Chapter 1 Exiles

A dried up mountain stream marked the boundary between clan Algire and clan Terifil. At night with clouds hiding the moon, it was a hazard of sharp stones and pitfalls. Tharen touched the pouch at his neck, tempted to use the stone within to light his way. Then the clouds parted and the rising moon lit the rock-strewn defile enough for him to follow the path.

No Mareklan should stray from their compound this late at night when warrior clans were abroad. During the day the truce held and no Janakan would raise his hand against a Mareklan. At night, any man would be taken as an enemy if he could not respond with the proper signs and passwords.

Tharen had lingered too long jousting with his friends of clan Terifil. Egon had shown him how to handle the long sword of bronze. It was a far different weapon from the brasswood staff Tharen carried.

The staff was used to stun and hold at bay. It could shatter a poorly wrought bronze sword, but Mareklans were priests and merchants, living in tents and traveling the lands of Okishdu to preach and trade. They did not use their staffs to kill.

Again a cloud covered the moon and the path dipped through a misty hollow. Tharen focused on the sounds that surrounded him. The crack of a breaking twig, a spatter of small stones, meant trouble. The regular thud of running feet warned him that in moments a battle would erupt nearby.

There was no escape. He heard whispered signals as warriors took their positions. On the left were men from Clan Algire, on the right, those of Clan Terifil. Any of them would take him for an enemy in the darkness.

The battle broke like a storm around him. A challenge came and he had no words to respond. A rush of air was his only warning of a weapon descending toward his head. He blocked the blow with his staff and heard an eerie ring that sent chills through all who heard it. This was no bronze sword. His antagonist was Darm, the son of Malinkra, matriarch of Clan Algire. He was the only man alive who carried a star sword from the forge of the Wizard Smith.

Tharen could barely see the dark outline of Darm, reared back to bring his sword down in a slashing cut. Tharen shot his staff straight forward and it plunged toward Darm's skull. It was a killing blow.

At the last moment he pulled the blow enough so that it only stunned his opponent. Darm teetered, then fell. The sword fell from his grasp, striking sparks against rocks on the path.

Tharen acted without thinking of consequences. When another man moved to take up Darm's sword, Tharen tripped him with a back blow of his staff, grabbed the weapon and ran.

He was followed by a pack of Algire raiders, screaming with rage and calls for revenge. It took all his skill and cunning to evade them. Knowing that they would expect him to dash down the path toward the village of Clan Terifil, he climbed out of the gully and scrambled to a ledge near the top of a hill.

Then he dropped to the ground, curling his body around the sword and letting his cloak settle over and around him hoping to be taken a boulder on the rocky hillside. One of his pursuers paused a arm's length from his head and called out, "No one up here. Search the valley."

Tharen waited to hear the man above him move, but there was no further sound. His arms and legs began to ache from his cramped position. He yearned to shift his weight. Then he heard the voice again, still close at hand. "Did any of you see who it was? We must win the sword back for Clan Algire." There were mutters of speculation, but no mention of Tharen's name.

Finally the lookout moved away, his battle buskins crunching on dried weeds. At last a small animal squeaked near his head and Tharen sensed that the men who hunted him were gone.

He sat up and stretched while he waited for the cramps in his legs to subside. Ants had invaded his tunic while he lay concealed. By the time he had brushed them away, the feeling in his limbs had faded and he was able to stand and make his way home.

The ladle of Withna, patterned in stars, had turned on its end overhead. Soon morning would reveal his presence in Algire clan territory.

The men from the night sorties would be long in their beds, but their wives, sisters and aunts, their mothers and younger brothers, would be up and about, tilling the terraced fields and keeping an eye out for intruders. As a Mareklan, he would usually walk among them undisturbed, but he carried the star sword and he would be unwelcome in Janakan lands until he discarded or hid the weapon.

His father was waiting for him when he reached the tents of his family. Although Tharen had been taller than his father since the year before, Korenen seemed to loom in the pale dawn. He pointed at the point of the star sword that extended beneath the edge of Tharen's cloak, catching the first rays of dawn on its glittering edge. "What have you done?"

"I was caught in the middle of a battle. I was not at fault," Tharen said.

"You could have been home by sundown,” Korenen said. “You stayed to learn sword craft from the warriors of Terifil. If you had acted as a Mareklan should, you would not have been part of the battle.”

There was a question in his father's eyes but Tharen shook his head. "I killed no man. I only defended myself with my staff."

"Janakans permit us to live among them because we offer them no threat and we prepare the youths and maidens for their visits to Timora," his father said.

"We also bring them baubles in trade for their blades," Tharek replied.

It was an old argument between them. Mareklans claimed no land for themselves, but lived in temporary encampments. They traveled far and wide through Okishdu to bringing the luxuries of other cities to the widow-smiths of Janaka. The swords, knives and ax blades received in trade were valued by soldiers and woodsmen in the other lands.

It had been a long and profitable relationship, but Tharen was one of a few who felt that trading had long since supplanted the errand of preaching given them by the Prophet Irilik, centuries before.

"Our ancient alliance with the people of Janaka could be broken by such as you, a youth who cares more for swordplay than for the traditions of his people," Korenen countered. "If any Janakan sees you with the star sword of Algire he will do all in his power to take the sword, and with it, your head."

"Another warrior reached for it, but he had no right!" Tharen said.

"If Darm is not dead, you must return it to him. If you cannot find him, turn the sword over to his mother, Malinkra. She has another son who might be more worthy to carry such a weapon."

"There is nothing wrong with Darm," Tharen protested. "He could not have worn the sword for so long if he were not expert. He did not expect my staff to be a worthy weapon."

Korenen's scowl gave way to a reluctant smile. Then he stiffened his face again. "This is not a time to brag about your skill with the staff. You are well enough for your generation, but in my youth--" Korenen's frown eased and he cuffed his son on the shoulder. "You are probably as good as any I have known. You have the reach and speed that few can match. But you are Mareklan. We only carry swords and other blades as as trade goods. An oath was made by our clan founder when his name was changed from Marek to Maren. As long as we trade, we must not carry bladed weapons like other men. Unburden your pack of the blades you traded for with Clan Terifil and go find Darm."

"Can I eat before I go?" Tharen asked.

Korenen was silent for a moment as if gathering his will. "With every hour that the star sword is in the hands of another, fury will fester in the Algire warriors. You must leave now, while the sun is still on the horizon and the warriors are resting."

He paused and raised his hand in a ritual gesture that stunned Tharen with its meaning. When Korenen spoke, his words fell like stones into water, leaving ripples of emotion. "Return without the sword, or do not return. From this moment until you come back with only your staff in hand, you are Tharek; of my loins, but not of Marekla."

He started back, as if his father had hit him. He saw the faces of his mother and his younger brothers staring at him from the opening of the tent.

Tharek! A dread name. It would signal to any Mareklan who met him, and demanded to know who he was, that he was an outcast. It would be his father's duty to inform the council about the ban if his son had not returned by sunset. It seemed excessive for a moment of folly. Thieves and abusers were banned. It meant exclusion from the hospitality of any Mareklan.

He must go swiftly before this went any further. The sword seemed to burn his hand. If he could have done so, he would have flung it from him. He hastily emptied his pack of the blades and axes he had traded for in Terifil and reached for the leather pouch that rested on his chest, suspended from a thong around his neck.

"No, I will not deprive you of your birthright," his father whispered in a voice that did not carry past him to those watching from the tent. "If you cannot return the sword, you must still bear the Stone."

Tharen grasped the pouch in his hand. The stone that was his heritage from the seventh son of Irilik was hardly noticeable through the supple leather of the pouch. He turned to leave the campground and heard his mother stifle a cry of distress behind him.

The night had been cool, but the rising sun heated the rocks of the hills and glared from the dried tufts of grass. Tharek moved with a loping stride and sweat ran down his face and neck. He would have tucked up his cape as was usual on such warm days, but it shielded most of the sword.

It had been folly to pick up Algire oc Baroka. Four of the stars swords had been buried with heroes who had died in old age. This sword alone had never been buried in a tomb. The warriors of clan Algire passed the sword on to their sons when they passed the age of battle.

None had ever defeated a warrior armed with one of the blue star swords. Tharen's moment of impulse had interrupted a centuries old tradition.

He climbed to a ridge and swept the countryside with a wary eye. There was danger in seeking out Malinkra and giving the sword to her. She was known as a fiery woman, her shoulders as broad as any man from her work at her forge.

A scream of challenge warned him that his fate had come to meet him. He looked along the ridge line and saw Darm braced to confront him. The warrior was dressed in nothing but battle paint and a loincloth beneath the beaded braids of his hair and beard. His feet were bare of the usual buskins. He held a great bronze battle sword over his head with both hands.

"I was coming to the tent of your father, Mareklan. None of the others recognized you last night. You took Algire oc Baroka while I was still alive. Now one of us must die."

"We need not fight,” Tharek said. “I bring you the sword of my own will. I am not allowed to carry a weapon that is made to draw the blood of men."

"I cannot take the weapon while you live," Darm shouted. He leaped closer, but there was something lacking in his attack. His fierceness seem feigned. His glance slid to the blue gleam of the star sword, then jerked back to Tharek's face and he scowled.

"I will not use the sword against you." Tharek vowed "I will not take your life, and I will not let you kill me." He cast his cloak aside and tossed the disputed sword on top of it. The ground was still damp with dew and he had heard that the star metal bled when damp. While it was in his custody, he would protect it.

Darm's courage seemed to increase once the sword was laid aside. He was a good swordsman, well taught in the tactics of thrust and parry. It was likely that he mistook the Mareklan reluctance to spill blood as mere cowardice and Tharek's quick defeat of him in the battle the night before a mischance.

It would be foolish to assume that a sword carried by a son of Malinkra would be anything but the best the widow smith could forge. Tharek must keep Darm off balance. The ridge was narrow with steep sides, but for fifty man-lengths the surrounding nop trees grew tall enough to hide their battle from others.

He waited for Darm to begin his rush. The tactic was typical of Janakan fighters. They used the momentum to strike the first blow in the hope that it would end the battle. Usually it ended with a clash of swords and the long labor of trying to get through an opponent's guard before slashing and cutting would begin.

Tharek waited until the Janakan was almost upon him, then he threw himself to the side opposite the direction of Darm's already descending slash. The blade came near enough to scrape the sleeve of his tunic, but he was under and behind Darm in an instant. The Janakan staggered for a few steps as he fought the momentum of his rush and tried to turn.

Tharek swung his staff low, aiming at the back of Darm's knees. He fell. His sword jarred against the stone of the ridge with a clang and it jerked free of his hands. In a moment Tharek was on top of the warrior, his staff clamped over his hands, his knees planted on either side of Darm's chest.

"Listen to me," Tharek demanded.

"Kill me," Darm said. "If you do not, I will track you down. I will be as relentless as the ghost of Bendigh."

"Bendigh?"

"Have you never heard of the first of the widow smiths?" Darm gasped as he fought for breath.

"I have heard many Janakan tales, but I do not remember hearing of Bendigh." Tharek answered. He shifted his weight a little so that Darm could breathe more easily.

"I came here to fight, not to tell stories," Darm muttered.

"And I will not let you up until you tell me of this ghost.”

Darm turned his head and closed his eyes, his mouth set in a stubborn line. Tharek began to sing a ditty he had learned in Taleeka while on a trading trek the previous summer. His voice was pleasant and the song was slightly scurrilous. It had at least a hundred verses that followed the tale of a Kumnoran shepherd in love with a Jaman wench.

Darm was resolutely silent and stiff for ten verses. It was the refrain that finally broke him. He began to whistle it between his teeth for a moment before he caught himself and bit his lips.

Tharek continued relentlessly. Darm began to struggle, bucking his body against the Mareklan's weight and trying to free his hands,but there was no relief. Tharek only sang a little louder.

"My brothers will come and slay us both!" Darm finally gasped.

"Why would they slay both of us?" Tharek asked after finishing the refrain yet again.

"They would slay you to regain the sword. They would slay me because I am outcast."

"And I am outcast until I rid myself of the sword," Tharek answered. "We are both caught in a stupid tangle of traditions. What would happen if I gave you the sword and went away so that none would know that I am alive?"

"I would know. It would stain my honor to carry the sword I had not earned," Darm snarled.

"What if I buried the sword?"

"Until there is proof of your death, there would be those who would try to capture you and torture you to reveal the burial place," Darm said. "Once you have set your hand on a star sword to possess it, you can only rid yourself of the burden through death or giving it to your son and heir."

"I have no son and I am not willing to die!" Tharek grunted. His frustration made him cruel and he gave a thump to the staff that ground Darm's wrists against the ridge stone. He heard the muffled exclamation of pain and shook his head. "Sorry. There must be some way out of this coil. I will not die. I am unwilling to kill you. I cannot return the sword unless I die, but if I keep it, I will die. I will not die for the sake of a piece of metal!"

Darm stopped trying to writhe free and Tharek relaxed his hold, but not enough to tempt another try at escape. Silence fell between them. Insects made busy little noises in the nearby trees. The day was clear and fine, the breeze carried just a hint of coming winter. Tharek shivered.

"There may be an alternative to death for either of us," Darm muttered.

"If I let you up, will you give me your word to reason with me instead of attacking me again?" Tharek asked.

Darm nodded. "I swear I will enter a truce until we resolve the impasse." He attempted to make the oath sign, but his arms were too numb to respond, even after Tharek acknowledged his promise and removed the staff.

Darm accepted the Mareklan's extended hand to help him stand and he limped to a tussock of dried grass where he sat and prepared to make his peace.

"I have known since I was a boy that I would be a warrior when I was a man," Darm said. "I had another dream, an impossible dream. I wanted to be a smith. I hid in the shadows outside the forge where my mother wrought the blades that bring wealth to our clan. I listened to the story of Algire and wished I could have been the one who found the star stone. But I was fated to be a warrior."

"As I have always known I would be a merchant, no matter that I yearned to learn sword-craft and be a warrior," Tharek mused.

"Yet you will not use one of the finest weapons ever made as it was made to be used," Darm reminded him.

"I have no quarrel with my clan's refusal to maim and kill when it is enough to stun and disarm," Tharek said.

"I will not argue about your means and methods, but now both of us are outcast. Do any others know that you won Algire oc Baroka from me?" Darm asked.

"My family knows, but I doubt my father or the others will want to tell the story. For them it was a shameful act. They know it could cost my life."

"And while most of my family knows that I have lost the sword to another, none of them know that you are the man who defeated me. We must leave Janaka. Will your family help us?"

Tharek shook his head. "I was Tharen, Mareklan. Now I am Tharek, outcast; my father's son, but not allowed to take even the most basic support from any of my kinsmen."

"Then we will be as brothers. Swear by your first father in Okishdu that you will stand by me and I will do the same," Darm said.

He held up his hands in the sacred sign of promise and Tharek did the same. Each swore by his forefather; Darm by Janak and Tharek by Irilik, that he would honor the promise of brotherhood.

Darm had come to the challenge dressed as if he were dead, in nothing more than loincloth, a small belt-pouch and the battle tokens woven into his beard and braids. He had even left behind the buskins that were worn by warriors, but removed from corpses that they not profane the pavement of the holy gate of heaven.

The day was warm, but the nights would be bitter. In his battle tattoos and fringed loincloth, Darm would be seen as a challenge to any warrior who met them. Tharek could do nothing about Darm's naked feet, but he could share his clothing. "Would you rather wear my tunic or my cape?" Tharek asked.

Darm looked at the broad shoulders of his new companion. "Your tunic would swallow me. Let me have your cape."

"I think it would be best if you wore my hat as well as my cape, at least until we leave Janakan lands. You could carry both swords concealed beneath the cape and I could carry my staff."

"If we meet any challenge, the star sword is your responsibility," Darm insisted. "The moment you walked away from the battle ground with the star sword in your hand, it became Tharek oc Baroka. Only your death can change that."

Tharek grimaced, "If the sword must bear my name unless I am willing to die to change it, then Tharek oc Baroka it shall be. But if you wear the cape, you should carry the sword for now."

"We must get as far from here as we can, or have you changed your mind about venturing?" Darm asked once he had accepted the cape and slung it around his shoulders.

"What of your wife and family?" Tharek asked.

Darm's face took on a look of remote hauteur, "I will not discuss them."

Tharek bit his lip and stood up. He had forgotten the story of Darm's loss. It had been a scandal that ran through the clans like a wander weed. Darm had killed a warrior of clan Demok in battle. The man's young widow had recently suffered the death of a child and when she learned of the death of her husband, she had gone mad. She had taken her revenge by setting fire to Darm's home. His wife and two young children had died.

The mad woman had been caught and returned to her clan. They had applied the penalties given to any who violated the sacrosanct status of women, children, and homes. Tharek did not care to think of the torture the poor mad creature had undergone.

It was painful enough that Darm had lost his wife and children in the fire. There was truly nothing to hold him in his village now that his mother had decreed his banishment for losing the star sword without forfeiting his life.

"You said you wished to become a smith," Tharek said, hoping Darm would focus on something other than his loss.

"I have a needle made by Algire from the star stone," the Janakan said. "He made a hundred of them for his mother, but she refused to use them, saying they were haunted by the ghosts of those the star stone killed. Some were traded away to your clan. Others were given to Algire's daughters. The needles are magic."

"My father has one of the star needles,” Tharek said. “We use them when the moon and stars are hidden by mists or when clouds conceal the sun. The needle points to the Ladle of Withna."

"The needles mark direction in the murk, but I believe they point the way to another star stone,” Darm said. “When my needle is held near the star sword, it points to it."

Darm removed his belt pouch and spread out the contents between them. He unwrapped the needle and showed Tharek how it pointed to the sword. Tharek nodded, but his real interest was in the metal rod and the stone that were also in the pouch. "You have a fire strike and a flint."

Darm pushed the metal rod with his finger and nodded glumly. "Yes, I have a needle to help me find the star stone, and a strike and flint, but I have little else but my sword. I was resigned that I was coming to die. I did not plan to begin an adventure."

"We have two swords and the means of making fire," Tharek said. "I will share my supplies with you. I always carry a water skin and belt pouches stocked with basic needs."

"Then we will go," Darm said. If there was a catch in his voice, Tharek ignored it. His own chest burned with the thought of leaving those who loved him. It was just as well he had never pledged his troth to Bithel. She was charming and beautiful, but their friendship had never ripened into love.

Darm knelt and drew a map on the ground with a sharp stone. "I know these lands well, but I do not know what lies beyond. What have you learned in your treks?"

"We are close to the borders of Kumnora, and here," Tharek pointed, "twice as far in the other direction, lies the pilgrimage road maintained by Saadena's legionnaires. If you think your needle points to a star stone, then we should turn our path Withna-ward and head for Kumnora."

"You would venture into Kumnora's steppes? I have heard that the Kumnorans are hardly human. They live like animals without houses and are as fierce as the wirras that they hunt. The only ones I have met are teamsters who are known for their wild appetites."

Tharek chuckled, "The Kumnorans have similar tales of their wild neighbors in Janaka. They are hospitable people and will help us, if we can find them. They have no towns or cities, but follow the herds of corums and bacals. They live in tents like Mareklans."

"We will go Withna-word through Kumnora," Darm decided.

Chapter 2 The Duel