Sapling: The Blade of Ahtol

by Dan Gillis

  “Upper echelon, left advance! Form right guard!” He bellowed out harshly. The soldiers moved upon his command, drawing upon the discipline he had drilled them with so many times. “Dammit!” the old warrior cursed as more arrows cut through the air. He felt the wind upon his face as one passed deathly near. “Corbin!” Tey’ur called out gruffly; in a moment the hooded figure was by his side. The Lord of the White Guard did not even look, he knew the man would be there. “The Grey are killing our forward guard! Put some fire on that upper ridge, now!” he said indicating a far rise that ran high into the south forest.

  “As you command, Lord.” Corbin spoke quietly. He darted away swiftly, moving into position, tracing his hands through the air in preparation. Tey’ur knew he needed only a few seconds, but he dared not risk losing his Ignitor.

  “Archers! Counter flank! Pin them down!” He felt the surge of arrows, all ablaze and packed with incendiary potions as they passed overhead. Large fiery explosions rocked the far flank and the opposing troops scattered, some aflame. That was all the time Corbin needed. Streaming trails of hot energy threaded through the air and lighted upon the far ridge where the forsaken Greys had set up. He listened to cries of surprise and anger as flame struck men and ground alike. This battle was far from over, for both sides. Tey’ur had the feeling that the enemy was simply testing the waters before pressing their advantage. The weathered face of the White Guard commander glowered in anger. What was the purpose of the attack? Having no answer was maddening.

  ***

  Firah’s unconscious body lay across the ground and had not stirred since Tohm’s attack. The breeze billowed at the entrance of the tent. The ripped fabric where the large stalking man had dashed away fluttered in the night breeze. From outside, tumultuous noises of battle drowned out the once calm night. The flap of the tent tossed and flipped about, suddenly enshrouding a tall slender figure. It moved silently from the entrance toward the girl. The torchlight was out and shadows moved across a billowed black cloak as it trailed behind the figure. Stooping down, a pale, gloved hand stretched out and took up the slender blade which lay near the girl. For a moment, the cloaked form stood silent and still, regarding the blade and then the girl. “Incompatible,” the visitor whispered harshly.

  Then slowly, the hood shifted downward to its left. The gaze of the silent thief rested upon the motionless monk upon the ground. Slowly, the figure’s feet moved, swaying the cloak as it moved through the room. Clutching the dagger, the thief's voice dripped with acid in hushed and steady tones.

  “Look at you. You have not changed a bit. Always catering to your selfish interests. Well, now your feeble attempts have led you to this end. To think that I have finally surpassed you. How pathetic it feels, when I think of how much I feared you and wanted you - and in the end it was you who could not see beyond your precious code. That will always be your weakness.” The wind rustled the tarp gently. The black cloak shifted as the stranger’s feet turned toward the entrance. As a foot left the cold hard ground, the wind fluttered. A blanket drifted upon the air. The stranger fell to the ground, lying now atop the body of the fully alert monk.

  “I may be stubborn, but your overconfidence always complicated things,” the monk whispered quietly as he clasped his own hand about the trembling clenched fingers which grasped the dagger haft, the black blade a mere fraction from the skin of the stranger’s neck. The now silent intruder did not stir nor struggle; one slip and the dagger’s thirst would steal life. As his words echoed in the air, the monk’s free hand came up slowly and gently, drawing back the hood from the newcomer’s head. He removed long thin spines one by one from her bundled hair and tossed them away. Dark locks of ebony spilled over his face while red eyes glowered in deep fiery anger as the veil was slowly drawn away. The woman’s face was clenched in fury, mere inches from the icy blue gaze of the monk. “Isn't that so … Tehsa?”

  ***

  Gaeth’s smile twisted in morbid satisfaction. All was going according to plan, and soon the mistress would return with the blade. He glanced toward Ebyn who shouted commands to the Grey Wilders and spat upon the ground. ‘That useless mage’ Gaeth swore within. ‘Look at how he gives out orders! He thinks he will rule the guild someday?’ The Cerephor-Defiler turned his gaze away. It would not do to continually struggle over the present situation. He could deal with Ebyn in the near future, but for now it would be suicide to move against his guild rival. He turned to look below at the different squads of mercenaries under their command. From the high ridge all was visible. The mercenaries formed a staggered southward front down to the forest wall. The battle was going well for the Blade of Ahtol. Many of the mercenaries which had fallen were reanimated by him and Ebyn, supplying a near endless flow of reinforcements. Granted, they weren’t as able as their once live host, but they served to impede the White Guard offensive. Suddenly, fire erupted high overhead and impacted near to where the Grey had set up their strategic point on the ridge. At that moment the southern White Guard flank made a push. With great roars of noble justice they pressed upon the mercenaries. Against newfound courage, the Ahtol front began to buckle.

  Gaeth moved swiftly into range. He would need but a few moments to crush the offensive. This was the art of the Cerephor, swift retribution upon the weak-minded. As he neared the edge of the forest, the master of mind lore lashed out upon the enemy’s front lines. Men of valor screamed and snatched their helmets off of their burning minds. They dropped to the ground, contorting in agony. The Ahtol line was reforming, and as they did Gaeth struck out again and again. Sometimes the foe would simply stop fighting, their heads bowed under burdens of guilt. Other times crying out for death. They soon became easy prey for the mercenaries who were given strict orders to kill or be killed. He laughed cruelly; it was always pleasurable to watch their behaviour. Every nightmare and incapacitating thought that poured over them gave Gaeth a sense of sweet satisfaction. “You are all insects below my feet!” he screamed as he thrust his arms forward, catching some of the mercenaries in the wave of power bursting from his body. Gaeth’s twisted grin echoed his thoughts; within every slash of power across some fool’s mind he envisioned others who stood before his ambition. Fellow guild servants, Ebyn, even Lady Nuril would scream in agony before him. The front was almost won, the White Guard reeling in despair. Almost won.

  Gaeth had but a fraction of time to turn his eyes to the crashing sound to his left. A large form burst from the trees, loping along the ground with impossible speed. “Defiler!” The form called mightily as it thundered into the smaller caster. Gaeth twisted and tried to free up his belt knife, but it was everlastingly too late. His assailant was upon him. He felt his head grasped by massive hands and he was lifted off the ground. He kicked out violently upon the assailant, but he might as well have struck out at the tree trunks around him. He felt his face drawn to his attacker’s and in a flash of light from a nearby swirling inferno, he met the gaze of his executioner.

  “You!” Gaeth grunted as he felt his skull compressing slowly. The hands were like great vices which mercilessly began to seal his fate. “Wai … wait …” He whimpered. The blazing brown eyes were tight and aflame as Gaeth squirmed, throing near to death. His brain frantically sent signals to his body, as it thrashed about in the dead lock of his enemy.

  “This beast,” his attacker spoke into the blackening mist forming in Gaeth’s vision. “You uncaged.” The brown eyes blazed with fury. All went dark.

  Gaeth of Ahtol fell crumpled and lifeless to the ground.

  The battle was not faring well. Tey’ur placed his foot upon the body hunched over his massive blade. He withdrew the blade roughly while thrusting the body away. The battle had ebbed and flowed, and so many had fallen. The enemy, aided by their forsaken arts, were animating the bodies of the mercenaries which had fallen in battle. The White Guard were outnumbered on every turn by the living and dead. There was the smell of death and fire all around him. He wiped his scorched face quickly to remove th
e sweat from his brow, smearing black streaks. He needed a report on the battle conditions. He espied Mehnol, his trusted Alacritor dashing to a fallen comrade, chanting the Rite of Return. He moved toward the monk, and as he reached the weary holy mender, the fallen Guard member rose swiftly, despite being pierced with many arrows.

  “I heard your call, Mehnol. You called me from the Path.” The burly warrior spoke, his voice was filled with both anguish and wonder.

  “Then heed my command!” The monk barked. “Move to the line, hold the front! The ward will not stay your pain for long!” The warrior nodded and growling burst forth in a fiery hot rage. He charged the wall of combat and felled an enemy with one sweep of his axe.

  “Numb warriors serve me little, Mehnol!” Tey’ur spat as he rounded on the monk. "He'll soon fall to those wounds when the ward fails!"

  “What would you have me do, Tey’ur, forsake my Ashori oath and embrace the way of the Defiler?” the monk retorted angrily above the tumult of battle. Tey’ur had rarely witnessed the calm man lose his resolve, a telling sign of their plight. His trusted healer raged on. “The strain of healing is too great! I have no time or energy for such things! At least this way, they can throw their whole selves into the battle. Besides, the near-death have nothing to fear, nothing to lose. We are going to lose this conflict if we don’t act now!”

  They watched the warded-warrior hew down a foe in relentless frenzy. Then as if the hand of fate was looming over the battle, the soldier began to falter as the ward gave way. “Llian's wrath! We don’t have time to … uk.” The monk stopped mid-sentence as the arrow shaft slid clean through his robes and torso. A clean and decisive shot. Tey’ur caught the monk as he fell toward the earth.

  “No!” The grizzled warrior roared. He looked around furiously. The lines were failing and now his last thread of hope slid gently down his chain skirt to the ground. The lines of age were hard and drawn thin around his mouth and grey eyes. ‘The final battle … somehow I never imagined it would be like this,’ he thought harshly. The days of youth and all its rashness were gone. He would offer no petty remarks to swell his heart into action. No, he would sell his life to his enemy with cold and bitter payments in blood. The tired and aged warrior stood erect and brandished his terrifying weapon. He kissed the blade one last time and brought it high over his shoulder. The enemy broke forth from the remnants of the White Guard front. Savage mercenaries charged the waiting Lord, the battle almost won in their mind.

  The wave of combatants crashed upon the lone warrior. Weapons sung through the air and then collided with tremendous force. Soon, the younger warriors were brought to begrudging respect for the tower of a figure before them. As each massive stroke of the two-handed blade descended, life spilt upon the bloodied ground. Tey’ur merely grunted as sword strikes found the gaps in his defence, as hammer blows dented upon his armor. The enemy continued to fall, and yet they still came. The old warrior’s face was strangely set. It showed neither pain nor anger. Neither was it bold and firm. It was somewhat whimsical and aloof. His motions seemed to come from a different place. For all who could see, the battered warrior’s mind was already in another realm.

  Still they came.

  ***

  “What would you do with me?” Nuril spat. Zyr merely continued to gaze into her red eyes, saying nothing. “Be done with this mockery!” she screamed in fear-tinged anger. His lips twitched and rose slightly into a small grin. The Lady Nuril was nearly past reason. As she breathed in to rain another verbal barrage upon him, she felt the knife blade prick lightly the skin upon her neck and she held her breath.

  “Have you finished?” he asked quietly. She nodded slowly, her long hair caressing his face. She looked strangely into his eyes. Nuril was unsure of what was to come, the prospect of death was maddening, and yet somehow she clung to a thin thread of hope. He had not slain her. “I have waited long for this, to finally gain answers to questions many years old.” His brow furrowed slightly and he paused for a moment.

  “Why did you leave?” he said quietly.

  Nuril regarded him harshly. “What in Aeredia are you talking about?” Her ruby eyes flashed. “If you are asking why I pursued you, then you are a great fool.” She waited for him to speak, mystified in her rancor.

  “Oh, enough. Your clever facade is broken as was your table. Do not think that our years apart have weakened the bond we shared as Tetsu. Now, why did you leave the Order, Tehsa?” he repeated calmly and slowly, his eyes fixed upon hers.

  “I … I don't have to answer to the likes of you …” she fumbled. Memories from the past came racing upon her mind. The grey clouds that hid past events were parting, like the sun illuminating the dark recesses of her mind. “You left me …” she whispered almost imperceptibly.

  “I left because of you. I saved you once and swore an oath of fealty for payment. I left to save my soul, as I surely would have forsaken it to be with you had I stayed.” His voice was almost soundless. His eyes dropped from hers. He felt her chest swell sharply as she took in his words.

  “Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare place this blame upon me! I loved you and you left, chasing your honour through that field and out of my life!” Tears fell down upon his face. She seemed unaware of the dagger at her neck. Her eyes were aflame, deep and sorrowful, years of anguish spilling over the brim. “I would have gone with you … I hated you for leaving! I always cursed you, and do still for every moment of my sick existence! You stole my life!” The woman was holding nothing back from him, though her body remained still. Her hand was growing warm and slick under his grip.

  “Don’t act with such innocence! I returned and the Halls were destroyed. I secretly came for you. Hard it was, to find you and everyone else gone, nothing but ruins. Yet, to learn in time that you allied with this forsaken and ill-fated guild; impossible, I thought. Tehsa would never have consigned herself like this!” His eyes were now a chilling blue which burned cold. “That night in the tower confirmed what my heart would not accept! You betrayed the Order, allying with these fools, these world-renders!”

  “Be silent! You have no idea what I …” Her eyes were shut, but tears flowed in great streams upon his face. Her body shook in wracked sobs. “I hope you suffered! I hope that you hurt every night for what could have been yours!” Her body shifted on his, and he pressed the blade closer. Nuril screamed in fury and frustration. “End it! End it, Zyr! What life remained after you left, ended when she died!” She made to thrust herself upon the black blade. The monk’s mind flashed both in alarm and shock and he flung her from him. Wrapping his hand about his robe he stooped and snatched up the fallen dagger. Nuril had collapsed upon the ground and did not move, the sobs gently subsiding.

  “What did you say … who … is she?” he asked, his voice coming shakily. She did not respond. Zyr opened his body to the swirling pool of power and sent a portion of it through her. She did not move as it passed through and returned swiftly.

  “You have been with child,” he said slowly, disbelievingly. The monk slumped down to his knees, barely taking the woman in. His mind was reeling from the information the Alacritor energy had extracted. She had given birth many years prior if the signs were correct in her system. “Who?”

  “I wanted a life … outside the Order,” she said quietly, behind dark fountains of shining hair. The one soft lantern cast a low light around the tent. All other noises were unheard by the once unified Tetsu. “Since you were unwilling to be the one to give this gift to me … I found another, while on a mission. He was a back-countryman, a good man.” She shifted herself upon her knees and looked upon her former Mihyl. “I made plans to leave and escaped the Halls, to be with him. He became my husband, and a father …”

  The monk said nothing but continued to listen. He drank in the words as if water from a desert oasis. An aged desert of unanswered questions.

  “Life was good, and he tried to give me all that I desired. I placed my training aside, to be the mother for this wo
nderful baby. Still, in my heart I longed for you. I really never found true peace. At least I was far from those wretched Halls.” Her face paled and she took short, quick breaths. “Then one day, they came from the mountain, Racur, where we had once infiltrated. It was another raid. He died trying to save me. The fool. He never learned who truly held power in our home. Yet, in my desire for a simple life I never told him … there was nothing to be done against their numbers. Had you been in his place … everything would be different. I watched in vain as he was torn to pieces. They found me and I did not want the baby to suffer pain and death at their hands. I determined to kill her - quickly, but they wrenched me away before I could … she fell from my arms …” Zyr stood upon his feet as Nuril slowly rose. “I was taken, Zyr. I was taken and used for a terrible ritual. It changed me. They would have killed me, except that they sensed the power within. I was permitted to live. So I trained again with new masters, but this time I relished it. With time I would surpass all their feeble arts. I am who you see now, not your precious Tehsa.” She smiled with a strange manner.

  “That is strange irony, isn’t it? The frozen climbs where I first found love would house the means for a much deeper longing. Power is my only priority, and commanding those who once abused me.”

  Nuril moved toward him, the fear and pain all but gone from her face. Standing, he watched her carefully as she came in front of him. There was no hostility there, but a return to the ice cold malice. She took his robed hand which gripped the dagger and placed it next to her throat, her hands were cold as a mountain stream. Her red eyes locked with his, steady and bright. “I believe we were here, before you dragged the past unnecessarily into this deliberation. Please do not do so again.” She waited for him to speak. He took a moment and then broke the silence between them.