Maiden's Saber

by Marion Faith St. James

  Voices, sounding distant, but close, as the stone prison blended the sounds into a language not understandable. A sudden scraping as stone is rubbed against stone. I see the first beginnings of light seep through the cloth across my vision, as the filtered rays of a weak glimmering. My lungs are empty of life-giving air. No blood courses through my veins…but I live.

  The meager light from the broken stone monument door casts a long shadow into the small room. It took the two skulking figures much time of hammering to break into this crypt. Here was Natsha Mod-gin, a thief by the cast of the die. She is a hunted woman for mocking the rulers of this land. Those who knew her thought her a savage and hard woman. She is the youngest daughter with a long linage to a family of thieves. Now the sole Mod-gin, as she has taken the place of a murdered brother and father in the trade.

  She is taller than most females with hair black as any moonless night…lashed into a long braid by leather windings. Gareth knows that several slender and needle-sharp throwing darts are concealed in the folds of her hair. On her face and to the left of her dark-green eyes is the tattoo of a dagger starting at the temple and ending at the cheek. A sign of the thieves’ clan etched in the skin by her father. This was the tradition for a young girl or boy at twelve summers of age. Natsha is the last clan survivor to bear that mark.

  She is clothed in the tanned leather and dark skins of a Sherkin beast. The leather seams sewn together with the sinews of the same animal. Her skirt, extended to the knee with fur topped boots exposing a meager bit of skin to the gently blowing wind. Her long-sleeved gray tunic covered in chain mail—rusting in spots.

  This body armor was all she had left to remember her father who died by the hands of a coward. One could still see the jagged hole caused by a steel-tipped lance evident in the armor back plate where it struck her father and kin.

  Wrapped around her slender neck is a woven length of material made from the silk of a giant blue spider. The fading dark patterns of hawks in flight travel over the scarf’s surface. The art of reproducing this bit of cloth lost to the world when the maker, her mother’s mother passed her spirit to the next world.

  Muscular wrists graced by arm guards. The left arm held three balanced throwing knives for easy grasping. The lower arm with a leather wrap protecting a scar that did not heal well on the outside of her wrist. A belt from a Medi Serpent wrapped around her middle held a short sword, straight-bladed dagger and a travel kit pouch. A loose cow bladder of water swung from her left shoulder.

  Across her back was a tried and tested crossbow. The custom of the Guild is that she fashioned this weapon with her own hand with layers of flattened hardwood. A quiver of steel bolts strapped to her right leg, which could be easy reached and notched to the bow. She was a formidable opponent to any man or beast.

  The other of the pair, is a raggedy looking man, known as Gareth. Once a pirate, now far from the seas as his vessel was besieged by only ghosts now. A death ship that now plies the seas at the whim of the gods and wind. He would rather be under sail. The land does not move as an ocean or sea. He towers above most men by almost a half meter. Rare for one so tall is his bulk; large as a bull—save the horns. He can say without question, that no man or beast has gained the upper hand. His movements are only surpassed by the wind for its speed.

  The clothing covering the mountain of a man is completely the opposite of Natsha. Below the waist are short traditional gray trousers of a sailor made from the skin of a great whale. A loose-fitting sleeveless tunic covers the barrel chest and laced to the neck. A belt embedded with the teeth of a huge serpent he bested with a broken sword and a seaman’s marlin spike.

  Gareth sported a short sword, and a wicked looking curved Serin-made dagger. Across his back, he also carried the crossbow that so many fancied. His bow was the spoils of a battle with three men. Bald from birth his smooth skull held the inking of a sea serpent with the long barbed tail circling his right eye. If his large frame did not cause fear in any who thought to oppose him…when his eye twitched, the tattooed tail of the serpent wiggled. It was a sign to many to turn and leave, as Gareth was making ready to strike.

  None would have thought these two would form a blood oath with each other. Natsha tried to steal Gareth’s money pouch which contained black pearls; the last of his pirate bounty. They fought sword and knife for two days ending in cuts and bruises on both, as neither giving ground nor quarter.

  Gareth is big and forceful while Natsha quick and darting. He could not get close to her, and she wary of the mountain of muscle standing always in a defensive posture. They could only fight at a sword’s distance. Finally, exhausted, they collapsed and slept as mates for a night and a day.

  Others thought to retrieve their purses and weapons were sent to the place of black spirits when Natsha awoke with someone trying to cut her purse string. She stood guard until Gareth finally roused. They swore allegiance and a blood oath to each other. Gareth gave Natsha half of his black pearls to seal the tie between them. They traveled the lands looking for treasure and adventure. They found much of the latter and little of the former.

  The thought of treasure that may be hidden within overtook their fear of the dead place. In the center of the darken room stood a long stone box easily two meters in length and a meter wide. Its height comes up to the chest of Gareth.

  Using chisels, the sound of hammering vibrates inside the stone enclosure. Escaping air marks that the seal is broken on the cover. With their combined strength, they push the stone lid off. It breaks in two as it crashes to the floor. A still form wrapped in layer upon layer of white cloth lies before them.

  “This is a tomb?” Mouths Natsha as her quiet voice seems to echo within the confined space.

  Lying across the length of the body shrouded in fine white silk is a jeweled sword. The red crest of a fire dragon graced the blade close to the hilt guard. There is only one person that claims that insignia as their own, thinks Gareth.

  “Natsha look; the fabled Maiden's Saber is real, and here it lies. This is a great find for us. Wait; this blade was rumored to be buried with the warrior woman who wields it? Could this be the Maiden that lies here?”

  I pull my hand away as it is said she worked in magic. “Gareth, if this indeed was the Maiden, then, it has been fifty years since she disappeared!”

  Gareth rethinks his thoughts about removing the saber from the crypt. “I am not sure about taking this Natsha?”

  “You are acting like a child Gareth. Take it, as we need to be on our way before the patrols return. When we sell this, it will bring us a fat purse for our troubles.”

  I can see the faint outline of the face under the flimsy cloth. The material cloaks much of her body. “Natsha are you not curious of what the Maiden looks like beneath the coverings? If these truly be her remains…she has been gone these many years. I suspect only the very old would have laid eyes upon her before she disappeared.”

  “No—she is a woman. I have no desire to gaze on another woman. Even such a man as you, do not need to see a long dead enchantress. The worms would have taken away her beauty over many decades. It was said that she was put here by the Blood Druids of Imals. There is dark magic prowling this place of death. If you believe the soothsayers; then we are already cursed.”

  “You take these myths too seriously woman. True, there is magic and witchery that exists, but this be only a tomb; not a dark world of sorcery.”

  “You are not versed in what it was like in the olden days. I have read many a writing. I can tell you—do not mock what you do not know. We ramble too much; take the sword and try not to disturb the body. I know there are other treasures to be had in this tomb; I just need to find where it is hidden.”

  I watch as Natsha goes about the small chamber tapping a wall, or stamping her foot several places on the stone floor.

  Going back to the body, I begin to pull open the cloth which will expose the slender fingers that hold the treasured sword. The wrappings may look flimsy, b
ut they are strong and resist my attempts to tear it away. Working through the cloth, I try to lift the fingers from the grip she has on the hilt. “This may be hard to do Natsha. Her hands even though wrapped in cloth and frozen in death still grasp the hilt. I would have to cut away the fingers to free the Saber.”

  “Do it quickly then!”

  Natsha goes back to tap at the stone walls of the monument, looking for a possible hidden chamber. The sound of the tapping is heavy and not hollow which would reveal something hidden.

  I gaze at the linen wrapped body lying there in the open stone crypt. Taking a different tact…I grab the blade and gently try to pull the black sword away from the hands who held it. It feels like she has a grip of eternity on the hilt, as her arm follows the left hand that still clutches the length of steel. With her hand wrapped around the handle in a death grip, a length of cloth snags the hilt guard. My hand slips and the fine edge neatly slices the palm of my hand. “Ouch!”

  “What now Gareth,” Natsha asks from the other side of the monument room, annoyance in her voice.

  “It is nothing. I just cut my hand on this dam sword. Even in death—she will not let go of it. I only nicked the skin, but the small wound burns like on fire.”

  “You fool! Did you spill any blood on the body?”

  I look back to the cloth wrapped body and see several drops of red have stained the fine cloth. The blood is quickly absorbed by the fabric and disappears beneath. “I did shed a few drops, but it is gone through the material covering the body. Is that a problem?”

  “From what I remember of the legend—new blood can restore her to life again; if of course, that blood is shed as a result of her holding the saber at the time it is drawn. So yes, it is a problem; only if you believe in the legend and stories to frighten children.”

  Looking back at the body and her chest, I can see a slight movement. The cloth covering her head and mouth shimmers lightly. “Natsha, I hate to tell you this, but I think this body is breathing?”

  Natsha comes over and stands next of me. “You nave; your ineptness is restoring her to life! She will either kill us in anger or welcome us as her liberators. I am not waiting to find out!”

  Natsha is right. I stop trying to retrieve the sword and turn to run away.

  Together Natsha and I dash to the entrance, stepping over the crumbled doorway stone. We walk right into sharp spears pointed at our bellies. Several helmeted soldiers are behind those lances.

  “Drop your weapons thieves!”

  There is nowhere to run. We are trapped in what may be our own tomb. The space is too confining to swing our swords. The soldiers merely need to jab at us. Being impaled on those wicked looking points is not appealing, so Natsha and I unbuckle our sword belts and let them fall to our feet.

  The points of two spears push us back into the crypt. One of the soldier’s voice booms within the confined space. “Robbing graves is a death sentence for you both.” The soldier's lances are replaced by swords. Now that the soldiers are fully inside the tomb, those swords are not as long as the spears, but just as deadly. One of the king’s men peers into the open stone coffin. “What have you taken from here thieves?”

  Natsha and I turn and look into the stone tomb. It is empty, except for a pile of cloth—the body is gone! All we can do is shrug at the men holding us prisoners.

  Something moves from behind the soldiers, near the entrance. Sensing someone or something is there they all turn and stare as a bright light surrounding the tall form of a woman. She stands there with snow white hair cascading down her shoulders to the waist. Sparkling lights play across her body as if she was a shooting star fallen from heaven.

  The air is filled with static and a sound, like glass tinkling, as one may have stepped on a broken goblet. In her left hand is a glowing gold sword. Its length is long as a tall man’s leg. She points the weapon at the soldiers.

  We can feel the heat coming from the blade even where we stand. Gareth and I step further away and put our backs against a side wall. Because we are weaponless, it appears we are not a threat so she does not swing the blade in our direction.

  “Drop your sword,” one of the soldiers commands the woman.

  She continues to point her saber straight ahead without saying a word. We watch as the men show no fear. One of them steps forward and confronts the woman; threatening her with his sword.

  The pulsing and dancing light surrounding her grows brighter for a split second. The woman has not moved, but the soldier falls to the floor—in two pieces. He was neatly cleaved from head to groin. The other soldiers take a step backward for a moment, then, charge forward hoping their combined mass will drive this apparition out of the tomb, and into the open where she can be surrounded.

  Again, the light encircling the woman turns bright white, and one can detect minute movements of her body suggesting defense. The rest of the soldiers fall down into several bloodless pieces.

  Natsha is daring as she leans closer. She can see the edges of their wounds cauterized by the heat of the Maiden’s Saber.

  The woman turns slowly and faces us. Natsha and I put out our hands palm up to surrender and show we are still weaponless.

  The brilliance that was surrounding the woman has diminished, and the golden sword has once again turned to ebony black. The arm holding that length of steel grows weak as the saber's point touches the ground. The tinkling sound of broken glass is no longer heard as the sparks that had dashed around her body have disappeared. She leans against the wall and uses the sword as a crutch to keep her from falling. I watch as she surveys those fallen around her.

  “Srom ki Lysm kili?”

  I look sideways at Natsha. “What is she saying?”

  “I do not know, but I am sure it is an old language spoken by the ancients. Gareth, you were a traveler of the seas and have visited many lands. You must have heard this tongue spoken in your adventures?”

  “No, this is not familiar to me.”

  All the while, the woman in white has been listening to our exchanges; weighing the words Gareth and I spoke. She gently touches her throat and asks in a raspy voice. “Who are thou and what is this place?”

  Natsha, still with palms raised answers. “My name is Natsha Mod-gin. This is my friend and shield mate Gareth. You are able to understand our language?”

  The Maiden nods her head and says. “Yes, I know your words, but I am at a loss to what this place is. She points to the dead at her feet. “Who are these poor souls?”

  She looks at Gareth who has retrieved his sword belt and asks. “Who is the slayer of these men? Is it you?”

  Gareth is silent as he is held in the spell of her beauty, so I answer. “Amari Djinn, the slayer is the one that still holds the Maiden's Saber!”

  She looks to the sword in her left hand. Blood is dripping down its length and pooling on the floor at her feet. “Woman, are you saying that I stilled the life force in these men? Why did you name me thus?”

  “Amari Djinn—which is your true name. It is a name feared by many during the olden times. Legends and stories passing through the land say you disappeared over five decades ago.

  Nary a man, woman, or child does not know of your wondrous adventures and the magic you wield with that enchanted sword. You are the destroyer of the hundreds during the attack of the Majorca. They were the giant shrews which ravaged this land and its people.

  Too many men, women and children died from those creatures before your lightening saber stilled them; they are now extinct by your hand. It was in the celebrated battle with the Blood Druids where you were last seen. Ancient scrolls say the Druids put the Half-Sleep of Death spell upon you, but that is just a story the tellers used to further your adventures. Some say you were tired of battle and wished to go to another land outside the Aventine Mountains and live out your life in peace.

  The Druids feared your presence and were afraid that you would wipe out their kind. You almost did just that. Only a few of those evil one ar
e said to remain. We do not know where the stories come from, but it said they are secluded somewhere underground in the catacombs beneath the deep woods. None of the followers of the shade has been seen in the last few years. They may be dead and gone to decay.

  Those evil ones lived by dark magic. Because you decimated their numbers, the black sorcery which appeared to sustain them grew weak. All this is written in the Kifton Scrolls.”

  Natsha continues. “I have read those scrolls and other manuscripts as a child. I remember what was written there well.”

  The Maiden looks from me to Gareth. “I have no memory of what you are saying.” She says. The woman standing before them seems to sway. “I only know of this moment I find myself and…”

  Amari's legs buckle and the sword released from her grip clangs to the stone floor. The sound echoes loud throughout the burial chamber.

  I watch as Gareth released from his self-induced trance of her, is quick to act and springs forward. He drops his sword belt and catches her under the arms before she can drop to the floor.

  Her hands clutch his arms. Her penetrating eyes stare into his. “It was you who broke the hold that death held on me. Your blood warms my veins. How is that possible—you must tell me?”

  I pick her up in my arms. “We must be free of this place and can talk when we are safe. Natsha, gather our weapons and her saber. We tarry here too long.”

  I see a new side of a man I know as stoic and tough. Except for me, he cares not how others regard him. He has genuine concern for this woman. This Maiden Witch of old.

  As Gareth carries Amari through the entrance, I strap on my sword and throw his weapon belt over my arm. As I stoop to reach for the ancient fallen saber, it begins to glow like a red sun as my fingers come near.

  I can feel the heat as it seems alive on its surface. The saber grows warmer the closer I approach. As this is very old magic, I fear the blade will resist my touch.