Chapter Twenty-Five

The interior stretched twenty-five paces deep and as many across. A high domed ceiling arched overhead. Sculpted walls, equal in craftsmanship to the door, framed the chamber, depicting a battle of epic proportions. Fissures and cracks marred the surfaces here and there, but for the most part, the solid granite walls and ceiling had endured the ravages of the earthquake and the passage of time. Oil paint chipped along some of the broken edges, but not so bad that the image was made undecipherable, only that the onlooker empathized any damage that lessened his artistic appreciation.

Atlantean craftsman had undertaken the immense task to plain all surfaces even, and to smooth solid granite walls and the curved ceiling, prepping it for other artisans to deeply etch their art, carving out the background to produce a three-dimensional effect. Lovingly enhanced, colourful oils brought the mural to life, rendering stone to a flood of hues that time had failed to fade or lessen. At the centre of the battle, amidst his enemies, stood a giant of a man. He swung a magnificent, two-handed broadsword. Strewn around the giant lay the vanquished, piled upon each other like a mass grave, and still the garish legions advanced. Tarn's eyes roved across the stone mural. They fell upon a familiar sight. He recognized a pack of white-furred apes that ignited his blood with hate.

The stone-chiselled tapestry transfixed Tarn. Torrocka shuffled around the room lighting torches held by ornately forged, gold sconces, placed at regular intervals throughout the chamber. Despite the length of time they had lain dormant, the torches came to life, gushing smoke for the first few minutes until the oil Torrocka had replaced took effect. Set above the sconces and chiselled into the corner of the wall and ceiling where they joined, round, drilled air vents successfully funnelled the sooty smoke from the chamber. The increased lighting levels let one inspect the battle scene more closely for detail and view the giant's features who wielded the impressive broadsword. It was the likeness of the kingly giant in his vision. Kalen, thought Tarn. Gleeful death filled the God's visage. Eyes bright, wild good cheer lit his features like a battle god come to life.

Set on a white-marble stage, on the far side of the chamber, lay a stone sarcophagus the colour of black onyx. White dots, like stars in the sky, peppered the night-black onyx. Tarn ascended the three steps to stand over the ancient crypt. Carved in Kalen's likeness, he rested supine, eyes closed, as if sleeping—as if he would rise any moment and offer conversation. Upon his head rested a gold crown; its bloodstones cast beams upon the ceilings and walls. A wide stone slot showed at the crown of the figure's head. The folds of his clothes lay bent, as though ruffled from laying down to rest. The carved image of the broadsword lay lengthways along his body, hands clasped over its wire-wrapped hilt in eternal repose. The symbol on this sword was not recessed, would not accept the pendant.

Torrocka appeared at his side, saying, "Give unto me thy sword." Tarn handed it to him hilt first, whereupon Torrocka stepped to the end of the sarcophagus and inserted the blade into the stone slot in the figure's head. The sword slid in up to its hilt and stopped. Nothing happened. "Grasp the hilt of thy father's sword," he said, emphasizing the phrase, "father's sword. Let thy blood show true."

Tarn frowned but complied. The moment his hand touched the hilt, the sarcophagus moved. It rumbled backward, producing a loud grating noise as steel rollers crushed decades of debris on the stone floor. When it came to a rest, a set of spiral stairs was revealed. Darkness waited where the light was pushed back. He peered inquisitively at Torrocka.

"Thee must find out for thyself, lad. This is further than anyone's been since the day Kalen placed his sword within and sealed the entrance."

Lighting one of their torches from a sconce, Tarn grunted a reply and descended the short flight of stairs. The air smelled old and musty and tickled the back of his throat. At the bottom of the spiral staircase, he found himself in a much smaller version of the chamber above. Cradled on a gold berth, at the back of the room, rested a magnificently crafted sword, easily four feet long from pommel to tip. The blade was gently tapered and gleamed bright silver. Engraved into the base of the blade, Kalen's symbol made no mistake about to whom it once belonged. Underneath the sword sat a stone chest. Tarn felt drawn to the blade.

"Vulcan. But that's a sword," he heard himself say.

"Don't forget the scroll," came Torrocka's excited reply. Enthralled by the sight of the sword, he failed to hear the priest descend the steps. Torrocka shrugged his shoulders, grinning lightly. "I was curious. 'Tis a piece of our history that I never thought to behold. And all that is left of Atlantis, lad. That, and the pendant. So few artifacts have I retained. So little of our accomplishments have my scrolls set down for those who would come after."

Lest he reminisced into sad despair, a highly polished chest kept free of dust in the airtight room, captivated Torrocka's attention. Hungry to discover anything that served to proclaim Atlantean heritage, he stepped forward to investigate the chest's bounty.

Tarn returned his gaze to the sword. Without thinking, he took two steps forward, inexorably drawn to the blade, and removed it from its resting place. When his hand closed around the leather- and wire-wrapped hilt—a hilt that fit his palm as if it had been painstakingly measured with uncanny precision—an overwhelming feeling of power and healing swept through him. The room shimmered, dissolving. He staggered back a step, searching for the wall to brace himself.

When the room stopped spinning and the air solidified, he found himself in the corridor of his vision. A deep, rumbling laugh brought his mind to focus.

Ignoring the armour and paintings, Tarn strode down the hallway, sword clasped lightly in his hand, catching and reflecting the torchlight on the armour and shields he passed along the way. Just as previously, a titan sat upon a throne. Tarn came to a stop at the base of the platform upon which Kalen sat, and looked up to boldly meet the eyes that appraised him.

Kalen leaned forward in his chair, causing his crown to sparkle a brilliant gold and red, saying, "Now that ye fathom who I am, son of Jayleen, heir to my sword and seed of my loins, do thee kneel in homage or risk my wrath?"

Standing before the mighty God proudly, his head cocked high, he met Kalen's ice-green eyes while his emerald-green globes blazed brilliantly, and answered, "If I am son of Jayleen, I carry Thy blood. I will not kneel before one of my blood. Ye may try to slay me, but I am also son of Connor, and I will not die easily."

Wearing a stoic expression that hid Kalen's true thoughts and feelings, His gaze bore into Tarn's eyes for what seemed an eternity, stripping away the layers of flesh until he looked upon his bare soul, discarding that which we show to the world around us, reading what lay within. Rather than shrink from the intimate scrutiny, Tarn held himself accountable, without shame, for his past deeds. As though he were a bystander, Tarn watched his life flash before him. Each deed and the accompanying thoughts and feelings were laid out before him, shortcomings and strengths, right decisions, and poor ones just the same. Nothing was hidden from Kalen's inquiry. A lifetime slipped by in only a few seconds.

When Kalen spoke next it was with pride, not rage in His voice. "By Odin's axe! my blood runs thick in thee. Ye have lived thy life free. Thy heart is pure, untainted by malice," he said gravely. A moment later His laughter thundered throughout the corridor, shaking the very stones beneath Tarn's booted feet. When Kalen ceased laughing, he said soberly, "Thy battle lust runs deep. Do ye accept thy destiny, Tarn?"

"No. I will face the ancient evil. I claim the rite of vengeance for the slaying of my village and the children who've been abducted. My fate is my own. No god may claim it."

Rather than rage or berate Tarn for his short-sighted implacability, Kalen scratched His bearded chin, considering His response. A bemused grin, accompanied by a look that said He had arrived at a decision, preceded Kalen's words, "By the sword! Ye be as stubborn as thy mother. Heed my words son of Jayleen. No longer may the gods walk beside mankind. As I once protected Atlantis, so, too, shall thee be Guardian, and all thy line after thee. No rest shall find thee until thy task be complete. Freedom shall be thy sacred charge. Go now, and take this with thee," said Kalen, tossing Tarn the scabbard from His side.

Tarn caught the scabbard deftly and sheathed the sword, and nodded respectfully, toiling to bring meaning to Kalen's words. Guardian of what? Freedom? And if so, whose freedom? Atlantis and all of her people are long dead. The ways of the Gods were impossible to decipher. Tarn put it out of his mind and looked to his new sword.

The sword was too long to belt comfortably around his waist, so he altered the waist belt and strapped it across his back with its hilt extending above his left shoulder. He reached up and drew the sword experimentally. It slid almost silently from its fleece-lined berth. Swinging the great sword with one hand, and then with two, he marvelled at its lightness ere he returned it to its scabbard.

Kalen's piercing eyes watched Tarn with a father's fierce pride. Much of His long-dead wife, Jayleen, did He find within Tarn's nature. Although Tarn had defied Him, Kalen seemed content—even pleased—for the trials that awaited His blood heir would demand a stout nature. When Tarn sheathed the sword, Kalen removed the silver bracer from His left forearm, and beckoned, "Come forth son of Jayleen. Receive thy final farewell gift. Never again shall we meet until thy spirit travels beyond."

As Tarn ascended the steps, Kalen rose to His feet. When He uncurled to His full height, He dwarfed Tarn, towering over him like a Titan of myth. Kalen's upper arms were thicker than Tarn's legs, and the breadth of His shoulders more than half again as much. Yet for all His size, Kalen moved with catlike grace, agile and fluid. Like a seasoned warrior, thought Tarn, awed by the powerful presence the god exuded.

"Give me thy sword arm, Guardian."

"Twice now have Thee named me Guardian," he noted, offering his arm. "To what end do Thee speak?"

After placing the silver bracer around Tarn's left wrist and forearm, Kalen wrapped His mighty left hand around the metal band and squeezed it shut until the two edges nearly met on the inside of Tarn's forearm.

"There be no magic in this to aid thy quest, but it be fashioned out of the same metal as my sword. No earthy steel will pierce it. Ye will need its services seeking Rhaetia. Also, it will serve to remind ye of thy heritage. Now leave me, Guardian," instructed Kalen, a twinkle in his eye, ignoring Tarn's remark.

Before the echo of the parting words rescinded, Kalen began to shimmer and fade. When Tarn's vision cleared, he stood in the lower chamber, where Torrocka opened the lid of the chest and removed a page of rolled-up parchment. Torrocka slid the gold band off and unfurled the ancient sheet with reverent care. After reading its contents, he replaced the gold band. He turned to find Tarn staring thoughtfully at the silver bracer bound to his forearm. Neither did Torrocka fail to notice the scabbard on his back.

"Did I miss something?"

For the first time since entering the confines of the underground tunnels, Tarn threw back his head and laughed, clapping Torrocka on the shoulder hard enough to unbalance him.

"Aye, so ye did. Come, I'll tell ye about it along the way, I am wont to leave this tomb and return to the surface. Does Guardian mean anything to ye?"

"Guardian? Guardian of what?" posed Torrocka.

"My question as well."

"To whom did ye ask it?"

"To the one who summoned me."

"I do not understand thee. Straighten thy thoughts and start at the beginning," asked Torrocka, hurrying up the steps.

At the top of the spiral stairs, Tarn paused to retrieve his father's sword. When he attempted to withdraw it from the sarcophagus, it resisted his efforts, held fast in stone. With his brows knitted in confusion, he placed one foot on the sarcophagus, grasped the hilt in two hands, and pulled. His back, arm, and leg muscles bulged and strained, but the sword refused to budge. Kalen's thundering laugh echoed in the chamber. Deep scowl lines creased Tarn's young features. The sword was the only gift that he had to remember his father. He let go of the hilt, placed his empty scabbard on top of the sarcophagus, and stormed out of the room. Kalen's laughter dogged his departure.

Torrocka ran up beside him, speaking in animated gestures, "The door! We must seal the chamber door."

"Then ye do it. I have no further need of the pendant," and stalked off down the dark passageway.

Dumbfounded, Torrocka stared at Tarn's receding figure. In moments the coal-black darkness swallowed him whole. Torrocka retrieved the oil jar and torches, closed the Sword Chamber door, retrieved the pendant, and ran after Tarn.