The onna-musha smiled with closed eyes.
“Thank you for the fight.”
Over the cold edge of my blade, Tomoe took a last breath and returned.
Her body, her hands, and Masamune dissolved into hundreds of cherry petals that rained down the hall.
How… why… damn you.
“I don’t know what will happen to you if I’m gone, so you might as well try to help me.”
Help the captor who keeps me in this steel prison?! I’m not sure if you are stupid or insane.
“I had nothing to do with it. If it were up to me, I would keep Masamune and set you free. Alas, I have no choice. Blame Azazel.”
He too shall have the retribution he deserves!
I got up off the floor and stretched my neck sideways. I was fine even though Azazel’s wound still burned.
Chuck’s runes blinked. What was that oriental sword?
“Japanese,” I corrected him. “It’s a spiritual weapon with a soul inside. Just like yourself.”
Not like me. It was weak. Kind. Irrelevant.
“When forging Masamune, its blacksmith was challenged by a rival to put their swords in a stream and cut the current. The rival’s sword, Muramasa, also known as Ten Thousand Cold Nights, sliced everything in its path—fish, leaves floating across the stream that touched the blade, and even the current itself. As for Masamune, fishes avoided it at the last second, leaves bumped into it and continued on their way. The current gently divided its flow through the weapon.
Ha! A useless weapon indeed.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Muramasa shredded everything without discrimination, revealing itself malignant and bloodthirsty. Masamune cut nothing that didn’t deserve it and would hurt nothing innocent. Which one do you think won the challenge?”
And the god of fear knew respect.
Tomoe’s strength spilled a flood of memories into my head. Her fights, her life, her relentless ferocity compared to that of a butter-haired female angel, as stubborn as the eastern warrior. But she also kept her beauty and showed her gentle side with whom deserved it.
She was Beelzebub, master of a unique will and indomitable spirit. I fought by her side in the angels’ rebellion, shoulder to shoulder, facing her brothers. But to say I fought seemed tiny near the hurricane that was Beelzebub. She was unmatched in battle, quick, precise, an army of one. But the disadvantage was too great; the battle, lost, the rebels defeated from the start. They tore her wings along with her pride. Her tiny energy waned in the Limbo, distant, trapped, isolated until the end of time.
And I was sure my memory had been altered. Because I was not an angel, but I fought alongside the rebels for the cause, as Azazel had told me. Everything was still scrambled, wavy, but that little memory was a lapse of lucidity. Why did I join the rebellion?
My translucent body rippled, becoming a little more visible than before.
We walked back into the darkness as the atmosphere faded. The third soul would represent justice. Someone who acted justly on Earth, who would spare no effort to keep his share of goods and all parts of evil. Someone to respect equality and proportion and spread it to his fellows.
So, I chose the paladin of the Franks, Charlemagne’s champion, the bearer of Oliphant, the scourge of the Saracens, the hammer of the order, the defender Roland.
4
THE SONG OF JUSTICE
What do you think about sending me to Earth? I can help them by creating a kingdom of fear and making them never leave their homes.
“No, thank you. There’s enough of that there already.”
The sound of forgotten souls reverberated through the surrounding emptiness.
Who shall be the next fortunate one?
“Roland.”
We followed in the pitch-black as everything around us filled out.
Why? Chuck asked me.
“Because he is righteous, and Earth needs justice.”
Justice? What a joke. Earth thrives on chaos.
“That’s why justice must be done. It will exist provided people uphold it.”
Should one man deliver justice to all others? Yes, of course, and it shall be done according to his own idea of justice. Naive fool. Every human brings injustice within themselves. I’ve seen it.
“Justice belongs to no one. Everyone must exert it, and Roland will be the spark to stir this flame.”
And will he renounce his own interests?
“No need for that. He will bring his own interests to justice, not the other way around. He aims for equality.”
Ha!
I was in a gorge surrounded by trees. Bloodstained grass squished under my tread. The mutilated bodies of a recent battle—that had actually happened centuries ago—piled up around. I was in the Roncesvalles valley in Navarre, where Roland fought his last battle and perished.
Roland was the leader of the Twelve Pairs. Yes, twelve. They were the group of elite paladins of Charlemagne, Emperor of the Franks. They were always at the army vanguard, leading another twenty thousand men. Each paladin had a companion to fight by his side. Olivier was Roland’s companion. A brave and wise knight, whose sister was Roland’s bride.
During the Franks’ campaign in Spain, the Saracens had surrendered and promised to convert to Christianity. Charlemagne then returned to the Frankish Kingdom. Passing through the Pyrenees, the Emperor realized the place was conducive to ambushes and positioned the Twelve Pairs at the rear. And, as he feared, when the rearguard passed Roncesvalles’ narrow gorge, thousands of Saracens brought war cries, steel, and death.
Ganelon, Roland’s stepfather and one of the Twelve Pairs, had betrayed his army and his country.
Roland, listening to Olivier’s advice, blew Oliphant, his horn, made of a unicorn’s horn, according to legend. The traitor Ganelon, however, was at the vanguard beside the Emperor and convinced him it was only a joke from Roland while hunting with the others. Hearing the signal only once, Charlemagne believed him and ignored the call. Roland had to face the ambush with his twenty thousand men, at a disadvantage of fifteen to one.
And the multitude of enemies brought hell to Roland and his allies. Hopeless, suffering irreversible casualties, they still fought stoically. Against all expectations, the tiny army stopped the first assault, forcing the Saracens to regroup.
But the massacre continued. Several of the Twelve Pairs fell during the battle, but Roland avenged them, hunting their slayers one by one, carelessly making his way over enemy troops. His every step brought death, every enemy was a stone in the way, kicked aside. His sword whirled and quenched his bloodlust.
The inevitable end approached. Roland feared his death would not be avenged and that the enemies would wreak even more havoc on his Emperor’s army. Why didn’t Charlemagne come to his rescue? He blew Oliphant three more times, so hard that blood splashed from his nose and mouth, bursting the paladin’s veins.
Only then did Charlemagne maneuver his army to assist the rear. But it was too late.
The King of Zaragoza, Marsilius, aware of the nearing conclusion, entered the battlefield to personally crush Roland. Marsilius kills Olivier and two other paladins, setting Roland in an uncontrollable rage. He raced to the King and severed his hand, making him flee. Marsilius’ son sought revenge but found Roland’s sword, and the paladin beheaded the prince.
The enemies looked upon that figure bathed in blood, all hatred and death, as the god of war himself, and hesitated. They retreated to regroup for a third time.
When Charlemagne finally arrived, Roland and the rearguard were already dead.
I climbed that gorge and with every step I heard the splash of blood under my feet. The wind shook the treetops as the eternal sunset lit the scene with its sad, faded yellow.
Roland rode Veillantif slowly, aimlessly. His eyes were lost and desolate, his shoulders slumped. This was where he thought he should spend the rest of his days. He reeked of blood.
“Who would you be, spirit of light?” Roland demande
d, straightening his spine. His dark-sand curly hair matched his beard stubble. Except for the helmet, he donned a full battle armor, a glorious warrior sight. The steel plates, polished to shine, had a strong, flawless aspect, without scratches or dents. Gilded details outlined the pieces, and a huge cross adorned the middle of the chest. But the armor didn’t matter, since it was just Roland’s appearance. Heavy or light, it would never prevent the attack of a spiritual weapon.
Oliphant hung on his waist, opposite of a sheathed sword. That one was cause for concern.
“I have no identity,” I lied. I wish I could remember. “I’m a symbol.”
“Symbol of what?”
“Of hope. This battle is over, paladin. Charlemagne arrived with the rest of the army and crushed his enemies. He conquered the Kingdom of Zaragoza and executed King Marsilius.”
His eyes, the same sandy color as his hair, filled with water. Roland didn’t stare at me. He pursed his lips and lowered his head. “Charlemagne… Olivier… I have failed my Emperor, my brothers, and my people.” His voice was a whisper. Tears dripped on the back of the imposing stallion.
“Ganelon betrayed you. Thierry fought on your behalf in the Judicial Combat against Ganelon and won. The traitor was killed painfully.”
He lifted his tear-stained face and red eyes. “Good Thierry… a part of the justice was done, then.
“What is justice to you?” I asked, more for Chuck to hear than me. Roland narrowed his eyes. Veillantif whinnied and shook his head. The rider dismounted, and the stallion grazed that bloody grass.
“Justice is about making choices,” Roland said. “Sometimes… sometimes all we have are two wrong choices to make. But it matters not. One must bear the burden of that choice, knowing full well there is another side thinking of their own way of justice, the other choice.
“How do you know your decision is better than others’?”
“I don’t. I can but put myself in their shoes and do my best.” Chuck shifted uncomfortably. Roland continued, “If it were as easy as a fork in a road… one good, one evil. Two ways, two choices. So simple, so clear…” His gaze became distant.
“And in wars, what is fair?” I kept urging him on.
“Nothing. No war is fair.” Roland approached the gorge’s edge and looked at the sky. “Maybe sometimes necessary. Violence is justified when its absence would be worse. But it’s never fair or innocent. If we reduce justice to necessity, it vanishes. There would never be justice, only the useful and the harmful.”
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, reflecting. “Why so many questions?”
Chuck’s dark presence grew lighter, diminishing his insane and rotten aura.
“Roland, you can’t stay here anymore. The past is done and there’s no way to change it. Make your choice. Do you want justice or forgiveness?”
He scratched his chin.
“I will take this black sword.” I raised my weapon. “And trespass you so you can leave this cursed place.”
“So that is your justice, is it?” Roland asked.
“This is my forgiveness. The justice you will have to do yourself. You will return to Earth with a new chance for redemption.”
“What… what do you mean?”
“I don’t know how, when, where, nor who. But you will come back. Your personality will remain in new flesh. I will send you back, and the choices that plague you will be forgotten. You can make new ones.” I squared my shoulders. “The past is enticing, and we need it to make sense of our lives. We can only analyze who we are when we look back. But it’s a trap. Watch it and leave it, there’s nothing you can change there.”
The paladin considered the possibilities as the wind played with his hair. He peeked at Veillantif and then at me.
“What is this unholy thing?” he asked, nodding toward Chuck.
“It’s the spirit of an ancient, forgotten god seeking redemption.”
Lying worm!
Roland held the golden hilt of his sword for a moment. It was an embossed ornate handle with a jewel attached to the tip. Then he drew it in one swift motion, getting into combat position.
The marvelous blade, unscarred and flawless, reflected the sunset, a beautiful and dangerous image, like a poisoned river.
At the time of his death, Roland tried to break the weapon to prevent it from falling into enemy hands, but found that the relic was indestructible. The paladin hid it, along with Oliphant, beneath his dying body.
That was the sword that belonged to Hector of Troy himself, and its name was Durandal.
He bared his teeth with a grimace. “Stop your lies, demon. What do you want from me? What are you talking about? I am already on Earth!
That was unexpected.
“You’re in Limbo, stuck on the day of your death, where you think you failed.”
“Have you come to tempt me, vile serpent? And to think I almost fell for your devious gab!” He growled and shivered.
Hahahahahaha!
“Father, lead me not into temptation, and deliver me from this evil!”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
“I am no temptation. This second chance comes with a price. You will be reborn and you must put your justice into practice. The choice between the life and death of others will be in your hands. Because I trust you.”
He was disturbed, about to cross the thin line between confusion and insanity.
I spread my legs to form a solid base, held Chuck in front of me and prepared for the attack. “No more telling. Allow me to show you.”
The birds flew chirping the same melodies in their eternal cycle.
The wind blew gently.
And once again steel sang in Roncesvalles.
His movements were agile, and Roland also had strength and technique. His way of dueling seemed out of an explanatory manual—vigorous movements, perfect synchronization of offensive and defensive posture, continuity of attacks in a sequence.
I parried a strike, swerving his sword down, and his hands turned to bring Durandal back in a deadly pendulum. I couldn’t deflect in time and he hit my left arm, slashing from triceps to shoulder. Another black gash tainted my ghostly figure. I gritted my teeth and clenched my jaw. My arm throbbed as if my heart were there. I tried a few moves to gauge the discomfort when wielding the sword. It hurt, but I could handle it.
I shortened the distance by rushing against him, but Roland delivered a powerful shoulder blow to my chest. I flew back and slammed the ground. He dashed toward me, baring his teeth, before I could rise back to my feet.
Roland tried to cut my head off. I threw myself to the floor again, listening to the whirring of steel swinging too close. I rolled to my side and tried to cut his leg, but Roland blocked it with ease. Durandal’s tip flew toward my face. I lifted Chuck in time to deflect and, in the same motion, hit the paladin’s nose with the hilt.
Roland staggered back, making enough room for me to stand, but he quickly recovered. His breathing was heavy, his eyes bloodshot. He struck again, howling and spitting with each blow, frenzied. My arms vibrated each time our swords met. The clink of metal echoed away.
I hit Durandal hard a few times to get it out of his hand, without success. The paladin counterattacked, keeping his distance and never letting himself be pushed too hard. Roland dodged sideways and avoided a stab, trying to pierce me. I wasn’t as fast. He cut my biceps and another piece of night sprouted on my body. I frowned in pain.
Chuck’s tentacles swayed uneasily during the fight. His runes flared from time to time during impacts with Durandal, focused on the duel.
Durandal and Chuck clashed with a loud clang, spitting sparks. We bared our teeth, yelled, and summoned as much strength as we could to end that battle once and for all.
I backed the sword back a little, as if losing energy. My eyes almost closed.
Roland noticed and put his right leg forward, leaning all his weight on it.
I forced his sword to the side, and he tripped over. Everything
seemed slower. His expression changed in slow motion, understanding that the fight was over, but still surprised by the outcome.
Veillantif reared up on his hind legs and whinnied like a maniac.
I turned and cut Roland’s neck. A fissure of black sky opened there.
His arms dropped. Knowledge hit him and he finally realized what would happen. A new chance. He remained serious and nodded once. He would fulfill his role.
Roland disappeared as Oliphant went off loud as an angry thunder, ruffling my skin, making itself heard in every corner of Limbo, Earth, and other worlds.
And all creatures, living or not, unconsciously knew that a righteous champion had returned.
I could feel Chuck deep in thought. “What’s wrong?”
He is a different creature. It seems that not all humans are equal.
Roland’s ideals were contagious.
Still a fool who will be torn apart by his naivety, but different, nonetheless.
Maybe not so much.
“Roland’s thirst for justice will never be quenched. It is his burden and his virtue.”
Chuck apparently understood. At least he fell silent and did not utter any insult, which was already an improvement.
I approached Veillantif and stroked his muzzle. He panted, scuffing the ground, his nostrils flapped, his ears bent forward. He wanted to tell me something.
I looked into his eyes. They were not ordinary horse eyes. Those wide-open black spheres, longing and sorrowful, said all he wanted to show me. I read his wishes like a book. Communication in the Limbo really was universal, and not always verbal.
That horse spent life and death beside Roland, to be separated by me. If the paladin was to be reborn and spread justice, I would start by doing a little of it for him, too. Twelve human souls and an extra one.
“Your companion awaits you,” I whispered.
I closed my eyes and focused on Roland. Veillantif’s head barely hit the ground, and he faded away to meet his friend in another life.
Limbo Page 4
