Legacy of Light

by C D Tavenor

  I pound my spear twice into the stump, and my troops reply with a guttural hurrah. “We play our part in history. This supposed Holy Empire may wish to erase us from their history, but tomorrow, we will ensure all who face us, face our blades, face our spears, face our arrows, face our hammers—we will ensure they know and remember us for the rest of their lives. Lives we shall shorten considerably, throwing them deep into the pits and rocks of the Chasm!"

  It’s not a perfect speech, but it’s the best I can do. We all know our duty. I see it in Reata’s eyes, in Zet’s toothy grin, in Yero’s crooked stance, my Bearer of the Shield. “We will fight with honor, we will win with honor, and we will die with honor. However the Lord wills the outcome of today’s battle, we embrace it with open arms.”

  I roar my battle cry, a deep inhuman shout into the evening sky. The Fifth Legion joins, their voices cascading and creating a crescendo of five hundred soldiers prepared for war. I find hope in knowing our loved ones can hear the sound from their homes, even deep in the cliff-side streets of the city.

  “We face them at the Bridge of our Lord.” My spear points northward. “Every last one of us will fall before our enemy crosses the Chasm. For Lethotar, for the Lord of Light, for the love we protect behind these walls, we will fight forever!”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  When I was a child, I often traveled with my mother, Vona. She’d married Maripes to cement an alliance between the Woodland and Iron clans, and her people lived in the treetops above the River Wi, their forest cities sometimes spanning kilometers above the rushing waters.

  I loved visiting those trees, swinging from house to house on vines or clomping across rope bridges spanning hundreds of meters. My favorite memory? Hiking with mother to observe the bolog. We would enter the cherry groves managed by her pa, and, lumbering amongst the tree trunks, we always found one or two of the creatures.

  “Why don’t they eat us?” I asked, our silent footsteps rounding the edge of a massive auburn redwood.

  “That’s a good question, my son,” she replied. “The bolog do not eat us because we do not threaten them. It’s that simple. We have a symbiotic relationship with them. We provide them food, we provide them safe shelter amongst our groves, and in return, they protect our flocks, our crops, our lands from pestilence.”

  We trotted down the trail, arriving at a clearing. Leaning against a tree was a particularly large bolog, its scaly arms and legs the width of the trunks nearby. I was no larger than its chest. Full-grown bolog grew to six or seven meters in height, but this one was nearly fifteen or sixteen meters tall. Thick, grey skin covered its arms and legs, its stomach and neck a patchy white. Its back, armored like stone, reminded me of the turtles that swam in the creeks of Lethotar.

  Unfazed by the massive creature, my mother walked straight to it, handing it the dead rabbit clipped to her belt.

  “Thik,” she said, “I’ve brought you lunch.”

  The bolog peered down at us, a strange smile crossing its face. It grunted, but it reached out its massive hand. With two fingers, it took the corpse dangling from Vona’s outstretched arm. In one gulp, it swallowed the snack whole. It pushed against the tree, and I could hear the branches high above creak from the strain.

  “They are harmless,” said my mother. “Our friends.”

  VII

  I step onto the bridge, its metallic sheen reflecting the moonlight high above. My three captains walk by my side, and in the distance, the war horns of our enemy reverberate, though they’ve not yet arrived at the canyon. Kilometers below, the river flows as it has always flowed. To the west and east, the gorge expands in glory.

  It is our final line of defense. The bridge is the only way to cross the river, and the Council decreed: we, the Fifth Legion, will hold our ground, ensuring not a single enemy makes it to the walls of our home. Its solid form symbolizes our dauntless resolve, one single piece of metal cast across the three kilometers of the Chasm, the narrowest section of the canyon. We will fight fathoms above the river for days—weeks, if necessary. We will fight for our families, for our freedom, and for the soldier beside us.

  “Has a battle ever occurred on this bridge?” asks Zet. “I scoured the histories, but I found nothing.”

  “Neither did I,” says Reata.

  “Yero?” I ask.

  “There is one tale, though it comes from legends before our Confederation formed.” Yero scratches his cheek. “And it’s from before this bridge existed. I think it applies. We all know it well.”

  I nod, clasping Zet on the shoulder. “We do, but you should remind us. We must remember who fights with us today.” I try to smile, more for my own sake than their own, but my lips can’t move.

  Yero scans the breadth of the canyon. “Our Lord of Light stood on this side of the gorge, facing down his enemies, the demons of Hell. He smote them with lightning. Upon their deaths, he molded this bridge from sunsteel, connecting Lethotar to the other kingdoms. Before long, the people of Lethotar became the people of the Three Valleys; the People of Light.”

  “I thought that was an apocryphal legend,” Reata says. "More importantly, I thought he used moonstone."

  I give my Master of the Bow a sideways look. “More importantly? I don’t think it’s time to argue dogmatic semantics. The story has power. Use it in your soul.”

  “If the Lord stands with us today, where—”

  A trumpet sounds from the other side of the gorge, cutting her words into pieces. I turn toward the noise, looking for signs of our enemy. To reach us, they must cross all three kilometers of the bridge. To reach Lethotar, they must meet us in battle. We’ll face them in the center of the expanse above the Caris, forcing them to fight on our terms. At its widest, the bridge can hold fifteen soldiers at a time. We have the advantage.

  “I do not expect them to attack tonight,” I say. “It would be quite foolhardy of them to assault this position while we have the cover of darkness. But . . . we will be ready.”

  I pull Flame of Maripes from my back, holding it to my side. The shaft rests on the sunsteel of the bridge, and a tiny jolt runs up my arm as the two identical metals touch. “Bearer of the Shield, you will follow my men and me in pairs to the center of the bridge. They will not break us.” I don’t look at my captains; I continue to stare across the void toward our unseen enemy. “Master of the Blade, your men will hold in reserve behind the Master of the Bow, until I give the command to charge. Master of the Bow, you will stay out of range of their archers—we know our arrows reach further. Otherwise, give them hell from the sky. We will make them face us on the ground, where we will win.”

  The words taste like ash in my mouth. We’ve all stepped foot onto this bridge to die for our families. We will not win. Strategy and tactics don’t matter anymore. I turn to face my troops one final time, doom beginning to overwhelm reason. Thoughts of the Lord of Light surge from my subconscious soul in attempt to give hope, but he can’t breach the shadows clouding my mind. Even still, I prepare to speak the remaining rites of war, the passage heard before every battle for the last fifteen years.

  I don’t believe it anymore. My brothers and sisters probably don’t either. For the first time, though, I’m the one who will utter the verses. I glance at my spear, moonlight brilliantly reflecting off the ever-sharp spear point at my weapon’s tip. If only my father could actually fight by my side today. Raising the weapon to the sky and inhaling the cool night air, fear evacuates my heart. Somehow.

  “Fifth Legion!” I cry. “We are the bastion of hope for our people. We are the last bulwark, the final defense. We stand, we fight, we die. Yet we still live!”

  I can see the eyes of every soldier; they glint with starlight, terrified and brave. Even those I can’t see, I know their eyes. I know all five hundred men and women standing before me. I’ve trained them, I’ve sparred with them, I’ve raised them since they were babes. I close my eyes.

  “I declare to you the words of our Lord of Light!” Raising Flame o
f Maripes further into the sky, I point its shaft toward the Moon. “In the final hour of our people, I will return to fight by your side. I will stand beside you, before you, above you, beneath you, and behind you. When all hope has lost, regain it, for I will smite the stones that block your path, rend the rivers that oppose you, and return peace to the land of our people.”

  “So says our Lord,” my soldiers reply in unison. “We fight for him as he fought for us; we fight for our love as he fought for us. We fight for Lethotar as he fought for us!”

  I roar, turning to face the far side of the bridge. I cannot see its composition, yet an army slowly steps onto the battlefield. Marching in columns, they’re like copper and iron toys ready for us to cast into the icy depths below.

  “Perhaps you are wrong, brother,” says Yero. “Perhaps they attack tonight.”

  “Better now than later.”

  Interjection

  “Why I have no grandpa?”

  “He left a long time ago, my Ermo.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know the best way to tell you.”

  “You can tell truth.”

  “I don’t know if you’re ready.”

  “I ready.”

  “Grandpa died fighting the Empire.”

  “So how?”

  “You know my spear?”

  “The Flame of Maripes.”

  “I named it after him, because of how he died.”

  “Why?”

  “They wanted our moonstone and sunsteel weapons. They can’t make them, you see. They have no sources, and they don’t know how to bend the metals.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. However, your Grandpa could, and he offered to teach them. He proposed a trade between our peoples. We’d trade moonstone and sunsteel, and they’d give us free passage through their lands. Open their borders. Let our people interact and learn from them. Even travel to the southern nations or beyond, across the seas and deserts leading to distant lands.”

  “What Grandpa do?”

  “Grandpa taught them, and after they believed he’d taught enough, they killed him.”

  “But Grandpa fought back?”

  “Oh Ermo, how he fought. He didn’t tell them a single thing.”

  “I think I know now. He stood up to them. Like a bully.”

  “He was a flame until the end, my Ermo, and he died doing what he loved. Helping people. He tried to stall the inevitable. But he didn’t realize he faced a truly impossible task.”

  “Do you face an impossible task, father?”

  How could I lie to my daughter? How could I tell her I don’t know what actually happened to my father, that no one does? That one day, he left on his mission, and we never heard from him again? Just . . . the next we knew, the Holy Empire arrived and ignited the war anew. We knew he failed. We just didn’t know why.

  VIII

  The bridge rumbles. It shouldn’t rumble. The enemy troops don’t put that much force in their steps. We don’t put that much force into our steps.

  Something is wrong.

  “Master of the Bow, what do you see?” I say, squinting.

  “I cannot see that well in the dark, Commander, but I see an impending charge, just like you.” Reata pulls out her spyglass, staring through the long ocular tube. Her eyes widen. “Probably two kilometers out still.”

  “Composition?”

  “Unknown. Wait. It’s not horses. They’re not charging with cavalry. I think I see—no.”

  She hands me the spyglass. I almost don’t want to look, but the instrument rises to my eye, and I peer through the lens. It focuses, and in the dim light, I can see a dozen or so beasts charging across the bridge. Larger than anything the Empire has ever fielded, I can’t believe what I see.

  “The bolog.” The spyglass drops, shattering at my feet. “They’ve tamed the bolog.”

  Stifled gasps explode behind me, and I chastise my stupidity. Fear had dripped into my words.

  “Tamed them?” Yero’s exasperated breaths are behind me. “Not tamed. They must have starved them.”

  “Is there a difference at the moment?” Broken glass crunches beneath my boot, and I face my Master of the Blade. “They are now our enemy, whatever has happened to them.”

  “Yes, in fact there is.” Yero crosses his arms. “It means they don’t care what they attack. The bolog starve. Let’s give them something else to eat, in addition to us.”

  I nod, understanding and recognizing the plan. “We charge.” I face all three of my Masters at once, the enemy at my back.

  Zet and Reata both bare their teeth. “Yes,” they say in unison. “We charge.”

  Yero shakes his head. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “We know bolog, Yero.” My legs pivot, knees bent, spear pointed toward our enemy. “They do not. Do you not remember our days as children, do you not remember playing spook the bolog?”

  Their grins burn the back of my neck as they recognize the truth in my words. I hear Yero pull his greatsword from its harness on his back, signaling his agreement with the plan.

  “Shieldbearers!" I shout, preparing our cadence. “Spearmen! Archers! And Blades!”

  Zet lowers his massive shield in front of me. Behind us, the unsheathing of blades, the clink of weapons hitting steel, the twanging of bowstrings, it all crashes through the night’s stillness. Five hundred legionnaires prepare to charge. Our finest hour.

  “One hundred twenty paces!” I bellow the words, and a metronome ticks inside my mind.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Our charge begins, Maripes in my left hand as I jog.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Zet’s stride perfectly matches mine.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Wikar marches beside me. Yero and Reata have returned to their companies. We each command one hundred and twenty-four men, each ready to die today.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Our eternal stampede shakes the bridge. Ahead, we see the bolog, immense globs of saliva dripping from their mouths. Massive scars lace their stomachs.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Not only did the Empire starve them, it tortured them. Once peaceful creatures reduced to beasts. Tears well in my eyes. If only I could give them Ero’s rose. They were more than mere carnivores.

  Two steps.

  Per second.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Tiny, stray pebbles crack beneath my feet.

  Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.

  The mighty steps of the bolog shake the entire bridge, but it holds strong. They’re just fifty meters from us, so it’s time for phase two to begin.

  “Two hundred paces! War cry!”

  Our march transitions into a full sprint, and our five hundred voices roar. No context nor substance emanates from it, for the roar is that of anger, that of strength, that of fear, that of love. The bolog understand; the bolog stop. The bolog cower, and the bolog run—back to their torturous masters.

  “One hundred sixty paces!” As we slow, the bolog pull ahead on their reverse rampage. In less than a minute, they smash into the troops hidden behind their initial charge.

  “As I suspected,” I utter through my labored breaths. “They hoped. To mask. Their own attack. They will. Pay.”

  Zet replies with a simple grunt.

  I run a few numbers in my head, counting the number of strides taken over the duration of our charge. Six minutes have passed—we’re nearing the center of the expanse. Perfect.

  “Hold!” Five paces later, we halt our march. “Turtle!”

  Shields rise, spears ready, and soldiers crouch. A shieldbearer behind me shadows us with his immense arms. From the outside, we’ve created our impenetrable cocoon.

  “Volley!”

  I don’t need to look over my shoulder to trust Reata’s heard my words. The beautiful crescendo of bowstrings
resounds, and through the slit between Yero’s shield and the next scale of our chrysalis, chaos unfolds. The bolog smash their arms into the supposed Holy Empire’s soldiers, and one of them even picks a soldier up, throwing him over the edge. At the same time, a dozen or so spearmen rush a bolog, pierce its flesh, and push it to its death below. Arrows descend upon the scene, and I hear the cries of pain as arrows pierce the Empire's ranks. No bolog falls to the volley, for their armored shells protect them from the attack. They don’t even care, the pieces of wood glancing off their backs like annoying gnats.

  “Bows, range!”

  My archers begin their retreat, and by counting the paces through vibrations, I feel them halt after fifty. They release another volley, and our projectiles descend upon the enemy once more. Another fifty paces. Another volley.

  “Halt!” Reata’s words are distant, but I agree with her unilateral command, unable to provide it from my current position.

  Minutes pass. The Empire defeats the last bolog, shoving it over the side of the bridge and into the Chasm below. As if on a timer, a distant twang shrills through the crisp air. The Empire’s archers have targeted us with their own arrows, but we’re ready. We’ve been ready. Arrows bounce soundly off our shields, clattering harmlessly through the cracks.

  “Twenty paces!”

  We push forward, the turtle remaining in formation until another assault commences.

  “Halt!”

  The gaps close. The arrows pepper our turtle. No casualties.

  “Thirty paces!”

  We’ve closed the gap to twenty meters, and a line of enemy spearmen faces us. Unlike the Legion, the Empire uses leather shields held individually by each foot soldier. They’re mobile, but our weapons can pierce straight through their flimsy shields. They might as well not even use them.

  “I can see the whites of the damn paleskins' eyes,” Zet mutters. “Let’s get this over with already.”

  “Patience, my friend,” I say. “You’ll have your chance.”