From The Doomsong Sword
4
The Sword
As they moved out of the forest into the open countryside, a breeze ruffled Davor’s fine white hair. The Traveller looked at him intently for a moment then paused, raised the wide brim of his hat and surveyed the meadows around him with his good eye. There was a sound Davor couldn’t identify. And then he could. It was the distant strain of lively music.
“Dancing already,” Master Odo said. “Good, they’ll be too busy to notice us.”
For a few moments Master Odo continued to stare into the distance then he tucked his staff under his left arm, pushed back his blue cloak and pulled the fine sword from its scabbard, turning it slowly to examine runes running down its blade.
Davor swallowed hard. It was a beautiful weapon. The pommel was a golden rising sun; the cross-guard a perfect silver half-moon; the grip held the pink and reds of burnished copper. The blade itself was bright steel, double-edged with a central ridge marked with magic runes. The end of the blade had been hammered into a vicious splinter of certain death.
“As clear and bright as the flames in which was forged.” Master Odo said with something of a smile. “Touch the runes, Davor. Let them speak to you.”
As Davor traced a grubby forefinger over the magic words, Master Odo muttered something and nodded with satisfaction.
“Can I hold it?” Davor asked.
“Not yet! No! No, no. Not yet. You must wait. We must wait – see what we shall see.” Master Odo took back the sword and concealed it beneath his cloak again.
Davor watched, his palms itching. How he wanted that sword.
Master Odo caught his eye and nodded as if understanding Davor’s feelings, but all he said was, “Ready?” and tapped the hilt of the sword at his waist.
Davor wasn’t sure if the word ‘ready’ was spoken to the sword or to him so he made no reply.
Before long they found the wedding. All the warriors and their wives, sons and daughters, all the infants and ancients of the host clan, and a dozen finely dressed men from a foreign isle had come together to celebrate the tying of a knot and the sealing of a pact.
Everyone was gathered under the wide boughs of a
huge tree called the Barnstock Oak. At eight separate points, bright
ribbons had been tied to the branches and nailed into the ground,
turning the tree into a summer feasting hall. Benches and trestle
tables were arranged in a circle beneath the long lower boughs for
the feasting. A wide space around the bole of the tree was being
used for the dancing.
(...)