A sword, its water-etched blade narrow, single-edged, and like liquid in the play of torchlight. The weapon was overlong, tip flaring at the last hand-span. A small diamond-shaped hilt of black iron protected the sinew-wrapped grip. The sword was unmarked by its centuries unoiled and unsheathed.
'There is sorcery within that.'
'No.' Cafal raised the weapon, closing both hands in an odd finger-locking grasp around the grip. 'In our people's youth, patience and skill were wedded in perfect union. The blades we made were without equal then, and remain so now.'
'Forgive me, Cafal, but the hook-blades and spears I've seen among your warriors hardly evince singular skill.'
Cafal bared his teeth. 'No need to forgive. Indeed, you tread too kindly with your words. The weapons our smiths forge these days are poorly made. We have lost the ancient knowledge.'
'I can't imagine a wholly mundane sword to survive unscathed such neglect, Cafal. Are you sure it has not been imbued with-'
'I am. The blend of metals defies time's assault. Among them, metals that have yet to be rediscovered and now, with sorcery so prevalent, may never be.' He held the sword out to Paran. 'It looks unbalanced, yes? Top-heavy. Here.'
Paran accepted the weapon. It was as light as a dagger. 'Impossible,' he muttered. 'It must break-'
'Not easily, Captain. The flex seems stiff, yes? Thus you conclude it is brittle, but it is not. Examine the edge. There are no nicks, yet this particular sword has seen battle many, many times. The edge remains true and sharp. This sword does not need mothering.'
Handing it back, Paran turned his gaze upon the canoes. 'And these craft possess more of such weapons?'
'They do.'
'Who will use them? The warchiefs?'
'No. Children.'
'Children?'
'Carefully selected, to begin their training with these swords. Imagine swinging this blade, Captain. Your muscles are tuned to something far heavier. You will either over-swing or over-compensate. A hard blow could spring it from your hand. No, the true potential of these swords can only be found in hands that know no other weapon. And much of what those children learn, they must do so by themselves — after all, how can we teach what we do not know?'
'And what will be the purpose of these swords? Of those young warriors who will wield them?'
'You may find an answer one day, Ganoes Paran.'
Paran was silent for a time. 'I think,' he finally said, 'I have gleaned another secret.'
'And what is that?'
You will dismantle these canoes. Learn the. art of making them. 'Will the land remain your home for much longer, Barghast?'
Cafal smiled. 'No.'
'Thus.'
'Thus. Captain, Humbrall Taur would ask something of you. Would you hear his request from him, or may I voice it on his behalf?'
'Go ahead.'
'The Barghast would have their gods… blessed.'
'What? You don't need me for that-'
'That is true. We ask it none the less.'
'Well, let me think about it, Cafal. One of my problems is, I don't know how it's done. Do I just walk up to the bones and say "I bless you" or is something more complicated necessary?'
Cafal's heavy brows rose. 'You do not know?'
'No. You might want to call together all your shamans and discuss the matter.'
'Aye, we shall need to do just that. When we discover the ritual that is necessary, will you agree to it?'
'I said I'd think about it, Cafal.'
'Why do you hesitate?'
Because I'm a Hood-damned fulcrum and what I choose to do could — will — change everything. 'I intend no offence. But I'm a cautious bastard.'
'A man possessing power must act decisively, Ganoes Paran. Else it trickle away through his fingers.'
'When I decide to act, Cafal, it will be decisive. If that makes sense. One thing it won't be is precipitous, and if indeed I possess vast power then be glad for that.'
The Barghast warrior grunted. 'Perhaps your caution is wise, after all. I shall convey your words to my father.'
'So be it.'
'If you wish solitude now, find somewhere else. My kin are coming to retrieve the remaining weapons. This will be a busy night.'
'All right. I'll go for a walk.'
'Be careful, Ganoes Paran.'
The captain turned. 'Of what?'
'The Mask Council know who — what — you are, and they dislike it.'
