with this folly, this fever-dream, this –”
“You were right,” Joslin said. “You were right. I was wrong to drag you to war. Wrong to have you forsake the life of quiet contemplation you had found for yourself. I beg your forgiveness.”
“Yet still you force that sword on me,” Roul said.
“Hear me,” Joslin said. “We have come too, too far for any of us to chart a new course. Piedra's army is days away, and the host expect you to lead them against him, whether you will or no. Only fight this last battle, and then will I free you to do whatever you wish.”
“I shall damn us all,” Roul said.
“No you will not,” Joslin said.
“Then you would have me perish,” Roul said. “To go down in combat, and in death spur the host to vanquish Piedra as I could not do in life.”
“I would not,” Joslin said. “I would have you walk from the field, rather than be carried off. Return to your farm and there live out the rest of your days. Only take up your sword but once more, I pray you.”
And Roul the Black laid his hand upon the Still Small Voice.
He closed his eyes as if he heard someone speak to him, though the blade stayed quiet, and none there present spoke a word; then he smiled.
“Now do you understand,” Roul said, “and so I will fight this last battle for you.”
And Joslin went to tell the host they marched to have a final reckoning with the conqueror.
So it was that Piedra Cold-hearted finally led his own army against the rebels.
Piedra had mustered twelve thousand men where the rebel host numbered barely a third of that, and he had them assembled in full array across the scarlet plains of Varaienne. The conqueror made no attempt to parley, though Roul the Black and Joslin had expected no such offer. In short order battle was joined.
The rebel archers slung arrows with a will, in memory of the fallen Cateline Riverwind. Their cavalry launched themselves into Piedra's centre, and the conqueror's men gave as good as they got, and the plains of Varaienne became a boiling morass of clashing steel and rising screams as the two armies fought tooth and nail. Piedra had the greater numbers, but his regiments were slow to respond, and they tired of the way he spent them with no more thought than a rich man might empty his smallpurse. The rebels were far fewer, but they were quick, and cunning, and everywhere at once. None could say who held the advantage.
Then did Roul the Black raise the Still Small Voice and order his honour guard to charge.
The blade shone so brightly it could be seen from one end of the field to the other, and the conqueror's army could be seen to falter. When Roul reached the hardest of the fighting, he swung his sword like a man possessed. Though Piedra threw the strongest of his champions at the rebel leader, they slowed him not at all. Even Roul's own knights stood back as he cut a path towards the conqueror, and as they received this furious assault Piedra's men began to fall back. The rebel host saw this and their hearts were gladdened.
Joslin led his own company through the fray towards Roul the Black, for he wanted to be there when the end finally came.
So it was that Piedra Cold-hearted joined the fight, and tyrant though the conqueror may have been, he did not lack for martial prowess. Wielding a great black crescent blade he leapt from his warhorse, where he slew three of Roul's honour guard in moments, and then he met Roul the Black head-on. Fiercely did they clash, sparks flying as their swords crossed, both of them spattered with mud and gore in short order until they could have been any one of the common rabble, rather than giants among men.
Yet while Piedra was without doubt a skilled warrior, he was still arrogant, consumed by the notion the City of Glass should be his in perpetuity, having won it the once. Where he fought as though he believed himself the better man, Roul the Black swung his blade as though he knew he was the greater swordsman.
Seeing this, Joslin knew the memory of the battle in the forest by the River of Stars was upon his friend, for Roul the Black assaulted Piedra without mercy until the conqueror fell dazed into the muck upon his knees, and a great cry went up from his army. But rather than deliver the killing blow to Piedra Cold-hearted, Roul thrust the Still Small Voice into the earth, and mounting his horse he rode away through the press of men. All there present were so amazed that not one of them thought to stop him.
Then did Joslin the Fair force his horse to where Roul the Black and Piedra Cold-hearted had fought. As Joslin dismounted, the conqueror laughed.
“He could not kill me,” Piedra said as he rose to his feet.
“True enough,” Joslin said.
“He could not,” Piedra said, “for he knew I did not merit such a fate. I vanquished you pitiable Arlestenes, and claimed your City of Glass for my own. I left you with no choice but to bend the knee. The strong shall always prove victorious over the weak and to the victor, inevitably, go the spoils.”
“You are wrong,” Joslin said wearily. “Or at least none of these things explain why he spared you. He simply knew he desired your death too greatly.”
“Are the Arlestenes become philosophers, then?” Piedra said as he took up his crescent blade. “I confess this is not a military strategy any tactician ever suggested to me.”
“Perhaps we are,” Joslin said. “Though not in the sense you presume. I had this blade forged so that only he who truly had no desire to wield it might unleash its full potential. Roul the Black was no warrior, and I was wrong to force him to pretend otherwise. He was but a simple, kindly man who took up arms for a time, and made it his calling only under duress.”
Here Joslin briefly closed his eyes.
“And though once Roul answered that call he did so with a will,” he said, “the notion of battle and slaughter for its own sake never really spoke to him. It was only when he finally confronted you, man to man, that he came to dwell on the terrible things he had been a party to. All because I made the terrible mistake of deciding he, and only he, might finally unseat you from your throne.”
“And this epiphany stayed his hand?” Piedra said. “Weep, then, for your pathetic insurgency, if all of you must needs lay down your swords the moment victory is within your grasp.”
“Not all of us,” Joslin said, and he laid his hand upon the Still Small Voice.
Both the conqueror's army and the rebel host all drew breath.
“You will not tell me you have not desired my death,” Piedra said faintly. “Not after Cateline Riverwind perished at Garouille. Not after this glorious crusade of yours!”
“I did, once,” Joslin said. “Now, though?”
He blinked, for his eyes were wet with tears.
“You did not slay my wife,” he said. “My stubborn, boyish pride did that. And this was never a glorious crusade, no matter what I may have thought. You were a cruel, greedy, thoughtless king, but just a man, for all that. Neither I nor my host were so very different, truth be told. I want this war to be over, yet in my heart I understand why Roul the Black would not have fought you, had I not sought him out. It is one thing to think of this insanity as a necessary evil, and quite another to rue it so bitterly all you can taste is ashes. I see that now. I do not want your death. I want to walk away from here and forget I ever heard your name, much less led an army against you. I want my wife by my side, our children underfoot, the sun setting over our fields. The very thought of taking up this sword against you leaves me sick to my stomach.”
Joslin the Fair pulled the Still Small Voice from the mud and raised it high over his head.
For a single moment the blade flashed with pale fire, and Piedra Cold-hearted recoiled.
“But I will take it up, all the same,” Joslin said, and swung.
Though the conqueror raised his crescent blade, the Still Small Voice sheared cleanly through his sword and sent his head flying from his shoulders.
So it was that Piedra Cold-hearted was finally defeated. The Arlestene rose up and drove the last of the conqueror's supporters from their beloved country, then they
retook the City of Glass and placed Joslin the Fair on the throne. Many men implored Joslin to seek out Roul the Black again, that he might help rebuild the kingdom, but Joslin refused. He remembered the promise he had given his friend, and meant to keep his word.
Few now remember the tale of Joslin the Fair, and how he learnt the world is not a story-book, however much we might wish it so. None can recall whether he married a second time, or mourned the lovely Cateline Riverwind for the rest of his days, or if Joslin sought out Roul the Black again as an older, wiser man. But men still whisper of the Still Small Voice, that glittering silver blade.
Should you come to possess the Still Small Voice, perhaps surrendered to you by someone who knew not what they carried, listen not to whatever foolish tales the former wielder might try to spin. Close your eyes, lay your hand upon the hilt, think on why you desire to take up arms – and in that brief moment of calm, listen for what the blade might have to say.
Then, and only then, will you know if this is truly the sword for you, and if not, I pray you, set it aside.
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Thanks for reading. You can find me on Twitter as @eightrooks, or on Tumblr at https://therookshavereturned.tumblr.com/. If you enjoyed this story, please consider telling someone else you liked it on whatever social networks you use. I’d really appreciate it.
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Cover art, legal stuff:
To the best of my knowledge, all elements of the cover art for this publication were freely available without any legal restrictions preventing me from using them in transformative works or distributing said work under the licensing conditions I’ve chosen. If you believe I’ve used anything of yours in error, please let me know and I’ll address your enquiry as quickly as possible.
Battle scene (foreground) taken from:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swiss_mercenaries#/media/File:Bad-war.jpg
Battle scene (banner) taken from:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_history#/media/File:Autor_nieznany_(malarz_z_kr%C4%99gu_Lukasa_Cranacha_Starszego),_Bitwa_pod_Orsz%C4%85.jpg
Map taken from:
https://www.tablespace.net/maps/munstergallia.html
Rook taken from:
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rook-Corvus_frugilegus.jpg
(Andreas Trepte, www.photo-natur.de)
Fonts taken from:
https://www.1001fonts.com/jsl-blackletter-font.html
https://www.1001fonts.com/alegreya-sc-font.html
https://www.1001fonts.com/honey-script-font.html
The Still Small Voice Page 3