Stone Will

by Kirill Klevanski

  Hadjar, after his ‘fight’ with the Spirit Knight, the Emerald Wolf, and Colin, felt that he was close to comprehending some profound truth, but couldn't understand what it was. Enlightenment kept evading his grasp.

  The battles had hardened his hands, strengthened his will, and presented him with knowledge. But he couldn't merge them together.

  The raindrops continued to strike the blade.

  Hadjar was fighting the rain, but couldn't win.

  “It's very beautiful,” a voice sounded.

  Hadjar flinched and lost his rhythm. His sword missed its ‘target’ and the Prince almost lost his balance.

  A girl with red hair and a tenacious gaze stood behind him, wrapped in a cloak.

  “Stepha?”

  Hadjar thought he was seeing a mirage. No, it couldn't have been Stepha, he’d left her behind. Somewhere far back on the road of his life. Almost seven years had passed since he’d last seen her. Hundreds of thousands of miles separated them now.

  “Did you remember my name after the performance?” The girl was surprised.

  Suddenly, Hadjar recalled what Nero and Sirius had said.

  “By the way, a circus has just arrived. They have such funny freaks there.” Hadjar remembered the words of the official he’d executed.

  “Let's go look at the circus freaks…” Nero had suggested.

  “Yes, my lady,” Hadjar bowed slightly, suddenly having to deal with an uninvited lump in his throat.

  “Lady…” Stepha repeated. She was as beautiful and passionate as he remembered her being. “No one has ever called me that. Although, there was one man… but he died a long time ago.”

  What were the chances that a circus in which Hadjar had spent five years of his life would arrive to this remote Fort? Approximately as infinitesimal as the chances that he would meet a thread leading to Underworld City in the mountains, among the horde’s prisoners. To a place where he could unlock the secrets of spells.

  For a moment, it seemed to Hadjar like all the roads of his life had been woven into a single thread that was tied around that Fort and the upcoming battle. As if fate itself had led him here, as well as the people who’d helped that fate come to pass.

  “What are you doing in this downpour?” Hadjar asked after sheathing his sword. He picked his cloak up off the ground and covered Stepha’s shoulders with it.

  Once upon a time, she had been taller than him. Now she barely came up to his chest.

  “We put on a show at your camp,” she didn't doubt for a second that the man in front of her was from the military.

  The swordsman’s gaze, his posture, his walk, and his self-confidence all signaled that he was a soldier. And yet, Stepha had never seen such an interesting man in her life. Despite the fact that he looked like the well-groomed son of a nobleman, his strength and power could be felt a mile away. It was almost like the aura of a wild beast...

  “Then you should go back,” Hadjar pointed to the Fort. “Better yet, go west. It'll be dangerous if you stay here.”

  “Yes,” Stepha nodded. “We're leaving tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow... For some reason, Hadjar knew that he'd never see this girl again. Tomorrow, their paths, which had miraculously come together on the great journey of life, would once again diverge, and this time, it would be forever.

  She was standing very close to him and her scent was the same as always. She smelled like a bonfire, grass, and some sweet flower.

  “You have very beautiful eyes, soldier.”

  Her thin, worn fingers touched his cheek.

  Suddenly, she asked, “Have we met before?”

  Her fingers ran a little lower, entangling themselves in Hadjar's hair and then went further down, to his clavicle. She pulled him even closer. So close that he got goosebumps from her hot breath tickling his skin.

  “What's your name, soldier?”

  Hadjar looked into her eyes. They held neither fear nor sorrow, only a thirst for life. They were bright and free.

  Instead of answering, he hugged her tightly, pressing himself against her. He removed the hood and buried his face in Stepha's hair. Wet, but so fragrant.

  She hugged him back, feeling as if she were clinging to a ferocious predator. It was a frightening and therefore intoxicating feeling.

  They loved each right there, throwing the cloak onto the cold ground and ignoring the ceaseless rain. Hadjar took her fiercely, then gently, and she gave herself to him passionately and ardently.

  Hadjar didn't know how long it had lasted, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself alone on his cloak.

  Stepha never stayed with a man. She never stayed in one place. She was as free as the wind blowing across an endless valley. Even when she was with other people, she was also always alone with the whole world.

  Hadjar sighed and looked west.

  He said goodbye to Stepha and let his past drift away. Hadjar released that dark clot that had been hovering around his heart. The year he’d spent in prison, full of torture and pain. Those five years of being a worthless slave. The years he’d spent with Eina and her mother, as a musician in the brothel.

  He got rid of all of it. Banished the pain and sadness, leaving only the rare moments of joy behind. And it all went away.

  Suddenly, Hadjar rose and picked up his sword.

  The rain was still coming down, it didn't care who was drenched in the life-giving moisture. Demons and gods, heroes or villains, all were equal in its eyes.

  Hadjar started his battle with the rain again, but this time, his sword didn't cut through even a single drop. No, it seemingly kept finding a gap between the raindrops every time and going around them. Each time, it would find the practically nonexistent moment when a passage opened up between the millions of drops.

  Hadjar had once again made a small step toward reaching the top. He now knew a secret about the world. He didn't have to fight it. Struggling was useless, the young man had to take it into himself, instead. He had to take the whole world in.

  “Calm Wind,” Hadjar said, assuming the second stance of Traves' Technique.

  The raindrops kept falling. Only now they weren't touching Hadjar, or his sword, which was dancing through the air. They flowed around the warrior, as if coming across an invisible barrier.

  If ‘Strong wind’ was an attack stance, then ‘Calm wind’ was a stance focused on the wielder’s protection.

  Hadjar swung his blade and the ghostly strike flew as far as nineteen steps before it disappeared into the darkness.

  He'd almost reached the second stage of blade mastery. He’d almost become ‘One with the World’.

  “Well, that's enough for now,” Hadjar sheathed the blade and picked up his discarded clothes.

  He looked west again. Yes, the second stance was called ‘Calm Wind’, but he would forever associate it with one name: Stepha.

  Hadjar returned to the camp. He'd reached the absolute peak of his capabilities. He had no way left to grow stronger before the battle.

  There was only one thing left to do - wait for the war to begin.

  Chapter 66

  Hadjar looked toward the horizon. The sun was rising. The endless rain had subsided for a while and the sky had brightened only to turn into the bloody veil of a new day in the very next moment.

  Two million warriors stood behind Hadjar. Some wore light armor, others had armor so heavy it was a miracle they could move.

  Dogar's detachment was always in the front rows and held the center. That was why some people believed that it was almost impossible to survive even one battle in that detachment.

  Dogar himself didn’t look like a bear anymore, but like a giant from old legends. He was wearing leather armor, a close helmet, and his fighting gauntlets. He was a terrifying sight. He had a bandolier full of daggers across his chest, and a long, wide knife was attached to his left shoulder. They all looked like gnarled animal fangs, ready to dig into the enemy's throat.

  To his right, Nero was letting out
slightly nervous breaths. Before the fight, he’d dyed his hair white. Hadjar didn't know why, but judging by Serra’s angry look, it was somehow related to the fact that Nero had gotten drunk and then slid into her tent. Not quite passionate shouts followed, accompanied by the flashes and noise that usually came with spells being cast.

  He had already been like this when he'd left her tent—white haired and covered in numerous bruises. But he’d also been sober.

  Now, clutching a heavy sword in his hands, he was flaunting a rather strange armor. His torso and legs were fully enclosed in it, but his shoulders and forearms weren’t even covered in chain mail. Also, steel plate armor protected his wrists but everything else was exposed. Perhaps this armor was appropriate for the requirements of Nero's technique… or he’d simply lost part of his armor.

  Hadjar himself looked the same as always—wearing chain mail over leather armor, and with ordinary clothes over both. This time, they were a dark red color so that the enemy wouldn't see his blood...

  Hadjar checked whether the leather strap holding his long hair out of the way was still whole.

  The crows were already circling above them, in the sky. They cawed as if urging people to begin the battle.

  Suddenly, the line of the horizon turned black. It was as if an artist had smeared paint on it and decided to leave it, without finishing their newly begun work.

  The soldiers became anxious. The creaking of armor and clanging of weapons filled the air.

  The valley ahead was slowly covered in a golden veil which was emerging from the previously dark horizon. Hundreds of thousands of horsemen, clad in armor, were riding toward the battlefield.

  Suddenly, six horsemen rode forward, and the most powerful of them rode at the head. He was wearing gold armor and a lightweight helmet. The sun shone on his chest, and his horse was so mighty it kicked up chunks of earth as it galloped.

  General Leen and the senior officers moved to meet him. They met somewhere in the middle, descended from their horses, and sat down opposite each other at a table covered with a white tablecloth.

  “What do you think they're discussing?” Nero whispered, adjusting the helmet on his head.

  “They’re trying to frighten each other,” Hadjar guessed.

  The generals of both armies had been discussing something for about fifteen minutes. Then they drank something and went their separate ways. Judging by the joyful cries of the savages and the annoyed growls of their general, they hadn’t been able to come to a consensus.

  Leen paused after she was once again standing in front of her people. Her hair had been pulled into a tight bun, and she wore full, heavy armor. The wind ruffled her blue, woolen cape, and her personal contingent of giant warriors standing behind her glittered in the sun because their armor was so polished.

  A general probably had to give a speech to inspire people at moments like this. The General, however, was only looking at her army in silence. At the faces of the young men and women whose eyes were full of fear and uncertainty.

  How many of them had only recently held on to the hem of their mother’s skirt or had been frightened by their father's belt.

  And now they were standing at the front of an army. An army facing a whole horde of nomads.

  What was she supposed to say?

  Behind her, in the distance, the enemy general, pacing energetically in front of the ranks of the savages, was giving an inspiring speech. The echoes of his thundering voice reached all the way to their own ranks.

  Leen was silent.

  Suddenly, she raised her spear and struck the ground with its shaft. At the same moment, a roar rose up, so powerful that it was like a mountain had collapsed or the ground had split open somewhere, so deafening was her strike.

  She raised her spear once more and then struck the ground. The earth shook under Hadjar's feet, and he himself seemed to calm down slightly. As if his frantically beating heart had begun to accept the beat of the spear instead.

  Soon, one of the soldiers bared his mace and hit it against his shield. Then another comrade joined him, and after they started it, more and more took up the rhythm.

  In absolute silence, without uttering a word, two million soldiers began to beat their weapons against their shields or their spears against the ground. The cavalrymen struck the ground with the hooves of their horses, and the archers struck the drums with their open palms.

  They went faster and faster, louder and louder, until the frightened neighing of the enemy’s horses could be heard from the other side of the valley.

  Then the soldiers, all together, like the awakening of a mighty beast, roared and charged the foe. General Leen, now wearing a helmet, was at the forefront.

  Hadjar ran silently, only tightening his grip on the blade. Nero, who was shoulder to shoulder with him, was straining his throat enough for both of them. The enemy army, driven by their general, rushed to meet them in battle. A whole sea of hooting horsemen and neighing horses barreled toward them.

  Two oceans of steel, flesh, fear, and sweat were about to collide.

  “Turn!” Dogar's voice boomed out when just a few yards remained before the collision.

  The first ranks of the infantry immediately stopped. Hundreds of thousands of warriors turned to the right in sync, letting the forward troops of heavy spearmen through. They plunged their special, spiked shields into the ground, then put their long spears into special hollows. The second row of infantry put their shields on top of theirs, the third row did the same, and so on and so forth, until the first rows were completely covered by the shield formation.

  A moment later, it was as if a ram had hit the shield wall, but the shield spikes the spearmen had dug into the ground held fast. The spearmen grunted with the strain, but held the line, sometimes lunging forward with their spears, and then the army would be greeted by the welcome cry of a dying enemy.

  Suddenly, a buzzing rang out. It sounded like thousands of mosquitoes had risen into the air at once. There were so many of them that they blocked out the sun.

  Hadjar looked at the sky but saw nothing except for the swarm of arrows the archers had loosed. They covered the azure sky with a black curtain, and then the battlefield was flooded with the sounds of arrows hitting flesh, armor, and people's cries.

  The rain of arrows both sides had launched collided with one another. The arrows met in the air and fell, but some still found their mark.

  A soldier standing next to Hadjar clutched at his throat and, choking on his own blood, fell to the ground. He tried to gasp when Hadjar thrust his sword into the man’s skull. The body of a seriously wounded soldier, writhing in agony, would only hinder them in the battle to come...

  Other warriors did the same if a dying comrade fell close to them. One such body could lead to the death of ten strong warriors. The healers never appeared at the beginning of a battle, it would be useless.

  “Hold!” Dogar shouted as the cannons slammed against the other side of the wall of shields.

  This time, the whistle could be heard only at the last moment, when the cannonball was already so close that it would be impossible to dodge it.

  Hadjar could hear heart-rending cries behind him. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and a severed hand landed right next to Hadjar.

  “Damn it,” Nero hissed, throwing the grotesque bundles of flesh to the side.

  Some of the very young soldiers vomited. Right into their helmets.

  “Hold!” Dogar shouted, helping the spearmen hold the wall of shields.

  Hadjar saw their foes rushing in, trying to find gaps between the shields. They beat against the shield wall with their maces, trying to break through it.

  Not a moment too soon, explosions could be heard from their side of the barrier. The Fort had launched its first salvo, and while they had half as many cannons as the nomads did, their cannonballs flew much farther.

  Suddenly, a loud whistle assaulted their ears.

  Hadjar managed to notice Dogar�
��s look of stunned horror, and then everything was plunged into chaos.

  A shell, tearing through the flesh of the horses and horsemen alike, slammed into the wall of shields. Great chunks of earth, destroyed iron, and people flew into the air. The enemy immediately flooded through the newly-formed gap.

  “Stop them!” Dogar cried out, wiping other people's flesh and blood off his helmet.

  Some infantry immediately moved toward the new center of the battle.

  “Hadjar!” Nero cried out as he was being carried by the general stream of soldiers toward the battle with the cavalry.

  “Damn it,” the young officer swore.

  His line was holding the shields. But he couldn’t abandon a friend, nor could he break through dozens of firmly entrenched soldiers.

  Using someone's thigh as a step, Hadjar climbed onto the shoulder of a warrior next to him, and then stepped out onto the edge of the wall of shields.

  With his sword drawn, he towered above the front line, which stretched out for many miles.

  The arrows buzzed through the sky and the cannonballs whistled. From somewhere in the west, huge trebuchets were being pulled closer to the battlefield and high siege towers were getting closer to the Fort. The battle was already bloody and had been costly for both sides. It looked like things would only get worse.

  The fiercest battle was being waged on the hill, where thousands of people had already died.

  Both the Fort’s and the enemy’s artillery were constantly firing, as evidenced by the smoke clouds rising above them.

  The screams of soldiers dying in agony resonated with the vicious cawing of the crows that had risen high above the field of battle. They were circling over it like sharks, waiting for the beginning of their feast.

  Just a couple of minutes had passed since the battle had started.

  Hadjar, after locating Nero, ran over to help his friend, deflecting arrows along the way.

  Chapter 67