Fires of Justice

Part 16:  Pilgrim – Revelation

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Two hours after the battle with the rapists, Kale Sword-breaker (so he was already thinking of himself), Valless of Fallammen Forest, and Emoran, Cleric of Arteneh, approached the gates of the city of Khorlan. And for the last hour of the journey, Kale had been staring openly at the city, amazed at the sheer size of the wall around it.

Khorlan was probably four miles across, and the wall was twenty feet high, and surrounded the whole city!

On first sight of that wall, Kale had gasped, interrupting Emoran’s little speech of thanks for the moneys that Kale had donated to the Temple of Arteneh, from his share of the rapist’s money.

Following Kale’s gaze, Valless chuckled, and said, "They do not have walled cities, where you come from, Kale?"

"No," Kale admitted. "At least, nothing like that!"

The wall was stone, and thick. It was unevenly colored, and after a moment of staring, Kale figured out that this was probably due to the wall having been expanded, as the city grew.

"Man . . . that must have taken a hell of a quarry, to get all that stone," Kale said, after a few seconds.

"It’s on the other side of the city," Emoran said. He looked at Kale a bit oddly "And yes, it is vast. Are you a mason, then?"

"Hmmm?" Kale said, distracted by the view. "Oh, no, not a mason. Just . . . curious. And I read a lot. I’ve picked up a lot of . . . trivia, I guess, over the years. Enough to know that a quarry would have to be huge, to make a wall that size, at least. And if there’s a lot of wood construction, down there, I’ll bet that a forest used to cover that bare patch, off to the left."

"A warrior and a scholar," Emoran chuckled. "A rare combination, Kale Sword-breaker. Perhaps you should have been a cleric."

"Is it all that rare?" Kale asked. "It’s not like it’s difficult to be both. And I’d make a lousy cleric, Emoran. I’m . . . just learning to accept the presence of Gods – thanks in part to you! – and I think actually worshipping one is a ways off, yet."

Kale’s status as an Outworlder, and his lack of belief in any God, at home, had been explained to Emoran already, by Valless. The first half hour of their walk had been accompanied by discussion of the way Christianity worked, at least as far as Kale perceived things. Emoran had been shocked, and was still a little distressed.

"Yes, I think I understand, Kale," Emoran said with a frown. "Such a shoddy way to run a religion. Arteneh would never . . . !"

Kale just chuckled, and kept walking, free hand holding one of Valless’s, eyes on the city that was coming closer.

They made the city a half an hour before sundown, and the gates being closed. The guards at the gates, armed with sturdy, utilitarian halberds, and short swords, were polite, and professional, making way for the three immediately, in recognition of Emoran’s status as a cleric of Arteneh. Kale asked the nearer guard, as he passed, for the name of a good clean inn, that wasn’t too far, and the guard answered immediately, responding to Kale as a superior.

"The Inn of the Wild Rose is very clean, Warrior," the guard said, making a title of the word ‘Warrior.’ "But it’s a tad too luxurious for my tastes, and right expensive. It’s a bit further, but . . . The Mellow Dragon is clean, and has good food. And they don’t expect your right arm in payment."

"The Mellow Dragon, then," Kale said, chuckling. "How do I find it?"

The guard gave clear directions, and Kale half-bowed in thanks, before following Valless and Emoran into the city of Khorlan.

"You could stay at the Temple, Kale," Emoran said, as they progressed. "You’ll pass it, if you go to the Mellow Dragon. And we’d be glad to have you – warriors of your temperament are always welcome."

"I appreciate the thought, Emoran," Kale said. "But . . . not yet. I’m not ready to stay in a temple, yet. And I’ve got plenty of money – over 40 crowns, with my share of the rapists’ monies."

"Should you change your mind, I expect to be in town for some time," Emoran said. "Simply give my name, and they will find me for you."

"I’ll remember."

They walked quietly, for a while, Kale and Valless still holding hands. Then they entered the Temple district, and Kale was floored.

There were six temples, here. Seeing his stares, Emoran chuckled, and named them for him.

The huge, block-shaped building, all of white stone, was the Temple of Arteneh, of course.

The Greco-Roman looking Temple of stone that had been painted – or magically colored? – blue, was the Temple of Mysarra, Goddess of Passion and Pleasure. It was all columns, and arches, and many bas-reliefs, all highlighted with gold.

The finest of the six temples, a yellow-stone step pyramid, heavily trimmed with platinum and gold, was that of Sebek, the God of Wealth. ("Greed!" Valless muttered under her breath.)

The simple, almost Spanish-looking building of red, trimmed with gold, and steel, was the temple of Davanek, the God of Honorable Warfare.

And there was a temple of Jaranaset. The stones of it’s construction were pitch black, and trimmed with the color of arterial blood. And there was something . . . hard to see, about the place. The temple seemed to shift, subtly, as Kale tried to look at it.

Last, was a grey-stone structure, again with a heavy Greco-Roman look, all columns and arches. The building itself looked . . . worn. Not shabby, but, in need of work. This, Emoran told Kale in a voice that was sad, was the Temple of Alethanna, Goddess of Justice.

"Yeah, Valless told me that her followers were having a hard time of it," Kale said. "It shows. It looks like they are doing the best they can, though, with what they’ve got."

"Indeed," Emoran agreed. "There are only eighteen priests and priestesses, but they work hard."

"That isn’t many, for a building that big," Kale agreed. "How many in your temple, Emoran?"

"The number varies, and I have been gone for some time," Emoran said. "Still, in my time here . . . never fewer than eighty, and most times over a hundred."

Kale whistled in appreciation. "And how many attend services, on a regular basis?"

"Perhaps 400, in the morning," Emoran said. "Around half of that, at mid-day. And usually close to a thousand, at evening service. Plus supplicants, during all hours of the day."

Kale whistled again, and said softly, "Damn – I guess proving your existence on a regular basis really makes a difference!"

"Indeed," Emoran said. "I can only imagine the kind of faith it would take, without that proof, to believe.

"Valless, do you have messages for the Temple?"

"I do, Cleric," Valless said. "And I would stay the night, if I may, and leave again tomorrow, with responses."

"Of course," Emoran said. "I will leave you to make your farewells, then. Kale Sword-breaker . . . it was a pleasure, and an honor, sir."

"The pleasure and the honor were shared, Cleric," Kale assured the older man, bowing. "And I thank you for my health!"

Emoran smiled, bowed in return, and turned to go into the temple of his faith.

Valless looked at Kale for a moment, then smiled, a bit sadly, and slipped into his arms, standing on tiptoe to kiss him passionately. When they parted, she said, "I shall miss you, Kale. You are a good man, and a sweet lover. But . . . life moves on."

"Yes, it does," Kale agreed. He licked his lips, then, and prepared to attempt something he’d been thinking of all afternoon. "And I’ll miss you, too, Vallesennsarillian. I could not have asked for a better teacher, in the ways of this place, I don’t think."

Chuckling in surprise and delight at hearing her full name from Kale’s lips, Valless hugged him, hard, and said, "Thank you, Kale Sword-breaker. And fare you well, wherever you may fare!"

With that, Valless turned, and moved quickly into the Temple of Arteneh.

Kale watched her go, smiling a little, then turned, and set out to find the Inn of the Mellow Dragon.

It was only a few blocks from the Temple District. And, now that he was not so distracted by the presence of Valless, and the discussions with Emoran, Kale actually looked at the people, as he walked.

They ran the gamut, from destitute beggars, to minor nobles. From the lower class up, about one quarter of the men Kale saw, and maybe one woman in twelve, openly wore a weapon of some sort, from a simple dagger, all the way up to one very tall woman (she had to be over six and a half feet, Kale decided) who carried a giant two-handed sword, in its scabbard, over her shoulder. The City Guard all carried a short sword, and one other weapon. Most had a long sword, to accompany the short one, but, of the eight Guardsmen Kale saw (always, they traveled in pairs), one had a mace, for his second weapon, one a flail, and one a short, heavy, stick, smooth and cylindrical, like a heavy nightstick.

There were all manners of dress. Most men wore tunic and trousers, of varying degrees of cleanliness and workmanship (though one obvious noble wore a fine tunic, a vest over it, and hose), and about a third of the women were dressed the same. The rest of the women wore dresses, of lengths from mid-shin to ankle, all with the necklines very modest.

And then there were the children. Kids everywhere, dressed as their parents were, though here the girls under the age of puberty were almost all in tunic and pants. And many carried simple toys – one group of kids Kale passed was playing a running game of some sort, which involved passing a wooden hoop of some sort of light wood, maybe two feet across, back and forth, flinging and catching it with sticks that were three feet or so in length. It looked kind of fun, really . . . .

Then Kale saw ahead of him a sign that could only be for the Inn of the Mellow Dragon. It hung over a brightly painted wooden door, and showed a cartoon-ish red dragon, looking sleepy and content, one nostril trailing a streamer of smoke, curled up around a keg of what Kale guessed was probably ale. He laughed out loud, and entered the inn.

It was something right out of a movie, about Revolutionary War times, or something. Huge, dark, wooden beams were spaced evenly across the ceiling, which was about eight feet from the floor. The tables were wooden, thick, and sized to seat from two to eight, comfortably. There were two fireplaces in the room, both lit against the autumn chill, And there were many people seated in the place, maybe fifty, all told. And what a mix they were!

All but ten of the patrons were human. Of those, probably a quarter were women, and all four servers he could see were women. Most were dressed in the ubiquitous tunic and trousers, though a couple were wearing leather armor, and one man wore a chainmail shirt.

And there were four elves, two women and two men, at a table in the corner, all dressed in much the same way that Valless had been. In the corner opposite them, was a table with four male dwarves, all hunched over their mugs of beer, beards tucked neatly out of the way in their belts. Sitting at the bar, on a high stool, was what looked to be a Little. He was about three and a half feet tall, perfectly proportioned, and he looked slightly fey, as though there was a touch of elven blood in him.

And near the fire, at a small table, sat a woman that Kale couldn’t figure out, at first. She was tall, about five-eight, and slender. Her hair was black, thick, and shiny, pulled back in a braid – revealing her slightly pointed ears. Her eyes were a luminous green-gold, and her eyebrows swept slightly up.

Before Kale could embarrass himself too badly by staring, a man appeared in his field of vision. He was fiftyish, bald as a cue ball, and stout, with a face that spoke of a man who grinned a lot.

"Greetings, swordsman," the little man said, grinning and bobbing in a ridiculously cheerful fashion. "I am Samfer of Khorlan, owner of this inn. Do you need food, drink, a room? Some combination of those, or all three?"

"All three, I think," Kale said. "I’ll need the room for a couple of nights, at least."

"Room and three meals a day (and meat with every meal) is one crown, five scepters," Samfer said. "One and six gets you a bath, every day you are here. A week is ten crowns, with all of that.

"Oh, and if you are here for the Harvest Games, I can do you even better – I like to support the Games, it’s good business."

"Harvest Games, sir?" Kale said, looking blank. "I’m sorry, I’m a stranger, here. I don’t know what the Harvest Games are."

"Yearly event," Samfer said. "Part of the Harvest Festival, every year after the harvest is in, before we start buttoning down for the winter. The games are for warriors. Mock combat, several categories. Winner in each category gets a hundred crowns, and then they play off the four winners, and the winner of that gets another 150, with the second getting another fifty crowns. You can make a solid 250 crowns, if you are good with your blade."

"And when will they be held?" Kale asked, interested.

"Three days hence, on the first day of autumn," the innkeeper said. "The festival starts day after tomorrow, and ends the night after the games."

"All right then," Kale said, grinning. "I’ll be in the games, yes. And I think I’d like to stay until the day after them. How much, with meat at every meal, and daily baths, for four days?"

"As you’re playing in the games," Samfer said, "and if you will swear to do so, in front of a cleric . . . five crowns."

"Find a cleric," Kale said, not at all offended by the requirement. "And I will so swear."

Turning, Samfer scanned the crowd, and called, "Jorn of Ibrik? A moment of your time, if I may, Cleric?"

The man in the chainmail shirt left the table where he sat alone, and strolled over to the two near the door. "How may I be of service, Samfer?"

"This young swordsman would swear to me that he will participate in the Harvest Games," Samfer explained, after bowing to the cleric, who wore grey clothing, beneath his chainmail, and a mace and long sword on his belt. "Would you administer his oath?"

Jorn turned to Kale, a smile creasing his lined face, and said, "Would you have a Cleric of Alethanna administer your oath, warrior?"

"If you would, sir," Kale said, bowing deeply, without taking his eyes from the cleric’s, "I would be honored."

"And your name?"

"I am Kale Sword-breaker."

"Kale Sword-breaker, do you swear that you will participate in the Harvest Games three days from now, if health and duties so permit, and that you know of no duty which might interfere?" the cleric said, his blue eyes on Kale’s face. "Will you swear this in the name of the Lady of Justice, and on the blade you wear?"

Clasping one hand around the hilt of his sword, Kale said solemnly, "I swear it, Cleric, in the name of Justice, and on my sword." Again, he bowed, after the words left his mouth.

"Well said, then, Sword-breaker," Jorn said, returning the bow. "And well-mannered, as well, warrior." With that, he turned and went back to his seat.

"My thanks, Kale Sword-breaker," Samfer said, as Kale handed him five crowns. "Sit, and be welcome. A girl will be by to take your order for supper, and you get all the water you like, for free, with the meal. One tankard of ale is free, or glass of wine, with your meals – milk, in the mornings. After that, you pay for your drinks, unless you like water."

"Thank you, sir," Kale said, and wandered off to find a seat. He found himself seated at a table near the fireplace, where a fire crackled merrily, dispersing the faint autumn chill. He was only a table away from the woman whose race he couldn’t figure out, and her had to remind himself not to stare.

The waitress came, and he listened to her recite the evening’s menu, and made his choices. She was back in a moment, with a tankard of cold ale, and said his food would be along in a moment. As she turned to go, he touched her arm and she stopped.

"The woman, with the dark hair and the leathers," Kale said softly, nodding at the woman he meant. "I’m a stranger, here, and I’ve not seen anyone who looks like her, before. What race is she of?"

The woman he spoke of turned, leaned forward to be seen around the waitress, and said, in a casual voice, "I am of no race, swordsman, and of two. I am Ariisa of Sorremel Forest, and I am half-elven."

"I’m sorry, ma’am," Kale said, blushing deeply. "I meant no offense, it’s just . . . as I said, I am a stranger, here, and curious."

"No offense was taken," Ariisa said. "And do not worry, swordsman – people like me are rare enough that I’m quite used to some curiosity."

Kale inclined his head, in a small bow, and Ariisa returned her attention to her meal.

Soon, his food arrived, and he was surprised at both the size of the portions, and his own appetite. The slab of venison that was set down before him had to weigh a bit more than a pound, and the roasted potatoes piled beside it were in such a large number that his beans in gravy came in a separate bowl. The ale was slightly sweet, and tasted, for all the world, like a strong beer, flavored with a bit of apple cider. He cleaned his plate, and his bowl, and looked up to see that the common room of the inn was quite crowded, now, all but about five of the eighty-plus seats filled.

When the waitress came by, he ordered another tankard of the ale, paid for it, and tipped her, and sat back to watch the crowd. No more elves or dwarves had come in, but the Little at the bar had been joined by two more, a man and a woman, both dressed in red and brown, as the first was. They sat at the bar, drinking and laughing, and Kale smiled over the way he kept half-watching for Samfer to come over, and tell them to get out, children weren’t welcome.

After a while, when he was almost finished with his second tankard of the ale, and liking the way he wasn’t really feeling it – despite the strong taste, it must have been low in alcohol – he saw the half-elven woman, Ariisa, get up, and stroll out. He watched, still fascinated by her exotic beauty, a combination of beautiful human woman, with the elven touches. After she left, he stood, and looked around to see if Samfer was available to show him his room.

Then, as he glanced around, he heard a faint, choked scream, from outside the inn.

He was moving before the sound choked off, running for the door, not even thinking, just moving. He was closer to the door than the other people he saw moving, who included the cleric of Alethanna, the elves from the far corner (pointed ears apparently served a purpose other than exotic looks), and two of the City Guard, who were eating, and drinking water. Others began to move, following, when they realized something was wrong, but Kale was already out the door, and did not notice them.

He stopped just outside the door, and glanced around. Nothing.

Then, from a little ways down the street, came the sound of blades clashing, and a grunt of effort, or pain. Kale ran.

There was an alley, one building down, and in it were seven people, two unconscious and bleeding, one backed up against the wall of one of the buildings between the unconscious two, and four more menacing the standing man.

One of the two unconscious forms was a big man, in scale armor, who was bleeding from a wound on the back of his head. The other was the half-elf Ariisa.

Kale’s sword was in his right hand, though he didn’t remember drawing it. And there were four men, three with long swords, one with a saber, menacing a single man with a bastard sword, while his two companions lay on the ground, bleeding, possibly dying.

"Four against one," Kale called, voice dripping acid. "Gee whiz, do you ass-munches think you can handle one guy by yourselves, or do you want to call some of your friends?

"Oh, wait – scabs like you don’t have friends, do you?"

Two of the men turned to face Kale, the one closest to him snarling, and drawing his sword into line with Kale’s chest, as he turned.

"This is not your affair, fool!" the bandit said. "Now, walk away, and I won’t take your balls for a necklace."

"Talk is cheap," Kale said. "Do something to make me go away – if you think you can!"

The man didn’t answer, just charged Kale, swinging his sword like a big axe, chopping at Kale’s neck.

Time to live up to my name! Kale thought – and spun in place, pivoting on one foot, spinning his sword in his right hand, left hand joining his right on the hilt as the blade headed towards vertical, and adding more snap to Kale’s parry. The bandit’s blade didn’t so much break as it shattered, pieces of metal flying off behind Kale, one cutting his cheek, before glancing off to one side. Immediately, Kale snapped his sword back, and into the neck of his attacker, There was a gout of blood, and the man feel to the alley floor, clutching his neck, and choking out sounds that might have been a plea for help.

None was coming. He was as good as dead.

Kale swallowed bile, forcing his concentration on to the second man, who was coming in more carefully, smiling slightly, as though Kale hadn’t just killed his companion in a single blow.

"You’re good, boy," the second bandit said. "I think I’m better, though!"

And he lunged, his long sword flashing out from a waist level guard, aiming at Kale’s stomach. Kale saw the move, understood what was supposed to happen, in the bandit’s mind – and didn’t cooperate. He was supposed to block by jerking his own sword up, and give the bandit a shot at his head.

Instead, Kale sidestepped, and snapped his sword sideways, pushing the bandit’s sword way off the line of attack, then stepped close to the man, and slammed his elbow into the bandit’s nose. There was a crunch, as the bandit’s nose broke, and he screamed, and jerked his sword in, turning it to cut across Kale’s side. Kale spun, slapping the bandit’s sword back and away, and cut into the thief’s side with his own blade, as he finished his spin. The man screamed again, and fell, dying, to the ground. Again, Kale bit back the urge to vomit, and turned to the other two. One was engaged with the young man who was backed against the wall. The youth was holding his own, if no more than that.

And the last man, the one with the saber, was coming at Kale, moving in a fencers short steps, his saber in a technically perfect en garde position.

Kale’s sword, while much wider, didn’t weigh much more than a good saber, such was the advantage of high technology. He smiled at his opponent, and shifted his grip to a one-handed fencer’s grip – and a left-handed one!

From behind Kale came the collective "Oooo," of the crowd from the bar, all of whom he’d forgotten about.

"Swordsman, are you – " came the voice of the Alethanna cleric, Jorn.

"I’m fine," Kale interrupted. "All is well, Cleric. This ass-biter doesn’t understand what he’s gotten himself into. I’ve got it.

"Though you could see if the kid over there needs help."

"As you wish," Jorn said. Then, in a louder voice, he called, "Guardsmen! Kale Sword-breaker has claimed this battle for his own. Help my brother cleric, if you can, but stay clear of the Sword-breaker’s battle."

"As you say, Jorn," came another voice, moving behind Kale. As the man passed behind Kale, he muttered, "Luck, lad – you’re crazed, but it’s a good kind of madness, I think!"

Kale didn’t have time to answer. His opponent chose that moment to stop his small-stepped advance, and lunged, his blade twirling slightly, abandoning the line for Kale’s heart, and going for the groin.

Kale slid back a half a step, and parried, then riposted high, his own blade nearly scoring a hit on the bandit’s face, before he parried, and riposted. While he was obviously surprised at the speed that Kale showed, in moving his larger sword (especially considering that Kale had only moments before been fighting right-handed), the bandit was damned good, with his saber.

Soon, there was the constant click-snick-tick of a fencing match – or a duel, with lighter swords.

Kale felt his opponent out, and decided that they were about evenly matched, though the man had a tendency to go for a low-line attack that Kale did not like at all, considering the skill which he exhibited in those viciously deadly attacks.

After maybe two minutes of dueling, the bandit scored a slight hit, jerking his blade back from a low-line attack aimed at hamstringing Kale, and dragging the tip of his sword across Kale’s forearm. The pain was sharp, and intense, and Kale immediately responded by using a fancy little move he’d developed for his final battle with Sophitia, in the Soul Edge movie.

He dropped his sword, simply opening his left hand, and letting it fall –

– and stepped to his left, bringing his right hand closer to the blade, catching it as neatly as a juggler, beating aside the bandit’s saber hard, ignoring the sharp "ting" of breaking metal, lunging forward, and running the other man neatly through the heart.

The bandit’s saber hit the ground in two pieces, and he stared dumbly down at Kale’s blade, sticking out of his chest. After a moment, he let out a bubbling, bloody sigh, and fell to the ground.

"Goddess!" said Jorn of Ibrik, after a moment of stunned silence. "Sword-breaker indeed! And a swordsman right out of legend!"

Kale felt dizzy, and sick, and he was struggling with the impulse to vomit, over the three men he’d killed. He sat wordlessly on the ground, breathing in massive gulps, dabbing at his bleeding face, resisting the urge to look at his left forearm, and the cut there.

Then Jorn was kneeling in front of him, chanting in that musical language of clerical spells, eyes pulsing silver, one hand on Kale’s forearm, the other raised to place a single finger on Kale’s cheek.

After a moment, there was again that feeling of warmth, and returning strength that he had felt when Emoran healed him, and Kale thought crazily, Twice in one day I’ve been healed by a representative of a god. Ax, are you trying to tell me something?! Even the feeling of nausea was gone.

"Thank you, sir," Kale said, standing. "Now, these others –"

The young man, who had been the last standing of his party of three was kneeling between the two injured ones, a hand on each, chanting in the clear, musical voice of a clerical spell. Even as Kale watched, the wounds of both scabbed over, and stopped bleeding.

"It’s . . . all I can do," the young cleric said. "I’m new to the ways of Davanek, and . . . not very powerful, yet. Cleric Jorn – "

"I fear I am out of healing spells, young man," Jorn said. "I was not anticipating combat, today, here in the city.

"Still . . . we are close to the Plaza of the Gods. Are your companions stable enough to move to your temple? Surely, they can be healed, there."

"Yes, they can be moved," the young man said. He stood, then, and offered his hand to Kale. "I am Brek, Cleric of Davanek, sir – and I thank you for my life, and those of my companions."

He really was a kid, Kale saw, as he took the boy’s hand. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old, with mousy brown hair, and a smile that lit up his face, and caused his blue eyes to gleam.

"You’re quite welcome, Cleric," Kale said. "I . . . hate bad guys. It was a pleasure to help. And, if it’s okay with you, I’ll help get your friends back to your Temple?"

"I would be honored, as would Davanek, to have a warrior of such honor in our temple," Brek replied. "And I would be grateful for your help."

Kale nodded, then bent and picked up Ariisa, moving carefully, cradling the woman in his arms like a child. He deposited her carefully on a stretcher that was presented by two of the City Guard, and followed the four Guardsmen, Brek, and Jorn out of the alley.

As soon as Kale stepped out of the alley, the crowd from the inn – and it appeared to be most of, if not all of, the patrons – began to clap and cheer. In addition, the six other Guardsmen there for crowd control saluted him, laying their short swords across their hearts, then dropping to the one-kneed position of deep respect.

"Oh, hey, no –!"

"Softly, Kale Sword-breaker," Jorn said in his ear. "It has been a time, and then a time, since any man in this city acted on behalf of strangers, who was not a cleric, or a Guardsman. Let them show their respect, and their gratitude."

Kale moved through the crowd, blushing, nodding, his thanks, and thinking he might need a second healing spell, just to get rid of the bruises that would surely result from the number of back-slaps he was receiving.

It took only a couple of minutes to reach the Plaza of the Gods, and the Temple of Davanek.

Just outside the gates of the temple grounds, Kale stopped, and looked at the symbol over the massive steel gates. It was a red circle, and fanning out from the middle were twelve weapons, done in gold, the shortest, a simple escrima stick, being in the one o’clock position, and the largest, a huge, two handed battle axe, at the twelve o’clock position.

Why does that tickle my brain? Kale thought.

Then there were clerics all around him, some in robes, some in armor, some in tunic and trousers. The wounded were carried inside, and Brek, trying to explain everything at once, grabbed Kale, and tugged him in with the group. Once inside, Kale was left to his own devices, and he wandered around, while the healing spells were cast. The place was huge, with simple, bench seats for perhaps five hundred people, and a rather plain altar, at the front, dominated by a statue of a huge man, all dressed in red plate mail, behind the lectern. Kale wandered towards the statue, and looked it over. The armor was advanced, by medieval standards, having well-made joints. The man held his helmet in one hand, the other supporting a massive battle axe, the butt planted beside one foot. And he wore a beard –

Kale stared, for a long time, before Brek came up beside him.

"Kale Sword-breaker?" the boy said. "Ariisa and Krenel – the other cleric of my faith, who was with us – are healed, and would like to offer their thanks." When Kale kept staring at the statue, and didn’t answer, the boy continued. "Sword-breaker? Are you well?"

"I’m fine," Kale said slowly. "Before we talk to the others . . . tell me, Brek, the axe that is the center of your God’s symbol – that’s his favorite weapon, his personal weapon, isn’t it?"

"Yes, it is," Brek said. "Among the elves, Davanek is called ‘Axellendaar’ – it means Axe of Honor, I think."

" ‘Axellendaar,’ " Kale repeated, still staring at the familiar face of the statue. "Axel." He had last seen that face in a place that looked like Ben Kenobi’s desert hut.

And that face had grinned, and told him of the world he had been offered a chance to enter, smiled even more widely, over the collar of the Jedi robes he had worn, when Kale had accepted.

"Son of a gun!

"Ax!"

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