Date: Fri, 18 Mar 1994 21:25:36 PST Reply-To: papayd@gtewd.mtv.gtegsc.com Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Dave Papay M/S 2G23 x2791 Subject: Requital part 5 (conclusion) Requital Copyright 1994 by David Papay Part 5 of 5 Tanner fell to the ground, landing on all fours. The quickening was over. He took a few moments to catch his breath, and then surveyed the warehouse. Still deserted, but not for long. Someone was sure to have seen the display the barbarian's death had provided. He reached over to where the barbarian's headless body lay, retrieved his former opponent's sword, and then started back toward the alley where he had knocked Fanton down. Balinor was stunned. Never before had he seen magic like that, if it had in fact been magic. He sat motionless, with his mouth slightly agape, watching Tanner pick up the barbarian's sword and head back toward him. Since Fanton had only been knocked unconscious, Balinor didn't really perceive Tanner to be too much of a threat. In any event, he was still too overwhelmed by the events of the last few minutes to react to Tanner's approach. The sword was also aware of Tanner's approach, and was determined not to let this opportunity pass. It had already lost out on the barbarian's quickening. So, in Balinor's moment of complacency, the sword thrust out at Balinor's mind and took control of him. Balinor felt the fear well up inside him, and his mind has filled with only one thought: kill Tanner. He looked over at Fanton's sword on the ground next to him and reached over to grasp the weapon. But instead of feeling the hilt of the enchanted blade in his hand, Balinor felt the cold metal of Tanner's sword at his throat. The sensation was enough to bring Balinor back into control of his own thoughts. He cursed himself for being so stupid. He didn't know why he had taken his eyes off of Tanner. And why hadn't he drawn his own sword? He looked up at Tanner with resentment and waited for him to finish him off. Tanner looked around nervously. "There is little time, so listen carefully. I could kill you now, just as I could have killed your friend earlier, but I'm not going to." The blade's pressure on Balinor's neck eased somewhat, and Balinor allowed himself to breath again. "Both of you were unwilling participants in this. Still, you are in my debt." Balinor's resentment tempered somewhat. He was a good judge of people, and he detected no malice in Tanner. Furthermore, he knew that Tanner was right; both of them could be dead now. Balinor resigned himself to accept the situation, but was curious as to what intentions Tanner had. "And what price do you want to settle this debt?" Balinor asked. "From your friend, his sword" Tanner said, as he reached for the enchanted sword. The vorpal blade! Fanton wouldn't be happy about loosing it. "Do you have any idea what kind of sword that is? It's not just any magical sword, it's a -," but before Balinor could finish his sentence, a deafening scream filled his mind. Reflexively, Balinor covered his ears with his hands, but this did nothing to alleviate the sword's psychic cry. Then, as abruptly as it started, the screaming stopped, and the brilliant light that had been bathing the alley was gone. Tanner had grasped the vorpal blade. "It's a vorpal sword. Yes, I know. But it's more than just that, I'm afraid. This sword has a special purpose: to kill those of my race. This sword dominated your friend in order to carry out that purpose, and I suspect it almost dominated you as well a few moments ago." Tanner paused. "But know this: even if your friend had bested me, or my former opponent, he would have still lost his life. Had he taken either of our heads, the quickening you saw earlier would have been absorbed by the sword, and your friend would have been killed in the process. "As you can see, I have no use for this sword. Those of my race have a -, how shall I put it? A negating effect on magic. Still, I cannot afford to have this weapon in the hands of a mortal. I have enough problems with those of my own kind. I'll be taking this sword in exchange for your friend's life." Hardly in a position to negotiate anyway, Balinor accepted this. "And from me?" he asked. "From you, your solemn oath never to relate the events you've seen tonight to anyone." "What?" Balinor was more than a little surprised by the demand, considering the price Fanton had paid. "And you'd take me at my word?" he asked, inquisitively. The shock from tonight's events was beginning to wear off, and Balinor was starting to get curious about many things. "I have little choice but to take you at your word, just as you have little choice but to accept my terms," Tanner stated flatly. "Besides," he added, "you're a ranger. You'll not forsake your oath." With only a few words, Tanner had reinstated most of the astonishment Balinor had managed to shake off. "How did you know I was a ranger?" Balinor queried, obviously surprised that this stranger knew something about him. "The emblem on your cloak clasp," Tanner replied. Balinor looked down at the cloak clasp pinned on the front of his parka. Its presence served no practical purpose, as the parka had sturdy buttons and loops. Balinor wore it out of habit. The face of the clasp bore a coat of arms that contained an intricate pattern of interwoven vines and evergreen boughs. Central to the device was a single pine tree and a bolt of lightening. To those who understood this particular form of heraldry, the clasp revealed the fact that Balinor was indeed a ranger. It also disclosed his ranger band, his clan association, and his religious order. Balinor looked suspiciously at Tanner. Only another ranger, a druid associated with a ranger band, or an extremely knowledgeable bard would know what the emblem meant. Tanner looked like none of these to Balinor. "How do you know what this means?" Tanner reached inside his cloak with his left hand and removed a dagger. It was unadorned, and of old design. Tanner flipped the dagger in his hand, and presented the weapon, hilt first, to Balinor. Not sure what Tanner had in mind, Balinor cautiously reached out to accept the dagger. As he was about grasp it, he noticed that there was a crest engraved on the blade near the hilt. He took the dagger from Tanner and brought it closer so he could see the design more clearly. In many ways the design was similar to the coat of arms on his clasp. The same pin tree appeared as the focus of the crest, and there were similarities in the use of vines and evergreen boughs. There were also several differences that Balinor could not quite account for, which made interpreting the symbols a bit more difficult. For example, the portion of the crest representing the clan association contained an archaic symbol that had not been used for -. Then it all registered to Balinor. This crest was ancient, at least 800 years old. The ranger band named in the crest had not existed for centuries. Balinor cast a puzzled look at Tanner. "How did you come into possession of this?" "It was presented to me at my initiation. At the time, it was customary for all Initiate rangers to receive ceremonial daggers." Tanner explained. "That's not possible," Balinor interjected. He stared at Tanner in disbelief. "This dagger is at least eight centuries old." Tanner returned Balinor's stare unswervingly. He reached out and took the dagger from Balinor, who offered no resistance. "Let's just say I'm a bit older than I appear to be," Tanner said, as he returned the dagger to its sheath inside his cloak. While Tanner realized that all of this would be difficult for Balinor to accept, there was no time for lengthy explanations. Instead, Tanner decided to take advantage of his former status as a ranger. He said to Balinor, "Now, from one ranger to another, and as wisdom lies at the end of the one true path, do I have your oath of silence?" Balinor had not expected this. The phrase Tanner had used was a secret ranger oath. Not even a druid or bard would know it. Confused as he was, Balinor could not dispute the fact that Tanner was indeed a ranger, and Tanner's invocation of that particular oath gave Balinor no choice but to accept. He had called upon Balinor's honor as a brother ranger. "You have my word," Balinor conceded. "I will tell no one what has transpired here tonight." He extended his hand to Tanner, who grasped it with the grip known only to those of their brotherhood. The oath was now sealed: Balinor would carry this secret to his grave. "Both of your debts to me are paid," Tanner said, releasing Balinor's hand. "Now we had best be gone before someone arrives to investigate." Tanner walked over to Fanton's body and knelt down to retrieve the vorpal sword's sheath. As he did so, the tip of the barbarian's sword, which he had slipped under his belt, scraped against the ground. Tanner cast a thoughtful look back at Balinor and removed the barbarian's sword. "Here," Tanner said, handing the sword to Balinor. "Give this to your friend, to compensate him for the vorpal blade. It isn't magical, but will serve him better than most enchanted blades. It was forged at a time when a sword's edge depended more on craftsmanship than on magic. A more finely made weapon you'll rarely find." Balinor took the sword from Tanner and strapped it to his belt. "Fanton disdains any weapon that is not magical. I doubt he'll accept this sword, especially as a substitute for his, but I shall give it to him nonetheless." "Fare thee well, brother ranger." Tanner said, as he turned and left. "Until next we meet," replied Balinor, using the customary response to Tanner's farewell. Tanner stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "We shan't," and with those words, he disappeared into the darkness. Arete's Northwest Gate was little more than a reinforced door at the base of a tower. It had none of the grandeur that the East Gate had, nor did it bear anywhere near as much traffic. Its only purpose was to permit passage from the city's Temple District to the catacombs, which were located outside the walls. Like all of Arete's gates, the Northwest Gate was closed at dusk, and Tanner had been forced to scale the wall in order to reach the catacombs. He descended the roughly-hewn steps leading into the caverns in darkness, for at this point any light would be visible to the guards on the wall. He had come to far to risk discovery now. After leaving Balinor, Tanner had made his way back to the Bear and Mammoth Inn, keeping to secondary streets whenever possible. He had no desire to run in to the city watch, especially with all the attention the barbarian's death would be generating. Only a handful of people noticed him as he slipped through the inn's common room, and Tanner was sure that by the next morning those people would have all but forgotten seeing him. He went to his room and quickly packed his things. Since he hadn't brought much, this didn't take very long. In a matter of minutes he had left the Bear and Mammoth through the rear door and was on his way to the East Gate. The steps took a sharp turn to the left. As Tanner rounded the corner, a dim, flickering light cut through the darkness. He could now see the bottom of the stairway, and he descended the remaining steps quickly. In a small antechamber at the base of the steps, a single prayer candle had been left burning overnight, keeping a vigil over the dead. By the candlelight, Tanner found several torches stacked neatly on the ground near the base of the steps. He lit one using the prayer candle, and began surveying his surroundings. Aside from a small alter and an uncomfortable looking hardwood bench, the antechamber contained little. Tanner stopped briefly and said a few words of prayer as he passed the alter, and then continue through the antechamber to the wrought iron gate that guarded the entrance to the crypts. It took him only a few minutes to pick the lock on the gate. The catacombs were not much different than others Tanner had seen. Countless shelves and niches had been cut into the cavern walls, each one housing the remains of a former Aretian. There was one significant difference though, and that was the reason Tanner had come here tonight: one of these Aretians had been an immortal. It took little effort for Tanner to locate the resting place of his apprentice; he remembered the interment as if it were yesterday. Once again he voiced a short prayer, and then lifted the burial cloth off of the body. It looked much as it had seven years past. The cold temperature in the caverns all but prevented the decomposition of the dead. "Now your soul can be at rest," Tanner whispered, "your death has been avenged. The barbarian has paid his requital." Tanner drew the vorpal blade and examined it under the flickering torch light. "And so have others," he added, as he placed the sword on the shelf, behind the body. He let go of the hilt - and no magical light emanated from the blade. Tanner smiled with satisfaction. The crypt was holy ground, and given the sword's special purpose, its magical powers would by nullified here. No one would ever be able to divine the location of the sword, and even if it were found, its magical nature would not be guessed. It would be dismissed as a normal weapon that had been buried with its wielder, one of many such weapons in these caverns. Tanner gently pushed the sword under his former apprentice and replaced the burial robes. Less than a half hour later he stole into the common tent of the caravanserai and laid out his bedroll. There were precious few hours left before dawn, and Tanner planned to leave Arete at first light. Balinor dumped Fanton's inert form onto his bunk. The blow to the head, coupled with the affects of ale and the mental strain of the vorpal blade's domination, had left Fanton in a state of deep unconsciousness. He had seen worse though, and Balinor felt confident that Fanton would wake up late with a bad headache, but no permanent damage. Balinor surveyed the room that the party had rented. The others were gone, obviously having changed their minds about celebrating tonight. With luck he would be asleep before they returned; he didn't feel like fabricating a story to explain everything tonight. He'd deal with that in the morning. Tired from carrying Fanton back to the room, Balinor took off his parka and sat down on the bunk next to Fanton. He then began to loosen the straps that kept his studded leather vest on. Exhausted as he was, Balinor wasn't about to sleep in his armor. As he pulled the vest over his head, he glanced over at Fanton. Under his parka Fanton wore a chain shirt. Balinor briefly considered removing Fanton's mail, but dismissed the thought with a quiet laugh. Balinor had been through a lot tonight because of Fanton, and didn't feel too charitable toward his friend right now. 'Let him sleep in his armor and wake up sore', Balinor thought. Balinor finished removing the rest of his equipment and got ready to retire for the night. He left his sword and studded vest at his bed side, as was his habit. In a like manner, he reluctantly placed the barbarian's sword at the side of Fanton's bunk, right where Fanton would expect his weapon to be. How would he explain the loss of the vorpal sword to Fanton? Balinor found himself staring at the barbarian's sword. A mere hour ago it had been wielded by the second greatest warrior he had ever seen. Now it lay idle. Balinor concluded that Tanner had been right: this sword would serve better than a magical blade, as it would truly test a warrior's abilities. No magic would enhance the wielder's aim; no enchantments would aid his effectiveness. Only his skill would determine whether or not he would strike his opponent. Once that strike had been achieved, the sword's keen edge would assure the desired end. But the sword was not magical, and for that reason alone Fanton would reject it. Fanton was shallow in that respect, Balinor thought. He only appreciated things for the power they brought him. Fanton would never admire the fine workmanship of the blade, nor would he ever know the skill of the man who had fought with it tonight. He would only know that his vorpal blade was gone, having been replaced by an "ordinary" sword whose use he would scorn for all time. Balinor shuttered the lantern by his bed. The events of this Midsummer's Eve had worn heavily on him. Before long he was fast asleep. In the years to come, Balinor would look at the sword and remember the battle between Tanner and the barbarian. He would practice the techniques he had witnessed that night over and over again, all the time well-aware that he could only hope to master a fraction of what he had seen. It would take a lifetime to master it all. Balinor was wrong, of course - it would take several lifetimes. The sun's rays had just began to shine through the clouds that capped the Dragon's Spine Mountains. On any other morning, the caravan that was assembling outside of Arete would have been an hour behind schedule, but since it was Midsummer's Day, the Caravan Master had given everyone a little more time to sober up. As the overseers supervised last minute details, the Caravan Master was concluding negotiations with the caravan's new guide. The previous guide was still sleeping off last night's indulgences, and while the Master could afford to have hung-over teamsters and drovers, he could not have a guide who was performing at any less than one hundred percent. The chief overseer walked over to the Master and new guide, arriving just as the two shook hands. "All is ready. We can depart as soon as you wish," he reported. The Caravan Master nodded his affirmation and headed to his mount near the front of the caravan. The newly hired guide turned back toward his dog sled. The guide looked over each of the dogs. They were well-rested and ready for the long journey ahead. He double checked the harnesses, and noted that the kennel boy had oiled them so they wouldn't freeze and crack. The guide then inspected the sled to make sure it was in proper condition. The kennel boy had been busy: he had also waxed the sled's runners. Satisfied that all was in order, the guide took a step back and nodded in approval. His team and sled were ready for travel. He fastened his cloak tightly about himself and drew his scarf around his face. From his cloak pocket he removed a small vial containing a black, greasy substance. He opened the vial and used his fingertips to spread the salve on his cheeks, directly under each eye. This dark mixture of rare herbs, charcoal, and lard reduced the glare of the sun, and would guard his eyes against snow blindness. Already he could feel the salve's protective vapors stinging his eyes, causing them to water slightly. Finally, as he walked toward the back of his sled, he put on his fur-lined mittens and drew his hood over his head. He placed one foot on the back of one of the sled's runners and planted his other foot onto the ice, his crampons digging into the smooth, hard surface. With his mind, the guide reached out to the lead dog and gave a simple command: up. The lead dog rose, and others in the team followed suit. Behind his scarf, the guide smiled. It would be good to be leading a caravan once again. Still in touch with the lead dog's mind, he projected another thought: go. The guide pushed off of the ice as the team broke into a trot and headed toward the front of the caravan. The guide surveyed the caravan as he rode past. It was large. There were scores of other dog sleds, perhaps four dozen long-haired pack animals pulling large wagons, and several mastodons bearing litters. This was in addition to the many guards and drovers who stood along side the main body of the caravan. They would take shifts walking and riding throughout the day. The guide rode past the Caravan Master, who was riding in a palankeen atop one of the mastodons near the front of the caravan. With a wave of his hand, the guide signaled his readiness to the Master, who acknowledged the signal. From within the palankeen, the Caravan Master produced a two-foot long polished animal horn, probably from some species of antelope found in the Far South. The Master held the horn to his lips and blew. The low-pitched, resonant tone of the horn rolled over the ice and echoed off of Arete's walls. The caravan began to move forward. They were going to the Lowlands, a six hundred mile journey to the south. Along the way, the featureless landscape of the Sheet would gradually be replaced by wild tundra, and eventually by vast evergreen forests. Needless to say, it was a bit warmer there, and the guide looked forward to the changes in climate and scenery. As he reached his position a few hundred yards in front of the caravan, the guide slowed his team's pace to match that of the caravan. He risked a backwards glanced at Arete, a city still asleep from last night's festivities. He was leaving in peace; his unfinished business had been put to rest. The guide looked forward again and began scanning the ice for signs of danger. While he had not lead a caravan for some years, the skills were still second nature to him. He took a deep breath. Even through his scarf, the cold morning air bit at his nostrils and sent chills through his body. Tanner, former ranger, sometime adventurer, world-weary traveler, - and immortal - was leaving the Free City of Arete for the last time. The End. =========================================================================