Xior’s Sword

The Ealdors’ disappointment followed me throughout the camp. They watched from the tent’s shadows which snapped in the unrelenting, desert wind. Watched with their disappointment cement my first day in camp.

Hauled in by tormentors, they’d dropped me on rough sands. My vivid clothing declared to the Ealdor my tribe, Xior’s. The questions had begun before the tormentors departed.

Beneath the surging words, I’d managed a single sentence. “I wouldn’t have a sword on me.” The tormentors wouldn’t have left me one, but the Ealdor’s silencing disappointment had been crushing.

I’d seen the question behind their pain.

Why hadn’t Xior sent her with the sword?

The Ealdors had been taken, held, and trapped by a prophecy. Only Xior’s sword could free them. And he’d sent me, empty handed.

He’d said I’d free them.

I’d believed him.

Why me, I didn’t understand. But I had believed.

A cry echoed, pulling me from my reverie. Others ran from the commotion, but I ran toward it. Rounding a tent, two guards stood over a young Ealdor woman between them.

Not an unfamiliar sight, but an infuriating one. Why send me unarmed? Unable to help.

I wouldn’t run this time.

Rushing forward, light moved with me, coalescing into a brilliant line in my hands. The tormentors stared as I approached.

And withdrew screaming.

I knelt beside the woman. She stared at the light I still held. “You called the sword!”