Sword from the Sky

by R. Janvier del Valle

  “I HEARD A BLADE FLY THROUGH THE WIND!” Pabru said angrily. “Did it cut you?”

  “My blades never miss,” the dark warrior said. “You on the other side tend to yourself. I’ll come for you after I’m done with your friends.”

  This enraged Pabru even more, and he took a few steps into the lake. “Friend!” Pabru said with an urgency he had never shown before. “Let me know if I should engage!”

  Occupied with having to steady his breaths and control the treading of water, Vehru managed to give out a faint signal to his friend. He checked his ear and felt that it was cut at the top, and that a piece of cartilage was missing. Fueled by a flowing stream of anger, Vehru continued onward towards his challenger, but before getting into rhythm, he turned back to Vehru. “Keep at the metal, Pabru!”

  Unfazed by the commotion, Lereh kept on swimming towards the shore. The man watched as the well-conditioned Davinians came towards him like predators steadily approaching from the distant waters, so he turned around and walked away from the shore to prepare himself for the duel that was to come.

  The moonlight, which was at first frolicking about the borders of the encompassing fog, was now breaking into the center of the lake. It specifically took a liking to the evil man, and it wrapped him up in its luster.

  The light of the moon revealed the man’s menacing form. He was a giant of a human, measuring close to seven feet tall, with a sleek and muscular frame. He wore a black robe, which he took off as he prepared himself for battle, and was covered in full-plated armor from head to toe. It was not a heavy armor, but light, and it wrapped around his form like metallic bandages. The armor was the color of twilight, and additionally, it appeared that the moon made the armor come alive with an ill-boding gleam.

  It seemed that the whole of the armor had certain slots where he housed his numerous curved blades, all nine of them. They blades were positioned on his body similar to that of a typical Davinian: three in the back, two at the chest, two at the hip, and his special two blades on his forearms, of which one he had already thrown across the lake. On his head, he had an armored helmet much like that of the foul child who had crossed words with Druuk, but his helmet was different in one respect: Instead of being shaped in the image of a pig, it was constructed in the form of a dragon’s head, with the mouth and the jaw line left uncovered. Streaming out of the top of the helmet was a long, black mane made out of the hair of a hundred horses. It was so long, it cascaded past his shoulders. Across his lips and his jaw was a treacherous scar that had healed horribly.

  The dark warrior found a nice boulder to leap onto, and he crouched on top of it in order to bask in the moon’s rejuvenating luminance. He seemed to have gained a certain amount of power from the cosmic vagrant; he squirmed under the moon’s rays, as if receiving bolts of electric energy, yet he reveled in the pain. But after experiencing much pleasure, his armor began to sparkle like twilight, and torment spread across his mouth, and there was a grinding of teeth, and the man blasphemed the night.

  “May you be cursed, you sons and daughters of the sun,” the man said, referring to the stars that had unexpectedly grown in number and increased in brightness as to outshine the moon itself. “You are not like the moon! You are weak, and dare not set yourself apart from the light that shines forth across the cosmos. Cursed are you, blind followers! Why must you be like the sun? Be like the moon, which has set herself apart from the light! Cursed are you tonight!”

  But the stars continued to grow in numbers until it seemed as if the stars’ light began to burn the man, and he had to retreat back into shadow, so he climbed off the rock and took to a better spot.

  “Soon, the light will be no more,” he said, approaching the shore and speaking out to his enemy, “Come and cross the lake, children, come and join me on this side.”

  Hearing his vile words, Vehru and Lereh swam with their eyes on the challenger; they kept their pace in a calm rhythm and used their time to meditate on the upcoming battle. Reaching the shore, the slowly crept out of the water, drenched and cold, and their clothes appeared like a wet cloth draped over one’s hand.

  On their way towards the challenger, Vehru dropped his drenched garment, revealing his vest and the markings across it. A Davinian’s vest was commonly crafted to look and fit in a certain manner, but each Davinian had the freedom to decorate the vest however they pleased. This being the case, it was not uncommon to see vests in different shades and colors, either adorned with the greatest markings, or accented with more modest details. Vehru’s vest resembled that of his father’s: it was pure black, like night itself, and across the chest were nine silver stars with one grand star in the center.

  At the sight of young Vehru’s vest, the dark warrior scoffed at him. “You are just as blind as those up in the sky.”

  “I didn’t cross to this side to trade words with you,” Vehru said.

  The man scoffed at him once again. “Your impatience shows your lack of experience, young Davinian. I do have to say that your vest is strikingly familiar. Who is your master?”

  Before Vehru answered, he took a good look at his opponent. He could see that this malevolent person had the familiar disposition of a Davinian, and he sensed that his nine curved blades were once straight and beautiful. Vehru glanced at the man’s horse, which stayed hidden in the shadows, and he saw a beast corrupted by falsity. The being did not even appear as a horse but a cross between an overly tall horse and a stout long-horned bull. Yet, the beast did not have the horns of a bull, but it did have something similar to it. It had the horn of a unicorn, but unlike the majestic horse, its horn was horrifically bent upward—a most gruesome sight.

  “We serve only the people of the land,” interjected Lereh, taking a few cautious steps.

  “The people of the land?” the man said. “How laughable! Do they still teach that silly incompetence at that outdated school? Well, regardless, we fight, but I see that you don’t have your Rasplendurs.”

  “I have my Rasplendur but have yet to be ordained,” Vehru said.

  “Oh, I see, so you’re a novotal, a newly-birthed, and you’re without your Rasplendur. What a shame that is. I was hoping to cross a true master’s blade with you. How disappointing. So, then, what blade would you like to begin with? Seeing that I am your challenger, it would be right that you get first choice.”

  Vehru did not say a word but only reached for his Prossesur on his back.

  “Ah, the mighty Prossesur,” said the man,” but where is his sibling?”

  “Here is its kin,” Lereh said sharply. “And I’m no novotal!”

  The man glanced at the scars adorning Lereh’s face. “Ah, so you have been seasoned with the ways of the blademaster—you have been in battle. You might be more of a challenge for me, but not much. Well, since both brother-blades are present, I shall use mine as well.”

  But, whether out of ignorance or courage, Vehru spoke, “They won’t suffice.”

  “You have vigor,” the dark Davinian said. “Though your shortage of wisdom is unnerving. Still, I must admit that what you lack warrants the potentiality for learning what you need. Part of me, the old me, still has a need to actualize people’s potentials, especially young students. Do you not think that despicable?”

  “Who are you?” Lereh said with confidence, but this clearly appeared to have crossed whatever boundaries they had between them, and a low, menacing growl was heard coming from the depths of the dark warrior.

  “Don’t bother me with your questions,” he said. “Questions are for me to ask, not you. Nevertheless, it’s time to face your fate, Davinians. We will go to all blades unsheathed.”

  “To all blades unsheathed,” they said, taking their stances.

  And as if another creature came into the man, his eyes became fierce and grew red in color. His muscles twitched under his armor, giving him the appearance of being twice as muscular as he was before. Instantly, he was full of rage, and he grabbed for the twin blades on his back
and unsheathed them. He opened his mouth and gave out what seem to be a hybrid of a hiss and a growl, He squatted down as to be level with the children in front of him, and he swayed back and forth as to keep his rhythm moving, ready to spring into a death blow if given the chance.

  “Attack, children!” the Davinian said as he approached them. The man waved his blades in such a manner as to distract his opponents, but Vehru, though young, was much too seasoned for any of that to work. He may have only been a child, but he was Mastro Vohro’s child. Vehru waited in peace and only shuffled his feet as much as he needed to compensate for his opponent’s movement. The boy kept his blade hand up near his face, and with the other hand, guarded his torso.

  “This will end quickly,” the man said. “You know this to be true, children.”

  Lereh smirked as she realized something. “Dark one,” she said, “I know now you lack one thing.”

  “I pray, do tell.”

  “It is that which pride is not.”

  “Fool!” the man said, lunging at Lereh, but the child, being an experienced Davinian, sidestepped to escape her enemy’s lunge and lowered herself close to the ground while simultaneously spinning, which gave her the opportunity to counter with a horizontal cross-slash to the dark one’s shin—to no avail, as her Nunsurrum failed to cut through the man’s armor.

  “What?” the dark one said with a smirk. “Did I not reveal to you the nature of my armor? If I didn’t, then I must apologize, scarred one. No Esterran blade, not even that of a Davinian’s, can ever cut through these plates of mine. Like I said before, this duel will only have one outcome, and that is with your death.”

  “For that to be true you would have to land a cut on me,” Lereh said.

  “Well, if I must,” he said, lunging once more but quickly feigning and unexpectedly attacking Vehru.

  Vehru feigned himself, using his Prossesur, lunging straight towards his enemy’s face, and the dark warrior drew back his head, leaving Vehru with the opportunity to use his leg to draw up a great big gust of dirt, which he shot with his foot straight into the man’s face.

  With the dark warrior’s focused slightly confused, Vehru grabbed his Eturita blade from his hip and threw it at the man’s head with as much strength as he could muster.

  But the man’s skill was too great, and he heard the whistling of the blade’s flight before it even got close to his face, and before the blade was able to make contact with the exposed part of his jaw, the master deflected Vehru’s Eturita with his own Prossesur, and Vehru’s blade flew off into the forest, plunging into the depths of the abyss.

  “That took skill, child,” the dark warrior said, “but you aren’t skilled enough. You can’t best me. There is only one outcome to this. Yield to it.”

  “I cannot yield but only act,” Vehru said.

  With a flow of courage, Vehru went on the attack and lunged at his enemy, only to have the dark master block his slash. But this was part of Vehru’s plan, for his attack gave Lereh the opportunity to lunge at her opponent’s torso, yet once again, the man was able to defend himself. But surprisingly, this was also part of Vehru’s tactics, for Vehru then grabbed his Enebran, the blade on his left chest, and thrust it towards his enemy’s face.

  But as the man said earlier, their skill was not up to par to his, for the dark warrior had secretly dropped one of his twin blades and grasped his own Enebran to counter Vehru’s hidden attack. The Davinian beast slashed a gaping cut on Vehru’s forearm, which triggered a horrible yell from the boy. Almost simultaneously, and with the inhuman speed of a devil, the man took his other blade and slashed at Lereh’s forearm, making an identical slash, if only for the sake of symmetry. The young Davinians could do nothing but fall to the ground in extreme pain, kneeling before their opponent.

  “You know, I expected more from Davinians,” the man said as they looked up at him in surprise. “It’s a pity that I have to slay someone as young as you two. You do show great potential, enough for me to mold to my wishes. On the other hand, you are still Davinian slaves.”

  The man reached behind his back and unsheathed his Rasplendur. “Because you have fought with honor and are truly worthy, you will have the pleasure of being slain by my Rasplendur.”

  He put his powerful blade to Lereh’s neck. “Young Servantu, before you die, please know that it is Mirel who has bested you tonight and will cut you down with his blade. Know that Mirel used to be a sacred name among the halls of Daví, and soon it will become a horrendous sound wherever it is spoken about by the Order. Do you have any final words to breathe?”

  “That which you lack will make you fall,” Lereh said.

  “Those are confusing words, especially with my blade at your neck.”

  “Take that filthy blade off her,” Vehru snarled, grabbing at his own arm.

  “Brave words will not prolong your lives, little ones,” said Mirel. “Yield to your fate.”

  As the young Davinians lay beaten by the dark foe, across the lake, Pabru stood watching his friends’ demise. His anger had overcome him, and he had succeeded in mining the metal with great speed before turning his focus on his friends’ plight. Seeing Lereh kneeling with a Rasplendur at her neck spoke to him greatly, and he picked up Vehru’s Trunu from the ground and readied himself to cross the lake.

  But before he could, he was held back by something, and his mouth was covered by someone’s hand. Swiftly, Pabru was taken back into the shadows.

  “Steady your anger, dear one,” Drunen said, holding his hand over the boy’s mouth. “Let the things that need to unfold do so.”

  Pabru recognized his prince’s words and calmed himself. Drunen had already warned Luleh as she crouched hidden in the shadows. All three of them stood covered in darkness, waiting for something to happen.

  Back on the other side, Mirel had grown tired of crossing words, and he readied his blade to cut down the freckled beauty kneeling before him. “Say the word, Servantu, and I will comply with your death.”

   But she did not speak, and only the wind rustled, and the three warriors felt a disturbance. A voice came like lightning breaking through the trees, “Dark one, do you think it brave to lay your Rasplendur at a child’s neck?”

  Immediately, a whistling sound was heard, as if a blade was thrown with great skill towards Mirel’s head. The blade was no other than Jeskun’s Enebran, and it forced Mirel to block it with his Rasplendur. Mirel’s reaction gave Vehru and Lereh the opportunity to roll to their sides and raise themselves to their feet. The young Davinians fled towards Jeskun, who had now appeared out of the darkness like a black shadow taking the form of a warrior.

  Startled, Mirel took a few steps back. “Davinian, I don’t recognize you.”

  “It’s a pity, since we’ve certainly met before,” Jeskun said. “But now I’m much older and stronger.”

  “Very well,” Mirel conceded. “Regardless, you won’t live to see me again. But I pray, do tell, why have you bathed in blood this night?”

  Mirel was right to question the young mastro, for after coming out of the depths of the shadows, he could see Jeskun in detail. Blood ran from his head down to his feet, and he was blanketed with mud and loose dirt. His face was a work of bloody art, and only his eyes sparkled against the moon. His hands gripped the twin blades with a force that could rival any predator’s talons, and veins bulged about the whole of him. He had been in combat, in which he had turned out the victor, and now he was to approach combat once again, but when he walked towards Mirel it was not with any kind of strut, for he had not the pride to do so, but it was more of being pushed by the wind towards his enemy, with Mastro Jeskun graciously allowing the gust of air to do so.

  Following an unexpected moment of reverence, Mirel’s disposition turned arrogant. “Ha!” he said. “So you’ve come to rescue your precious sheep? I will say to you what I said earlier to the Novotal: There is only one outcome to this fight, and it will end with your demise. Now, if you are a true Davinian ma
stro, you’ll take out your Rasplendur.”

  “I decline your gesture,” Jeskun said, raising his Prossesur and Nunsurrum up in the air. “My twins have tasted blood tonight, and that blood is upon their blades. They wouldn’t be right in bringing it upon my Rasplendur.” Mastro Jeskun turned to Vehru and spoke, “Run along now, Vehru, into the shadows, and make sure to cover your ears, for the blades of masters clashing will surely make them bleed.” And he turned to his opponent, “When you’re ready.”

  At the other end of the lake, Drunen, Pabru, and Luleh watched in anticipation. “Have you ever seen two masters fight?” the prince said.

  “No, sire,” Luleh said.

  “It would do you well for you two to watch, and you’ll realize how much knowledge there is still left for you to obtain.”

  Everything was quiet; it had to be, for any sound that permeated throughout the timid trees could throw off the slightest mode of attack coming from the two masters. They raised their blades to each other and began to move in a circle. Though Jeskun was a grown man, Mirel stood a few inches taller than him, so the dark warrior still appeared just as impressive as he did next Vehru and Lereh.

  “Tell me, Mastro,” said Mirel “what do you suppose to do with blades that are incapable of cutting through my armor?”

  “If that’s the case, I suppose I should beat you to death then,” Jeskun said.

  They circled each other for some time and then stopped, for it was time to make their moves. They stood silently in the midst of the moonlit fog. Every muscle fiber twitched throughout their bodies as the two masters quietly ran through their potential movements by squeezing and conditioning their muscles. But they did not move, for to move a muscle was to give away their attack. So the two waited for a sign—a break in the midnight breeze, a fall of a lonely leaf, or the flight of a fleeing night thing…and it came.

  It was the hoot of an owl that unleashed the frenzy of blades between the two masters. The two ran towards each other and clashed like two fierce rams knocking horns. And as for what happened next, it could be likened to motion at inhuman speed. Mastro Jeskun was the first to advance, and his arms where thrusting in and out, with his blades jabbing at his opponent, and it seemed as if he was striking in all directions, high and low, torso then legs, then head, and torso again. But the mighty dark one was countering with equal speed, swiftly putting his Rasplendur where it needed to be, up high, then low, then the middle, then to the side and ending up near the top once more. All this happened within a few seconds, all in a matter of a few steps.

  As quickly as they stopped, they began again, but this time Mirel advanced and Jeskun fell back, with the curved one swishing and swirling his Rasplendur like it was made out of the lightest material. And after he confused his opponent with his fancy movements, Mirel began to thrust and slash at all of Jeskun’s limbs and vulnerable spots. Typically, it would have been easy for Mirel to land a strike, but things aren’t easy between two masters, so just as fast as Mirel struck his thrusts, Jeskun blocked with his twin blades. Mirel’s advance ended in a matter of steps, and they stood across from each other once again. Jeskun had not managed to land one blow on the dark one, but again neither had Mirel struck at Jeskun.

  Jeskun changed his stance slightly, and Mirel configured his somewhat to make up for the change. Jeskun knew that he needed to finish the duel as quickly as possible if he thought of ever having a chance of winning, and one could tell in the mastro’s eyes that things were brewing, things that were only known to him, things learned by him through his personal and disciplined training.

  In one short twitch of his feet, Jeskun darted towards Mirel and began his fury once again, but this time, his mind had connected with the difficult teachings he had learned as a mastro, and his arms flung out, moving high and low and to the shoulder then to the ribs and to the thigh, lastly followed by a thrust to the abdomen. Unlike the first advance he made towards Mirel, these advances actually landed in all the right places. His blades struck Mirel’s armor like meteors striking hard on the ground. If he was not to cut through the armor, he would at least deal blows to him internally. Mirel did not have enough speed to counter Jeskun’s advance, and once he felt the blows, he quickly retracted, falling on one knee. He struggled to breathe.

  Jeskun stood across from his opponent. He could tell Mirel had trouble breathing, but after a few seconds, it seemed that Mirel had recovered his breaths. The dark warrior knelt in silence, waiting. Jeskun approached him with his blades held out in a ready stance, prepared to attack if Mirel were to move an inch.

  “If you wish to continue, it would be wise to ready yourself,” Jeskun said, anticipating an attack.

  But even though the mastro was aware and focused on his opponent, it was not enough to match Mirel’s next advance. The moment Jeskun finished speaking his words, Mirel snapped upward with a speed that seemed inhuman. His Rasplendur shot towards the mastro’s face, and quicker than Jeskun could recognize the slightest movement coming from his opponent, the blade made contact with the left side of the brave mastro’s face, making a deep cut across Jeskun’s left eye.

  A stream of blood spewed out of his eye, coloring trees and dirt in the immediate area. The mastro, who was strong and alert just seconds before, fell to the ground on his knees, while Mirel raised himself to his feet. In a matter of seconds, the tables had turned, and now Jeskun was at the dark Davinian’s mercy, kneeling in front of him, with one hand clutching his left eye and the other still holding his Prossesur.

  “Come now, Mastro, you didn’t really think you would be the victor of this battle, did you?” Mirel said condescendingly, tapping Jeskun’s shoulder with his Rasplendur as a sign of disrespect. “I meant it when I said no blade could ever hurt me, but you didn’t want to heed my words.”

  The reaction he expected from Jeskun was nothing like he received, for Mirel expected Jeskun to ask for an honorable death, but instead Jeskun began to snicker to himself.

  “I had my doubts about it working, but things seem to take place just as you need them to sometimes,” whispered Jeskun.

  “What is that you speak of?” said Mirel.

  “Your self-worth has befogged your vision, dark one,” Jeskun said. “My goal was not for myself to win, but to bring about a victorious outcome, and contrary to what you believe, I have been successful in what I came here to do. This battle with you has made me aware of something: you possess something I do not.”

  “Oh, that I knew from the beginning, Mastro. That’s why you’re on your knees, and I stand above you. But I’m curious. Please, do explain.”

  “You’re focused on your own self and not on the things around you, thus you fail to see what truly lies in the shadow.”

  “Desperate words coming from a beaten mastro are all I hear.”

  “No, these words serve the purpose of what I came here to do, and I’ve been successful in regards to my purpose.”

  “And what is that purpose, Mastro?”

  “It’s the same purpose that the brave young children took up before me.”

  “Which is?”

  Jeskun stood up, lowered his blade and met the gaze of his enemy with the one eye he had left. “To stall,” Jeskun said, raising his blade to his head and retreating back into the shadows.

  “You withdraw from me, coward?” said Mirel. “Come back to me!”

  Jeskun slipped away into darkness, disappearing from Mirel’s sight. A moment passed, and there was only silence.

  “Come back from the shadows!” said Mirel, raising his Rasplendur to the fog in front of him. “Come out and give my Rasplendur the satisfaction it’s due!”

  From out of the shadows came a form, but its mass seemed bigger and taller than Jeskun.

  “I will give your Rasplendur its due,” Vohro said. “Messing with my son was an unwise move.”

  Without a second to spare, Vohro drew out his Rasplendur, a glorious thing of steel, and as it rubbed the borders of its sheath, it made a c
horal sound that rung out into the air, and the leaves of the forest danced to its song. One could tell there was anguish in Mirel as he bit his lips with disdain. His eyes for once were filled with true fear as the seasoned mastro walked towards him with a disturbing confidence, stopping just a few feet away from Mirel.

  “Is that the attitude the mighty Mirel takes up when faced with a master of blades?” Vohro said. “Your father was right in expelling you from the Order, for what you have become is fouler than the fog that surrounds us.”

  “What I have become, Mastro Vohro, is more powerful than any Davinian to have ever lived.”

  “Raise your Rasplendur and show me,” Vohro said, pointing his blade to Mirel.

  The two master Davinians raised their blades to each other, and no words were spoken, for none were needed. Vohro did not circle Mirel, for a mastro of his caliber did not waste time with such pettiness, and after a moment of careful, silent observation, Mirel went in for the attack with a head-on downward slash. Vohro’s eyes grew bigger than the average man, and he saw everything before it all happened; he effortlessly turned to his side with knees bent, and before he countered with his blade, he pondered on his opponent. What arrogance comes from his first strike? Did I not teach him better than this?

  And Vohro immediately twirled in a manner as to end up behind him. Mirel turned to him.

  “Do you wish to battle, or play games?” Vohro said.

  “I wish to battle!” cried the dark warrior. On the heels of his words, Vohro lunged at him and crossed Rasplendurs with Mirel, and the two blades clashed with each other for several swings as Vohro forced Mirel to step back. The striking of the blades broke the peace that was found in the night’s sky. The ear-splitting clangs of steel were so dreadful, that Pabru, Luleh, the prince and everyone else present immediately fell to the ground in excruciating pain.

  Eventually, the sound stopped, and all was calm as the two warriors drew back their blades and took their stances. As he kept his eyes on Mirel, Vohro could not help but glance at his son, who sat quietly amongst the shadows trying desperately to contain his pain due to the horrible wounds he had received from the dark warrior. I feel anger slowly creeping up my senses, slowly warming me up and displacing my thoughts. I must end this while I still have a clear mind.

  And just as Vohro finished his last thought, Mirel lunged at him with the same inhuman speed he had bested Jeskun with, and his first attack came from below, but Vohro, who had the eyes of an eagle, could see every attack that came towards him regardless of speed, and with a flick of a wrist, he blocked Mirel’s Rasplendur, which in turn catapulted Vohro’s own Rasplendur upward, and the deaf mastro used this extra push to counterstrike with an upward slash directed at Mirel’s exposed jaw.

  The blade made contact with his flesh, and it was heard before it was seen. Vohro’s blade reopened the scar that had adorned Mirel’s face for many years, and blood spewed out into the open air in such a manner that it seemed as if it bathed the moon in red. Mirel grabbed his mouth with both hands and fell to the floor.

  Vohro approached Mirel with his Rasplendur pointed at his head, tapping him on the shoulder just as he had done to Jeskun, but before Mirel could react, Vohro witnessed an image stepping into the peripheral view of his left eye: a long, fierce lance made of ivory and steel landed right between the two masters, and it forced Vohro to step back and take a ready stance.

  Vohro heard a vile laugh echo throughout the space surrounding the lake, and the fog that encircled him began to move in a whirlpool motion; it seeped in and broke into the boundaries of the lake.

  In the midst of the fog, they heard the sounds of a hundred hoofs and the sickening chirp of the beastly child’s laughter. This all happened within a few seconds, and when all was done, the fog receded back into the surrounding area, clearing up the space around the lake.

  Vohro stood in the aftermath of his victory. It was obvious that the dark Davinian had disappeared. He had been taken by the foul child—rescued, it seemed. For the time being, the danger had dissipated, and Vohro stepped out from the shadows and into the clearing, in full vision of his students, prince, and fellow warrior.

  And like any seasoned and glorious teacher of blades would exclaim, he raised his Rasplendur to the air, swirled it and then swiftly sheathed it on his back. He spoke the words which he knew by heart, words which he had expressed a multitude of times.

  “Children, tonight’s lesson is over.”

  And all who were with him breathed a sigh of relief.

  ***