Legend of the Swords: War

by Jason Derleth

  They camped on a switchback, and used the last of the firewood that Ryan had brought with them to warm some of the venison. Gregory threw the rest of the meat over the side of the trail, saying that it would be spoiled by the next day anyway.

  “Well, squire,” Armand sneered at Ryan. “You’re lucky—there’s not enough room on this bloody trail for our regular practice.” He turned his sneer towards Gregory. “You get a reprieve until we’re forced to go back down to get food.”

  The clouds near the top of the mountain hadn’t moved, and by the afternoon of the next day, they had climbed far enough to enter the cloud itself. It was the strangest thing that Ryan had ever seen. It was like fog, only it stayed there even though it was late afternoon. Everything got wet, too: their clothes, the horse’s coats, their bags. And once they were wet, the cold got worse.

  I wonder if water is seeping into our bedrolls, too. Ryan thought. They’re pretty tightly rolled, but it wouldn’t do to have mold growing in our beds.

  They could still see, but it was dark, and the mist kept them from seeing very far. As they climbed further, despite the warmth of the summer Sun undoubtedly shining above their heads, they found snow crunching under their boots.

  Ryan felt that they were near the summit when they made camp that evening. He couldn’t really tell how far away the peak was—the cloud cover obscured the peak—but it was cold. For some reason, he was having problems breathing, as well.

  They slept close together that night to keep warmth. For the first night in a while, Gregory didn’t require a watch—Ryan slept much better without having to wake up in the middle of the night.

  The gray mist was still there, the next morning. Ryan grumbled to himself as the three others watched him pack up the camp.

  Hasn’t it been long enough? He thought. And aren’t we in a hurry? If they helped pack, we could be on our way faster. His eyes wandered to the men, all holding their horses’ leads, and met Armand’s for an instant. Armand smiled, and patted his horse’s neck.

  They followed the trail in the diffuse morning light up to where its next switchback should be, but instead of switching back, the trail simply ended, turning into a sheer rock face.

  Armand looked at Gregory, snorted, and sat down. “What now, O Great Leader?” He asked with sarcastic obsequiousness.

  Questions

  Renek snarled over Rimes’ body, and became a blur of death. The man who had killed Rimes died in an instant, head completely severed from his body. Another Triol gasped as Renek sliced his middle open. A third Triol looked down at his chest, which seemed to have suddenly grown a sword hilt, complete with Renek’s white-knuckled fist holding it.

  Soon, there were no enemy soldiers within killing distance—and Renek stood, chest heaving, trying desperately to turn his eyes away from his dead friend’s body.

  * * *

  Renek and Hesiod were both in the General’s tent.

  “I don’t think that you should be given command of this unit, soldier,” General James said, eyes narrow. “But Hesiod here speaks very highly of you, so I’ve decided to give you a chance.”

  Renek nodded, but decided not to say anything. It was apparently the right thing to do, as the prince nodded, and handed him insignia that signified he was now commander of Rimes’ old unit.

  “Just understand, Renek—” James said. “I don’t trust you, like Hesiod does. I don’t think I ever will.”

  Renek nodded again, and he and Hesiod walked together around the large map and out the tent. The morning air was cool, and Hesiod paused to take a deep breath.

  “Congratulations, Renek.” He held out his hand, and, after a moment, Renek took it. “I didn’t want it to happen quite this way, but, as you know, I think you’re the right man for this job.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps even a higher job than this, but these things take time.” He smiled.

  Renek nodded, and started walking towards his tent. “He’s right not to trust me.”

  “How’s that, Renek?” Hesiod seemed confused. “I mean, I know I don’t trust you, but that’s something you’ve got to earn.”

  “I don’t know why I trust myself!” Renek grunted. “I don’t know who I am, or why I’m a good strategist, or why the men trust me.”

  “The men trust you because you’ve risked everything for them, and done them well, time and time again.”

  Renek shook himself. “I do what I can to make things better.”

  “Of course you do!” Hesiod laughed, and then looked over his shoulder at Prince James’s tent. “I just wish we all did that.” He leaned in to Renek and lowered his voice. “I think … certain influences that have joined us recently here at the front … are, perhaps, holding us back from our fullest potential.”

  Renek nodded glumly, understanding that Hesiod meant the Prince—but couldn’t say so aloud. “What can we do?” He asked, shrugging. He paused at the door to his tent, then stepped through and held the flap out for Hesiod. “I just wish I had been a bit faster in protecting Rimes," he said, head down, as Hesiod stepped past him into the tent.

  “Don’t you go thinking that this is your fault, Renek!” Hesiod said, turning to put a hand on Renek’s shoulder. Continuing in a much quieter tone, he said “I put the blame squarely on James’s shoulders.” He paused, tilting his head. “And, indirectly, on the King’s shoulders, for enabling this situation.”

  Renek shook his head. “I was the one there, at the battle. I could have done better.”

  At least I’m not getting tired after every battle any more, Renek thought. I was able to come to his aid, even if I wasn’t fast enough or good enough to save him.

  “Renek!” Hesiod said, chiding his friend. “You did everything that you could do, given the situation you were in, didn’t you?”

  Renek considered. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Well, then!” The older man laughed. “Then you have nothing to blame yourself for, then! If you did everything that you could have done, you couldn’t have done any more. Which means that the blame lies, not with you, but rather with the person or people who put you both into that situation.”

  “Why are you helping me, Hesiod, if you don’t trust me?”

  “Renek…” Hesiod rolled his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I don’t trust you.”

  Renek raised his eyebrows, and Hesiod tried again. “You see, I would trust you with the unit, at this point. Obviously, or I wouldn’t have recommended that you command it. If you were an enemy spy, I’d be able to contain you and your unit.

  “But what bothers me is how quickly you engender trust in others.” Hesiod sighed. “I think the men you fight with would jump off of a cliff if you asked them to. That frightens me.”

  Renek nodded. “But you’ve seen me. Have I every said anything, done anything, that would make that trust misplaced?”

  “No. But, at the same time, you are a bit too … perfect. You take almost no credit and accept almost all of the blame. This is one reason why I think it is folly to blame yourself, Renek.” Hesiod frowned. “I think that takes energy. We should be spending our energy on finding a way that we won’t be put in this … situation again.”

  Renek nodded, but frowned. “What do you mean? The prince? How do we keep the prince from being part of our situation?”

  Hesiod pondered for a moment. “I’m not sure. In court, one would struggle—deftly, mind you—to either remove the power of the person who was trying to get you, or to become more powerful than him.” He thought for a second. “Or her. There are some very powerful women, back in the court.”

  “Well, this is the prince of the realm. I doubt that we can make him any less powerful.” Renek barked a laugh. “Or make me more powerful than him!”

  Hesiod smiled. “You can think of nothing that might make you more powerful than a prince?” he said with a low voice. “Nothing?”

  Renek looked at Hesiod quizzically. “I don’t understand?”

  “What wer
e we looking for, before, Renek?”

  Slowly, Renek nodded. “The Swords of the Ascendancy?” His brows knitted together in worry. “But we were searching for those for the king, not for ourselves.”

  Hesiod lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “That is true. But why were we trying to help the king?”

  “Because he is the king?” Renek stated.

  “You say it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.” Hesiod drew a deep breath. “But, in reality, were we not helping the king because he represents the kingdom, and its subjects within?” He looked intensely at Renek. “Were we not helping the people of the kingdom more than we were helping the king?”

  Renek nodded, understanding.

  “So if you and I, for example,” Hesiod continued, “took the swords for ourselves, and we were able to … influence the generals more than the prince does now, it would help keep our soldiers from dying. And we would still be helping the king—although we would be more directly helping the men in the army, and the people of the kingdom.”

  “I understand what you are saying, Hesiod, but it still seems … wrong, I guess, to take something for ourselves that the king wanted for himself.”

  Hesiod smiled. “Well, if it helps any, I doubt that the king would have wanted them just for himself.” He gestured in the direction of the generals’ tent. “My guess is that he would want at least one of them for …” he trailed off.

  “… For General James,” Renek finished for him. “I think I can agree with you: that’s a bad idea.”

  Hesiod nodded.

  * * *

  The battles continued to go poorly, although the Singers helped as much as they could. A week of fighting saw both kingdom and Triol forces reduced by nearly half. Renek’s unit was doing more than its fair share—wherever Renek led, Triols fell.

  This did not go unnoticed. Back in camp, Hesiod said that the generals were pointing out how his unit was key to maintaining both the chances for success as well as shoring up the morale of the troops.

  Of course, the prince was steadfast in his dislike of Renek, so the unit found itself front and center most of the time. Once, they were told to make an obvious flanking maneuver while the rest of the army fought at the front. The Triols had learned to fear Renek, and nearly a quarter of his unit’s soldiers were wounded or killed when they telegraphed their attack.

  Hesiod told Renek of the growing concern and frustration of the older generals in their strategy sessions. They had come to think of the prince as a spoiled brat, an idiot, or both.

  “It’s fascinating,” Hesiod nearly gushed. “It’s like he’s an idiot—yet he is so much more powerful than the other men, they can’t do anything. I think he’s being purposefully doltish to show them how powerful he is.”

  Renek stared in shock at Hesiod. “You’re impressed by it.” Renek stated.

  Hesiod pondered. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He sighed. “The purpose of power is to get what you want, and this boy gets what he wants.”

  Renek shook his head. “I just wish he wanted what was best for our men.”

  As Hesiod nodded in response there was a clap outside of the tent.

  “Come in!” Renek called.

  “Ah, my dear Renek,” The prince said as he entered. “So sorry to tell you this, but I have found someone else to lead your unit.” He pulled the tent flap aside and a large young man entered. His grin was good-natured and honest, but he seemed remarkably pleased with himself.

  Rolling the Rocks

  The man taking Renek’s place was a bit over six feet, had black hair, black eyes, and a thick, curly black beard. He held out a ham-handed fist for Renek to shake.

  “Hi, there, Renek! Michael here.” He had a loud, booming voice, the kind you would be able to hear even if he were trying to whisper. “No hard feelings at losing the command, I hope?” He seemed a jovial sort, his white teeth flashing from behind the beard. “I just got here from back at the capitol. The king sent me, he thought I might be of use to our young prince-general here!” He laughed deeply.

  General James said “Michael was often my partner in sword practice.” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Of course, I beat him most of the time, but he did get a few good shots in!”

  “Aye, your majesty, I did. I remember that one time, when I got you right in the—”

  “Yes, Michael.” The prince frowned, quickly cutting him off. “I’m sure that story will entertain many people at the mess tent, but right now we should go and meet your men, commander.” He looked over at Renek and bared his teeth. It couldn’t really be called a smile.

  They both stepped out of the tent, Michael laughing again.

  “He’s a simple sort,” Hesiod said. “Likes his women and his drink.” He nodded. “He’ll do well for the men, he’s likable enough. I doubt he has a dishonest bone in his body.”

  “Bit strange to be demoted so quickly,” Renek mused with a wry smile.

  “Not really. The prince does as the prince desires. He probably made the request for Michael the same morning that he got to the front and saw the situation. Michael’s the perfect person to lead a unit, to him—slightly inferior to the prince in most ways, and completely devoted.”

  Renek nodded. “I had assumed that the prince was the primary motivator behind this, and not the king.”

  “Oh, I think so, Renek.” Hesiod shook his head. “Although, in truth, I’m not sure that the king would do any differently. There was a time, not more than a few years ago, that Aiden, at least, had the interests of the kingdom at heart. Not so much, now—the war has changed him.”

  “The war?” Renek spoke forcefully. “But he stays at his castle, while we are out here dying for him!”

  “True, but he cared quite a lot about his soldiers. Watching them die was hard on him. And he found out in the first few battles he fought, long ago, that he wasn’t much of a commander. I think he would only come out to a battle now if he felt that the kingdom itself was at stake.”

  Renek snorted. “It might be, right now.”

  “I know.” Hesiod nodded.

  “Well, there’s one good thing about this.” Renek smiled grimly.

  “What’s that?”

  “If we decide to sneak off to try to get the weapons, it won’t be noticed as quickly.”

  Hesiod pursed his lips, and then shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s true. The prince seems … interested in you. I think he probably has people watching you to see if you do anything that he can use against you.”

  Renek’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you would do in this situation?”

  Hesiod smiled. “Of course," he said.

  “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

  “To you, I am.” His smile grew broader. “To you.”

  * * *

  Michael was a powerhouse on the battlefield, and, as Hesiod had predicted, the men liked him. He used a two handed sword instead of a sword and shield. The massive blade was nearly as long as Michael was tall, and was quite effective. It seemed to intimidate the enemy, and the Triols quickly learned to fear Michael almost as much as they feared Renek.

  They fought well together, inspiring each other to do better each day. Michael seemed to be at his best when he was in a genial competition with his men. He asked his men to compare numbers of Triol warriors killed at the end of each day. Renek usually came in first, but occasionally Michael would win the day.

  Their unit’s success inspired the entire army, and after a few days even the Singers spent more time helping them than the other units. Lightning bolts turned out to be one of the least powerful attacks they had. One battle saw Triols momentarily turned into giant weeds, easy for the kingdom soldiers to cut down with their sharp swords; the next day there were giant fireballs landing in the midst of the attacking army; one skirmish ended with the kingdom soldier’s weapons becoming strong enough to slice through the Triol’s swords.

  The Triols fought back valiantly, but they were losi
ng more and more men each day. It started to look like the kingdom might be able to pull off a success. About a week after Michael arrived, the black-robed Triol Singers seemed to disappear—at least, there were no more incidents of invulnerability or counters to the kingdom mages’ attacks.

  “You know, Renek,” began Hesiod, one evening in Renek’s tent. “I think we might be able to pull this one out.” He stretched back on his chair, lifting his hands towards the canvas cover above him. “Maybe James is right.”

  “Maybe. Their Singers disappearing certainly helped.” Renek grimaced, and reached for the glass of wine in front of him. “But I think it’s worse than it looks.” He pointed back at the generals’ tent. “If we had that map in front of us, I’d show you what I mean.” He shook his head. “Let’s say that we ‘win’ here. How many soldiers will we have left when we rout them? A thousand? Fifteen hundred? That’s not enough to defend the kingdom against a small army of grandmothers wielding iron pots.”

  Hesiod laughed. “Perhaps you’re right about that. By the way, do you like the wine? It’s one of my last bottles. I’ll be very sad next week when we have to switch to whiskey. I couldn’t find any good whiskey when we left town, the stuff I brought is rotgut.

  “I don’t know much about the political situation as it stands now,” Hesiod continued, “but there is another kingdom that borders ours, the Kerlin … they might just be waiting for us to be finished here before they swoop in to the capitol.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. What about the Kerlin.” He looked intently at Hesiod. “How many soldiers do we have left? Five thousands?”

  Hesiod nodded. “Perhaps six.”

  “Even that’s not enough, Hesiod, and we’re not done with this yet. My guess is that the Triols still have nearly ten.” He shrugged. “We’ll be lucky to have two, even if we win. Two is not enough, not to defend the kingdom against any real invasion.”