The thought came from far away. The sword of the Rthr, used once, in the dawn of a world, by a warrior king—but laid away now, locked in its sheath of stone, keyed to the mind-pattern of the Rthr, that none other might ever draw it to some ignoble end.
A sword, keyed to the basic mind-pattern of the king....
I drew a last breath, blinked back the darkness. Ommodurad stepped past me, knife in hand, toward the unarmed man.
"Foster," I croaked. "The sword...."
Foster's head came up. I had spoken in English; the syllables rang strangely in that outworld setting. Ommodurad ignored the unknown words.
"Draw ... the sword ... from the stone!... You're ... Qulqlan ... Rthr ... of Vallon."
I saw him reach out, grasp the ornate hilt. Ommodurad, with a cry, leaped toward him—
The sword slid out smoothly, four feet of glittering steel. Ommodurad stopped, stared at the manacled hands gripping the hilt of the fabled blade. Slowly he sank to his knees, bent his neck.
"I yield, Qulqlan," he said. "I crave the mercy of the Rthr."
Behind me I heard thundering feet. Dimly I was aware of Torbu raising my head, of Foster leaning over me. They were saying something but I couldn't hear. My feet were cold, and the coldness crept higher.