Page 82 of Heart of the Desert

Keera seemed to feel the predicament too, putting her hands on her hips and staring at the camp. “We could hunt?” she suggested, clearly also wondering at the best use of the two weeks until we could ride back into the desert.

I cocked my head. There didn’t seem to be many herds this close to the ocean. For once in my life, the bustle of a large encampment called to me more than the vastness of the wilderness. For the second time in my life, I was asking these riders to lay down their lives to march on Kelvadan. The first time, I had been full of rage and desperation, so ready to give my own life to get to Keera that I hadn’t spent much thought on the people following me.

Lord Alasdar had made me a sword, and the sword did not care for the blood it spilled.

Now though, I pondered the riders who faced down battle with an enemy they did not know—Prince Calix and the men of Viltov were just a story to them at this point, but soon they would be very real.

“Let’s find where the warlords are training with their riders. We can see if there is any way we might be of assistance,” I offered.

Keera nodded, and together we meandered through the outskirts, weaving through the patches of smaller tents surrounding communal fires where families and friends would gather for meals. Activity bloomed as people emerged from their dwellings and began going about their business, carrying bundles or beating dust from clothes. A few hunting dogs roused from a nap and yipped happily at us as we passed.

Eventually, the sound of activity and the thud of padded blades drifted on the air, and we followed it to an open area where riders squared off against each other, practicing drills. They exchanged choreographed blocks and parries while several people milled through the rows, correcting their form here and adjusting their footwork there.

My brows rose when I recognized both the newly appointed Lord of Clan Padra as well as Badha and the Warlord of Clan Miran. It had been difficult to convince the clans to train their riders together before, but now they did it without urging.

I considered joining the lords in their rounds—there was a Rider nearby who was keeping his weight too far forward—a sure way to run yourself face first into an enemy’s sword—but a scraping sound caught my attention before I could intervene.

A wizened man sat at a sharpening wheel, angling a blade just so over its surface as he spun the circular stone using a foot pedal. Sitting beside him was a large pile of swords in need of various care. He certainly had his work cut out for him, and something in me still missed the rhythmic calm of sharpening a sword.

I drifted over, feeling Keera’s warmth at my back as she followed.

“It looks like you could use an extra set of hands,” I offered the man when he paused and held up the sword to inspect its edge.

He harrumphed without looking at me. “It will create twice as much labor if I have to redo somebody else’s shoddy handiwork.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose in amusement. Something about his amiable grumpiness reminded me of a father in a way that caused a pang in my chest—although the memories it brought forth were not entirely painful. “I may not be a bladesmith, but I should hope I’m not completely incompetent in caring for a sword.”

He did finally look at us, and some degree of recognition sparked in his eyes. “Rarely does a lord offer to help with my trade, let alone a high lord.” His gaze drifted to Keera. “Or two for that matter.”

Keera shifted on her feet, and a shiver of discomfort ran down the tether between us, making me frown. She wasn’t as uncomfortable conversing with strangers as she once was, although this man seemed to unnerve her for some reason.

Before I could figure out why, the man’s gaze returned to me, before snagging on something over my shoulder.

“Sands, is that…”

I realized his eyes had alighted on the handle of Kelvar’s saber, which was still slung across my back, despite its broken state. I felt naked without the weight of it. The gloves and mask of my past had been easy to shed, and I no longer missed their presence—but the sword was like another limb, as much a part of me as my bond with Keera.

“I take it this blade holds some meaning for you?” I asked, unslinging the scabbard from my shoulders.

“Of course. Kelvar’s saber is said to be the finest weapon ever forged in the desert. It’s a legend among sword smiths,” he responded, his eyes fixed on the corded grip and curving quillons.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you then.” I tipped the scabbard until the two pieces fell out into my open palms.

The man hissed as he took in the damage, leaning in close to get a better look. “I knew that it was long. But this all used to be one piece?”

I nodded. Kelvar’s words from before came back to me.

“Could you—” I swallowed. “Could you fix it?”

The man shook his head so quickly that my heart plummeted into my boots. Some things could not be unbroken. Before I could put the sword away though, he reached out to stop me.

“If I tried to forge the pieces together, it would never be the same. But that does not mean you won’t be able to wield this blade again.” He picked up the piece attached to the handle and held it up. “I could reshape the broken end, and this could serve as a shorter saber. I daresay it might even be better balanced than it used to be.” He nodded down at the broken end still in my hands. “And that is still finely folded steel. Attached to a new handle, it would make a lethal sidearm.”

“I tend to wield a single two-handed weapon,” I mused.

“Then perhaps somebody else would benefit from a new second blade.” He looked meaningfully at Keera. The odd pang ran down the tether again, and I glanced over to see her avoiding eye contact.

“A daughter of Clan Padra deserves a blade from their swordsmith,” he pushed on.