Hero in the Shadows by David Gemmell

that a horned demon had appeared in the palace and killed several guards. Could it be, he wondered, that one of his many enemies had hired a magicker to send the creatures in the mist to kill him? He dismissed the thought almost immediately. The murdered sentry had been at the far end of the camp, farthest from his tent, as had the butchered horses. Surely a spell aimed at Matze Chai himself would have focused on the tent where he lay. A random incident, then, but a disquieting one. “Liutells me that your sword shone like the brightest moonlight. I have not heard of this before. Are the swords of the
Rajnee
magical?”
    “I had not thought them to be,” said Kysumu.
    “Can you think of an explanation?”
    “The rituals of the
Rajnee
are ancient. Each sword is blessed with one hundred forty-four incantations. The iron ore is blessed before smelting, the steel is blessed, and the armorer priest tempers it with his own blood after three days of fasting and prayer. Finally it is laid upon the temple altar at Ri-ashon, and all the monks join together in that most holy of places to give the sword its name and its final blessing. The swords of the
Rajnee
are unique. No one knows the origins of many of the incantations, and some are spoken in a language no longer understood even by the priests who utter them.”
    Matze Chai sat silently as Kysumu spoke. It was the longest speech he had heard from the normally laconic swordsman.
    “I am not an expert in military matters,” said Matze Chai, “but it seems to me that the swords of the
Rajnee
must have been created originally for a purpose other than merely battling enemy swordsmen. Why else would they display such mystical properties when demons are close?”
    “I agree,” said Kysumu. “It is a matter I must ponder upon.”
    “While you do so, might you explain the appearance of the loud oaf in the foul-smelling wolfskin?” asked Matze Chai.
    “He is a ditchdigger,” answered the
Rajnee
, his face expressionless.
    “We were aided by a ditchdigger?”
    Kysumu nodded. “With a stolen
Rajnee
sword.”
    Matze Chai looked into the swordsman’s face. “How was it that you happened upon him?”
    “He was one of the robbers who attacked us. I went to their camp. The rest ran away, but he stood his ground.”
    “Why was it that you did not slay him?”
    “Because of the sword.”
    “You feared it?” asked Matze Chai, his surprise making him momentarily forget his manners.
    Kysumu seemed untroubled by the remark. “No, I did not fear it. When a
Rajnee
dies, his sword dies with him. It shivers and cracks, the blade shattering. The sword is linked to the soul of the bearer and travels with him to the world beyond.”
    “Then perhaps he stole it from a living
Rajnee
who still hunts for it.”
    “No. Yu Yu did not lie when he said he took it from the body of a dead
Rajnee
. I would have known. I believe the sword chose him. It also led him to this land and, ultimately, to our campsite.”
    “You believe the swords are sentient?”
    “I cannot explain it to you, Matze Chai. I underwent five years of intensive study before I began to grasp the concept. So let me say this by way of explanation: You have wondered since we met why I accepted this assignment. You came to me because you were told I was the best. But you did not expect me to agree to journey from the lands of the Chiatze. Not so?”
    “Indeed,” agreed Matze Chai.
    “I had many requests to consider. As I was taught, I went to the holy place and sat with my sword in my lap to meditate, to request the guidance of the Great One. And then, when my mind was purged of all selfish desire, I considered the many offers. When I came to yours, I felt the sword grow warm in my hands. I knew then that I had to journey to Kydor.”
    “Does the sword then yearn for peril?” asked Matze Chai.
    “Perhaps. But I believe it merely shows the
Rajnee
a path toward the will of the Great One.”
    “And these paths inevitably