Plato's Cave During the Slicer Wars and other short stories
Page 19
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She had listened to the sounds of battle for two nights and what was becoming the third day. She clasped her hands to her ears but the sounds seemed only to echo inside the enclosed space. On the first day she waited for the wounded to arrive. But they never did. Those who were wounded continued to fight until they died.
Every scream, every cry sought out her ears and became the sound of her husband’s last breath. Every sword clash became the thunderous clash of her sword against her husband’s. She relived her own battle a thousand times in those three days, each time ending the same; her husband’s azure eyes fading to nothing.
She wanted to join them, to join her sons, to join Anrew. She couldn’t make her legs move. She wanted to fight the Glagremel, to defend her people. She yearned to again fight by her father’s side, to hold her sword up high and have the warriors chant her name. But her feet would not support her.
Menos’ little sister brought her water but Fahevial’s trembling fingers could not support the cup. The child brought the cup to Fahevial’s lips and poured the tepid water slowly into her mouth. It tasted like copper, like her husband’s blood, like her blood.
She struggled for half a day to move her hand to the hilt of the sword hung at her side. Her hand burned as it closed around the hilt. Rage seeped into her bloodstream and clouded her eyes. She could not fight through the rage but she could not join the battle as long as the rage coursed through her body. Her husband’s face floated in front of her as a reminder of what happened the last time she lost control of herself, his azure eyes fading and flaring and fading again.
She had scolded Menos for weeks, not granting him the Silver Sword until he could contain his rage. She had seen first hand what unchecked rage could do and she wasn’t about to let Menos go through what she had.
The women whispered to each other and pointed in her direction. They cast evil eyes upon her, spat as they walked by and muttered under their breaths how the blood of their husbands was now upon her hands as well.
She had raised her four sons to be great warriors, wasn’t that enough? They stood on the battle line, members of the Silver Swords, and even without seeing them she knew they fought hard and well. Her Silver Swords would take more than their share of the enemy. She had taught them how to fight with a sword, yes, but she had also taught them battle tactics and strategy. As a child she had loved sitting on her father’s lap while he and his soldiers strategized battle plans and defensible fortresses.
She had heard stories, told late at night around the fire, about the battle that terrible day twenty years ago. She remembered none of it, save her husband’s eyes. They say she flew through the enemy ranks, destroying everything she touched. She left in her wake a river of blood, strewn with body parts and pulverized armor. The enemy’s weapons were useless against her, like petals against steel. She whirled through them, driving a wedge to the center where their king fought. She killed their king as if he were a green foot soldier. Then his cousins and uncles. Then she killed the king’s son, her husband.
The enemy surrendered and she stood on the battlefield, bodies fallen around her in circles, blood coursing into the wheat field, running into the streams, turning all the water red. The sun set, its red rays nothing compared to the red on the ground and still she stood stock still.
Her father came to her and pulled her sword from her grasp. It made a sucking sound as it left her fingers. He ushered her toward his tent where his wife cleaned her. She had lain in bed for ten days, her body healing from its cuts and bruises. Her mind, however, took longer. Never a night would pass that she would not see her husband’s azure eyes fade to nothing.
How could she raise her sword again? Would it take the last of her, what little there was left of her? The sword spoke to her, humming against her palm, itching for action. It had been dormant for twenty years and it yearned for its rightful role. Training and tournaments were necessary but it longed for the cut of battle.
A screech echoed around the cavern. She looked up and saw a Glagremel enter the cavern from the back tunnels. They had guards posted at the escape route through the mountain mines; they had not called the alarm. Women screamed but under it she heard the Glagremel’s steel bite into the bone of a child.
She leapt to her feet and ran toward the Glagremel. Her sword sang as she pulled it from its scabbard. It shuddered in pleasure as she separated the Glagremel’s head from its shoulders in a single stroke. She glanced at the mangled child, barely six, and she felt anger bubble in her heart. She turned into the escape tunnel and found a dozen more Glagremels, their steel ready, their teeth bared, breath leaving their mouths in noxious green clouds.
Rage burned through her body at the sight of the creatures and her vision clouded under it. She shook her head and bit her lip, enough to draw blood. Not again. She would not be overcome by her rage again. She took a deep breath, sucked the rage out of her veins and thrust it into her sword.
Her sword took on a life of its own as she entered the tunnel, biting through limbs and organs.
“When they fall, ensure they never rise again,” she shouted to the nearest woman, and continued deeper into the tunnel.
Her sword thrust and cut and swept and sparred. She hacked and stabbed and gouged through the Glagremel warriors. Rage bubbled in her heart and she channeled it into her sword. Her sight never dimmed, her senses didn’t grow cold. She controlled her rage and fought the Glagremels back, away from the women and children and elderly, away from her people, away from her home, away from herself.