Lormar smiled, knowing he was sure of Gentyl now. She had suspected at first, known that the sword in her hands did wonders that had nothing to do with her own skill, knew that her words were not inspiring enough to account for the army’s frenzied joy and that her beauty was not great enough to explain the adoring madness in their eyes. But they had adored her, cheered her, followed her, almost made her forget the bitter years in her father’s house; and in her joy, and in her wish to forget, she had let the sword suck the soul from her.
There she stood now, tall and proud at the army’s head, prepared to lead them to their final victory. Only Lormar knew that they would march forever through the desert, fighting foes that existed only in their minds, cheered by crowds that had never been, until they died of the hunger and weariness that were hidden from them by the sword-song.
A wave of excitement ran through the troops until someone in the back began cheering until the entire army seemed to join in the chant.
The only thing Gentyl heard was the Siren Song.
I told you, champion. All is well.
The sword began to sing Lormar's song to her; the notes, exquisite and beautiful, rang in her mind.