*Inspired from C.J. Cherryh's Faded Sun trilogy*



Jaded from the travels, my wavered steps brought me to that tavern.
The Rattail Rooster was known for a good stew and a lousy ale, and that was that about it.
The name itself questioned the sanity of the owner. Red-Feathered Rooster or even Hoarse Rooster would be something logical.
Either Gunir -the dwarf owner was drunk as a twig the day of naming it, or he stumbled on some really strange creatures in his time.
As the case was, I couldn’t care less. The Rattail Rooster was known for the mercenaries and thieves who wandered there.
And wherever is supply, there is demand…

It has been long since I started hiring my sword to the lords I happened upon. That was the way of my father …and that of my true father.
Emmanon Menayin the merchant, was the closest friend to Ar’an Nepherim –my father. Ar’an was the last of a –once- proud race, I was told.
I barely knew him. I was not nearly 2 years old when he died. Emmanon raised me as his own child, along with Navar, his true son.
Both my fathers supposedly catered spices and exotic fruits back in the East, as they preferred saying, but the truth was they ministered their combat services to whoever would pay handsomely.
“That is the way of true Sons” they used to say with a suggestive smile, like it was some private joke they shared.

-“Ahh, what’s a fine lad like yourself be wishing this fine eve?” -the wench interrupted my thoughts…
-“I’ll have the day special ma’am” I said, even as I knew the “day special” was the same for years now.

I moved to sit straight and I laid my sword on the table before me, to the side.

-“Watcha be needin’ that big ‘a blade alongside now lad?” she hurried to question with amazement.
My two-handed sword was a gift to me from my father and it was of the Geldrim line of grand scimitars.
“it’s name is Shimael –the rain slasher” he used to say; “if you provide for it, it will provide for you”.
I couldn’t understand back then what he meant. He carried it always on his back, and so I came to do myself as well.
But the sword had a strange curse I found out much later, during the Desert Wars…

-“I look for a hire, have you heard of anyone seeking sword-arms?” I said to the wench
-“There is that man who whispers to his company –a strange sort he is, trust me that- but alas, dunno if he’s buyin’ or sellin’..”
-“ok, that’ll be all” I said to be done with the nosy gal; “get me my meal please”.

I turned to examine the black-robed man who was –according to the waitress- ‘a strange sort’.
He seemed to be whispering indeed to his company of men and they all listened with reverence.
That was no cutthroat to be sure!
They all seemed to also have noticed me and my sword. I couldn’t catch them stare right at me, but with my peripheral vision their eyes gleamed at me.
A desperate hope they had set eyes on my blade, overwhelmed me. I long wished for someone to steal it from me.

…for I cannot get rid of it. No matter where I left it, sell to, or even gave it away, Shimael always returned to me.
Its weight -a burden on my back, its glow -a promise of torture. The sword is cursed with bloodlust.
It weakens me if I don’t use it for long and it shines whenever I swirl it in my hands in combat.
As I use it and blood runs on it, it empowers me even more. It has a life of its own and it passes it on to me if I provide enough blood to its thirst.
During the Desert Wars, I once had to fight for 5 hours straight. Outnumbered by my enemies, I thought me dead for sure.
But the sword kept killing, kept swinging and twirling faster and faster in my hands, without me ever knowing fatigue.
At some point I also understood why the name ‘rain slasher’ was assigned to it –it moved so fast in my hands,
that the huge blade could even stop the rain-drops from reaching the ground.
“They can have it in all its glory” I thought to myself;
“I’m tired of feeling exhausted if I don’t fight and I want my share in peace as well.”

With that last thought I turned to them once more and I saw the man beckoning at me.
His face didn’t seem more than of a 22 year old youth, but still…. His eyes seemed wise.
Something was familiar about him and even if he didn’t have a job for me, by now he intrigued me that much.

“We are they that went not out:
land-walkers, sky-watchers”

That strange verse came to my mind as I was approaching him. Vaguely reminded me of a …song?
But –where have I heard it before?
As I drew near, I saw the rest of his party half-hidden in the shades. Must have been about 8 men, all covered with hoods… all silent.
Reaching their table, I bowed slightly, never losing eye contact;
“I am Kalin Menayin es-Nepherim and with what I am –I greet you” I said
-“So what exactly are you?” he countered me with a confident smile, as if he knew more about who I am than me…
“I mean, you’re not human, not troll, and even though you have some of their characteristics –you’re not elven as well.”
-“I’m of the desert people m’ lord” I replied.
Certain that I would impress him, I continued: “I’m of a long lost and forgotten clan” I smiled full of myself.
-“That you are indeed, even though not from one you know about”

Suddenly my mind raced for some reason in my father’s words about him being the last of his people.
All my life I hated the times when I would feel lost, puzzled, or intimidated. My ways where simple and my hand true as my words…
However pompous and self-centered, I always had no doubts, no second thoughts of who I am.
That man made me feel I wanted to punch him in the face, for he seemed to see through me into something I didn’t know was there.
-“Calm my friend and sit along with us, let us know of each other this fine night”
As by some previous arrangement, the waitress brought my meal to their table.
-“You left your sword b’hind mister” she said; “dangerous thing to do in here if you ask me” she continued with a look she probably thought was clever.
-“Never mind that” I replied; “I dare them steal it”
The wench went off shaking her head, but the men at the table where all turned to me.
-“Don’t you want it?” the man grinned at me apparently amused.
-“If you pay a price to wield it against your enemies, it will be in my hand –have no fear” I turned to him with a bitter-sweet expression.
“The sword and I go together and the Hire is our way”

A murmur spread throughout the table as if I said something odd …or something long expected.
My host straightened his back and the whispers stopped;
-“Well my friend, I am Dhevryn Arqitt and these are my friends”
Everyone was removing their hoods as he spoke.

”We are the face that outward looks;
Valor known, valor lived”

As I was looking at them, another verse of the strange song came to mind…
Suddenly my father’s voice resounded in my head singing it softly in a lullaby. It seems I had forgotten all about it.
And still… why would it come to me now?
The faces around me glowed in excitement, in expectance of a promise and …maybe –acceptance?
-“I recognize the glow in your eyes young friend and I know you for a friend and kindling.” …He said smiling.
Now I REALLY wanted to punch that man!
“We have much to talk about and that is hardly the place. Ride with us on the morrow and your questions will be answered”

”We are they who shall not fear;
Take heed dear Kel, your blade will guide you”

“Allright”, I replied, “I will ride with you to satisfy my curiosity”

As I went upstairs to the room I rented, a storm of thoughts and forgotten memories was raging in my head.
Doubts cracked throughout my entire life’s beliefs.
And as I was staggering between my past and my un-remembered dreams…
I found myself humming:

”We are they who shall not end;
Dear lords, your son joins you this night”

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