by C D Tavenor
Another twang. Followed by another. And another. And another. Reata issues new commands, and more arrows fly into the helpless soldiers even as they raise their shields. At the same time, arrows from the Empire’s own bows rain down upon our formation in constant waves. They’re finally learning. I order our march to cease, lest arrows slip through the gaps that form during our slow shuffle.
“So we let them throw away all their shots?” Wikar asks from beside me.
“Indeed.” I sigh. “We can wait, at least until they adjust. We’ve waited a long time for this day. Let’s wait a little longer.”
For a time, we crouch beneath the incessant rain of cedar and copper. The rhythm becomes a melody in the dark, pounding uselessly against our steel. I stare toward our enemy, and they slowly back away from us. We’ll lose our advantage if they retreat too far.
Through the slit, I witness a new sight emerge. Red light arcs above the battlefield, traveling a steady course straight for our position.
“What new devilry is this?” Wikar exclaims.
“I don’t know.” I clench my hand around the shaft of my spear. “Do you trust me?”
“Don’t ask that question.”
I let out an involuntary chuckle. “Hammer!”
In swift transition, Zet charges forward, shield straight ahead yet at a slight angle above his head to deflect any incoming arrows. I follow in stride beneath the massive hulk of metal, and by my side, Wikar and his own shieldbearer join the sprint. Behind us, everyone falls in step, and we, the Hammer of Lethotar, lash at the Empire’s troops. We collide even as my Legion cries in anguish behind me, experiencing the pain and torment of whatever the accursed imperial Inquisitors have beset upon us.
Now the real battle begins.
I leap into the fray, Flame of Maripes striking out from behind Zet’s shield. It slices open the cheek of one foe, and, while pulling the moonstone blade back, I whip it to the side, slicing the face of another paleskin. They bleed a much lighter red, but it’s still red.
“To arms!” I cry, but I know Yero has already begun his charge. My Master of the Blade ached for his weapon to strike at these bastards, and now that the battle’s started outright, his swordsmen can join the fight. The archers of the Empire will cease their fire, lest they kill their own men. Reata, too, will cease her fire, at least until she puts troops further along the bridge in range.
A spear juts toward my neck, but I step back, out of its reach. Every time I enter battle with the paleskins, I marvel at their diminutive size. At least a head shorter than us, they’ve only managed to win this war because of their sheer numbers. When the people of the Three Valleys field five thousand soldiers, the Empire brings twenty thousand. When we field two thousand, the Empire charges with ten thousand. They always bring enough to overpower, but never so much that it’s a massacre. They know how many soldiers they need to win, and how many they can sustainably feed. Their strategy has intelligence, and I pity its use to obliterate my people. In another life, perhaps I could have shared a bottle of cherry wine, fresh from the grove, with the enemy’s commander.
I strike out with Flame above Zet’s planted shield, this time in a wide arc. The blade slices through three spearmen, sending them sprawling to the ground. Even as I take down these opponents, I look to my left. A spear has pierced Wikar’s neck; the lieutenant falls. A new spearman steps forward to take his place, yet the future is clear. Even as we kill our enemy, we fall, and we can only fall so many times.
Shouts emanate from the Empire’s troops, and the spearmen retreat a few dozen meters to reorganize their battle line. For a moment, I question the tactic, but their reasoning doesn’t take long to reveal itself.
Marching forward through their ranks, the telltale armor of their knights clinks like coins in a purse. Finally, a battle worth our mettle. A few seconds later, I feel the pitter-patter of raindrops strike the sunsteel beneath my feet, my helmet, my hands. My ear twitches, feeling the leafy touch of the rose given by my husband. It still rests there, unmoved. A night truly worth remembering.
◆ ◆ ◆
I was fourteen, sitting by the fire, my mother and father lounging under blankets beside me.
“You know the legend of our Lord, yes, my son?” Maripes said.
“Of course, father,” I replied.
“But do you know the truth behind the legend?”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Maripes stood and walked to the mantle above the fireplace. He grabbed a massive rock and gingerly placed it on the ground in front of me. “Moonstone. You know I work it. You know I use it. Do you know why it is holy to our people?”
I furled my brow. “I don’t, father.”
“Most don’t know this part of our story,” said Vona. “Moonstone is holy to our people for it was given to us by the Lord as a gift. Its true power comes from him, for he used it to destroy our enemies in the War before Time.”
“What can it do?”
Maripes laughed, sitting down next to me again. “That’s the thing; no one knows all it can do. I know what I can do with it, but I don't know what it can do.”
“What’s the difference?”
Vona raised her eyebrows. “Only the Lord knows.”
IX
Seventy-five of our men and women have fallen. By my estimates, we’ve killed five hundred enemies. Not enough.
Thunder cracks above us, lightning tingling inside my spear each time its crash rattles the sky. Since their arrival on the battlefield, I’ve killed five knights, piercing their armor between the neck and chest. Yero died three hours ago, but Zet still stands by my side, having dropped his shield in favor of his warhammer. The pouring rain drenches our skin, but the sun will soon rise. I await its growing warmth.
We may hold the line, yet we face an endless throng of paleskin Imperial soldiers. The battle lulls, for both sides tire of fighting, even as our enemy brings fresh troops to the line. It’s late. We all desire sleep. Nevertheless, Zet and I step forward. I know they can’t understand me, but I will speak regardless, hoping my words strike fear in their minds.
“You have fought bravely, but you have seen your brothers fall,” I say. I’ve always found it ridiculous that the Holy Empire refuses to let women fight. “Why throw your lives away? You have no chance. We are the harbinger of your death.”
The soldiers take steps back, pointing their spears at me even as fifteen meters separate us. They murmur in their strange language—short, guttural sounds, like crackling ice.
“I am Mono, son of Maripes, bane of your existence.” I pound my chest with my gauntlet, the iron on iron clang echoing through the rain. “I have slain hundreds, if not thousands of your kin over these fifteen long years, do you have anyone who can face me?”
I don’t expect a response, but a soldier in white and gray chainmail armor steps forward. He holds an ornate sword in hand, and through the eye-slits of his helmet, I see pale blue eyes and blonde hair. The blade’s made of sunsteel—must be one of their few artifacts from a time before time. A hero. However, he will not die a hero as long as I stand. I will strike this puny paleskin down, for I too, am a hero for my people.
“You are the accursed ones, the ones who scourge this earth,” the man says, and to my surprise, it’s in my own language. “We will cleanse the world of your filth, and claim this land as foretold in the prophecies. Just like we cleansed the world of Maripes.”
“My father was a great man.”
“He died for his crimes. It was a magnificent day.”
The soldier enters a combat stance, and I lower Flame, ready for this ridiculous duel. Zet takes a few steps backward, and behind me, my troops begin their chant.
“Mono, Mono, Mono, Mono.”
“I don’t know how you know our language,” I say, “but in this final hour, you gain one measure of respect in my mind.” I don’t know why I say it, but it seems the right thing to do. I’m trying to ignore his comments regarding my father, b
ut . . .
“I neither need nor desire respect from you.” The soldier lunges, his sword held in both hands. His sword—it glistens. It’s sunsteel. Curious.
I bend my knees, stepping to the side to catch the swordsman off guard and use his momentum against him. As if expecting the counter, the swordsman twirls, bringing his blade in an arc toward me. I parry the attack with the sunsteel shaft of my spear, pushing the sword away. As the identical metals clash, the hero’s eyes widen, as if he hadn’t expected the power of my weapon.
“I am Mono.” I whip my weapon toward the man’s head, but he ducks. Another thunder crack emanates from the heavens. “My father was Maripes!” I jab with my moonstone spear point, but my opponent parries. “Your people murdered him in cold blood.” A decade’s worth of spite lacing my words, I kick the chest of the paleskin, flinging him backward.
“Your people have murdered throughout your entire existence!” cries the hero, water dripping from his helmet. “One crime does not outweigh an eternity of evil. And your father committed the greatest crime of all.”
“We are the people of Light; we fight for love and life, not death.”
“Liar!”
The swordsman somersaults backward just out of my reach. A tactical mistake, putting his back to me, but I fail to take advantage of the acrobatic folly. Instead, I position my right shoulder forward, my left hand on the back half my Flame. I will defeat this boy; the war will continue. It’s taken too long already. The silly paleskin pulls his fist out of a pouch at his hip; it’s not clear what he holds. In one hand, his sword dangles at his side. The other conceals a secret.
“Don’t play tricks with me,” I say.
He charges. While closing the gap, the boy throws the contents of his hand into the air, a fine dust cloud descending. Even the pouring rain cannot clear it, and the particles crash into my eyes.
He has no honor.
Darkness envelops me, mixed with flashes of white light, eyes burning as if acid drenches my pupils. Before I comprehend my circumstance, inferno pain flares, a blade crashing into my collarbone.
The faces of Ero and Ermo drift across my clouded vision, safely at home. My bones echo the cries of my men, seeing their commander fall. As if they’ve always been there, my parents watch from above. A voice says, “Look to the east.”
Forcing my neck to bend through the cloudy darkness, I see white. Beautiful light, but it’s not sunlight. The sun hasn’t yet peeked over the mountaintops. A mighty hand much more powerful than my own strikes out from the rain clouds above, and, raising my weapon in defiance, power surges through my soul. It travels to my toes, to my fingertips, to the tip of my spear along its shaft. The core of this newfound source of strength forms where the sunsteel of my weapon meets its moonstone pike.
Even as blood drips down my chest, I heave Flame of Maripes with both hands, arcing it in a powerful sweep. The energy surging through my body clears my vision, and in icy clarity, the paleskin steps back, already preparing his killing blow. He’s not yet realized my transformation, for only I see the truth only in my mind.
My spear, my father’s spear, my Lord’s spear slices straight through the hero’s helmet, onward through his neck, and partway through his shoulder before it finds air again. The blade continues its path until it connects with the sunsteel of the Bridge of our Lord, the very bridge laid in place by my Lord of Light. It’s my bridge now. A shockwave crackles and shatters, and as I drop to my knees, the surface below me fractures. Releasing Flame, I fall face forward to the ground. The sunsteel breaks, the expanse welcoming me.
It also welcomes my enemy.
As I fall, I twirl in the air, watching half a bridge crumble with me. Hundreds—no—thousands of paleskins cry in terror as they plummet to their deaths, but I smile, for I look toward our side of the bridge. My troops are alive, halfway across the massive causeway, where their enemy cannot reach them. Can never reach them. My final moment of life is one of happiness and joy. For drifting before my eyes, I, Mono, see Ero’s rose. I’ve saved him. Ermo. My Legion. My people.
◆ ◆ ◆
Ero tills the soil of his garden. Ermo plays in the dirt, building mounds into castles. She’s so beautiful, and Ero wishes Mono could've seen what she’d look like once grown. Their daughter deserves a better life.
“Dad, what’s father doing right now?” Ermo says.
Ero looks to the sky, seeing the sun reach mid-day. The night’s rain clouds have already disappeared. If Mono’s predictions about the battle are correct, then they’d be commencing the fight just about now.
“Well, I imagine he’s telling his troops the Prophecy, their Rite of War, as he calls it.”
“The one he recites every night?”
Ero digs at the soil with the hoe. “Yes, you know how it goes.” Satisfied, he drops a seed into the new hole.
Looking up from her dirt castles, she says, “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.”
Ero smiles. “You’ll make a wonderful teacher someday. Do you know the next verse?”
“No, father never said it.”
“It’s not a verse for the warriors. It’s a verse for the people.”
“What’s it say?”
Resting the hoe against the side of the house, Ero sits in the dirt next to his daughter. “So says our Lord. 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.” He pauses. “This is the part most forget: And when I return to your side, my sacrifice will usher in a new age. A Daughter of the Lord will rise to the throne, and no longer will the world know us as the accursed ones. No longer will they know us as the orcs. They will know us as the People of Light, our true form. The People of Peace. The People of Love.”
“I don’t get it.” She returns to her dirt castles.
Drumbeats resound through the streets far below their cliffside home, and Ero recognizes their meaning. Their double meaning. Their Commander has fallen, but the Fifth Legion returns, victorious. He looks toward his daughter. Their daughter. The Lord of Light’s daughter. “Love, I’ve never understood until today.”
Thunder of Ermo
You will usher in a new age.
For whom?
X
I walk along the bridge, suffocated by the entourage of priests, soldiers, and clan leaders. The upcoming coronation is dumb. Unnecessary. They’ve decided my fate; why have an entire ceremony devoted to telling me who I am?
My father, Ero, is on my left. I remember his words from the morning: “In the end, it’s your choice. You must accept the mantle; otherwise, your power is meaningless.” Here’s the problem no one seems to understand.
I don’t want power.
I want freedom.
After hours upon hours of agonizing walking without purpose, we reach the Edge. Just a few meters away, the fractured bridge disappears, kilometers of empty expanse expanding below. A few hundred meters away, the remainders of the northern section of the bridge remain—beyond, forsaken land.
We halt, and my dad’s hands rest on my shoulders. High Priest Reano turns to face me, his back to the Edge. “Step forward, Ermo, daughter of Ero, daughter of Mono, daughter of our Lord of Light.”
I step forward.
“Do you accept the task laid at your feet, established by scripture and brought forth through prophecy by the actions of your father?”
Right to the point, then. It’s been ten years since my father died, and they’re certainly brushing past the details to get on with their ritual. No consideration for what I want. “I accept the task,” I say.
“And what is your task?”
They want me to say . . . they want me to declare a task to bring restitution to our people. To propos
e a world where we no longer cower behind the Chasm, our sole source of protection from the Holy Empire. They desire a declaration of my divinity, the heralded daughter of the Lord of Light ready to step into her role as savior.
“My task . . .” I look up and behind, at my father.
“I am the beacon of light . . .” he whispers.
I thought I had a choice. Instead, even my father—my father—is pushing me toward an unwanted fate.
“My task . . .”
“I am the Daughter of Light,” he adds.
“My task?” I step out from under my father’s entrapping hands. “My task? My task? I will find my own way.”
I dart beneath the outstretched hands of the High Priest, not bothering to catch his glance of surprise. Stepping toward the Edge, the expanse welcomes me. A decade ago, my father broke this bridge, fracturing our connection to the world beyond. A voice groans in my soul, telling me to jump.
Do it.
What am I thinking? I’ll die. There’s no question.
Jump.
No. This is insane.
You wanted a different destiny. I’ve opened a path for you.
I jump.
◆ ◆ ◆
I never knew my mother. Or, I suppose, I should call her my aunt. She died when I was only a few months old. In the middle of the war, she died not from useless slaughter, but from the common pox. Her death was preventable. The nectar of the yellowbrush bush cures the ailment instantly.
Except by the time she contracted the disease, the Holy Empire controlled the cliffs where the yellowbrush grow. She died. Within three weeks. Ero, her brother, and his husband, Mono, became my fathers. I remember loving Mono. A long time ago, when I was a small child, I remember his touch, his gentle grasp, even though I rarely saw him.
The war with the Holy Empire tore my family apart too many times. I hate everything they stand for. Yet . . . I am not the vessel my people believe me to be. I am not the weapon to destroy the Holy Empire. The prophecy was wrong; I cannot finish what my father started above the Chasm, ten years ago.
