Chapter 25: The Sword of Peace

Berin is captured again and accused on being a spy. When all seems lost, a friend returns with a sword set to alter the course of the war.

The Sword of Peace

Berin crawled into a cave in his half-state and sat facing the entrance. He squirmed as far back as he dared, listening to the rain patter along the rocks. The whispers of winter were evident this far north, far more than it was in Porto Cerro. The chilled air was nothing compared to Berin’s moaning. Leaving behind his family to the Keturah army was the worst decision imaginable. If they were attacked, which was a certainty, he should have been beside them, defending their right to live. Instead, he was across the other side of the waters, in an unknown land and with no certainty of liberating his wife.

He peeked at the beaded necklace. It was tied there, gleaming in the little light that entered through the cave, reminding him of all that had occurred since that first fateful night. Berin’s gut tightened, though it was not from a lack of food. His soul felt sickened, stuck in a muddy mire. That sickening inclination slowly invaded his mind, leaving large bird-like eggs to cultivate.

If only I had intervened at Akola. If only I had intervened earlier in Vergara. If only Glavino…

No, Berin could not think like this. He turned his attention away from the past to the sword he possessed. It was enticing to know he had a powerful weapon, but for what, Berin knew not. Was it a weapon of destruction? Yes, it was used to kill.

It is more than a weapon. It must hold some significant power, far beyond all I could fathom. It is a luck charm. Ever since I have possessed the sword, it has taken me ever closer to my family. No, wait…it is an object of my demise. It has only brought grief. My problems have not been solved. The sword has, in fact, enhanced them.

Maybe I should use it one last time. To fall on it, that is an option. Why not, this despair is far weightier than when I first lost my family? Now they are lost for good! My children and Glavino are most likely slaughtered by the Bacana. If I use the sword, I will join them in the afterlife.

But death could not be an option. What good would he be to his family, though estranged, if he were dead? In anger for thinking thoughts of killing himself, he beat the beaded necklace against his head. The thoughts of the sword came at him increasingly stronger, beckoning him to quit.

I wish the sword had never come into my possession. It wills me to murder myself. I cannot allow that. I need some hope in something. Just because my children are lost, that does not mean my Juolo is lost. She must be nearby; I can sense it. That is my only hope now. I must search and find her.

Berin drifted off to sleep, his heart wailing for his lost children but his mind clasped to one hope: I will be united with Juolo.

Berin awoke suddenly with what sounded like footsteps across the rocks outside. The rain had drifted away from the foreshore, though the sound still carried a sense of liquid through the pattering under feet. It was too dark to determine if a presence was already in the cave. Berin sat upright, one hand tapping the edge of his hip with the other clutching for his sword. He released a gasp of despair as he remembered he left the sword in the hands of Glavino. After imagining killing himself by it, he realised he never actually possessed the weapon! He had strapped it to Glavino’s belt to allow movement when he carried Rini as they ran from the Bacana.

Berin knew now a presence was most definitely in the cave. It was not a sixth sense; he simply was aware of another body.

“Where are you?” he pretended to fumble. However, he knew not where. Berin did not anticipate the arms clasping his body and rolling him to the ground. In a flash he was bound by something resembling rope and a cloth tightened around his entire face, making it difficult to breathe. Wrenched to his feet, he was marched out into the dewy pre-dawn haze. Fighting against his captor, he managed to free the cloth from his face. His eyes discovered there were at least a dozen men with peculiar swords. They were all wearing the same clothes, as though they were in uniform. One muttered to another. They all laughed. Berin shuddered, though not because of the cold.

This is a tongue I have never heard.

He attempted to locate words amongst the sounds. He had no success, with the speed of the talkers. The syllables were so interwoven he could not differentiate one from another. Finally he heard a word that did not flow with the other words: Keturah, followed by a spit to his face.

Perhaps they think I am a Keturah soldier.

Berin shook his head. It was unnoticed by his captors. Instead, he was led away into the darkness, his face completely covered again before his entire body was placed on a horse. They cantered until the sun rose; the dew dried and the temperature soared rapidly. Though winter approached, the heat soon became stifling. Berin could tell they were following the coastline - his instincts were alive with the distant sound of crashing waves against cliffs. As they travelled he could hear the sound of people. Different sounds, of chatter and bartering and women calling for children and, later, scolding the little ones for disobedience. There were animal sounds, such as other horses, though cows and donkeys dominated the air. There were sprinkling water sounds and rocks hitting against rock. Berin settled to listen to each sound. Their peculiarity sparked Berin’s curiosity, though Berin could not determine why. Perhaps they were uncommon to his ears.

Strange smells permeated through the cloth. There was certainly a great deal of dung around. Berin breathed through his nose as little as possible. Occasionally sweeter fragrances wafted through, scents of killan and verronian plants. These were rare. Berin was glad his nostrils became filled with mucus that forcing air through them became difficult.

Soon the cloth was removed and Berin realised his location. It was unlike anything seen before by him or his kinfolk, except after a while he likened it to where Rini was a farmhand. The land was mostly plains intermittent with pasture fields. The crops were, however, far more familiar to those back in Vergara, or perhaps closer to the ones in Manas Hu. The major plants were maize and rice. Rice was a staple of the Manas Hu.

It must be the same here as well, eating rice for every meal.

The closer Berin glanced at the men working in fields, the more he realised the rice was different. It was not quite so elongated, and had a darker brown look to it.

Rice that you harvest in winter. Now that is strange.

Further along the canter Berin spied vineyards in the distance and thought of home and his family, if only for a brief moment to settle the despair beating at the door of his heart.

In time the horse contingency, consisting of Berin’s horse as well as a total of fourteen others on horseback, arrived in what looked like a major town. Berin could not compare it to anything he had seen before. Berin had heard of a town in Shuiku called Xie.

Perhaps it was Grasio that told me, or it is from a childhood memory. My mother told me of many places. I am not certain.

Xie was known as a tough section of the world, underworld hoodlums or kahunas ruling the land and infiltrating the puppet government with sympathisers at will. The kahunas, though rivals, maintained a mutual respect for one another and remained in their spheres of influence - whether water, crops, or wine. It was only in the government where they interacted and it was fiercely competitive to be the harshest, most vicious government official. Berin presumed this town before him had to be Xie - he saw men dressed in the same uniform as his captors beating a ragged man with long, flexible sticks away from the road. Yes, it would have to be Xie. No place is as vicious as this.

Berin was taken to the centre of the town, the army barracks, and chained in a cold, stony room with no windows.

I am so weary of prisons.

He scratched his head, hoping no lice had entered the roots of his hair. Berin’s head drooped as he sat, his back leaning over until his head was in between his knees. Here he saw no escape plan. His soul, rather than fighting against the lack of freedom, seemed resigned to the incarceration.

Two veros passed as he froze to the point of expiration with little to eat or drink. The bird-like eggs laid in his mind transferred to the front, directly behind his forehead, thus blocking any feasible thought to travel through the synapses. His heart slowed, then sped at a terrifying rate, as though one moment he would pass out and the next racing with fear of the future.

Berin rose from his catatonic state when he heard footsteps, not unlike back in the cave, echo closer to his cell. A short, stubby man opened the door and entered. He began chattering like a monkey. Berin did not understand him, but soon realised his tongue was not speaking the language of the Shuiku; it had a different flavour than the one Berin’s captors used. Though he shook his head to suggest he could not understand, Berin soon understood some words - it was indeed the ancient Keturah language.

Berin, in the best Keturah he could muster, finally responded, “I do not Keturah speak.”

The man, dumbfounded, then proceeded to rally off other languages. He was clearly a linguist, perhaps an interpreter.

“Akola?” asked Berin.

“Akola kirrin!” the man spat.

So much for being a linguist. How could he be one if he knew not the lingua franca everyone learnt from an early age?

Finally, when the man uttered “Vergara?” Berin replied with a nod.

“At last!”

The interpreter’s face agreed with Berin’s gasp of relief.

“Sorry, I was told you were a Keturah spy.”

“A spy? From Keturah?”

“That is what they told me. So, tell me, where exactly are you from?”

Berin began the tale of his travels and the man listened nonchalantly. Berin wondered whether the man actually believed him or was amusing him. He noticed his thick Orguein-like accent was returning, though he tried to hide it. It was little use - Berin kept rolling his syllables, even though he desperately tried not to. Perhaps the man was enough of a linguist to realise the origin of his accent.

At the end of the tale the man stood up and said, “Such an intriguing story, Berin. However, I think you are not a Keturah spy, but worse, a spy from Orguein!”

“What?” Berin’s face dropped to hide knowing exactly what the man meant.

So he can spot my accent from a great distance.

“Yes, an Orguein spy.”

“No!”

“No? We know you are providing weapons and payments for the Keturah invasion. The world knows. The world also knows how much hatred we have for the Orguein. Especially your kind, always sending your best men to spy on us!”

Berin now remembered where he had heard stories of Xie and the Shuiku folk. It was in the prisons. The men’s tales were full of hatred of the past. The Shuiku were greatly disliked to the point where they were classed as subhuman and were not allowed to trade in Akola. It was due to their ships having to stop on an Orguein island to divide the lengthy maritime journey from home to the trading island. The Orguein folk abused this in so many ways, invoking taxes upon the Shuiku to dock in their islands. Perhaps this was also why the interpreter did not speak in the lingua franca derived at Akola. It had only recently been established as the common language to be used throughout the lands, perhaps the last three or four generations, and the Shuiku had been at loggerheads with the Orguein long before that.

“I am not a spy from Orguein!”

But the interpreter ignored him. He studied Berin for a time, glancing him up and down. Then, as though his mind was finalised, he rose and left, leaving Berin alone in his thoughts.

Hope has faded!

It seemed his whole life was simply moving from one prison to another. That was his life. And though he had escaped before, this was the last stalk of grain. He wanted to concede, his head sinking deep in between his legs again, with his breathing short and low.

Berin wept. Intensely. He knew the other prisoners down the hallway would think of him as a weakling. Berin cared not. He was mentally, spiritually and physically depleted beyond all measure.

Due to his weeping, Berin was isolated from the other prisoners, taken to another room with no other humans present. Internal voices steered him to the brink of insanity.

“You are worth nothing, Berin.”

“Yes, Berin, you are worthless.”

“You have no purpose.”

“Yes, you have no hope.”

“There is nothing left for you in this world.”

“Yes, your family is dead.”

“Why do you continue to eat and drink? It is only keeping you alive long enough so they can hang you.”

“Yes, do not eat the food. Die here, rather than out there.”

He could hardly proceed. The bird-like eggs now transferred to his heart and were ready to burst, allowing the yolk of death to invade his very thoughts.

It was fortunate his trial was forthcoming; Berin might not have lasted more than a few veros. He was led in chains to a panel of judges before a crowd of common people. Word spread around of this supposed Orguein spy, and all the townsfolk desired to catch a glimpse of him. Or to see him lynched, Berin was not sure. Though he did not understand a word, the interpreter he met earlier was there to inform of the proceedings. The judges were drumming up evidence of his Orguein heritage.

“We have found you to be from that evil land.”

“Yes, you look like a man from Orguein.”

“You are tanned.”

“You were found in a cave on the shore, which suggests you are a solid swimmer, like all men from Orguein. How else would you travel from Porto Cerro, where our enemy lie in wait?”

How can they know I am a good swimmer? And I know quite a few Orguein men who could not swim to save their lives.

The evidence continued.

“Your accent, the rolling of your syllables, ensures you are from Orguein. None other can speak in such a manner, save those from Porto Cerro. You are certainly not from there.”

“You know the Orguein language as well.”

Berin waited for the opportunity to respond, to debate his hatred of the Orguein.

“So in conclusion…”

No! It seems they already have reached a decision. No!

“This is unfair!”

“You, Berin of Orguein, a spy of the evil land, will be lynched until you are dead.”

“No! You cannot lynch me! I am not an Orguein spy! I hate Orguein!”

After the interpreter relayed this to the judges, they replied, “That is what you keep saying. But the heart of the matter is the Keturah soldiers are only on the other side of the Sea. We cannot afford to take risks. We must deal with all spies.”

“But how do you know for sure I am an Orguein spy?”

“We have stated the evidence clearly. Is the interpreter not speaking slowly enough for you? In addition, your name is of Orguein heritage. You are, without doubt, an Orguein spy!”

And with that they whisked themselves away, while Berin was motioned within the confines of the lynching area. The crowd cheered. This was the entertainment they hoped for all day.

Life must be dull here if lynchings are entertainment in Xie. How could the gods have let this happen to me?

Berin pondered this with blood shooting through his whole body, nearly reaching out through his widened eyes as the rope was tied into a noose.

All this journey happened for what? Death by a rope?

 Berin was flabbergasted. His mind was full of the mush they had eaten in Goiim.

How can I exit this situation? There is no hope, not even faintly.

That was until Berin heard a faint cry from the audience.

“Berin, there you are!”

“Papa!”

Who else, but Glavino, with Rini and Erinu in tow!

“You are alive!” Berin attempted to cry, but the words remained in his mind without exiting via the mouth. They were supposed to be dead, or at least captured. And yet here they were, standing before him!

“We have been looking for you everywhere!”

Finally words came to Berin’s mouth after a pause. “I was captured by the Shuiku.”

“You could not escape?” Glavino smiled.

“Your humour is lost in this moment, friend.”

“Berin, I have the sword. Shall I use it?”

“No, I have a better idea.”

“What is the meaning of this?’ the interpreter exclaimed. ‘Sword? What sword?”

Berin turned to the interpreter and said, “My friend has an ancient sword, a most illustrious sword. Your people may want it, in exchange for my life.”

The interpreter relayed the information to a message boy, who ran to retrieve the judges. They returned, clearly annoyed this debacle with the Orguein spy was incomplete. The head judge summoned the sword to be brought forward. Berin and Glavino began telling the tale of the sword and its significance. The interpreter attempted to keep pace with them, but at a point he snapped at the two eager storytellers to slow down. Berin smiled. Grasio’s storytelling methods were rubbing off on the both of them. They told how, if resheathed, the sword would bring peace for an entire age.

The judges carefully inspected the sword, murmuring amongst themselves. Berin glanced at Glavino. Glavino was holding his breath. Rini and Erinu stood behind Glavino, clutching his strong arms. They awaited for what seemed an age until one of the judges stepped forward, the sword in his hand. He stepped up to Berin, clutching the hilt, as though ready to enact revenge on Berin. Berin knelt to the ground and dropped his head, ready to take the punishment. He hoped Rini and Erinu were not watching.

“It is true,’ said another judge with the interpreter accompanying his every phrase. ‘This is the sword of Aleutian. I can see it has the markings of Aleutian himself. To confirm, please bring forth the sheath.”

“The what?” exclaimed Glavino. Berin raised his head. The two northerners looked wide-eyed at one another, wondering what this meant for them. Berin remained knelt, praying to the gods he would be spared. Rini was mouthing prayers in a similar fashion; repeating the same phrase over and over again.

The interpreter replied without the need of the judge, “We have a sheath, believed to be the sheath of Aleutian.”

“Please tell me you are not lying,” tittered Berin, almost giddy.

The judge continued to speak, “Since the Keturah began invading we have been searching for the sword of Aleutian. It has power beyond any army. It will bring the peace for which we have longed.”

After much deliberation and consultation, the sheath was brought from the army barracks. It was bronze covered and from what Berin could observe, contained strange markings similar to that of the sword. The sword and sheath were examined by an elderly group of men, who after much whispering, stepped forward to address the crowd. The interpreter did the same.

“We declare these two objects are indeed the sword and sheath of Aleutian.”

Shouts of joy cried out as the crowd began to dance.

“For bringing us the sword,’ said the greatest judge, ‘Berin, you have won your freedom.”

“Hurrah!” cried Rini and Erinu. Berin was released from his shackles. He ran immediately to his children, with Glavino wrapping his arms around all three.

“I thought you were dead!”

“No, we managed to escape the beach.”

“How did you get here?”

“A group of Presa people came by boat...”

That was as far as the story was told, for the crowd soon overcame the four foreigners. They placed them on their shoulders and sang what sounded like a song of victory.

“They are calling you heroes!” yelled the interpreter above the commotion.

“Why?”

“You have brought us the Sword of Peace. This Sword will halt the impending Keturah war. Shuiku would be spared!”

“How?”

“Who knows? We must consult the markings on both the sword and the sheath, along with our ancient texts. No matter, there will be no war for the Shuiku!”

The interpreter was out of range as the crowd carried Berin and Glavino through the streets of Xie, singing and shouting.

“The war will be over soon, Glavino. No more Bacana fear!”

“Hurrah!”