The Sorcerers of Infinity/3

Chapter Three
"Heralding the Worst"

Three years ago, Themarrien would have never even tried to hold a sword. The glimmering metal thing looked too heavy for the boy. Who knows—he could have even hurt himself, with the sword or not, just trying to lift it.

But that was three years ago.

Now, the boy—rather, the man that was a boy—would proudly heft such a thing into the air. The sword given to him by the ever-passive Tarja fit his hand properly; he knew it was the perfect thing for him.

Every morning and afternoon, he would go outside into the wide pasture of Tarja’s farm and swing the thing about until his arms became as weary as the moon.

It concerned Tarja that her nephew forced himself to strain himself each day and each night. To some extent, however, it made pride intensify within her mind. She found it impressive how fast he was growing as a man. It was quite unusual for a person who had been banished from a kingdom, but he was so full of spirit and energy. He was rather mature for someone his age—more so than she was when she was fifteen.

Still, it would not hurt to take a vacation once in a while.

“Themarrien,” Tarja called from the window of her cottage one August evening.

As always, Themarrien was outside, swinging his sword around.

“Yes?” he called back without taking his eyes off of his inanimate target.

Tarja scraped the last of the scum off of the pot she had been cooking with and dropped it into the cistern. Wiping her hands on her black robe, she stepped outside to where Themarrien was.

At last, he paid attention to her, and put his sword down.

“Yes, Tarja?” he said when she drew near.

Tarja glanced at the sword, then at her nephew, then down a distant road.

“Do you want to learn how to really use a sword?” Tarja asked him, hefting his downtrodden sword with ease.

It seemed to almost break in her arms.

“Yes I do!” he exclaimed with exuberance.

Tarja smiled; she knew that would lift his fallen spirits. She threw the sword onto the ground, and it landed with a soft thump.

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

Tarja lifted her right hand once. In the dimness of the August evening, her hand started to scintillate and sparkle magnificently with many dots of light. Soon, the dots of light disappeared, and a dazzling burst of blinding white followed suit. Themarrien shut his eyes tightly—so tight he thought they would come apart.

When he opened them next, there was a small wooden wagon noosed to a lustrous black horse. Tarja climbed onto the horse’s back; the horse whinnied and stamped its heavy feet.

“Get in. We’re going somewhere,” she commanded.

Themarrien nodded; he absentmindedly reached down onto the grass where the sword fell. He climbed into the wagon, still amazed by Tarja’s feat.

“To Elbenath!” she shouted, and the horse soon careened across the field, headed for the road in the distance.