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go ahead.”
    “What did you mean when you told Pip it was funny that he should ask to hear that story? That was a rather odd thing to say.”
    “Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It was just the ramblings of an old man, and not worth your notice.”
    Dearra responded to his constant complaints of old age as she always did, telling him that thirty-five was hardly old. He was a young man, really, with at least sixty years left to him as a warrior before he might want to settle down to something a bit more relaxing. One hundred was the age most men chose to retire from the military service of their lord and king, preferring, instead, the life of a farmer, ship builder, weaver, artist, or some other similar pursuit during the last forty or fifty years of life. Women retired from military service as it suited them. Some at one hundred, like the men, others when they had children. Still others served all their lives, children or no, just for the joy of the sword and shield, and the friendships that grew on the practice field. Then there were a few who served not at all, their hearts leaning to other callings, such as the study of medicine, as was the case with Dearra’s mother, or painting, or writing, or even the care of animals such as sheep and cattle. All contributions were recognized as of equal importance. Even so, most people felt the desire at some time to serve as protectors, to do their part to safeguard their homes and those of the ones they loved. Life was precious to the people of Mirin Tor, and it was a precarious world in which they lived, having to fight for everything they had, sometimes against enemies from other lands who held life in less regard. From time to time it was against the animals who, in their own struggle for life, threatened to push too far. There were also the natural disasters to deal with. At those times, every pair of hands was needed. Whether it was a brush fire, flood, or any of a hundred other emergencies that could occur in this perilous world, the cause was not important, only that they met it together.
    Even as Dearra made light of Daniel’s complaints about the ramblings of old men, she did not miss the way his eyes flickered to the screen that sat in the corner of the room.
    As he leaned forward to scoop Phillip up in his arms, Daniel whispered, “Enough for tonight, Dearra. I’ll get this one off to his room. It’s time you got some rest, too. Leave the sword, and you can work on it in the morning. We both need to be prepared for what is coming, and falling asleep on the Breken won’t do any of us any good.”
    Dearra wrinkled her nose. Why would anyone want to get that close to them? she thought with disgust.
    “Night then, Daniel,” she said. As she left the chamber, she called over her shoulder, “Sweet dreams!”
    The comment was intended to irk the gruff weapons master, for no one who knew him would ever imagine him capable of having sweet dreams. Dreams of battle and victory, certainly, but sweet was pushing the limits of reason where Daniel was concerned. She did not see the pained look that came to his face as she retreated to the outer hall, or she would certainly have stopped and demanded an explanation of him.
    ***
    Daniel’s dreams of late had been very, very strange indeed. He would toss and turn, and wake restless and upset, never quite remembering the whole of it, but remembering enough to bother him. He was dreaming of the box and what lay inside of it: the Sword of Cyrus. It had been kept and cherished for centuries. It was an heirloom, an item of exquisite beauty and power. It was not left on display, but jealously guarded. The people knew of its existence, of course, but such was their respect and awe for the relic, one did not speak of it casually. Daniel had, for three nights now, been having the same, compelling dream, and he feared tonight would be no different. It was with heavy steps that he made his way, first to Phillip’s room, and then to his own.