Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 263: The Descent of the Holy Sword (3)

Ketal decided he would go to the place where the Holy Sword had descended.

Milayna nodded as if she had expected that answer. “Then I will tell you where to find it.”

She unrolled a narrow map and tapped a point with one fingertip. “The holy land of the church that serves Elia, the God of the Sword. That is where the Holy Sword always appears. It descended there centuries ago, and centuries before that, and again long before that. The pattern has never changed.”

“A holy land...,” Ketal repeated. He had been smiling a moment earlier. Now he tilted his head, the smile turning thoughtful. “If it is a holy land, I assume it is not a place people can enter freely.”

Holy lands were not casual destinations. Outsiders could not simply stroll past the threshold. Ketal had visited two holy lands before, but both times, there had been unavoidable reasons, and he had been received because of those reasons.

“Normally, that would be true, but Elia’s holy land is a little unusual,” Milayna said, shaking her head. “It is always open. Unless there is a special circumstance, anyone may walk in.”

Ketal murmured, surprised despite all he had seen, “I see.”

“The location is not far,” Milayna added. “At a normal pace, most travelers reach it in a week. At your pace, you could be there in a day.”

“Good. Thank you.”

He began to rise as he spoke, and that sudden motion made Milayna reach out in alarm.

“Are you going now?” she asked him.

“That was my plan. Is there a problem?”

“The sword has been on the ground for only a few hours,” she said. “It is so sudden that the clergy inside will still be making preparations. If you go now, you will end up standing around.”

“I understand.” Ketal sat back, accepting the point.

“It would be better to give them a few days,” Milayna said gently. “Let them arrange things and announce the order for challengers.”

“All right,” he said with a nod. He settled his weight again, the readiness in his posture easing. “How does one draw the sword, exactly?”

“It is said you must pass the Holy Sword’s trial,” she replied. “But no one knows what the trial is.”

“So the only way to learn it is to step forward and try.” Ketal’s smile returned. “That also sounds good.”

The delay gave him a pocket of time. He used it to gather and settle more of his Myst, smoothing the flow, steadying the temper of the beast that slept within him. He measured his breath, his reach, the distance between what he knew and what he could do.

In the middle of that quiet work, Maximus arrived. King Barbosa, having heard that Ketal had returned safely to the capital, had sent Maximus to check on him. The man came without ceremony and spoke as soon as he stepped into the courtyard.

“It looks like you came back without trouble,” Maximus said.

Ketal shrugged. “More or less. Nothing worth making a story about.”

Maximus fell silent. Unlike most, he knew what had happened at Ferderica’s holy land. He had read the reports Milayna’s people pieced together, the fragments of what little could be known.

“No,” Maximus said, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Whatever he had been about to add would have tried to explain a thing that refused to be reduced to words. He chose to let it pass. Ketal watched him for a heartbeat, then smiled as if the pause had not existed.

“I heard the Holy Sword has descended,” Ketal said.

“It has. The capital is noisy, thanks to it,” Maximus added. “In a world like this, a little bright noise is welcome.”

“Will you go and see it?” Ketal asked him.

“I would not say I lack curiosity,” Maximus said, “but I have other work.”

The Holy Sword came down once in centuries, a legend that walked the earth only rarely. Maximus would have liked to look upon it with his own eyes, but he had no intention of leaving his responsibilities to chase a glimmer.

He glanced at Ketal. “You, on the other hand, seem very interested.”

“Is that so strange?”

“For most people at your level, it is,” Maximus said plainly. “Those beyond the Transcendents usually do not find the Holy Sword very attractive.”

Ketal blinked. “Why not?”

“Whoever draws it is revered as a Champion,” Maximus said. “The sword grants power worthy of that title. It does not discriminate. It could be a farmer who never held steel or a swordsman born with a gift. Once a hand closes on the hilt, the person becomes more than what they were.”

Ketal’s eyes narrowed with recognition. “But the power is fixed.”

Maximus gave a small laugh. “You do think quickly. Yes. You can gain great strength in a moment, but you also accept a ceiling. The Holy Sword binds your growth to itself.”

Those who had already climbed past the initial peaks were all a little mad in their own ways. They strained for higher ground with their own feet, without chains other than those they made themselves. No matter how great the strength the sword would lend, the thought of being yoked to it did not appeal. It was rare to see someone of Ketal’s level show genuine interest.

Or perhaps it is the opposite, Maximus thought, and gulped hard. Perhaps for him, the sword’s limit would be meaningless. Perhaps it’s a small thing, so small that he did not even bother to consider it.

He shook that thought away and smiled to cover it. Whether Ketal had considered any of that or not did not matter. The reality was the same either way. The man stood outside his understanding.

Ketal only grinned. “All right. Then I will enjoy the sight for both of us.”

“As you like,” Maximus said. “In any case, I am glad you returned in one piece.”

They spoke of ordinary things for a few minutes more. Then Maximus left to make his report. Ketal returned to his practice. The progress was not dramatic, but it was real. Each day, he could move a little more Myst without provoking the beast’s teeth. Each day, the resistance eased a fraction.

At last, the waiting ended.

Ketal left the capital with Milayna at the gate to see him off. She pressed a small packet into his hand. Inside was a simple travel charm and a sealed note with her crest. He thanked her, slipped both into his inner coat, and set out.

He meant to make a leisurely trip to the holy land. He told himself there was plenty of time, that there was no need to run. However, his anticipation pulled at him like a string. His steps were quick.

A few hours later, long before sunset, he stood on a ridge and looked down on a plain so broad it looked like the surface of the sea.

“There,” he said softly.

His eyes shone as the holy land lay in the middle of that great expanse.

Ketal had seen holy lands before. He had walked the borderstones, felt the wards, and recognized the quiet weight that lived in such places. This one stole his breath for two reasons at once.

The first was its size.

It was enormous. The complex covered the plain from edge to edge. It was larger than any sanctuary he had visited, and larger than the capital of Denian, perhaps twice as large. From a distance, it looked like a city raised on order and prayer. He had read fantasy stories and wandered nearside cities in his travels, and this place dwarfed them all. The holy land could hold tens of thousands here and still have space to breathe.

The second was the crowd.

There were so many people that counting them was a joke. The number slipped past the hands and escaped any attempt to measure it by sight. As a rough guess, even ten thousand would be a timid estimate. They clustered in rings around the outer walls, filling the fields with color and motion.

The people themselves drew from every corner of the continent. Ketal saw broad-shouldered swordsmen with travel-stained cloaks and boys so young they could not yet tie a warrior’s knot. He saw a woman in merchant’s dress holding a staff more for comfort than for spellwork, and he saw a priest whose hair had gone white staring with a child’s eyes. He saw nobles in light armor with polished boots, and he saw farmers who had put on their best shirt for the first time in years.

They had at least one thing in common. Hope lived on their faces.

They looked at the holy land the way people look at a sunrise after a long storm. They had come to try their hands on the hilt that had fallen from the heavens, to take one step toward a word that had lived in their hearts since childhood.

“Then,” Ketal said with a quiet laugh, “let’s go see.”

He walked down from the ridge and into the ocean of people.

***

He had never been in a crowd this large. Even his shoulders, which had brushed past armies and festivals, felt the press.

He tried to move without disturbing anyone and found that kindness alone would not part the field. So he spoke, polite and clear. “Excuse me. I would like to pass through. Would you make a little space?”

A man in front of him turned. The stranger’s face went pale. “Y-yes. Please.”

“Thank you,” Ketal said, smiling in a way that made no threat at all.

Space opened. It was not much, but it was enough. He stepped into it and wove forward a body length at a time. The main gates were closed. From inside the walls came the sound of people moving quickly. With this many pilgrims gathered, the holy land would need time to set rules and lines. He could wait.

He noticed something else while he waited. The press of bodies left no breathing room anywhere. Even so, a delicate circle had formed around him. No one stood close enough to touch his sleeve. He was not trying to project any pressure. He kept his presence tucked away, quiet and small. However, it did not matter. People saw his frame, the way he carried himself, and chose not to bump into him.

Only those with confidence in their own strength or a very strong sense of their status would walk straight up to him.

“Hello,” a voice said.

A man stepped through the small ring and greeted him as if they had met at a garden party.

***

Ketal turned, more surprised than he expected to be.

No one ever approached him first. Either he made the first move, or someone with business forced themselves to. He looked the newcomer over and found himself thinking a small, involuntary thought.

He looks marvelous, Ketal thought.

The man had clear blue eyes set under neat brows and fair hair that fell just so. His features were fine enough to look like a portrait made by a careful hand. The man smiled as if they had known each other for years.

“Hello. I am Pasika,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Ketal.”

“Ketal,” Pasika repeated with an easy nod. “Did you come to draw the Holy Sword too?”

“Something like that,” Ketal said. “I do not know whether I can draw it.”

“Trying is always the interesting part.” Pasika laughed softly. He seemed to be the kind of person who carried a friendly smile as a habit. “Since we met here, would you like to talk while we wait? Standing in silence gets dull.”

“That sounds fine,” Ketal said.

They stood side by side and watched the closed gates. Pasika glanced sideways with a curious look.

“So you came for the sword,” he said again, testing the shape of the idea.

“I do not know whether I will draw it,” Ketal replied. “I am curious, so I will try. You are the same, I imagine.”

“I suppose so. It may work. It may not.” Pasika rubbed the back of his head in a sheepish gesture. He looked back at the walls and added, “Still, it is the kind of chance you should take at least once, is it not? It is a chance to become a Champion.”

Whoever drew the Holy Sword would be called a Champion and would receive strength and fame to match. The word itself had a weight that reached far into childhood stories and deeper.

“Champion,” Ketal repeated, as if tasting the word.

Pasika murmured, “I wonder who will draw it. I am curious.”

He said it like a question, but the confidence on his face was hard to miss. He wore the look of a man who assumed that things would work out his way, not out of arrogance but out of a persistent trust in his own path.

Something occurred to him, and his voice brightened. “Speaking of Champions, did you hear the rumor?”

“What rumor?” Ketal asked him.

“They say there is already someone in the world who is like a Champion.”

“Oh?” Ketal’s eyes widened slightly despite himself. “Truly? Did someone draw a different sword somewhere else?”

“No,” Pasika said. “Not that. People call him a Champion because of what he has done.”

If the Holy Sword chose someone, that person would be called a Champion. That was tradition. There had always been exceptions, people given the name because their deeds deserved it, sword or no sword.

“I only heard the outline,” Pasika admitted. “I do not know who it is. I heard what he did. I cannot tell you whether the stories are entirely true, but if they are even half true, calling him a Champion would not be a mistake.”

“What did he do?” Ketal asked him.

The word Champion had always been one that stirred the heart. To hear that such a person had already walked the world made him want to see the face behind the rumor. He focused, and Pasika smiled as if he had been waiting for exactly that reaction.

“They say he defended a capital under attack by evil,” Pasika said. “They say he stood at a god’s holy land and kept it from falling. Without him, both might have collapsed.”

“Oh,” Ketal said, noncommittal.

“They say he went to a coastal city that was breaking apart and helped raise it back to its feet. There were creatures from the Deep Sea that wanted to spill onto land. He killed them before they could spread.”

Ketal paused. The picture sounded familiar in ways that made him want to look at his boots.

Pasika continued without noticing, “And that is not all. They say he defended the elves’ sacred ground when it was attacked. He fought a powerful demon that was pressing into the Mortal Realm and defeated it. If he had not been there, the World Tree might have been corrupted, and the link between this world and the Spirit Realm could have been cut.”

“Is that so?” Ketal said.

“It is incredible,” Pasika said, and his voice carried honest admiration. “Any one of those deeds would be enough to make a name cross the whole continent. I cannot understand why no one said his name aloud until now.”

He shook his head and laughed in disbelief. Then he added, “The most amazing part is the timing. All of those events happened within a month of each other.”

The person at the heart of the rumor had not rested. He moved, then moved again, and wherever he went, he turned back an invasion and pressed chaos down until people could breathe.

“He cares more than anyone about protecting this world,” Pasika said. “What kind of person must he be? I imagine he walks with a firm will to keep this place safe. A mind like that is as close to a Champion’s as you can get.”

He spoke with a face lit by sincere respect. The light in his eyes was not envy but a desire to see and learn.

“I want to meet him and talk,” he said. “You would too, would you not?”

Ketal looked at him and answered in a tone that tried to be neutral and only partly succeeded. “Perhaps.”