Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. Since this is my first fic, I'm glad so many people like the story so far, and I'll do my best to keep the updates coming.


Chapter 2. And Death

The sky was clear, and the sun beat down warmly on the city. Terry did not feel its warm, though. He felt empty, lost and dazed and unsure where to go or what to do. He watched in stony-faced silence as the undertakers shoved dirt into the deep hole that now held the remains of his father. He was alone. Few people had come to the funeral - a murder soured the mood of their festivities. It was for the best, he thought. He wanted to be alone. Except he would have given anything to have his mother and brother there. He wanted nothing more then to embrace them both and weep. But they were halfway across the kingdom, still living on the lands of Lord Tan. Terry doubted that word of Warren's death had even reached them yet.

Terry could hear footsteps behind him, and ignored it as just another undertaker. He felt forced to turn and take notice of them, however, when he heard someone say his name.

Standing a few feet away was his father's patron, Lord Powers. He was an older noble, in his middle years, with a pinched, arrogant face and white hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in silk and velvet, with gold and jewels dripping from his clothing. Beside him stood a man servant, a tall, looming, dark skinned man. He was dressed much like Lord Powers, but it was clear that he was not nobility himself, as one of his eyes was pure white and blinded, covered by a horrible scar that crossed most of his face. No, he was not a noble - and likely not just a servant, either. He was a fighter.

"Terrance," Powers said again. "That is your name, isn't it, boy? Terrance McGinnis, Warren's son."

Terry swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yes, m'lord," he answered.

"You poor boy," Powers approached him and set a hand on his shoulder. His expression was that of a sad, pitying smile, but Terry felt like there was something less than kind hiding behind it. "I only received the news a few hours ago, otherwise I would have already come to you. Your father was a good man, a hard worker. Here, walk with me."

Terry opened his mouth to refuse the invitation, wanting to get back home to his father's shop and try to put it back together. But the look in Lord Powers' eyes told him that he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. He shut his mouth, and let Powers lead him away from the grave.

"It truly is such a shame," Powers continued to speak as he guided the young man out of the cemetery. "That such a brutal event would happen on the night of celebration for His Majesty. Tell me, do the lawmen have any idea who it was that attacked Warren?"

"No," Terry replied bluntly, but thought better of himself. "No, sir. They don't."

Powers tutted, shaking his head. "Truly a shame. Now, I know that it takes money to bury the dead... as Warren's patron, I would like to help with the costs."

It took Terry a few moments to reply to the offer. "M'lord... with all due respect, thank you, but I have to refuse."

The nobleman raised an eyebrow, giving Terry a hard look. "Pride is a good thing, boy, but you need to learn when to set it aside."

"Begging your pardon, m'lord, but it isn't an issue of pride. M'lord Tan - my father's old patron - already was so kind as to provide me with help in burying my father. And I'm not as good a smith as my father was, but I'm ready to open my own shop. I can make my way. I feel wrong accepting charity when others may need it more, sir." It was all a blatant lie, but Terry couldn't accept help from Powers. Something told him if he did, he would have to pay it back, and in way he may not like.

The smile on Power's face faltered for a moment, as he gave Terry another hard look. He quickly adjusted it, though. "Quite the selfless boy, aren't you?" He said with a hint of sarcasm. "Well, if you're going to open up your own shop, I may have work for you already. Your father was creating a sword for me. Nothing special, just decorative, my crest on the blade, a few spells on it to keep it sharp. I know he had begun to work on it before his death, and if it is finished, I wish to take it. If it is not, I'll let you finish it, and pay you for both his work and your own."

Terry's breath caught in his throat. He thought of the sword he had found that night, hidden beneath the floor, with the crest of the House of Powers etched into the blade. He remembered how his father had looked directly to it as he died.

"I'm sorry, m'lord," he said with slight difficulty, "I never saw a sword with your crest on it at my father's shop. I went through all the blades this morning to see if we lost any during the murder, but I didn't see one like that."

Powers narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on Terry's shoulder. Then, quickly, he released it. "I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps it was stolen."

"That may be, sir," Terry agreed, "a few of our blades disappeared that night. I have already informed the Provost, and I can add your sword to the list."

"That will be quite alright, Terrance," Powers said briskly, "I shall see to it myself. Please, let me know if you do come across it. Let me know directly, if you will, not my messenger. That sword was of some importance to me, I wish to know as soon as you find it."

"Yes, m'lord," Terry said, bowing slightly. Powers nodded, and swiftly turned on one heel and began to walk away. His manservant, who had been follow them at a short distance, looked Terry over, then also turned. Terry felt a chill down his spine at the look the servant had given him, but shook it off and quickly made his own way home.

/ / /

As soon as he returned to his father's shop, Terry lifted away the false floorboards under the workbench and removed the unfinished sword that had been hidden there. He unwrapped it and stared at it, slowly turning it over in his hands. His father had never told him about this sword. Terry had never felt truly at place as a smith, and had often tried to get out of his work, as well as having many arguments with his father. Still, his father had never tried to hide any of his work. Everything he did was left out in the open... all except for this sword. A question formed in Terry's mind - what has so special about it?

Powers had said that it was merely decorative, but what sort of decorative sword had spells put on it? Why had his father hidden it under the floorboards and looked to it as he died? Terry continued to turn the sword over and over, looking at every inch of it, when a thought occurred to him. His father was no mage - no one in their family had ever had an inclination towards magic. Rather than crafting his own magic, his father had always worked with a mage when putting spells into his craft, and he had been friends with one in particular. Master Tully, a weasel-faced, sweaty man, but a man who did good work. If Terry wanted answers about the nature of the sword, Master Tully would be the man to speak to. He carefully re-wrapped the sword and set it back in its hiding place, and set out into the city once more.

/ / /

Master Tully's home and shop wasn't far from Warren's. Terry had always suspected that, despite the mage's quality of work, his father had primarily chosen him to do business with the mage because he was so close. It was a small house, squeezed between a butcher's shop and a row of run-down cottages. Terry had never seen much of a crowd around the place, as he did with the mages closest to the palace, but he had never seen the area so devoid as it was that day, either.

He frowned slightly, but continued to the door. Perhaps everyone was too busy celebrating to need a mage. He sharply rapped the door three times, then stood back and waited for an answer.

None came. He reached out and knocked again, louder this time. There was no word from inside, no sound of movement whatsoever. He considered the idea that Tully may have been out celebrating with the rest of the city. Terry was impatient, though, and decided to try one more time, knocking even harder and calling out to the mage.

As soon as he made the first knock, the door gave way. It had not been opened, though. No one stood on the other side of it. Rather, it appeared that the bolt had never been set to lock it into place. Tully was a paranoid man, and Terry could not understand why the door had not been set if the mage had left. Curious, and slightly nervous, Terry entered the house, calling out again.

A wave of stench nearly bowled him over as he stepped inside the mage's home. It smelled like the putrid herbs and potions that most mages dealt in, but underneath it was something worse. Something rotting.

"Hello?" Terry called out, noting that the shutters were all drawn tight, and half-eaten food lay scattered on the table of the main room. It looked like it had not been touched for days. "Master Tully? Are you here?"

Terry ventured further into the house, turning a corner. Immediately, he felt repulsed by the stench, even stronger in this room. His eyes watered and he had to step back. He fumbled at a window, forcing the shutters open, allowing fresh air and light into the small house. He coughed, clearing his lungs, and looked back into the room.

The room appeared to be Tully's sleeping quarters. It was sparse, with a low straw-filled bed and a shelf of various spell ingredients as the only furniture. Suddenly, it was very clear to Terry what the underlying stench of decay had been. Lying on the bed, hands folded over its chest and mouth open in agony, were the remains of Master Tully. His skin was pulled tight over his bones, and was covered in black splotches. Terry felt sick just looking at the body, and hurried out of the house.

He threw the door shut behind him, and leaned against it, willing his churning stomach to settle. Instantly, he began to worry. What if it was the plague? That would mean he would be in danger. Except that didn't make any sense to him. None of the other houses along this street showed signs of sickness, and surely a plague would have affected more than a single man on the block. A nagging suspicion was beginning to form in the back of Terry's mind.

He pushed off of the door, and once again headed for his father's shop. Along the way, he spotted an undertaker leaving a residence, and stopped the man to tell him about Master Tully's shop, warning him to be careful. Terry barely waited for the man to say anything before setting off again at a fast pace.

When he arrived home he was careful to bolt the door and shutters before removing the sword from its hiding place. Gently, he unwrapped the blade and inspected it. The blade shimmered a sickly green, the color of bile. He had not tested its edge, but just from looking at it, he could tell that it was wickedly sharp. Again, he questioned whether it was truly decorative. He lifted the blade, testing its balance and weight. It felt like a true sword to be used in battle, not a wall piece.

Taking care not to cut himself on the blade's unfinished handle, he stood and swung the sword. It seemed to hum with power, at first softly, then getting louder, almost deafening. The metal suddenly grew hot beneath his hand, and he dropped it with a slight yelp. He leaned down and touched the blade, and, sure enough, what had just been cool metal a moment ago now felt like it had been freshly pulled from the bellows. That must have been the spells Master Tully put on it, he reasoned.

He moved to dip his seared hand in a barrel of water, when he took notice of his palm. Slight blisters were forming, but beneath that, he had been cut slightly when he held the blade the night his father died. The boy had paid it no mind, having sustained worse in a normal day's work, but now that he looked at it, he realize it was healing slower then it should have been, and the skin around the cut was still a harsh red. The cuts were small - even though he'd held the blade fast, he had had no intention of losing his fingers.

Frowning, he wrapped his hand in a clean rag and turned back to the sword. He gingerly picked it up, finding it had cooled again. He moved a scrap of leather to the center of the workbench, and cut it with the blade. He had not applied much pressure in cutting the tough hide, yet the blade sliced through it as if it were parchment. At first, Terry was impressed by his father's skill, but that feeling slowly turned to horror as he watched the leather. Gradually, it curled and peeled, turning black along the edges of the cut. The black patches started to flake, almost as if it were rotting.

Almost like Master Tully's skin.

Terry threw the sword down on the workbench and took a step back, eyes wide. The sword burned like a fire when swung, and seemed to rot things when it made a deep enough cut. Of course his father would hide such a thing, for it was no decoration. It was a sword meant to kill, and to do so effectively and horrifically. The pieces started to fall together in Terry's mind. A brutal sword, his father being killed, Master Tully being dead in a similar manner as to what the sword could do...

And Lord Powers, so eager to get the sword back.

Rage began to build in Terry's heart. His father's death had been no random theft, that was clear. And Master Tully had probably not died of a natural sickness. Something was going on surrounding the sword, and it connected back to Lord Powers. There was little doubt in Terry's mind that Powers had killed his father. The rage Terry was feeling began to boil over, and was replaced by a new feeling - a desire for revenge.