Burned

of the Other.
    Stark’s mirror image fell to his knees. Gasping for breath, he was barely able to hold the broadsword up any longer.
    “So now you kill me, get into the Otherworld, and get the girl.”
    “No. Now I accept you because no matter how wise I am or how good I manage to become, you’ll always be there inside me.”
    Red eyes met brown eyes once more. The Other dropped his sword, and with one swift motion hurled himself forward, driving Stark’s broadsword to its hilt in his chest. In the raw intimacy of the moment the Other exhaled, so close to him that Stark breathed in the last of the Other’s sweet breath.
    Stark’s gut clenched. Himself! He’d killed himself! Shaking his head in terrible realization, he cried, “No! I—” Even as he shouted the denial, the red-eyed Stark smiled knowingly, and through bloodstained lips whispered, “I’ll see you again, Warrior, sooner than you think.”
    Stark lowered the Other to his knees, simultaneously drawing the great sword from his chest.
    Time suspended as the divine light of Nyx’s realm focused on the sword, glinting along its bloody but beautiful length and blinding Stark, exactly like Seoras’s last cut had seared his vision, and miraculously, momentarily, it was as if the ancient Guardian was there beside him and the Other as the three Warriors gazed at the sword.
    Seoras spoke without taking his eyes off the hilt. “Aye, it will be the Guardian’s claymore for yie boy, a sword forged in hot wet blood, used only in the defense of honor, wielded by a man who has chosen tae guard an Ace, a
bann ri,
a queen. Its blade is honed tae a bonnie sharpness that cuts withoot pain, and the Guardian who bears this blade will strike withoot mercy, fear, or favor, against those who would defile our grand lineage.”
    Mesmerized, Stark turned the claymore, allowing the jeweled hilt to catch the light as Sgiach’s Guardian continued, “The five crystals, set in as four corners, and the fifth centered with the heart stone, createa constant pulse in tune with the beating heart of its Guardian,
if
he is a chosen Warrior who guards honor afore life.” Seoras paused, finally looking away from the claymore. “Are yie that Warrior, ma boy? Is it a true Guardian yie will be?”
    “I want to be,” Stark said, trying to will the sword to beat in time with his heart.
    “Then yie must always act with honor and send the one you’ve defeated on to a better place. If yie can do this as a Guardian and no as a boy . . . if yie are aff the true blood soul and spirit, son, yie will find yer last horror will be the ease by which yie accept and execute this eternal duty.
    “But know there is no going back, for this is the law and lot o’ the Guardian pure, nae grudge, malice, prejudice, or vengeance, only yer unflinching faith in honor can be yer reward, nae guarantee of love, happiness, or gain. For after us there is nothing.” In Seoras’s eyes, Stark saw timeless resignation. “Yie will carry this for eternity, for who will guard a Guardian? Now yie know the truth of it. Decide, son.”
    Seoras’s image disappeared, and time began again. The Other was on his knees in front of him, staring up at him with eyes that held fear and acceptance.
    Death with honor.
As Stark thought the words, the claymore’s hilt warmed in his hands with a beat that mirrored the pounding of his heart. He closed his other hand on the hilt, reveling in the feeling.
    Then the weight of the blade became a life force of its own, filling Stark with a terrible, wonderful strength and knowledge. Without thought, without emotion, he used the arc of a crescent moon to deal the killing blow, crashing the blade sickeningly into the Other, slicing him cleanly from skull to crotch. There was a great sighing, and the body disappeared.
    The full extent of Stark’s brutality slammed into him. He dropped the claymore and fell to his knees.
    “Goddess! How could I do that
and
be honorable?”
    Mind reeling, Stark knelt on the ground, breathing hard. He stared down at his body, expecting to find gaping wounds in his flesh and blood—lots and lots of his blood.
    But he was wrong. He was completely free of any physical wound. The only blood he saw was packed into the earth beneath him. The only wound that remained was the memory of what he’d just done.
    Almost with a will of its own, his hand found the hilt of the great sword. Seeing in his memory the killing blow he’d just delivered, Stark’s hand