Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 57

Captain Walric scrunched up her nose. "What sort of outlandish name is that? Come to think of it, can't quite place your accent, even. You Velan? Or don't tell me...Drisian?"

"Etherean, more like," chirped Farren, wondering how long it would take the captain to figure out the absurd truth, and whether she would survive the stroke that would likely follow.

Giving them an exasperated look, she unfurled a dusty old scroll. On her command, Bjorn and Gunvald strode into the clearing to flank Xenro from either side, and took out large, intricately carved cow horns. Runes gleamed on their surface.

"Xenro," she said, her voice grim. "Swear by your blood that you shall yield to none. Promise that, in the name of Silverhaart, His mortal lover-- that you will embrace death with a sword in your hands, never kneeling on the dust."

Xenro's playful eyes now took on a solemn look. "I do."

"You will carry his legacy, in heart and sword and sorcery, till your last breath leaves your lungs, till your limbs are drained of the last drop of blood. Till all your eyes can see is the abyss."

"I will."

The Velan brothers blew into the horns. The sound, loud and rumbling, like the wail of a soul long departed, rose high above the treetops and reverberated upon the chilly air throughout the forest, and across the tundra plains that lay beyond, to the north. After the sound faded, there hung an ear-ringing silence. Even Hilda had ceased to strum her lute, looking intently at the ceremony. Chills ran down Farren's spine.

"Swear by your blood, young one!" The captain walked into the circle of standing stones and offered him a silver dagger wrapped in rich crimson silk. She directed him to the central one of the standing stones. "Make your mark upon the Guardian Stone."

The stone seemed to date as far back as the statue of the Unnamed near the waterfall, its exterior cracked and scorched. Vines grew in the deep trenches bitten off by rain and storm. Numerous fingerprints mottled its surface, some many centuries old, while others only a few decades or years--remnants of previous ceremonies welcoming new blood.

"The Guardian Stone was raised in memory of Dresius Silverhaart, the first Chosen Warrior to ever walk the mortal lands. This stone is what connects us to our ancestors from a different time, united not by blood but a shared oath." The captain laid a hand on the spots on the rock, the other, clasping her pendant. "When the Apocalypse came thundering upon Stormvale all those centuries ago, the remaining of the Chosens, the ones still standing and able, sought to protect what little of the people were left of this land."

She turned to Xenro as he stood, dagger in hand. "We all are descendants of the survivors of the Apocalypse. For centuries, the Silverhaarts have served mighty rulers who stood up against evil. That is, until a bunch of fools with magic decided to outlaw us for using sorcery in warfare. Know this, in joining us, you embrace the glory of the past as well as the notoriety that now sullies our name. Consider this well before you take the blood oath."

Xenro gazed at the dagger, at the Guardian Stone, then back at the warriors surrounding him. At Farren.

"I have found my purpose," he said.

A serene smile spread across his lips, the full moon casting a silver halo around him and the standing stones. A soft breeze ruffled the branches and whistled through the leaves. A strange trance descended upon them all like a silken cloak. Even the captain looked at him in awe.

"I have made up my mind. What more is there to consider? I return to a place where I have belonged forever." He raised the dagger to his palm and pressed the blade against his skin.