Mendices leaned in close to examine the superb hilt. The dust and spiderwebs of ages lay upon it, yet they did nothing to dim its brightness. He ran a trembling finger along the edge of the sarcophagus. “Gyron…” he repeated the name. “This tomb was built in the Age of Heroes. Fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Nineteen hundred,” said Thaxus. “And it has lain undisturbed since Gyron’s death. How well do you know your legends, Mendices? Do you know this blade?”
Mendices shook his head. “I know that Gyron was a slayer of sorcerers. A knight in service to the Third King of Uurz. In the end it was no sorcery that laid him low, but the treachery of his own men who were jealous of his fame.”
“I have not led you here to admire the bones of this great hero,” said Thaxus, “but to claim his blade. If you would have it.”
Mendices looked into the shadowy face of Thaxus. The wizard looked like any normal highborn man; there was nothing of the sorcerer about him. Mendices was certain that he had never seen Thaxus before, but that was not unusual in a city the size of Uurz, where thousands of highborn inhabited hundreds of broad estates. Thaxus was likely not a true sorcerer, but a magician who had found a modicum of power in ancient texts. Most of his kind were frauds, yet Lyrilan had gained his own very real power in this way. Perhaps Thaxus was more than he appeared. Certainly he had enough power to gain Aeldryn’s trust. And there were no other allies looking to aid Mendices.
“The weapon is valuable, I have no doubt of that,” Mendices said. “Would you have me rob this tomb to pay for my escape from Uurz? I will die before I flee, wizard.”
Thaxus smiled. “You misunderstand Aeldryn’s message,” he said, “and the import of this relic. We, the followers of Tyro’s dream, expect far more from you than simple escape. This sword was forged long ago by a sorcerer friendly to Men. Some say it was the work of the Shaper himself. The warrior who wields it stands immune to even the deadliest sorcery. Surely you understand that Lyrilan is a true sorcerer now. If you were to oppose him with an earthly blade, you would stand no chance. But with Earthfang in your fist, the Scholar King cannot harm you. Nor can any other sorcerer. How do you think the great Gyron managed to slay so many of them? It was the power inside this blade that protected him. Now it falls to you, Mendices. You can take the head of Lyrilan with this blade.”
Mendices stared at the sword, only half believing what he heard. “If you have not the stomach for avenging Tyro’s death, I can lead you from the palace. You may begin a new life as a commoner in some distant kingdom. I hear Yaskatha is lovely this time of year. What I offer you this day is a choice…”
Thaxus took a heavy pouch from his robe and held it in his palm. “Take this gold from Aeldryn and use it to flee the Stormlands. Or take this blade and use it to slay the Emperor of Uurz. If you choose the latter, certain of those once loyal to the Gold Legions will rally to your side. They may even choose you as the next Emperor.”
Mendices was reluctant to lift the blade from its stand. “What have you to gain from this conspiracy, wizard? Exactly how are you beholden to Aeldryn? You could take this blade yourself and overthrow Lyrilan without me.”
Thaxus smiled. “First, I am no swordsman. I have not the skill or the honor to wield such a weapon. Second, I could never get close to Lyrilan. But you, as the former Warlord of Uurz, have friends among the legions, and even among the palace guards. If you ask, they will disguise you, bring you close to the throne, and rise up with you. Of this I am certain, as is Aeldryn. Yet the final decision is yours. If you choose to leave this blade lying here with the bones of mighty Gyron, then the Scholar King will remain Emperor until his dying day, which will be long in coming.”
Still, Mendices hesitated. He thought of his three children, scattered across the southern realms. They would never be able to return to the land of their birth. Not while Lyrilan sat upon the throne. Tyro, who was like a son to Mendices, might have been killed by Lyrilan’s own sorcery in the midst of battle, yet there was no proof of it. Mendices was certain that Talondra had been killed by Lyrilan’s magic.
“Choose,” said Thaxus. He stroked the braids of his beard with nervous fingers.
Mendices wrapped the fingers of his left hand about the scabbard, and those of his right hand about the sword’s grip. It was cold as ice against his skin. He pulled the weapon from its sheath with a metallic sigh. The fire opal gleamed in the torchlight, and the black iron blade glimmered as sharp as the day it had been forged.
The words of Aeldryn’s message rang in Mendices’ head.