointing at Jarrett's leg with the tip of his sword.

"Um, some kid, some boy…we tried to get him, but he ran away," said Jarrett, backing away from the imposing figure.

"That was a mistake," said Ghuyle. He brought his sword down on Jarrett, cleaving his body in two. He then held his sword perfectly still about six inches above Jarrett's still chest, mumbled a few words, then watched as a strange gas or mist of some sort seemed to rise from Jarrett, under the sword, then swirl around the blade several times and disappear.

The other two men were briefly stunned, but finally decided to make a run for the door of the tent after witnessing this strange ritual. Ghuyle, seemingly absorbed with Jarrett and his sword, simply stepped back, and without looking, swung his sword around behind him, his body following smoothly, as if he were performing a dance. Their heads were on the floor before they died. Ghuyle strode over their bodies, and out of the tent, an empty sheath on either side of his belt, but a blade in only one hand.

He sniffed the air. There was a second wound, very, very faint, but definitely close by. Ghuyle headed off in the direction of the scent, leaves and brush shifting in the wind beside him.

* * * * *

Rone was growing more comfortable with the voice in his head. He believed the two of them were kind of alike, both lost and looking for someone to trust. Rone also found that as long as he was in contact with the dagger, he could hear the voice, and the voice, no, the person in the dagger could read his thoughts.

"There's a man I am supposed to meet tomorrow morning," Rone said later that evening.

"Yes, I know. Brugard."

"You think I should go?" asked Rone.

"I don't know. I think you must be wary of everyone you encounter from now on," said the voice. "But, I am able to help. Somehow, I willed the dagger into each of those targets this afternoon. It feels like I can control it completely."

"Wow, so that's why. It's not really magic at all, it was just you!" said Rone, feeling vindicated.

"Hmm…well, some sort of magic had to have been used to get me in here, but clearly it's not you. I doubt you could have convinced that crowd today of that, though. Which brings to mind another point. You can never mention to anyone that you, well, you speak to me. You'll be stoned, drowned, or burned at the stake before you know what happened."

Rone considered this, then nodded in agreement, forgetting with whom he was talking. Best to keep this strange and powerful weapon a secret. He did have one more question though.

"Can you see from inside there? What's it like?" asked Rone.

"Actually, I can see nearly everything. It is not like having two eyes and a head to swivel around. I can just see everything, in all directions at once."

Rone wondered what that must be like. He imagined himself looking down on his little village from way up above, in the sky. He could see treetops, and thatched roofs, and the tops of people's hats as they traveled along the beaten paths. He decided it would be a powerful skill. Luckily, the dagger was his ally.

The sun was all but gone now, and Rone decided it was best to get some rest, and be up in time to meet Brugard in the morning. He carefully leaned back, nestling into the crook of the branches, and put the dagger on his stomach, blade pointing to his toes.

* * * * *

Chapter Six

He was unconcerned now with being inconspicuous. He simply followed the faint scent of another wound, oblivious to the villagers peering out of their doorways and windows, or a child being ushered indoors while a parent watched him pass by out of the corner of their eye. They could feel the chill in the air that swallowed him, and yet reached out like a snake's tongue to hiss at them, sending cold, dead shivers up their backs.

Ghuyle knew he was close now, and not just to this wound, but to it. He was confident that whomever he found at the end of this trail of blood, they would lead him to the Aysul Dagger. If they did not, their suffering would know no bounds.

Soon he came to the blacksmith's shop. He looked up at the sign over the doorway. There was lettering of course, and a deeply rusted horseshoe, both points still facing up, however. Whatever vile and doomed creature had his dagger most likely had been here to sell it and make enough for a night's worth of ale. He might be closer than expected to his prize.

Ghuyle entered the shop. It was fairly standard; clearly not a bladesmith's workshop, but rather that of a shoer and seller of general merchandise. A dim, flickering light was available from a single lantern hanging on a wall by the doorway. There were shoes of many sizes hanging on the walls as well. An anvil, and a half-filled barrel of water were in the center of the room, flanked by a small wooden stool. Strangely, there were not many tools lying about, although he did notice a throwing knife stuck in a piece of wood at the far end of the shop and a makeshift ladder going up to a loft area.

The scent followed the ladder. He walked over to it and stood at the bottom looking up. Straw and dust and dirt swirled at his feet. He heard a voice from above.

"I feel a draft, father." It was a boy's voice. "Should I close up downstairs?"

"Yes. Your mother will be laying for us if we are late again tonight," said the father.

Ghuyle heard the plunk plunk of footsteps run across the board flooring of the loft. He stepped around behind the ladder and underneath the loft. The dim light could not reach him. He watched as a pair of booted feet descended the ladder, then a pair of mud-stained pants, and finally a dark brown shirt. The boy jumped off before reaching the final rung and was heading for the door when a gloved hand cupped his mouth and chin, fingers lacing their way around his cheek. The grasp was so tight, Torg thought his jaw would crack and cave in, leaving him with no way to even scream for help. But that was out of the question anyway. Ghuyle pulled Torg back under the loft with him.

"Make the slightest noise and you'll watch your father die," said Ghuyle in a hardened whisper. "Now, where is your wound?"

The question seemed absurd to Torg, at first. He didn't have any wounds. Then he remembered Rone, and the slight cut that wouldn't seem to stop bleeding. He lifted his left arm and pointed to his side with his right. Ghuyle lifted his shirt and examined the cut, apparently smelling the wound more than anything else.

Finally he said, "It still bleeds. How long have you had this wound?"

Torg's muffled response was inaudible, but Ghuyle seemed to understand.

"Who did this to you and with what weapon?" Ghuyle asked, loosening his grip over Torg's mouth slightly.

Before Torg could explain, more bootsteps were heard overhead.

"Boy, I thought you were going to get that door closed and the shop ready. That wind is foul smelling and getting under my skin."

There was no answer. Torg's eyes began to water, and the gloved hand gripped him more tightly; a knife point poked at his back.

"Dammit, Torg, I said what's taking you?" Footsteps walked to the edge of the loft almost directly above them.

With hardly any effort Ghuyle lunged forward, driving his sword up into the wooden beams of the loft, almost to the hilt. A groan came from above, then a tortured yell filled with curses. Finally, a thump. Ghuyle stepped out from under the loft and turned to face Tregor Bucklance, who was sitting now, on the floor of the loft, his knees up, and the tip of Ghuyle's sword protruding from the top of his foot. It seemed to have pinned him to the spot. He was still muttering curses, but raised his head to look at his attacker. They looked into each other's eyes and Tregor saw only evil and despair.

"Run Torg. Get out of here!" Tregor yelled.

Torg looked at him, then turned to obey his father. But Ghuyle breathed in deeply and soon Torg was lifted off his feet, dangling above ground, his legs still pumping furiously in an attempt to escape.

Ghuyle moved over to Torg, and eventually Torg stopped running in place. He was only about a foot off the ground, winds swirling furiously all around him. Ghuyle grabbed him by the arm and turned him around to face him.

"You so much as touch him and I will kill you," screamed Tregor from the loft, while carefully pulling a throwing knife out of the back of his belt from under his leather apron strings. The blade penetrating his foot hurt, but he hardly felt the pain at that moment.

Ghuyle paid him no attention, but focused intently on Torg's face.

"Who did this to you and with what weapon?" asked Ghuyle for the second time.

Once he again he was interrupted by Tregor Bucklance. Tregor let fly his homemade, perfectly balanced throwing knife. The throw was dead on, heading straight for the unsuspecting Ghuyle's temple. However, before it could find its target, Ghuyle's shield, with the same animal with horns, wings, and claws as his helmet and chest plate, seemed to glide around from where it hung on his back up to the side of his face. The knife banged into the shield, fell and stuck in the dirt at his feet. Torg hadn't seen Ghuyle move at all, but when he looked back at the shield from where the knife stuck, he noticed Ghuyle's arm was inside the straps, as if he had had it equipped the entire time. Tregor look at Ghuyle in disbelief. It had been a perfect throw.

"Listen, what do you want? Whatever it is, we'll give it to you," Tregor pleaded.

"Who did this to you and with what weapon?" asked Ghuyle once again in the same even tone, completely unphased.

"It was Rone. Rone Hargrin. I found a dagger and he stole it from me and then tried to kill me with it. But he missed and only barely scratched me," said Torg, eyes burning from the dry wind that cycloned around him.

"The dagger does not miss. He let you live."

"Let us go and we can show you where he stays," said Tregor, hoping that would be enough to get them out of this maniac's magical clutches.

"You will show me. If I do not have him before sunrise, I will destroy this pitiful village."

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

When Rone awoke the next morning, the sun was not yet up, but it would not be long before he was supposed to meet Brugard near the bridge. His neck ached a bit from sleeping in the trunk of a tree, though he couldn’t complain too much; there was no one yelling at him, or worse, hitting him, to get him to wake up and go clean up after sheep and cows and pigs.

He stretched his legs and arms a bit, then carefully climbed down the tree, dropping the last few feet, and landing awkwardly on his heels. He looked around, but it was still dark enough to prevent him from seeing much of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Rone,” said his friend in the dagger.

“Good morning, uhmm, dagger,” Rone replied.

“Yes, that is a bit awkward, isn’t it? Let’s think of a good name for me, since I can’t remember much right now.”

“How about Rusty?” said Rone.

“Rusty dagger? That’s no name for a deadly, magical weapon!” He laughed, and Rone laughed, too. “Well, maybe something better will come along, in time.”

Rone yawned a final time, clearing the grin on his face, and nodded his agreement. He looked around and decided it wouldn’t hurt to begin making his way to the bridge where he would meet Brugard. He couldn’t help but feel strongly connected to the fighter in the dagger, somehow.

Rone carried the dagger by the handle as he made off for the bridge, but skirted the village, preferring instead to stay out of sight until the last possible minute. He still had a lingering fear that someone, or several someones, could take the dagger away from him, and render him completely lost again, alone in the world. Or worse, not in the world at all.

As he walked, he realized that the world, this natural world, outside the daily chores, whippings, and teasing, was quite beautiful. The trees were tall and green and swaying in the slight breeze. The grass also was green, and thick, and cushioned his every step. Most intriguing to him, though, was the smell. He took deep breaths, inhaling as much as possible of the sweet, but not too sweet, scent. Rone had never really paid close attention to the world around him before, always lowering his eyes, keeping to himself, more concerned with being inconspicuous than observing his surroundings.

But, now, with the dagger in his hand, the fighter’s voice in his head, and nature seemingly there for his own amusement, Rone felt…almost…powerful. He quickened his pace, and swung the blade, separating imaginary limbs from imaginary bodies. The blade shone bright again, and practically whistled through the air as he sliced, parried, and spun around, perfecting his technique.

He was light on his feet with his moves, and practically dancing, when he finally noticed the massive destruction. It was strange because there weren’t rising pillars of smoke, no bloodstained weapons scattered about, yet he knew instantly that it was large, and was the end of the small village of Faras. It was midnight quiet. No screams, no crying children, no one setting up tents to help the wounded; there was only silence...and death. The faces of the dead villagers told the tale. They were twisted and grimacing, as if the pain and horror was completely and utterly unbearable. But how they had died was a mystery to Rone. There were no gaping wounds, no severed limbs, just far too many agonized and tortured expressions.

* * * * *

Rone hurried on towards the small bridge to see if perhaps at least Brugard had survived and was there waiting for him. He felt pretty certain that he was not, but it was the best plan he could muster after seeing the village of Faras destroyed. Rone quickened his pace and turned his eyes from the destruction.

“Tread carefully, Rone. Whatever was powerful enough to kill all of those people might still be lurking nearby,” said the dagger.

“But maybe we can learn something from Brugard,” argued Rone while dodging low branches and leaping fallen tree trunks as he ran even faster.

“Stop!”

Rone slowed feeling certain he was going to be yelled at.

“I see someone not too far ahead. Are we getting close to the meeting point?” asked the dagger.

“Yes, it is about…”

“Get down now. Drop!”

Rone immediately stopped and threw himself to the ground. He was lucky. There was a small bush in front of him, obscuring him from whomever or whatever the dagger had seen, Rone thought to himself. The only problem was he couldn’t see around or over the bush either. His heart was beating fast and he was desperate to know what was out there. Was it whatever had killed everyone in Faras?

“Can’t be sure. But, I see someone…looks like a man and a boy, maybe his son. They are tied to a tree, each with their back to the trunk,” the dagger reported.

Rone wondered who it could be and why they would be tied to a tree.

“Are they…” began Rone.

“Shhh. Rone you can’t risk any noise. Just think about what you want to say and I will hear it.”

“Forgot, sorry. I was wondering if they were alive, or are they…like the others?” Rone asked just by thinking.

“They appear to be alive…I can see them breathing. They have blindfolds on and straps through their mouths...and they are tight. Whoever has done this knows what they are doing,” said the dagger.

“Can I look? Do you see anyone else?”

“No, there doesn’t appear to be anyone else around. Take a quick look, but don’t stand up.”

Rone peered out over the top of the bush. They were not far off and Rone could easily tell that it was Torg and his father who were strapped to the tree. Their hands were down by their sides and strapped tight as well. They did seem fine, although neither had their eyes open, nor did they struggle with their bindings.

“Rone, I suspect a trap. Why would these two be left alive while everyone else in the village was killed?” said the dagger.

“Who do you think the trap is for?” asked Rone.
“Not sure, but I bet if we wait…” the dagger trailed off.

“Wait, I see someone else approaching. It is difficult to make out, almost like they are…blending in.”

Rone thought for a moment. Blending in with what?

“Everything. But, I can follow them ok because there is a wind of some sort blowing up dust and leaves as they move.”

Rone started to look back up over the bush. He wanted to see this.

“Don’t get up. This…being…is definitely powerful. You can’t risk being noticed until we learn more.”

Rone was glad to have someone on his side for once. Not only that, but someone who knew what they were doing. He didn’t feel too nervous, despite the fact that the entire village where he lived was decimated, or that his biggest enemy and his father were tied to a tree and some strange being who could blend into the forest was approaching.

* * * * *

Chapter Eight

Ghuyle stormed up to Tregor and Torg Bucklance, the dead breeze swirling around him with such ferocity it was throwing pebbles and tiny rocks up at tremendous speeds. A few would bury themselves deep into Tregor's ankles and the lower part of his legs. They stung but the strap through his mouth kept him silent against his will.

Tregor no longer glowered at Ghuyle; in fact, he couldn't even make eye contact any more. Ghuyle had beaten all the defiance out of him by terrorizing his son, Torg. It took a while for Tregor to realize that the more he challenged Ghuyle, the more pain Torg suffered. Ghuyle was unrelenting, cold, and completely centered on one task: finding this dagger. It did not matter if he hurt women or children or animals; it was all about the dagger.

"If you send me on another futile chase the boy will not be spared. There was no drunken man, nor any scrawny boy in the hut," said Ghuyle.

Ghuyle pulled hard on the strap holding Tregor's head to the tree, bringing it out of his mouth and down below his chin. Clotted blood was visible in the corners of his mouth as he worked his jaw open and closed again trying to remove the aching and throbbing. He didn't dare look at Ghuyle, but he knew if he didn't respond somehow, Torg would be hurt again.

"I can only tell you what I knew before you arrived. His name is Rone and he lived with the town drunk. He usually was sent out to work tending animals, or cleaning up, or working the fields. He stole some tools from me not long ago and then he showed up at the fair with this brilliant dagger and won the knife-throwing contest with it. I just figured he sold or traded my tools to get the dagger from someone." Tregor's voice was ragged and dry. "He probably ran off and left Faras because the crowd thought he was using magic and even he is smart enough to know not to mess with an angry mob like that one. Or maybe they got to him first."

"No. The village is destroyed and I searched it thoroughly for any signs of the dagger or the boy," said Ghuyle.

"I see, " began Tregor before he stopped short.

Ghuyle was no longer paying attention to Tregor. He was staring at the forest, slowly scanning, it seemed to Tregor, as if he had heard something but couldn't quite determine where the sound had come from. Tregor had certainly not heard anything.

Tregor strained to look to his right; his neck remained stiff from the bindings. He couldn't see anything, and Ghuyle's odd movements suggested the same was true for him, as well. Suddenly, Ghuyle grabbed his own head with both hands and spun around, moving quickly back towards the tree. Tregor saw the grimace on his face and the deadbreeze swirling frenetically about him, as if it were trying to sweep Ghuyle off his feet. Tregor was afraid to think about what might happen next.

But, after a few moments of obvious pain, Ghuyle regained his composure, put his hands down, and approached Tregor.

"I was just about to kill you and the boy. Now, I may have a use for you." said Ghuyle. And with that, his blade was out and had sliced through the binding holding both Tregor and Torg taught against the tree before Tregor ever saw him move.

Torg fell lifelessly, his body thumping hard against the ground. Tregor flailed his aching limbs, trying to get around the tree to check on Torg. "Torg, wake up! Are you all right?" He got down on his knees and rolled Torg over on his back.

"We don't have time for that," hissed Ghuyle. "Pick him up and carry him. They are on the move."

*****

Rone was suddenly startled by a terrific sound that filled his head and after just a few seconds he felt he would faint if it endured. The noise was sharp, like a piercing scream, only it never wavered in pitch or strength. He instinctively moved away from the sound, somehow correctly judging the direction from which it was emanating. The dagger was silent as Rone clawed and stumbled his way through the forest floor debris on his hands and knees to get out of range of that terrible noise. Finally, after what had been just a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity, the shrieking din in his head was gone.

"Did you hear that?" Rone said aloud, still breathing hard and his heart beating rapidly.

"No, I didn't hear anything...but I did notice that your mind was blank to me," replied the dagger. "I called on you to stop, but apparently you couldn't hear me any more than I could hear you."

That was a scary thought. Something that could separate Rone from the dagger's voice, and its help, would toss him right back into the pit of lonliness and despair that had so far defined his childhood. He didn't want to lose his first, and only friend, so soon.

"Maybe we had better consider leaving, quickly."