by Dan Gillis
"Do you pursue her still?" the Alacritor asked quietly.
She studied the girl for a moment and then responded. "No. She is useless to us now as a Compatible. She has been too long unchecked with the blade. We will have to search elsewhere. Oh dear, have you been having trouble sleeping with the demon?" Her question carried a slight mocking tone but also a strange understanding. Zyr ignored her quip and continued.
“We both know the dagger cannot stay here with the girl. She has progressed too far. The signs are upon her. Keeping it only endangers her from a different enemy. It comes to an impasse of strife. With either choice comes difficulty." He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in thought. Nuril made a motion, but stopped immediately. It did not escape his notice. To Zyr it was almost as if she was reaching up to the pressure point like she always did when he labouring under stress of an assignment. Her touch would always assuage the turmoil. Her face was expressionless and flushed ever so slightly from the broken gesture.
"What will you do?" she asked with a guarded air, her grip upon his wrist steady.
"I propose a solution,” he said tersely.
“I am always open to civil negotiation,” she replied while releasing Zyr’s hand. He brought it to rest by his side.
“It is clear that you have a similar attunement to the weapon as she does. I will permit you to take it, seeing as you would easily locate it if I hid it away. Also if I could entrust it to someone, they would soon become the hunted. It does not concern me where you go, as long as it is away from the girl." He looked into her eyes with firm resolution.
"I see that your protective instinct has deepened. Such a troublesome one you have been given charge over." Her eyes shifted to the Firah's still form upon the ground. “The Dark Lady has long been silent and of no help to those in need. All that remains for that girl now is a life of running and hiding from ignorant fools and the Hunters. I would have spared you from a meaningless pursuit by killing her earlier, but that would have drawn the White Guard Alacritor here. What a tragedy for Mother if the girl died; if only someone could hear Her weep," she responded with a sarcastic cutting tone.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Don’t be so quick to pass judgment on Aerluin. You have forgotten that she is only silent to those who have chosen to stop their ears to her gentle pleas. Mother has preserved this girl despite all your attempts to corrupt her gifts and take her life."
Nuril's brow raised in rebuttal. "Don't be a fool. Her erratic evasions were nothing more than chance, a fortunate twist of fate. Nothing more."
Zyr wearied of his former Jyril's obstinate will. She was a masterful word-crafter. He had felt the advantage slip to her favour. However, there was one more move she would not expect. All sense and reason cried out against it, and yet there was little of their past that relied upon the safeguards of reason. He took hold of her fiery crimson gaze and allowed the words to flow.
"Regardless of your cynical views, Firah still has a purpose. Know this; I will always know where you are, for, like you, she will feel drawn to the dagger continually. When the time comes, she will return prepared to do what Mother requires, as will I." He held the blade out in front of him. She placed her gloved hand upon the hilt but as she grasped it he seized her wrist and pulled her to him. “I swear by Aerluin, I will come.” Zyr slid his free hand through her flowing locks and pulled her to him until their lips caught in a passionate embrace. She resisted only for a moment, but then brought her hand up behind his neck and gripped it roughly, pressing forward until the dagger hung dangerously between them. For both, the moments passed as millennia and neither sought release. All at once they were standing in the golden fields of memory. Then, silently as if from an unspoken cue, they parted softly and gently. She stood there a moment before him and then silently slid the dagger through her belt. She tied her hair back with one motion, collected her veil, turned from him and was gone with the fluttering wind. Zyr simply stared upon the space she had previously occupied.
After a time, he turned to look at the girl, resting silently upon the floor. “The chosen high road lies ahead … may Mother guide us … for the end of the path will soon show itself.” He turned and walked from the tent into the darkness beyond.
***
Tey’ur’s body trembled, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he spun the blade rapidly in a circular arc. Three opponents drew back, retreating from the masterful slash as the veteran set his stance. Fear was betrayed in their faces from the near torchlight. Within a heartbeat he charged and sliced rapidly at them, his movements with the two handed weapon nearly impossible, and yet he hewed them down to the bloodied earth.
“Tens of hundreds I have slain … you are eager and ripe for reaping.” He spat as he set to riposte their attacks. The mercenaries were completely nonplussed. They truly had never encountered a foe of this caliber before. Though they clearly surrounded and outnumbered their resilient enemy, he continued to hold them at bay. Strangely, he had never cried out, neither in pain nor strength. It was unnerving, the stoic cool effrontery he threw in their faces. They had begun to lose heart, and many were warily guarding instead of pressing a foolhardy and fatal offensive. All around the battle had raged, a long and deadly course to which the Blade of Ahtol had suffered the most. In the old Master’s ears he could faintly discern the sounds of other skirmishes just above the thumping drum of his heart. Blood seemed to drip carelessly from Tey’ur’s legs as it gathered from the various wounds he had suffered. He had been struck countless times, bruised and bloodied and yet not one fighter had been able to land a critical blow. It had taken some time, but the more adept of their ranks realized the strategy. They sensed that their foe had no intention of foolishly committing himself to a battle of powerful life-ending blows. He was purposely evading the heaviest strikes and finishing those individuals as they threw themselves off balance. The smaller nicks, near misses and feints he took upon his body without a thought. They realized that he would send as many to the Mother as possible before his own demise. It appeared that the battle was following some unseen plan, a terribly morbid strategy, with the pieces moving constantly. Their old grizzled opponent seemed to sense the plan as it developed, it was drawn upon every line in his face. His presence of mind in the battle was uncanny; he would detect the strongest assaults and deal with them with lethal efficiency. Truly their opponent was as the warriors from legend, from the old stories.
Tey’ur noticed something that told his mind the battle was over. The enemies were edging back, almost surreptitiously. No other warrior would have noticed, not the common variety anyway. He chuckled to himself. They had solved his strategy and now it was over.
A grey and black fletched arrow slammed full into the shoulder of the lone defender. Another shot came fast, which Tey’ur swiftly countered by hoisting a nearby body as a shield that served to absorb the devastating attack. He felt a tingling where the first shaft had entered. So it was poison, ‘and why not’ he mused to himself. It was a sound strategy considering the problems he had caused the enemy. He was surprised that they had taken this long to move to this obvious logical maneuver. He looked into the faces of his warrior opponents and divined the answer. Warrior pride; a great source of strength but also a weakness not easily dispensed. Those before him knew Tey’ur had won the day, and the shame in their hearts would sting longer and deeper than the arrow. It would be a matter of time now. It would be slow and gradual. The poison would work its way through the body as the blood loss would drain his strength. Then his defence would falter. The end had come to countless others at his hands, and now fate dictated that his turn had come. He was strangely accepting of the inevitable end. He was not some foolish lad to fight on clinging to a sense of false hope. He had one raging regret that he wished he could have resolved. It would haunt his final moments, until his heart thumped its last beat.
Tey’ur tossed the body to the ground and stood slowly. He extended his good arm in invitation while the other rested upon
the hilt of the sword which stood propped into the ground. They clenched the hafts of their weapons tightly. Scowls and grimaces adorned their faces. Tey’ur released one hearty laugh which caused the warriors to pause. “Come, let us end this day.” With silent affirmation they began to slowly move upon the old Lord of the White Guard. He was loath to relinquish his rest upon the large sword as he drew in deep, shuddering, ragged breaths. Indeed, the end was near - the poison was running its course.
Suddenly, a cry went up from the high ridge. Some warriors glanced to see commotion and conflict upon the embankment. The Grey Wilders had set up position upon that ridge. Something was happening, and yet they could not divert their eyes long. The old warrior had stepped into a battle stance, seemingly unaware of the disruption. Two warriors were sent to help, leaving ten to deal the final blow upon their persistent enemy. They raised their weapons in readiness and waited. The tension was palpable.
After many agonizing moments, one warrior fell prey to the seductive call of battle, despite his companion’s cries of cursing and warning. He raised his hammer high and screamed a dirge to his own funeral. Tey’ur smiled sadly and obliged the foolish one. It was ended swiftly, a single slash devised from the blade master, Tuloth. Executed with clean and convincing accuracy, the warrior dropped to the ground, his mouth wide in the shock of the dead. As if from a cue, the others rushed.
Tey’ur could feel his old muscles dragging; yet, still he managed a capable defence waiting patiently for his life to end. Someone would land the blow soon. As he raised his weapon high overhead, he felt the reassuring bite of a blade penetrate through his chest cavity. He slumped to the ground, coughing spit and then blood. A lung puncture most likely, the Lord mused quietly. The sword was now a waste of time and energy. He withdrew a small dagger and switched the grip with a flick of his hand. As the swordsman stepped in, he received the dagger through the ball of the neck, which caused him to tumble to his knees next to his opponent, gasping. In one swift motion Tey’ur reached out, grabbing the struggling warrior’s head and then snapped it around to end the man’s suffering. He raised himself up, upon his knees and watched as the others prepared to strike. “Mother, may I come to …”
“Hold your weapons, men at arms!” A voice interjected from without the circle. The eight turned swiftly to see a man standing apart from them, through the dust and smoke upon the field. He carried no weapons; he simply stood there with an arm outstretched. His voice was powerful and profound, snatching the battle-weary souls from their trance. “Men of war, I implore you now - leave this field of battle! Your leaders have fled or been destroyed. Stop the needless shedding of blood!” The men were stunned at the man’s force of speech. They remained motionless and regarded each other. Quick glances were cast upward to the ridge. There was no sign of the command, or their rear guard. The mercenaries appeared uncertain, many looked upon their weapons of war in question. The heat of battle was cooling in the breeze. The young man’s voice called out again.
"Look around you! You have been paid for your service, but the cost of this meaningless battle has tainted that payment. Why would you fight for those who have taken up the bodies of your fellows as puppets and deprived them an honourable death? Do you have nothing left to live for?” The young man's voice seemed to swell, growing more steady and sure with every word. “This is an empty fight! There is no more honour here, only shame. Now, you will leave the dead to their end, and depart this place in peace.” The remaining warriors stood in shock. Then slowly, a weary fighter came up from the ring of combatants to stand before the bold interceder. He regarded the young face and then, bowing his head, wiped the stains from his weapon and sheathed the sword. His head remained bowed as he departed slowly from the scene.
One by one, they all lowered or sheathed their weapons and departed the body-strewn ground, without a backward glance.
Tey’ur lifted his head wearily to where the young man stood. ‘Why is it’ he thought to himself ‘he reminds me of someone … the likeness of great leaders past … clearly, he has the gift.’ He closed his eyes and breathed in shakily. The end was near, he could feel the Council urging him onward, to meet with them in the great realm of the dead. There was a moment of clarity and reassuring peace which calmed his racing heart. The end of the Symian race had come.
“Are you ready to die?” A familiar voice spoke in his ear. Tey’ur knelt upon the ground in silence, but his heart leapt inside. One last burning regret … his hand slipped to the secret dagger inside his vambrace.
“Have you come to see the last of us fall?” the warrior responded.
“That would depend on whom you consider the last,” the voice returned.
His foe was close, and he could do it. He must do it to honour the memory of the Council, the whole Order. It was a question of loyalty to the past. He slipped the dagger from the armour.
“It ends now!” Tey’ur screamed with rage as he moved with the last of his might, the dagger blow to fall true.
All was quiet. The wind blew through the near trees, through the long strands of graying hair which fell upon the old warrior’s shoulders. The dagger was quivering in the hand of the guild Lord, the blade wet in blood. The Lord of the White Guard looked into the eyes of his once-dead guild healer in utter disbelief. The dagger was imbedded in Mehnol’s hand, who knelt next to his Lord. Zyr stood just behind the solemn healer, his eyes cast toward the evening stars.
“Enough, my Lord, enough.” Mehnol whispered.
The Sapling had thrived. Though the violent weather had nearly uprooted the young tree at times, it remained firm. The roots of the tree ran deep and received strength from the roots, of other foliage, that ran through the earth. The Sapling would not fall easily, unknowingly supported by the others. Even the corrupting weed could not disrupt the support of the young tree. And so it was that its roots ran deep …
Old Scars
THE WIND blew softly the pungent smells of war across the wastes of southern Mehnin. It carried and listed amongst the fallen, through the nostrils of the living. It blew eerily through the strange uncomfortable silence in the remnants of the White Guard camp. The clamour of war had ceased and the sun rose anew in the east sky. Tey’ur watched as the two monks went about assisting those fallen in battle. They reverently covered those who had long departed on the Path. His gaze slid coldly over the younger monk, the upstart who had somehow acquired knowledge in the healing arts. The veiled gestures of mercy infuriated the old warrior. He knew the man’s true heart, his true nature. Zyr was anything but merciful or giving, which he had demonstrated in every lesson he had ever taken from the Master of War. Memories of utter selfishness and defiance swam through the void of thought, yet one vibrant remembrance struck deeper and more painful than them all. Traitor. He had used the Order for training and resources and removed himself on the very eve of his calling to the Council of Masters. Tey’ur hands clenched in frustration. As his muscles contracted, his body reminded him with painful jabs that the healing was not complete. He put his hand to his brow, seeking to remove the blasted memories from his mind. Would he never find peace?
“He’s something, isn’t he?” A voice commented beside him. Tey’ur glanced toward the sound. His curiosity had been piqued since he witnessed this young man’s actions to bring an end to the conflict.
“He certainly has demonstrated skill in the healing arts …” Tey’ur spoke, suppressing pain and hurt; he would need time to bolster his resolve, to determine a course of action. The young man, Shien his name was, stood looking out over the tangled mess of bodies and war’s attrition. He carried a pack on one shoulder, with a hand clasped firmly around the support strap. His hand caressed the material, subconsciously.
“He is much more than a healer. A pity you never saw him in battle.” Shien commented as he watched the monk move to another of the White Guard soldiers.
“Indeed.” Tey’ur murmured as he looked on grimly, choosing to conceal the bitter truth. Zyr would conf
ront his past at a time of Tey’ur’s choosing and not a moment sooner. They watched the scene for a moment before the old veteran broke the silence. “What you did last night was very foolish, despite its apparent success. One slip in your little speech and you would have had a place amongst the dead, with all of them.” Tey’ur indicated toward the great masses of the slain.
“You’re welcome, my Lord,” Shien replied with a nod and small grin. He looked back to the scene of carnage. Tey’ur’s brow dropped slightly, creases forming across his face. This man reminded him of Zyr, which was little compliment. Why was it that his instincts spoke differently? There was something extraordinary and vibrant behind the crass and ego. The young man had great potential, and yet he would never find it in the company of the morally weak. The old Lord looked back upon the scene and his eyes sprung wide in astonishment. Shien simply put a hand to his head and made a small sound of disbelief.
Zyr had made his way to the fallen lines of the Ahtol front. He was just then lifting one warrior to his feet. The warrior looked perplexed and disorientated which was a common trait among the near-dead who had begun their journey along the Path. They watched as Zyr placed a hand upon the bloodied shoulder of the warrior, his mouth was moving in some dialogue with the Ahtol mercenary. After a few moments, the warrior’s head bowed and others watched as the near-dead man clasped the arm of the monk in an embrace of friendship, openly weeping. Zyr drew the man into his bosom and clasped the other arm over the warrior’s sturdy back. The moment was tender and brief. The warrior released the grip, picked his weapon from among the quagmire and turned from the field of battle. His form disappeared behind the low hills and was gone.
