The next day, Kasar felt much better, but still struggled with the constant sway of the ship. He tried to mimic Vorza’s method of walking, but found it clunky. However, normal walking was clunkier still. Solid ground was where sanity lay, and from all the talk of divine weddings and whether there was a mythical barnacle ring that could go on the groom Kasar decided the sea was indeed the direct opposite.

  Madness.

  Ostrik continued his tales. Kasar heard mention of some witch he’d met before and how she’d seen the rise of various historical names long enough ago to have passed into legendary status. He explained an older assignment he’d received and accomplished from Lord Torvic himself. The sailors all raised their cups and cheered in their god-king’s name. The assignment had involved a cargo delivery bearing weapons that would change the face of the world.

  Vorza commented how the weapons were probably from the Thunderer Guild. They were a loyal engineering and mercenary organization devoted to innovating military technology and trading it for Vrodia’s economic interest.

  Unable to pry his attention from Ostrik’s tales, he decided to just listen in on the madman.

  “The thundersticks, they call them. Or firearms,” he said. “They explode with a bang and something dies way over there. A red light shoots out and the stupid Warvalean resistance will find their bodies burned right through!”

  “Like a loud bow of sorts?” asked a sailor.

  “It thunders when fired. The arrow is this small.” He motions a pebble’s size with his fingers. “A ribbon of fire trails behind it. Imagine its display at night! When it hits, it burns through mail and plate alike. Down goes the body. Think of hundreds of these, thousands, tens of thousands fired at once. The Arcs and gods would be able to witness human advancement. They will think gravely of Warmonger and how he almost slaughtered them all. And they will see we can do it again.”

  The sailors all worshiped several war gods, but Damien Warmonger was integral to that faith’s existence. Kasar felt troubled that so many would believe such lies and bloodlust.

  “I heard we were going to soon turn the tide!” cried a soldier. “This will turn the whole damn world!”

  However, he also felt troubled that such weapons could exist. Surely just more fanciful words from a mad mind. Though, if what Rend was explaining about madness and faith, Kasar might as well wish his ideals to be true.

  Or maybe all of it was a farce. A conspiracy by sailors to keep the trade across the seas mysterious and valuable.

  Kasar saw Cryppe leaning against the edge. They all had finished scrubbing the floors and helping the cook with meal preparations. Ostrik was the only one who hadn’t participated in menial labor. Perhaps Dunarik believed any sailor that wasn’t on a task would dive into his next task with more vigor with Ostrik’s tales as a prize.

  Kasar wondered why the mysterious bard who quietly lurked about never told tales or sung songs. That’s what bards were for, afterall.

  Kasar then realized something peculiar. He’d rarely seen the bard. Maybe in passing down below while lifting objects. Perhaps up in the riggings helping the sailor. Where was he now? Kasar tuned his senses to try and search for him and found that he felt a trickle of power he’d noticed on the docks. Something soothing. Something alien to him.

  Cryppe touched his shoulder and his senses snapped shut.

  “You look better already,” he said.

  “Cryppe. You startled me.”

  “Thought that’s impossible to do for a Devil.”

  “I felt something. Tell me, who is this bard?”

  Cryppe grew quiet as he thought. “Dumai is a practitioner of hymns. An old form of magic. That’s all I know. They say it’s the most natural arcane art. One used for a purpose none of the other fields of arcane pursue. Beauty.”

  “Beauty?”

  “Art is for that purpose. And to find purpose. Don’t let that fool you. Dumai is terrifyingly proficient at Blue magic. Proficiency in Blue and Hymns is almost an ironic perversion.”

  “So where is he?”

  “He is helping Ostrik seem more charismatic.”

  “So he is casting.”

  Cryppe nodded, but frowned. “Casting hymns, but not Chroma. It’s difficult to explain. If Blue magic, the one he would have been using to influence Ostrik’s perceived charisma, is a perversion and invasion of your own will. Hymns are more of an amplifier. For example, a general could give a speech, and wrestle control of his men’s morale. After they fight and perhaps win, they will all grow to hate their general. That’s Blue. The bard’s hymns only work because Ostrik is a natural leader.” He winced at complimenting Ostrik. “Someone who can enamour you with words and justify them with actions. He is a showman at heart. What his goals are is another matter. Morality doesn’t remove one's greatness. It just dictates who will follow him.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “He’s not a good man. But I am tasked with this blade, you see.” He points to the greatsword that rested beside him. “ It is one of many Blades of Power, weapons crafted by someone powerful to fulfill their ambitions. It speaks to me. And it speaks of justice.”

  Kasare scoffed and shook his head. “This is too much for me. You all are insane.”

  “Don’t ridicule me,” Cryppe said with a friendly smile. “I am not the one who challenged a general of a crusading army to save a rabble of peasants that would end up being crucified the very next day.”

  Kasar winced at that reality.

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  “I commend you. I’d have done the same. Or so I like to think. You never know till you do it.”

  “So your sword is of Justice?” Kasar couldn’t help but let a chuckle out as he asked it.

  “Don’t laugh, come on. But yes it is.”

  “And it speaks to you?”

  “Good to see you can hear.”

  “Or you’re mad as well.”

  “It would fit the aesthetic here with Ostrik’s band.”

  “A man who wants to wed a goddess. A sickle-man who believes he can. A scaly woman with daggers for teeth. And a man who can speak to his sword.”

  “Don’t forget our mysterious bard friend.”

  “Someone that uses a forgotten form of magic.” Kasar chuckled. “I’d like to hear the full story.”

  “Fine, and then you tell me your story about the village. And the story prior.”

  “Prior?”

  “Your mentor mentioned a gladiator pit? A revolution started there, one that is still going.”

  “I left them in good hands. Beregar Blackhand. One of the best warriors and leaders I know.”

  “Sounds like a legendary figure alright,” chuckled Cryppe. “Maybe they will call me Cryppe they Crazy.”

  “What would you like to be called?” asked Kasar. “They called me Grim from the start because of some stupid tradition with the duel I won. I never pushed back against it and it spread like fire.”

  “Cryppe is fine by me,” he said. “No legends for me. Just a warm bed to come back to. And people to call my own.”

  Kasar smiled at the humble wish. He patted Cryppe on the shoulder in agreement. “How did you hear about me anyways?”

  “Ostrik has been all over. We passed through Breaker’s Gate. They spoke of a Devil who fought in the pits. Grimblade. His first kill was against the fearsome Bronze Guard Captain and the young underdog slew him and made his mark on the populace. The slave mongers all wished to buy him for three times the price of a war elephant.”

  Kasar chuckled at the exaggeration of war elephants and slave mongers wanting him.

  “I just fought back when I found an opening. All the warriors did the same.”

  “That’s how stories grow, my friend. You’re a hero. A messiah even.”

  “Whatever.” Kasar waved his hands. “Either way, Blackhand must be waging his war.” “Freedom. The price is blood, and always has been.”

  “You sound very educated.”

  Now it was Cryppe’s turn to blink, confused. “Thank you?”

  “You just have a way with words. I don’t know.”

  “You would like to learn?”

  “I’d like to learn to read and write, yes. I know there’s a lot I don’t know. And so much more to explore. You said so many things just now. I find it difficult to keep it all in my head. I feel stupid many times.”

  “You need the art of notetaking.”

  “Note taking?”

  “You write down your thoughts or the information as you hear it. If you can’t, you write what you remember when you get the chance. Folks also call it journaling.” He rummaged through his bag and found a leather booklet. “This has some of my thoughts and beliefs. Day to day. Week to week. I don’t write everyday, but when I do, I pour my mind into this.”

  “I can’t read or write as I said. That sounds… difficult even if I did know how to.”

  “Practice, my friend. You became legendary with a saber. You can become legendary with this.”

  Perhaps Kasar could. Given enough time and resources he could make the world’s knowledge his. Kasar gave Cryppe a wide smile. “You are something else. A real gem, Cryppe.”

  Cryppe almost blushed at the compliment. “Words like that sound pleasant. I don’t get them often either.”

  “Now, don’t forget your end of the bargain. What’s your story?”

  “My story is simple. Not as grand and legendary as yours.”

  Kasar rolled his eyes and smiled. “Oh whatever.”

  “I was raised in a very secluded culture northeast of Mahar. Technically part of that nation, but not quite assimilated as such. My name apparently is laughed at. They say it sounds like ’trip’ spoken very quickly, but with the infamous roll of the ‘r’ sound. I resist the urge to correct them, that in this case it is the tap of the ‘r’ sound.” Cryppe gave a sly smile. “They say they get quite annoyed with my corrections.”

  “Sounds to me like they are wrong a lot of the time.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I found myself in the middle of a raid from the sea as Piragaso pirates attacked my town. I stood up against a dozen of them. Almost died. In my recovery, and after the raiders had left, I was granted the sword by a strange traveler. He said it would guide me as it had him. And it was my turn to take on the responsibility.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “And what if it was a farce?”

  “Well the sword confirmed his words. It spoke to me and told me about his previous wielder. He had grown weary and decided to part with it. The sword must approve and the sword has no free will. It must align with the ideologies it was forged with. Justice. Honor. All of that.”

  Kasar still bore doubt on his face.

  “The town looked at me the same way. I never saw that man after that. But I did form a desire to prove the town wrong. That I could be worthy of this sword. And the sword was truly a Blade of Justice. I went off and joined several bands. I held onto that belief, others called idealistic. I fought and killed beside my brothers and sisters. I brought bandits and raiders down.” Cryppe paused and licked his lips. He seemed distressed.

  “It’s been hard,” he said with a sigh. “At every turn I say to myself and the psyche of the Blade: what if I am just insane? What if I should have taken different paths? And why did the sword decide to invest itself in me?”

  “What does the blade say?”

  “It says, as it always has: regardless of your mental condition, you have helped people. And that is enough. At the end of the day, justice was served.”

  Kasar patted his new friend on the shoulder. “Sounds to me like the sword chose you for that very reason.”

  “How’d it have known?”

  “Chance and madness?” asked Kasar, a knowing grin on his face.