Free The Art of Hunting by Alan Campbell Page A

travelled between the two men. ‘What?’
    ‘Prolonged use of a replicating sword almost always leads to a transposition,’ Cyr went on. ‘The sword consumes the original wielder and then replaces that person’s
physical body with one of its own replicates. Because the replicate is essentially identical to the original, physically and mentally, he is usually unaware that he has been replaced. But he is in
fact merely an extension of the sword and is thus compelled to obey its will for as long as he lives.’
    ‘What will? How can a sword have a will?’
    The duke grunted. ‘Such swords were created by sorcerers far older and more cunning than you,’ he said, ‘and many yet possess the will of their original masters. If I were you,
Colonel Granger, I would be concerned by how I came to own such a weapon. Was it mere chance? Or was the blade placed into your hands?’ He smiled thinly. ‘Such swords are psychically
chained to their owners. They cannot move on until the present owner dies. Usually that’s not an issue for a replicating blade, since it gradually consumes its wielder and replaces him with a
copy it can control.’ His grey eyes studied Granger carefully. ‘A blade that has complete control over its wielder can choose when that man dies. If it wishes to move on, it could
simply compel you to remove your armour and cut your own throat. It would then be free of you. However, this particular sword seems quite attached to you, Colonel Granger. It brought you to us so
that the armour could have time to restore you.’
    ‘I don’t understand. What does it want with me?’
    ‘A sword like that is intelligent,’ Cyr explained. ‘It has desires, a plan. No doubt it regards you as a useful resource to achieve its goals. While you live it will continue
to exert pressure on you, forcing you to bend to its will, until one day you find that you are no longer Thomas Granger. You are a sword replicate. A slave to the blade.’ Cyr stroked his
chin. ‘Assuming that hasn’t already happened.’
    ‘Then I’ll throw the blade away.’
    ‘The chains that bind you to it are psychic, Colonel. The distance between it and you is irrelevant. When it finally enslaves you, it will merely summon you back to retrieve it.’
    ‘Then I’ll throw it into the ocean.’
    The duke merely smirked. ‘You can try,’ he said. ‘But it will certainly stop you.’
    ‘That’s assuming you’re not a replicate already,’ Marquetta added.
    ‘Naturally.’
    ‘You
don’t know
?’
    ‘If there’s no severe mental or physical degeneration in the next few days,’ Cyr said, ‘then we’ll know for sure.’
    Granger shook his head in disbelief. ‘There’s a chance I might not be me?’
    Cyr nodded again. ‘It is possible,’ he conceded.
    ‘This from a sword?’ Granger said.
    Cyr glanced at Marquetta.
    The young prince pressed his lips together and stood in thought for a long moment. He appeared to be scrutinizing Granger. Finally he said, ‘How old are you, Colonel? Fifty years? Or
less?’
    Granger took the young man’s estimate to be an insult and failed to see any point in answering him.
    ‘The sword and the armour that restored your life,’ Marquetta went on, ‘are both vastly older than this world. Older even than the stars in the heavens. It is . . .’ He
hesitated. ‘It is hard for humans to comprehend. They look at a blade or a suit and see metal, steel, plates of alloy . . . or . . .’ Marquetta sighed, trying to find his way.
‘Both artefacts are ideas,’ he said to Granger. ‘Conceived long before this particular cosmos was born. We Unmer try to realize such concepts to understand universal truths.
Truths that often pre-date the universe – in the case of your armour, the concept of entropic order by design. Of course that is quite incompatible with the natural order of the universe,
just as life itself is. The universe is decay. Life resists decay. However, nature is undeniable. Even