Tyrus shook his head. “No, I don’t want them to realize we know of their plans. We can escape easily enough with the Tay al-Ard. Escaping is not my concern. I intend to face them.”
“You do?” Annon asked, his face betraying his surprise.
“I have trained for years to fight Boeotians,” Paedrin said, edging closer. “They are the principle enemies of Kenatos and have sought to destroy us since the founding.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Tyrus said impatiently. “They are a proud race. Honor motivates them, but not the form of it you might be thinking.”
“Honor?” Phae asked, brushing a long strand of hair over her ear. “What do you mean?”
Tyrus glanced at her and did not answer her question. “It is important that we learn how to fight as a group. It is crucial that we understand each other’s abilities. We will not molest the Boeotians if they leave us alone. But if their hunting party attacks us, they will be surprised.” Tyrus cocked his head a moment, pausing as the others approached. “They have a strange ritual among them. Their leaders are always the fiercest warriors and they constantly challenge each other for supremacy. When they come, Paedrin will challenge their leader.”
A glow of excitement welled in Paedrin’s heart. That was exactly what he needed. “I would be honored.”
The glow turned sour when he saw Tyrus’s smirk. “I’m confident in your abilities, Paedrin, but I mean to tell them that you are our lowliest fighter. It will send a message through their ranks and to their chieftains that we are not to be trifled with. They will test us before committing all of their force. We will pass their test.”
It did not help Paedrin’s feelings that Hettie was smiling at Tyrus’s comment. She gave the Bhikhu a look, her expression revealing her unspoken words. Lowliest fighter?
“Very well, Tyrus,” Paedrin replied with as much dignity as he could muster in such a moment. “But I have a ploy that I need to warn you all about. The Sword of Winds contains a potent magic. It cannot be drawn from its sheath without triggering the effect. This is what happens. The stone set in the pommel glows, and anyone who sees it will become blinded and suffer terrible pain. These effects do wear off after many hours, and the pain is not without benefit. In some way, the magic strips away the need to use your eyes at all. When it happened to me at the Shatalin temple, I was able to see just as well with my eyes shut. My other senses were amplified and I still feel those effects even now. If the leader succumbs to the magic, it will be a quick victory, for the magic is quite painful.”
“Let me see it,” Tyrus said, holding out his hand. Paedrin swiveled the scabbard around from his sash and quickly untied it. He offered it to Tyrus, who examined the pommel and the stone embedded there.
Annon drew closer. “There is a spirit trapped in the stone. I cannot hear it, but I can sense it.”
“I thought that as well,” Paedrin said, nodding.
Tyrus bent close, looking at the design. “This blade was not forged by the Paracelsus. There are no binding runes. The ancient stone set in the pommel was part of the original design.” He adjusted his grip on the scabbard but did not attempt to draw the blade. The hilt was narrower than the types of guards made by the blacksmiths in Kenatos. The polish had long rubbed off and part of the hilt had tarnished.
“What is it then?” Kiranrao asked curiously.
“This is a Mirrowen blade,” Tyrus answered with a curt nod, handing it back to Paedrin. “It was a gift by the spirits to a Vaettir lord many centuries ago. It’s been handed down during the generations and was brought across the sea when the ships came, escaping the fate of the Vaettir homeland. The stone is a protection against the unworthy handling the powers of the blade. As you no doubt learned, it empowers someone to fly and will help in your natural abilities. This is important, Paedrin, because some of the creatures we’ll face, like the Calcatrix, attack from the air and if you look at them, you will turn to stone. This weapon was designed to help destroy such creatures.”
“I cannot draw the blade from the sheath,” Paedrin said. “I can only use it in the scabbard until the master of the blade draws it. I’ve tried.” He looked at Hettie, for she was the one who had explained the properties to him.
Tyrus turned and faced her.
“It’s true,” Hettie said. “I learned in the temple that only one man can draw the blade. It’s fused solid otherwise. It must be given freely or taken from the one defeated in battle.”
“Cruw Reon,” Tyrus answered. “The traitor of Shatalin.”
“The man standing right next to you may be the one who can draw it,” Hettie finished, holding her hand toward Shion, the Quiet Kishion.
Paedrin stared at him, saw the look of amused surprise flicker momentarily on his scarred face.