The Legend of Huma

Chapter 20

Silence.

The intermingled cries of the oncoming horses and the terrified villagers who believed that the worst of plagues had been released in their midst, the tumult of hoofbeats—even the wind—all turned to silence.

The silence was interrupted by the distant beating of metal against metal.

Slowly, unbelievingly, Huma raised his head from his hands and stared wide-eyed at the world around him. The weary lands outside of Vingaard Keep, the entire outdoors, for that matter, were gone.

What stood before him now was the mirror—the same mirror that he had fallen through days ago. Now, all it revealed was the disheveled form of a worn knight who looked scarcely alive.

He was back in Wyrmfather’s cavern.

Had it truly happened? It seemed unlikely at first. More conceivable that it had been an illusion. But Huma still felt the pains that had been inflicted on him in that so-called dream. A nightmare, then. One very real nightmare. For Rennard was indeed dead.

Huma leaned back and removed his gauntlets. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the cursed mirror.

He was both angered and relieved—angry at feeling like a puppet, relieved that he was going to be permitted to continue on his quest and perhaps reunite with Kaz and Magius.

Where had they been all this time?

Huma continued to stare at the mirror. The shock of Rennard’s betrayal and death was still with him. Rennard was dead and Huma would pray for him, but the knighthood—no, all of Ansalon—still had a chance, if what Huma had been told was truthful—that somewhere in these mountains was the key to victory.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, and Huma’s mind finally registered what he was seeing.

He stumbled forward quickly. Huma had momentarily forgotten what had taken place in this chamber, what had happened to him. He had, as difficult it was to conceive, almost forgotten Wyrmfather.

If time passed here as it had at Vingaard Keep, the huge form should be ripe. Carrion-eaters of all shapes and sizes should have established their territories. But neither was true.

The gigantic head and neck lay exactly where they had fallen, true, but Wyrmfather’s gigantic bulk had turned to metal, metal of the purest nature, more brilliant than silver. At the same time, it resembled that other metal more than any other. He ran his hands over it, feeling the smoothness and marveling at how great a quantity there must be. For lack of a better name, he called it dragonsilver. He stumbled awkwardly around the great mass, his interest suddenly magnetized by the object that had destroyed Wyrmfather. Somewhere within its massive jaws, the huge corpse concealed the sword that had spoken to Huma. He was sure it had called to him, just as he was sure that he had to have it. If Huma gained nothing else from this experience, he wanted the sword.

The head of the dead titan was twisted upside down, and Huma discovered that the lower jaw rested firmly atop the upper. That meant that the sword was buried within a tremendous mass of pure metal, with no way to retrieve it. Angered, Huma banged his hand against the snout of the creature; the shock brought his senses back, and he briefly wondered at his obsession with the ancient blade. Best if he-

He kicked something with his foot. It made a metallic sound, and Huma looked down to see the very object he had been seeking. With a startled cry, he fell to his knees and practically cradled the weapon. It was to be his. This was a sign.

From the moment his hands touched it, the blade had begun to glow again. Huma basked happily in that glow, for it soothed him and made him forget the terrible events of the past few days. Reluctantly, he sheathed the sword and crawled on top of the great beast. Wyrmfather’s sloping neck proved to be an excellent ramp from which Huma could climb to one of the upper tunnels that dotted the cavern and seek the mysterious smith. That was, he believed, his logical destination.

Neither the endless mounds of gold nor the gleaming caches of jewelry interested him, now that he had the sword. The mirror still intrigued him, but he could not carry it with him through the cavern. He consoled himself with the thought that he could return for it if he succeeded.

With a proper blade in his hands for once, Huma was soon feeling rested and confident as he strode up the amazingly long neck of Wyrmfather.

The tunnels immediately above were naturally lit, though not to the degree that the lower ones had been. Gazing down one, Huma could see no difference between it and the passages he had traversed originally. Dark shadows were everywhere. Emboldened, now that he held a weapon worthy of him, Huma stepped off the neck of the petrified Wyrmfather and entered the closest tunnel.

He became impatient as time dragged and he found only more corridors. Where were the challenges? Wyrmfather had been one, but Huma knew there must be two others. Still, he thought, they could not possibly compare to his brush with the huge beast. Perhaps having faced Wyrmfather was test enough.

One hand stroked the pommel of the sword. Maybe there was no actual need for whatever else lay within this mountain. The sword alone was worth an army, and Huma controlled the sword.

His impatience grew as he continued to follow what seemed like endless tunnels. All Huma wanted to do now was leave. Challenges no longer concerned him. The blade was all he needed. What could the cavern offer that would better a weapon of such power and perfection?

The thought of a flank under his command occurred suddenly to him. After all Huma had accomplished, Lord Oswal surely would reward him. Not only had he brought back a weapon of great value, but he had exposed Rennard and saved the elder knight’s life.

A major command position had always been Huma’s dream. From there, it could not be long before he would command an entire army.

A smile began to spread across his face.

“Step no further.”

At first, Huma had not noticed the figure standing before him. Clad in a long, flowing cloak of gray, the figure blended in well with his surroundings, especially with the shadows now dominating. The figure’s face was gray, as were his teeth and tongue. The only noticeable change from the previous encounter with the gray man was that he was not smiling in the least this time.

“You again!” Huma was happy to see the odd mage—if mage he was—because he now could boast to someone other than himself. “I have beaten your challenges, easily! I’ve come to claim my prize—not that it seems so important now.”

“Certainly. Leave your sword where you are and walk forward.”

“My sword?” The gray man might have asked for his arm.

“Your sword. I always assumed the acoustics in here were fairly good. Am I wrong, then?” At the moment, the mage’s face was as unreadable as Rennard’s had always been.

“Why?” Huma did not care for this suspicious move. The gray man was a servant of the Dragonqueen after all. It must be that the gods now feared Huma’s power—and why not?

“That thing there is not allowed within these chambers. It should not be allowed anywhere.”

“This?” The knight held aloft the magnificent sword, admiring the way it glowed so strongly. He had thought it well-made before, but the radiance of its fully awakened beauty was something to behold. Give it up? Huma would fight first!

“That ‘wonderful’ blade you bear is known as the Sword of Tears. It’s a relic from the Age of Dreams. Through it, Takhisis seduced the ogre race, twisted them from beauty, until all but a handful strayed from the path. It is said to be the weapon with which the champion of darkness will challenge light on that final battle before the last day. It is pure evil, and should be banished. If there is any true choice.”

“You’re wrong. This is the key to our victory. Look at it!”

The gray man shaded his eyes. “I have. Many times. Its wicked travesty of illumination still irritates after all these centuries.”

Huma lowered the blade, but only so he could point it toward the man barring his way. “Is it that? Or are you one who shuns the light in general? I think it is you who are the danger.”

“If you could only see your face.”

“My face?” Huma laughed arrogantly. “The Sword of Tears, you say. Could it actually be called that because of the tears that the Dragonqueen will shed when at last faced with a power stronger than she?”

The gray man’s face screwed into an expression of disgust. “I see the horrid blade has not lost any of its charm.”

Holding his sword possessively, Huma folded his arms. “I’ve listened to your little tirade long enough. Will you let me pass now?”

The guardian brought his staff up to eye level. “Not with the sword.”

Huma only smiled and thrust the sword into the rocky wall to his left. The blade sank in as if the tunnel were made of curdled milk rather than stone, and the weapon flared with emerald light. With similar ease, the knight drew it out. The blade looked unscratched, while that portion of the wall had lost its natural glow.

The gray man only curled his lip and said mockingly, “You had better strike it again. It may have some fight left in it.”

Huma glared at him. “Your last chance. Will you yield?”

“Not unless the sword is forfeited.”

“Then I shall slice a path through your body.”

“If you can.”

The knight raised the Sword of Tears, which seemed to glow more brilliantly—as if in anticipation—and stepped forward. The gray man stepped out of his defensive position and—threw his staff on the tunnel floor. Huma stood there, arm raised, momentarily stunned.

“Have you surrendered, then?”

The hooded figure shook his head. “If you would continue, you must strike me down.”

Strike him down! a voice shouted in Huma’s mind. The green glow of the Sword of Tears dominated the tunnel now. Strike him down! the voice repeated.

“This is—” Huma struggled to complete the thought. The voice became insistent. Strike him down and gain your prize!

“—wrong!”

“Give up the sword, Huma. Only then will you be free.”

“No!” The word issued from the knight’s mouth, but it was not he who had spoken. Instead, the source seemed to have been the blade itself, which now caused Huma’s arm to rise as if he were intending to smote the gray mage.

“No!” This time, it was Huma who spoke. He collapsed against the side of the passageway and regarded with sudden disgust and horror the thing he held in his hand, despite the brilliance that caused even the gray man to turn away.

Take me! Wield me! I was meant to glory in blood! I was meant to rend the world for my mistress!

“No!” The denial came more firmly now as the shock in Huma’s eyes gave way to anger. He had torn free from the malevolent artifact’s spell. The blade had asked the impossible of him—to purposefully strike down one who neither deserved it nor sought to defend himself. Huma had not been able to do so with Rennard, and he could not do so now with the dun-colored guardian.

Power surged from the sword, and Huma screamed. The shockwaves threw the knight to the floor. It felt as if every fiber of his body were being torn apart. He could see only green, could feel only the pain, and could hear only the incessant command of the Sword of Tears as it sought to overcome his will.

“Huma!” Another voice, familiar, sought to assert its influence on him. He took the lifeline and concentrated.

“You must be willing to part from it—totally—or the demon sword will have your body and soul!”

Totally? Huma struggled against the pain. He saw now that the Sword of Tears worked only for its own wily purposes and would never truly be anyone’s servant. That realization gave Huma the willpower he had lacked.

“I deny you!” He held the sword at arm’s length, sickened by it. “I will have no part of you and, therefore, you have no power over me!”

The pain diminished and Huma pressed his advantage. Slowly, he forced the outside presence from his head, reviling it, confident now that it had no true power. The presence seemed to shrink back from his determination, and the emerald brilliance diminished dramatically.

“Master,” it called. “You are truly master.”

It cowed before his mind. Huma’s confidence grew, until a thought flashed through his head. Now that he had defeated it, could he not use it safely?

No! Huma pushed the thought away. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His skin had gone white.

Huma threw the demonic blade wildly across the corridor. As he did, he thought he heard, or felt, a maddened cry. The sword clattered against the opposite wall and dropped to the ground. The glow had all but vanished.

“Never,” Huma panted. He leaned against the wall, his hands on his knees. “Not for all the power in the world.”

Slow footsteps indicated the near presence of the gray man. A strong hand fell on Huma’s shoulder. “There is no more reason to fear. The Sword of Tears is nothing. No more than smoke in the wind. See?”

Huma looked up. The demon sword was wavering and beginning to fade, to sink through the stone to nothingness. Within seconds, there was no trace of its physical form or the sinister presence within.

“Where is it?”

“Hopefully, back where it belongs. The thing has a mind of its own, but you know that. I think I’ve put it in a place where it will take some doing for it to break free.”

The knight looked up. “You saved me—and my soul.”

“I?” The gray man looked slightly amused. “I did nothing but make a few friendly suggestions. It was you who had to face the real battle. You persevered, though.”

“What happens now?” Huma stood slowly. His body ached. His head ached. He did not think he was capable of anything just yet. Huma slumped against the wall.

“Now?” The gray man sounded amused. Huma could not see what was so funny. “Now . . . you step through and claim your prize. You have defeated all three challenges.”

“Defeated—” The knight shook his head sadly. “You’re mistaken. I barely escaped with my life, much less my soul.”

“You live. Yes. That is the purpose of everything. To strive for life, for purpose.”

“Wyrmfather. The Sword of Tears. That makes only two challenges. Unless—” The truth struck Huma forcefully.

The gray man smiled a sad, gray smile. “Your trip through the mirror was no accident. A dark stain had spread itself deep within the fabric of the knighthood, and who better to cleanse the knighthood of that foulness than one of its own? Most, I think, would have been pleased to slay Rennard without permitting him a chance to surrender. You wanted to save him, even then. That—the passion for life—is what the knighthood truly strives for, above all else.”

Huma straightened, stared at the seemingly endless tunnel behind the gray man, and then turned back to the hooded figure.

“Are you Paladine?”

The gray mage smiled mischievously and tapped the side of his nose. “I could say I am, but I won’t. Let us just say that the balance between good and evil must be maintained and I am one of those chosen to see to it—much like yourself, though I fear my part is small compared to your own.” He gave Huma no opportunity to reply. “It is time you went through this last tunnel and claimed your reward. As I said before, you must go weaponless. Weaponless, save your faith.”

As Huma stared, the gray man raised a hand, which held two daggers, gingerly, by the tips. Huma reached instinctively to his own belt, but his daggers were gone. They belonged to the gray man now, only the gray man was gone, too. Only the gaping tunnel stood before Huma.

He took a step toward the darkened passageway.

Huma said two prayers—one to Paladine and the second to Gilean, Lord of Neutrality—and walked into the darkness.

Huma could not judge time, but he was sure that he had been walking for a long period when the first echoes of the hammer reached him. They seemed neither far nor near, and the intensity never changed. It was not as it had been in the great chamber, where the towering, maddened leviathan had shrieked out at such torment. Rather, the familiar sounds of a smith at work put the knight at ease as he recalled a point in his training where he was taught the basics of the trade. All knights had some knowledge of the craft, for each might be called upon to mend armor or shoe a horse. A good smith, as the knighthood dictated, could do virtually anything with an anvil, a hammer, and fire-red metal.

Whoever worked at the anvil had to be a mighty man, Huma decided, for the fall of the hammer went on with such regular rhythm and for such a great length of time that most men would have fallen to their knees by now. At that, who said it must be a man? Might it not be Reorx himself? Here, he knew, was a place of gods and power. Anything might lie ahead.

Then, when he had not noticed it somehow, Huma found himself standing in the massive armory.

Countless implements of war and peace hung, stood or lay from wall to wall, as far as he could see in the dim light, and even from the ceiling high above. A sickle whose blade, if straightened, would be at least the length of Huma’s body. Swords of all shapes and sizes, some curved, some straight, some thin, and some heavy. Jeweled and plain. One-handed and two-handed.

Here he saw even more suits of armor than in the chambers below. The suits ranged from the most primitive breastplates to the latest full armor as worn by the Ergothian emperor. Shields hung above the suits, representing every crest ever created, including that of the Knights of Solamnia.

There was so much more, and Huma longed to see all of it. He felt as if he had stepped into the lost tomb of some great warrior. Yet this was no lost resting place of the dead, for the weaponry and artifacts here were devoid of dust or any sign of age. Each piece he inspected might have been made only yesterday, so sharp were the edges and smooth were the sides. No rust infected the armor; the wooden handle of the sickle had not rotted. Huma knew, however, that these creations were even older than the chambers below, that before all else in this mountain maze, this set of chambers had been first. He could not say how he knew, just that he knew.

The fall of the hammer had become a pattern in his ears, and he did not notice at first when it stopped. When he did, he had already wandered midway through the armory, his gaze flickering back and forth. Huma paused then, momentarily unsure. It was at that moment that he saw the flicker of light from ahead and heard the unknown smith resume his work. Only two massive doors barred his way.

Huma reached forward to knock upon one of the doors, even as it swung open. The slight movement was accompanied by a tremendous squeak, and it amazed the knight that the hammer kept falling as if its wielder had heard nothing or did not care.

It was a smithy of godlike proportions. A huge tank of water that could only be for cooling the product. A massive forge where—Huma had to squint—shadowy figures stoked the furnace with might and gusto.

The hammering ceased with finality. He wrenched his eyes from the sun-hot forge and turned.

The anvil stood as high as Huma’s waist and would have weighed half a dozen times his weight in full armor. The soot-covered figure that stood beside it, a two-handed hammer held easily in one hand and raised high above his head, turned to study the newcomer. The figures at the forge ceased their activity, as did two others near the anvil. The smith lowered his arm and stepped forward. Huma’s eyes did not go immediately to the face but were riveted instead by that arm. It was metal, a metal that gleamed like the material that Wyrmfather had become.

Then Huma looked into the face of the smith. Like the body, it was soot-covered, but Huma could see that the smith claimed no one race as his own, for the features were a blend of elf, human, dwarf, and something . . . unidentifiable.

The smith studied him from head to toe and, in a voice surprisingly quiet, asked, “Have you come at last for the Dragonlance?”