The Warrior Heir Read online

  Eventually they’d dug a fairly large hole, three feet long and perhaps three feet deep. Despite the cold air, Jack was sweating from the exertion. And then his shovel hit something with a dull clunking sound that was different than before. And then again. He continued to dig, lifting away smaller amounts of dirt until they could see a rough rectangular outline. Will dug with renewed energy, enlarging the hole, trying to find the other end of the box, if that was what it was.

  Jack cleared the earth away from the sides, so they could see how deep it was. Now they had all four of the top corners exposed. It was about three feet long, and narrow.

  Jack leaned wearily on his shovel. Something strange was going on. His head was spinning, and there was a murmuring in his ears, the sound of a thousand urgent voices. He sat down heavily on the edge of the hole, his legs dangling, and put his hands over his ears.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Fitch shone his flashlight in Jack’s face. “Why don’t you just sit there a minute? You’ve been doing most of the work.” He turned and fumbled in his backpack, and pulled out two water bottles. He tossed one to Jack and the other to Will. “Drink that.” Fitch picked up the shovel and set to work with a vengeance, making the dirt fly. Will drained his water bottle noisily and threw it aside, continuing to work, motivated by the prize that seemed almost within their grasp.

  Now Jack could make out some of what the voices were saying. “Who comes to claim the blade?” There was a rumble of drums, at first far away, and then growing louder, coming closer, pounding inside his head. Jack closed his eyes and leaned back against Susannah’s stone, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, his heart beating wildly. Sweat poured from him. He thought of the forgotten medicine. Maybe he was having a heart attack.

  “Do you hear something? People talking? Drums?

  Anything?” Will and Fitch stopped digging to stare at Jack. “Never mind,” he said hastily.

  The drums and voices grew to a crescendo. And then a woman’s voice, cool and quiet, broke through the din. “Be at ease. He is the heir,” she said. The voices and the drums fell silent. Jack wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and breathed easier.

  The box itself was only about eight inches deep, and Fitch and Will soon cleared the dirt from three sides. Will worked the tip of his shovel under it, and attempted to pry the box out of the dirt. The earth was reluctant to yield what it had held for so many years. It took several tries, but at last one corner came up, and Will carefully propped it against one side of the hole. It didn’t seem too heavy. He climbed down in the hole and pushed the box over the rim. Fitch grabbed the leading edge and hauled it out onto the grass.

  “They must have buried it in a leather bag,” Will said. The bag had nearly disintegrated, and the leather fell away when they turned the box over. It was encrusted with dirt and sand. Will spat into his hand and wiped some of it away.

  “It’s covered in jewels!” he exclaimed as the light reflected back. “You don’t think they’re real, do you?”

  Jack had recovered enough to lift himself away from the gravestone and lean forward to look.

  “Who would bury valuable jewels in a graveyard?” Fitch ran his fingernail over one of the stones. It was bloodred and faceted and about the size of his thumb. “This is probably the closest I’ll ever come to buried treasure.” He leaned down, fumbling along the side of the case. It took Jack a moment to realize what he was doing.

  “Fitch, no, don’t!”

  Too late. There was a bright flash and a boom. Fitch flew backward, landing flat on his back several yards away on the grass. A pale cloud of smoke drifted skyward.

  Will leaped after him, but Fitch was already sitting up, shaking his head. “What the hell was that?” His face was smudged with soot, and he spat blood out of his mouth.

  Will and Fitch regarded the case with grudging respect. Somewhere close by, a dog was barking. Jack wondered if the noise would bring any curious neighbors. Or worse.

  “Maybe we should take it to a safer place,” Will suggested.

  “Maybe we’ll be blown to smithereens if we try,” Fitch replied warily.

  “Let me do it,” Jack said. The other two stared at him. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled over to where the box lay, and cradled it carefully in his arms. He carried it a safe distance away and set it on the ground. “Why don’t you two fill in the hole, and clean up this area as much as you can, and I’ll try to figure out this locking mechanism.”

  “Be careful, Jack,” Fitch warned him. He and Will grabbed the spades and began pushing dirt back into the hole. It was hard to tell in the darkness how much of a mess they’d made. Jack suspected it would be pretty obvious in the morning that someone had been digging.

  Jack ran his hands over the ornate lid until he found the tiny latch, right where he knew it would be, as if he’d opened the case a hundred times before. The words of the old speech came back to him, and he whispered them as he pressed his fingers against the lock. The case snapped smoothly open.

  Inside the velvet-lined case was a sword in a scabbard. The scabbard was ornate, worked in gold and silver, and the hilt that protruded from it was cast in an elaborate, swirling gold design. A brilliant ruby was set in the end of the pommel. When Jack brought the flashlight close, he could see inscriptions faint against the burnished metal, symbols and words he didn’t understand.

  He set the flashlight on the ground, gingerly grasped the hilt, and drew it out, noticing how the grip fit his hand without slipping. The sword created its own light as it emerged, a silver flame that ran along the blade. It was double-edged, and the metal appeared rippled in a way that meant the steel had been folded and refolded to strengthen it. How he knew this, he couldn’t say. After a century in the ground, it bore no trace of rust, but seemed ready for immediate use.

  Will and Fitch, drawn by the light, looked over Jack’s shoulder. “Wicked,” breathed Fitch.

  “No,” said Jack. “Not wicked at all.” He lifted the weapon before him with two hands and knew that it was his, although it had been forged long before he was born. It was lighter in his hands than he expected, lighter than one would expect from the size of it. “Shadowslayer,” he whispered, as if the weapon spoke to him. And the power in the blade ran into his hands and up his arms as if, somehow, the sword were wielding him.

  “Jack . . .” It was Will, sounding dismayed, uncertain. The sword flamed in Jack’s hand as he brandished it, a marriage of man and metal, flesh and steel. Fierce and primitive. He grew, extended himself through the reach of the blade, and the sword sent light and shadow racing across the grass, illuminating the leaning stones. The blade sang as it sliced the darkness, once, twice, three times, dividing it, trailing light. Shadowslayer. He pivoted, seized the hilt with both hands, and swung the blade, severing a two-inch sapling with a whisper of effort. He saw blood before his eyes and it was not the blood of trees. It took considerable self-discipline to end the dance. When he lowered the blade, its light subsided to a soft brilliance.

  “It’s so sweet,” he said, swallowing, trying to control his voice. “I ... I had no idea....”

  “Be careful with that. I mean, don’t go weird on us.” Something in Fitch’s voice said he sensed something more dangerous here than the edge of an ancient blade.

  Will eyed the scabbard in the case, as if half afraid to approach it. “Is that some kind of belt?”

  Jack thrust the blade into the ground momentarily and lifted the scabbard with two hands. It was mounted on a light belt of cleverly wrought linked metal. It was designed to fit two ways, about the waist or over his shoulder, as a baldric. Baldric. Where had the word come from? Somewhere inside him, a door to knowledge had opened. He put it about his waist and clasped it tight, positioning the scabbard on his left hip so he could draw across his body with his right hand. It lay comfortably across his hipbones. Aunt Linda had said to put the sword back in its case, but . . .

  “What’s that?” Fitch spoke quietly, but in a way t
hat got Jack’s attention. He was staring back toward the church, hands on hips. Jack followed his gaze. A strange glow bled through the back windows of the building, spinning out crazy shadows. Someone was walking along the far side of the church with a light, and it was reflecting through the back windows.

  “Hey,” Fitch whispered. “Someone’s here!”

  With a quick movement, Jack picked up the case and tossed it to Will. “Here! Hang on to this. We’ll need it.” He pulled the sword from the dirt with his right hand and held it, point downward, close to his side. They faded back into the shadows behind Susannah’s stone, careful to avoid stepping into the half-filled hole.

  Someone rounded the corner of the church, carrying a powerful flashlight. At first, they could make out only a bulky outline, because of the glare. The figure advanced rapidly toward their hiding place, running the light over the gravestones in his path. He stopped about ten feet away, shining the light over Susannah Downey’s stone. They heard a grunt of satisfaction. Then a voice.

  “What are you boys doing out here in the dark?” It was the cowboy, Sam Hadley.

  It was no use staying hidden. Fitch stepped out from behind the stone, shielding his eyes against the flashlight. “We decided to come see if any of our relatives are buried here. But I guess we got too late a start. It’s no use trying to find anything in the dark. I suppose we’ll have to come back tomorrow.” He shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion.

  When Hadley spoke again, there was an edge to his voice. “Wasn’t Susannah Downey the person you were looking for?”

  “No, it was Taylor,” Fitch replied, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets disarmingly. “But we think she married a Downey. Like we said, this seems to be the wrong person. Our Susannah was earlier, and it looks like this one was a Hale. We just thought we’d come look in the graveyard to see if some of the surrounding stones might give us a clue.” Jack could tell Fitch was nervous from the way the words poured out of him like marbles from a bag.

  “So we’re just about to head back,” Will added, moving up to stand by Fitch. He’d picked up his duffle bag, and he held the case horizontally under his arm, as casually as he could, hoping Hadley couldn’t get a good look at it in the darkness.

  Jack remained back in the shadows, behind Susannah’s stone. He was acutely aware of another presence, following after the cowboy, something menacing, something greedy, coming closer. He tightened his grip on the hilt of the sword and his arm tingled all the way to the shoulder.

  “You boys want a ride back to town?” the cowboy asked.

  “No, thanks,” said Will. At this, Jack moved out of the shadows to join his friends, standing just behind them.

  “What’ve you got there?” Hadley’s voice had a nasty undercurrent. He was speaking to Jack, who was trying to keep his body between the cowboy and the sword, but the glow of the blade stood out like a beacon in the dark.

  “He has the blade.” The new voice was dreadfully cold and uncomfortably close. A deeper shadow detached itself from the side of the church and approached them with an odd, floating gait. It was a man, tall and angular, his garments kiting about him as he advanced. He lifted a skeletal arm and pointed at the sword in Jack’s hand. The blade flared red, as if it ran with blood. It was the stranger from the courthouse. Wizard! The thought arose, fully formed, in Jack’s mind, a warning. An ancient terror kindled inside him.

  Hadley’s eyes flicked nervously to the wizard, then back to Jack. “Looks like y’all been doing some digging,” he said, gesturing at Susannah’s stone. “Looks like you stole something that don’t belong to you.” He took a step closer to the boys. “You’d best give it to the man and go on home.”

  “No,” Jack replied, broadening his stance. “If you want the sword, come and take it.” It was as if a stranger spoke through him. Hadley didn’t scare him. It was the wizard that compelled his attention. If not for the vest, the wizard would have killed him at the courthouse. Linda had insisted he wear it. How had she known he would need it?

  The wizard came closer, moving like a man in pain. Jack watched him warily. A beard covered the lower half of his face, but the upper half was red and blistered, as though he’d been burned. His voice was dry and devoid of emotion, like scales sliding over rock. “No doubt this has been an exciting adventure for the three of you, but it’s over. Now give me the weapon.” He smiled, an awful reshaping of the ruined face. “I’m sure we can devise a suitable reward for your trouble.”

  He’s going to kill us, Jack thought. Once he has the blade. He looked over at Will and Fitch, wondering if they understood. I shouldn’t have let them come. As if he were in charge.

  “Where’s the enchanter?” It was the wizard again. “I have unfinished business with her.” And the way he said business, it was clear he meant pain and something else. What was he talking about? Who was he talking about?

  Although he was frightened, Jack also felt reckless, wild, and rebellious. He had possession of the sword; he’d felt the power in it, and he didn’t intend to give it up without a fight.

  He wavered, unsure what to do, standing astride his great-great grandmother’s bones, his back up against her marker. A sudden breeze moved the leaves overhead, whispering to him.

  And then he knew where they would be safe. He stepped between his friends and the wizard and shouted, “Run for the church!”

  Will and Fitch needed no encouragement. They turned and charged to the building, leaping over grave markers as if they were hurdles. Jack backed up rapidly, always keeping his face to the wizard. He held the sword up with both hands, flat side facing him. It responded, blazing, illuminating the scene.

  He couldn’t see a weapon in the wizard’s hands, but suddenly a cascade of blue-green flames rolled at him. Instinctively, he used the sword to parry the volley, which exploded into a shower of sparks that fell harmlessly about his shoulders. Twice more he deflected similar attacks. The heat of the flames dried the sweat from his face. The wizard fire had an unfamiliar, acrid scent, like the taste of blood in his mouth.

  The wizard with the horrible charred face extended his hands toward him and began to speak, the same timeworn Latin that Linda had used, the language of charms. Jack knew he had to stop him, that the words had power in them. Desperately, he swung Shadowslayer with both hands in a broad, flat arc. Flames roared from the honed edge of the blade, and the spell died unfinished as the wizard threw himself to the ground. The flames screamed past him and sliced into the trees behind. The trees stood momentarily, then toppled, sliced off neatly at chest height. And somehow Jack had arrived at the door of the church.

  A sagging wooden stairway led up a few steps to the back door of the building. Fitch and Will were already at the top of the stairs, unsure what to do next. Jack pointed his sword at the back door and thrust it forward. There was a loud concussion, and it flew open, hanging crookedly on its broken hinges. Will and Fitch ducked inside. Jack leaped through the doorway and turned to face his attackers.

  They were in some disarray, as if resistance were totally unexpected. The wizard was back on his feet, staring up at Jack. The cowboy looked back at the shorn trees, up at the ragged opening in the canopy overhead, then back at Jack. His mouth was hanging open and his round face was slick with sweat.

  “The boy’s a demon,” he wailed. “I was hired to do research. I never signed on to deal with demons.”

  “There is no magic about this boy,” the wizard said contemptuously. “The power is in the blade. This is just a foolish Anaweir adventurer who is in more trouble than he can imagine.” Jack thought he said unaware. It seemed an odd choice of words. “Now go fetch me the sword.”

  “I ain’t going in there,” Hadley protested. “He’ll fry me alive.”

  “Magic is ineffective in the sanctuary. The sword has no special power in there.”

  And, indeed, now that Jack was inside the church, the blade had dimmed, grown heavier, so it took both hands to lift it. Its power n
o longer burned through him. It was nothing more than metal in his hands.

  Something the wizard had said lingered. Magic?

  Fitch stood next to him, armed with a candelabra. “Why aren’t they coming after us?” he whispered, glancing around uneasily. “Are they warlocks or vampires or something, so they can’t set foot in a church?”

  Wizards, Jack almost murmured. “I don’t know,” he said aloud. He didn’t know whether the wizard couldn’t come in, or if he just preferred to send Hadley against the sword in a situation where magic would do no good.

  “That sword’ll still cut well enough,” the cowboy persisted. “And there’s three of them. I never agreed to go unarmed against a sword.” He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to escape.

  “Is that so?” The wizard’s voice dripped contempt. “Then we shall have to . . . renegotiate.” He put his hand on Hadley’s shoulder and the cowboy screamed, at first arching away, and then sinking helplessly to his knees under the wizard’s touch. The wizard kept it up, and the cowboy shrieked like he was being flayed alive; he pleaded for mercy and begged for a chance to change his mind. When it finally stopped, Hadley lay trembling and whimpering on the ground. Jack was sick with the knowledge that the demonstration was for his benefit.

  As if to confirm it, the wizard spoke to Jack. “You see that resistance has consequences,” he said coldly. “Give up the blade or all three of you will die tonight. And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll beg for it.”

  Jack was shaken for a moment by the image of himself standing in the doorway like some movie hero, wielding a sword, ready to fight a man who could lob flames with his bare hands, could torture and kill with a touch. He looked over his shoulder at Will and Fitch. Their faces were pale as parchment in the gloom of the church. If they hadn’t understood the stakes before, they did now.