Third Power Read online

Steve nodded and with a smile said, “Probably more pictures of the ‘good old days’ of fencing when he was in the Army.” Lee shook his head and laughed, mostly because it was likely true. Steve greeted the other two fencers as he passed them before stepping inside to change clothes in the nearby restroom. Inside, his friend, Scott Shenk, was suiting up.

  “Ello’ there,” Scott said quoting The Princess Bride in his best Spanish accent, “Slow going?”

  Steve smiled as he took a seat on the same bench Scott’s sweats top was currently draped across, and then kicked off his shoes as he unfastened the buttons of his shirt. “So how goes the college hunting with you?” he asked conversationally.

  Scott just finished putting on his sweatpants when he pulled and tied the drawstrings snugly about his waist. Tossing a lock of his sandy blonde hair out of his eyes he replied, “Absolutely perfect. I’ve been accepted to Western.”

  “That’s great!” Steve exclaimed. “Sonya says that’s where she’s hoping to go too, but she’s still waiting to hear back.”

  Scott pulled his sweatshirt over his head and slipped his arms into the sleeves. As he tugged it down, he leveled an impish smile at his friend. “Speaking of yonder female, how goes it with you two?”

  Steve looked up, his brow wrinkling. “How goes it?”

  “I’ve always gotten a certain vibe off of you two whenever you’re around each other—and it certainly looked like you and Sonya were getting pretty friendly in the hallway today.”

  Steve pulled his sweatshirt over his head, put his arms through, and turned to straighten himself in the mirror. “I know what you think you saw, but that wasn’t it.”

  Scott was silent for a moment, and then said, “Okay, fine, but if you had met both of them at the same time, who would you have asked out?”

  “What difference does it make? I didn’t meet both of them at the same time so it’s pointless to even wonder about it.”

  “All right, all right; deny it all you want,” Scott put in with an extended shrug. “Just remember, girls are a lot like cars. You may have a nice car now, but that’s not to say you can’t appreciate others that drive by.”

  Steve laughed with a shake of his head. Nothing like twenty-first century urban philosophy to bring the world into perspective.

  Together they picked up their clothes and equipment, then walked out of the building and into the courtyard. Placing their sabers and helmets on the stone bench before them, they moved to the wall to stretch out.

  “What’s this I hear about Mr. Martin’s surprise?” Scott asked.

  Steve exhaled as the muscles in his leg, which had spent entirely too much time parked under a classroom desktop, began to burn. “I’m not sure. Lee mentioned it earlier but I didn’t know anything about it until then.”

  Scott wedged his right foot at a forty-five degree angle where the floor met the wall, and then leaned forward with his right leg straight, stretching the calf muscle. “What about the competition? Is Mr. Martin actually considering having the final four fence off in front of the whole student body?”

  “That’s the word he passed down to me.”

  Across the way, the head of the English department, Darryl Martin, entered the courtyard with two long, cylindrical bags in tow. He placed them both on a nearby picnic table and called out, “Fencers, line up!” Mr. Martin, a man in his sixties, usually dressed in the role of the stoic instructor, but appeared instead in white fencing knickers, white tennis shoes, and a heavy brown , leather fencing jacket with a small red heart over the left breast. Atop his head, his short hair had gone almost entirely gray, save for a straggling lock of black, and his body carried a slight hunch, shoulders forward and head stooped. Not to be fooled ever again, though, Steve learned long ago beneath those dark brooding eyes lie an experience in the art of swordplay that, as of yet, he was far from equaling.

  And on top of it all, Steve thought with a slight narrowing of his eyes, he’s a crafty old goat.

  In no time at all everyone was in position, standing at attention before their instructor. “Well, people,” he said, ”I trust we are all ready to go?” Everyone nodded. “Good, I want fencers two and four, front and center.”

  Steve stepped back as the called upon fencers took their positions opposite each other. Mr. Martin then randomly chose four others to act as judges, their job to watch for touches made, standing two on either side of the chosen fencers. When all was ready, Mr. Martin gave the word, “Fencers ready. Fence!” Everyone watched as the two students advanced and retreated against each other, lunging when the opening presented itself, only to be parried by their opponent each time. The sound of one weapon clashing against another, the scraping of steel on steel, always set Steve’s blood to racing. No more than ten seconds into the bout had passed before the hand of one of the judges shot into the air.

  “Halt!” Mr. Martin called just as quickly, and both fencers lowered their weapons and stepped back. With practiced ease, the old instructor ran through the last sequence of actions: “I have right-of-way established from my left, followed by a lunge with no attempt to parry. Touch valid or invalid?”

  “Valid,” came the reply, followed by similar responses in turn from the three remaining judges.

  “I agree,” Mr. Martin replied. “Score: one-zero.” The two fencers then reclaimed their starting positions and prepared to go again when...

  “Hold on a minute, people. I have something I want to show you first. Steven, will you please get my bags from the table?”

  Steve obliged and jogged over to the table. The first bag was very light, probably a fencing weapon of some sort; the second, however, was noticeably heavier, much the way a real sword would be, and had a very solid feel to it. He returned with both and Mr. Martin took the first bag from his pupil. Unzipping the bag, he then withdrew an ancient-looking Hungarian fencing saber. The blade possessed a great deal of flex in the dull gray of the metal, innumerable scratches tracing an almost solid weave along both the guard and the blade.

  “This is the saber I first started fencing with some forty years ago.” He ran his fingers along the length of the blade and smiled.

  Steve could almost see the play of memories on his teacher’s face, and he could understand the sentimental value the old relic must have instilled in him, but he earnestly wished to see the sword that remained concealed in the bag in his hands. He could tell by the weight and heft of the blade through the fabric that this was a weapon of an entirely different make. It was too heavy to be a sport weapon; which meant this one was likley the real thing.

  Seeming to sense his anticipation, Mr. Martin passed the old saber to one of the students and relieved Steve of the bag he held. With as much care as a father handles his newborn child, Mr. Martin withdrew the most beautiful rapier Steve had ever laid eyes on. The guard, instead of a single piece of protective metal that enveloped the hand, was an ornate pattern of eight, spiraling cords like polished silver, three forming progressively larger rings to protect the back of the hand, with the remaining five weaving to form the remaining guard and knuckle bow. The blade, no less immaculate, extended three feet from the guard with an edge along front and back.

  “Quite a work of art, isn’t it?” he said. “A family heirloom passed down through my family from father to son for as long as any can remember. He then turned his back and walked several steps away from his audience. With a deft flick of his wrist, he slashed the air and the fine, faint whistle it made sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. Turning back again, he held the glimmering sword out with both hands. “So who wants to hold it first?”

  Steve practically teleported, so quickly did he materialize before his instructor. Mr. Martin chuckled and placed the hilt in Steve’s hands. The grip almost seemed to meld with his grasp as his fingers wrapped tightly around. Steve, awe-struck, had never seen anything like it anywhere—not in books on weapons, not in movies, the internet, anywhere—and he felt certain this had to be the most finely crafted rapier in all
the world. He had only studied a little about the forging of such weapons thus far, but the time it must have taken to craft this beauty into such a perfect instrument had to be tremendous indeed.

  In time the sword filtered its way through to each of the students in turn and then once more returned to Mr. Martin’s hands. He then sheathed it in its crude leather wrap and replaced it in the bag from which it came. A glimmer of hope sprang into Steve’s eyes as Mr. Martin handed it to him.

  “Steven, I’d like you to take this out to my car and place it in the trunk. You’ll find a blanket back there for you to wrap it in--and be sure to lock the door before you leave.”

  Steve hid his disappointment as he accepted the car keys. He had hoped to get another chance to examine the weapon, and possibly wield it a bit, but it seemed his instructor had other plans.

  Then again…

  The anxious youth was nearly jogging when he appeared in the commons of his school. It was a large open room with a twenty-foot ceiling and loads of open space to move around in. Or wield an edged weapon.

  Wasting no time, he took the sword out of the bag, tossed the leather sheath off to the side, and proceeded to do battle with an imaginary enemy. Mr. Martin’s sword was heavier to wield than the lighter, Olympic sabers he knew, but increased concentration on control compensated somewhat for the loss. The youth moved slowly at first, getting a feel for the weight and handling, gradually increasing the speed of his movements in tiny increments as familiarity inched its way up his arm.

  Steve stopped abruptly in mid-lunge when he felt eyes upon him. Across the room, Scott smiled and gave a little wave in greeting.

  “Oh, please, by all means continue,” he teased. He held up the old training saber, letting it dangle by the guard on one finger. “You forgot this when you ran out.”

  Steve laughed as he bent and retrieved the leather sheath. “I didn’t run.”

  “You’re right,” Scott agreed nodding, “I think ‘sprinted’ is more the word we’re looking for.”

  “Yeah, yeah; okay, maybe I was a little anxious to—“ An odd light coming from the floor near his feet caught Steve’s attention and cut short his sentence. A single scintillating sliver of light shined upward from the marble floor near his toe. Then a dozen more appeared, then fifty, rapidly spreading outward in all directions with Steve at its center.

  Scott saw it too, and he advanced a step saying, “What the hell is that?”

  In the next moment light exploded upward from the floor like a shotgun blast. Stunned by the flash, Steve covered his eyes with his hands in the same moment the floor dropped away beneath his feet. A fierce gale tore through the commons with a banshee’s fury, whipping up dust and stray papers and shattering panes of glass as they flexed outward beyond their breaking point.

  Steve’s free hand caught the edge of the sudden pit as he fell—more by instinct than rational thought—for he couldn’t see a thing in the blinding blue-white light emanating from below. He screamed his frustration as he dropped the rapier, but it was the only way to save himself, for he could not maintain his hold otherwise. His second hand joined the first at the edge for a moment to steady him, then he heaved himself up against the pull of the vortex below and thrust his right hand out, grasping for anything he could reach. In a moment, he felt what could only be his friend’s hand lock onto his own and begin pulling.

  “Hang on!” Scott shouted and he heaved against whatever force was attempting to pull Steve into the depths.

  Scott maneuvered himself into a sitting position with the soles of his sneakers pressed firmly against the polished floor. He grabbed his friend’s wrist with his other hand then and prepared to pull once more…when someone abruptly hooked him under the arms from behind and hefted him into the air. Before he could react, that same person tossed him effortlessly into the luminous depths.

  Steve barely managed to recover from the sudden slip of his friend’s grasp, and then he felt hands upon his wrists. With surprising ease, those hands him pulled from the edge and released him to free fall into the vortex of light.

  An armor-clad warrior stepped close to the portal’s edge, a jagged scar tracing diagonally across his left eye to disappear into the sideburns of his fiery red beard. He waited a moment more, then he too stepped in, vanishing into the depths as the portal sealed itself behind him.

  Chapter IV

  “Quickly, get him up.”

  Steve groaned as two pairs of hands grabbed either arm and brought him to his feet. He felt so strange; every cell in his body was tingling as if he just survived a near miss by a bolt of lightning. When he lifted his head, he could not believe what he saw. The school, the commons, the courtyard, everything that had once been was now gone. Instead, there stretched rolling hills and acres of swaying grass as far as the eye could see. Other than Scott, himself, and these strangers, the only other living things were four saddled horses grazing contentedly a short distance away.

  “Are you all right, my boy?” a white-bearded man asked.

  Steve was clinging to a handful of his blue robe as if it were the only thing keeping the world stable beneath his feet.

  Scott stood just a few paces off looking with the same combination of confusion and amazement awash on his face. “Steve, you--this other guy--we dropped right out of the air!”

  “What happened? Where are we?” Steve looked alternately to the men on either side of him who had helped him to his feet: one, a red-bearded warrior with a vicious scar across his left eye, fully clad in plate mail armor, the other dressed in various shades of green from tunic to trousers with a finely crafted blade much like Mr. Martin’s own at his side; across his back a longbow and a quiver of arrows. “Who are you guys?”

  “I am Haze,” the warrior replied, “a knight of Garindesh, at your service.”

  “And I am Lurin,” the other said. “A woodsman and tracker out of Hampmire.” Then, changing his tone, he asked, “Are you sure you are all right, lad?”

  Realizing he was still clinging to the old man’s robe, he let go suddenly and took in a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Haze dropped to one knee and retrieved Mr. Martin’s elegant, silver swepthilt rapier. He stood and weighed the sword experimentally in his hand before returning it to Steve. “A strange blade,” he said. “Different, and a bit heavier than others of its kind I have seen before.”

  “Thanks,” Steve replied taking it, unsure as to whether the remark had been a compliment or mere appraisal. “Look, I don’t mean to sound stupid, but just how did we get here? I mean, there was light shooting up all around me, and then the floor fell away...”

  “I’m afraid that was my doing,” the old man confessed somewhat sheepishly. “Portals such as that are typically set as traps but I had to bring you here--to Mithal--as quickly as possible.”

  “Portal?” Scott repeated, sounding unconvinced despite what had happened. “Look, uh...”

  “Haldorum.”

  “Right. Haldorum. I don’t mean any offense, but it sounds like you’re screwing with us. You don’t look like any scientist I’ve ever seen, and I keep up with all the tech magazines. Nobody has that kind of technology anywhere.”

  Haldorum exhaled through his nose, amused. “Right you are. I am no scientist; but I am, however, a wizard. Though certainly practiced to a much lesser degree here, science is a study nowhere near as advanced as it is on Earth.”

  Scott shot a questioning glance to his friend but, for the life of him, Steve could not dismiss the statement as lunacy outright. The portal had definitely been real, their surroundings were real—to say nothing of his earlier encounter with Azinon.

  “There are some pretty big holes in my understanding of what’s going on,” Steve said. “You’re the second person to come after me inside a week, doing things I can’t explain. So why don’t you start by explaining exactly what you want with us?”

  “What I want with you,” the wizard corrected. He placed a hand on Stev
e’s shoulder then. “Come, let us talk.”

  The moon shined down from high above, casting its luminescent light upon the quiet camp. A slight breeze blew from the east, cooling the warm night and preventing the flying insects from pestering the still figures seated comfortably around a small cook fire. Scott listened from across the crackling flames in rapt attention as Steve explained the strange events following the reading of the will. Haze and Lurin, seated opposite each other, were no less attentive as they listened along with Haldorum. Sometimes the old wizard nodded as the details unfolded but he remained quiet throughout the telling.

  “It turns out the girl I saved was, in fact, Amy’s sister,” Steve said in conclusion to his tale.

  Haldorum drew in a long, thoughtful breath and exhaled slowly. “I see now it was more fortuitous than I thought to find you when I did. I have been searching for quite some time, but I didn’t pinpoint your whereabouts until you triggered your powers in the presence of your lady friend; though how Azinon found you so soon before then remains a mystery to me.” The old man frowned as he considered that. “Still, it seems it is day for surprises. I had thought before your magical potential stemmed from you but, from what you have told me, it sounds plausible the pendant is your connection to the magic. Very curious.”

  “If you say so,” Steve shrugged. “But that whole invisibility-time travel thing was an accident. I wasn’t trying to do anything.”

  “It sure sounds like you were trying to do something,” Scott said with a wry grin.

  Steve was idly poking the ground with a stick and this he threw at his friend.

  “Scott,” Haze began, his tone apologetic, “I am sorry for having tossed you into the portal as I did. I wasn’t sure what else to do at the time, and I thought perhaps you might speak to someone about your friend’s unusual disappearance.”

  With a wave of his hand, Scott brushed the notion aside. “Don’t worry about it. If I’d known any better, I would have chosen to come here anyway—it’s far more interesting. Although, I don’t know how I’m going to explain where I’ve been to my parents.”