“Is my name Cruw Reon, Tyrus?” he asked in a soft voice.
“That cannot be,” Tyrus answered. “I learned of Cruw Reon from Master Shivu and he lived a generation ago. You cannot be him. But if the blade passes from master to master through defeat, you may have the right to unsheathe it. Draw the blade and we shall see.”
“Or not,” Kiranrao suggested. “Especially if we all go blind.”
Tyrus handed the scabbard to the Kishion, who studied its length as if it were some unnatural, disgusting thing. Phae watched him intently, her eyes drawn.
“Unless you all have a deep fondness for ravaging pain,” Paedrin said dryly, “I would recommend shutting your eyes before he draws it.”
They did, except for the Quiet Kishion and Paedrin himself. The Kishion stared at the weapon, some dark emotion crossing his face. Frustration? Worry? The man was always so silent. Had he discovered a way to tame his emotions? Perhaps he could teach Paedrin how.
The two of them looked at each other a moment, the Kishion inquisitive.
“It hurt worse than any pain I have ever experienced,” Paedrin offered calmly. “Even when you broke my arm. But the pain brought insights. It also brought new abilities I did not have before. Truly pain is a teacher. Perhaps the origin of that saying was Shatalin.”
“Perhaps,” the Kishion answered. Gripping the pommel firmly, he stared at the scabbard, studying the markings on it. Most averted their faces, not wanting to be stung by the blade’s painful magic. Phae clutched her father’s arm, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Gripping the scabbard tightly, the Kishion slid the blade free of its sheath in a fluid motion. It loosened without difficulty. The orb fastened to the hilt began to glow, making Paedrin wince in anticipation, but not painfully bright as it had before. He saw looks of fear on the faces of several of the women and Annon.
Paedrin squinted and then relaxed. “You truly are the master of the blade. It did not blind as it did before.” The others looked up nervously, seeing the stone in the hilt glowing softly.
“I have no memory of this blade or that name,” he announced coolly. “That part of me is lost until we find Poisonwell. The blade is yours, Paedrin. I give it to you freely.”
Despite being a constant reminder that there was one man in the world that Paedrin could not defeat, he was starting to like the Kishion fellow.
The attackers came at midnight with smoking torches.
Tyrus’s small band was expecting them.
The Boeotians had elected to swarm them from all sides, offering no way to escape a ring of death except through clashing weapons. Paedrin exulted in the anticipation of a duel with the leader and had practiced his forms well past sundown. He had his chain whip in one hand and the Sword of Winds in the other. Tyrus had positioned the companions around a campfire in a square formation. Paedrin stood in the middle of the square so that he would be the center of all eyes.
The tromping sound of charging men erupted from all around them, making the earth tremble with the force of feet. Spears clashed with buckler shields like thunder cracks. Whoops and shrill cries came at them from all sides.
Excitement thudded inside Paedrin’s heart, matching the quickening pulse. He was ready for this. He felt as if he were a bow flexed near to bursting. He was ready to launch an arrow.
“Not yet,” he heard Tyrus murmur, allowing the Boeotians to surge closer. Paedrin’s lip tasted like salt.
A streamer of blue fire arced into the air, rising high before exploding into a single pulse of white-hot flames. Crackles of energy sizzled in the sky, illuminating the area and revealing the rush of attackers closing in. A deafening boom followed the light flash and its echoes reverberated across every rock and boulder nearby. The Boeotians halted suddenly, shielding their eyes from the glare and the noise, their charge interrupted.
“Now,” Tyrus said.
Paedrin swallowed and then took in a breath of air to begin to rise, becoming the focal point for all eyes as they recovered from the flash. Tendrils of smoke and magic seethed in the air, fading slowly. He raised the Sword of Winds as if stabbing the sky with it and felt his rise accelerate.
“Is there a man brave enough to face me?” he shouted defiantly. “I am Paedrin Bhikhu of Kenatos. You are sorry worms to be blinded so easily. Does a little light make you squirm? Who among you dares to face me? Where is your leader? I will kick him into the dirt and spit on him.”
There was a roar of anger and rage at the insults. Using the sword’s magic, Paedrin swooped toward those coming from the northern side. “Well?” he shouted. “Who leads these quivering pups? Name yourself! I am Paedrin Bhikhu and I challenge you!”