by Sohan Ahmad
Zephyrus did not bask in the shade of crowds; he was a solitary man who preferred to move free and unhindered. The damn problem with a famous name.
On the other hand, Tyr smiled from ear to ear. Amazing. They don’t know anything about him, but they love him all the same. I wonder what it’s like to have everyone cheer your name.
Tyr was not alone in envy. Was I ever so naïve? Zephyrus wondered. But he seems happy. “I am he,” the Wind answered Balek.
“Never thought I’d get to meet you in person. Please, please come, make yourself comfortable. Our humble town of Jupos is your home just as it is ours,” Balek answered the Wind.
Though Zephyrus declined, the townspeople had already gathered around him, filled with childish glee regardless of age, to catch a glimpse of the legendary Wind. Some whispered of a second rumor, which he confirmed, “I am just a man now, no need for all this fuss.” Despite their panic over a potential war, the people dropped their mallets and axes to applaud him for his years of service. They thanked the gods for providing them with such a brave and noble compatriot. Many of the women and children requested he stay and rest while the men expressed desired for tutelage in the sword. Zephyrus declined all offers and told Tyr, “It is time we move on.”
The boy was puzzled. Why does he rush to leave such special treatment? If the Wind had a reason, he departed without sharing it. There was no doubt in his steps; his feet moved towards the road without a second thought. As their distance from Jupos grew, so too did the boy’s fear. “Wait, don’t leave without me.” The inspired civilians waved farewell to the Wind until he was out of sight and then returned to their preparations with newly found vigor.
Tyr and his guide continued their haste-less pace along the smooth dirt trail until their backs faced the setting sun. The young boy posed a question: “Why does Balek hate the southerners? Are they bad people?”
Zephyrus was surprised. Sharp ears. “No, child. Southerners can be good or bad like anyone else. Like many of our countrymen, Balek has forgotten that fact.”
The answer inspired yet another question. “Should I hate them?”
To which Zephyrus answered, “No one can tell you who to love or who to hate. You must decide that for yourself. Now come, it will be dark soon.”
The remaining hours of light were devoid of sound, no questions were asked, and no insights shared. Tyr trailed closely behind the Wind with an unwavering gaze, watching and observing the smallest details of his demeanor. His weight never shifts and his steps are so light. It’s as if he floats above the ground. The light faded sooner than expected, and suddenly, hordes of stars dazzled within the ocean of darkness above, forcing the pair to prepare camp for the night.
Besides the soothing fire, Zephyrus leaned his back against a tree, draping his blade across his torso. Sleep well child. Even as his eyes shut, his instincts never slept, vigilantly watching over the slumbering child until the light returned.
They rose to a morning flame that washed away the deep black, blanketing the sky in an endless blue. After walking a few hours, however, the pair arrived at a crude gate of gray stone that split open like a loaf of bread. Towers of black iron pumped white-hot clouds of smoke and ash above this bustling nest of coal, rejecting the light’s reach. Streaks of soot provided the only color on the sun-starved skin of the men and women who strolled through the streets on tiny wooden wheels affixed to tin molded shoes. An oddity within a realm of farms and forges, Xenon was ahead of the world’s time.
Those who feared the heavens’ wrath called this metropolis of man’s innovation the Godless Gray, where minds bloomed more often than flowers. Builders and alchemists considered this land of shadows the future where the idle metal monsters that littered the streets would one day come to life. The most daring craftsmen spoke of horseless wagons that would one day travel faster than any creature on land, rainbow potions that would defy death, and giant obelisks that could harness light even as the sun slept.
Xenoans were fiercely resistant to the world as it was; they wanted little to do with the wars of man, interested only in tinkering with their toys and cauldrons. Heroes of swords and spears were relics of the past, constant reminders of the failures of man.
Despite his own mistrust of the future, Zephyrus entered the city for Tyr’s sake. Perhaps someone will recognize the boy. Silent was Xenoan scorn. With each step the Sword Saint placed upon stone, irritated glances transformed into loathsome stares.
Even Tyr could taste it. They insult a hero? I will not stand for it. Resentment marinating in the air, stirred continuously by intolerant whispers. So, Tyr retaliated on the Wind’s behalf, sticking his tongue out in protest.
Zephyrus released a laugh so faint that the boy doubted his ears. “Save your energy, young one. They are entitled to their judgments.”
Tyr refused. “So am I,” he said, wagging his pink lash in defiance of their discrimination.
The Saint paid little mind to his childish whims, instead continuing toward the central square where a stone titan caught their eye. I know this one. The sculpture depicted the Snake Eater’s southern conquest with five northern horsemen riding atop a mound of southern corpses. Each rider wore the face of a devil, while those among the trampled were paragons of virtue. The sculpture’s meaning was clear: Demons waged war while the innocent suffered—a message with which Zephyrus was all too familiar.
Although the statue aimed to incite anger over the atrocities from half a millennium earlier, the swordsman greeted it with a peculiar smile. I am a demon, and yet the people call me Saint. Such irony must provide the gods with endless entertainment. He presumed himself alone in appreciating the beauty hidden within such grotesque, stone skin, but then he noticed a boy of around Tyr’s age gazing at it through pupils as big as blue moons. But when their eyes met, the child fled into the dense, white smoke that perfumed Xenoan streets.
I frighten you more than the statue? Zephyrus thought. “Tyr, does any of this look familiar?”
“None of this feels familiar,” his young companion said, shaking his head.
Then it seems we’ve lingered in the future long enough. Zephyrus believed. “Come along then.” As Tyr followed closely behind, his eyes bathed in the unfinished wonders of the city while his mind continued down the new path that Sebastian could never have imagined.
Mere hours away from the Lenalo home, they slowed their pace and prepared camp for the night. A serene darkness cleansed the sky of all, but a handful of flickering stars scattered throughout the night. Tyr slept peacefully, dreaming freely as a child should while the Wind continued his vigil.
It has been nearly thirty years since I stepped foot on my father’s soil. So close to home, Zephyrus finally mulled over the boy’s future. I have spent much of my life with bloodied hands, clashing steel and waging war. What can I possibly offer this child?
When the boy awoke the next morning, refreshed by the sleep-induced fantasies born from new memories, the Wind made a difficult decision. “Tyr, how would you like to learn my sword?”
The blue in Tyr’s eyes exploded as he slashed the air with the blade of his arm. “There is nothing else I would rather do! Soon I will become the greatest hero in Colossea.”
“Take this seriously!” the Saint barked in a tone hard enough to crush rock. “The moment you grip a blade, you are no longer a child. Your resolution must be absolute. Hesitation will cost you your life.”
Tyr swallowed his excitement. “I have no doubt.” Nearly choking as he stood silent within his stiff posture. Zephyrus began walking away without a word. Where is he going? The boy panicked. Does he no longer wish to teach me? What do I do?
The Saint glanced back over his shoulder. “Stop dawdling and pick up your feet, Apprentice.”
Tyr’s cheeks brimmed and the corners of his lips stretched as wide as they could. “Yes, Master!” he shouted, whistling endlessly along a grassy trail through the trees until they finally arrived at the swordsman’s home. It’s s
o simple.
Four small steps of leaf-covered lumber led to a small maple deck that overlooked a field of overgrown grass. Out back stood a beautiful oak tree, as ancient as the Beast Kings’ call for peace five centuries earlier. Its long, thick branches cast a shade over two poorly kept gravestones. “Tyr, meet my father and mother. Zepan and Sandra Lenalo.”
The boy knelt atop the soft soil. “I am sorry Master.”
“No need, child. It has been ten years already,” Zephyrus told him. I am the one who should be sorry. If only I had never left to fight Jakar. “Come, let me show where you will sleep.”
Inside, the walls of his home were all but empty. On the floor lay a toppled wooden shelf surrounded by dozens of tattered tomes, and just above the cold fire pit, the boy noticed a faded portrait of the swordsman’s deceased parents. His cheeks come from his mother, and his nose from his father. As worn as the painted parchment was, one more clue became clear. But his cold eyes came from neither.
“There was much to be done,” Zephyrus warned.
“Yes, Master,” Tyr answered, his interest in the Wind growing evermore. The pair wasted no time. After several hours of sweeping through spiders’ webs and a decade of filth, the light of day escaped into the flames of wax sticks, which revealed a crooked rack of books.
When Zephyrus lifted it, he discovered a favorite from his youth. It bathed in the dusts of neglect until he wiped his hand across the cover to reveal the title, Colossean Chronology, Volume One. “Welcome to your new home, Tyr,” he told his apprentice. “You have much to learn.”
On the second morning, Tyr sat atop the maple deck reading through page after page of the volume his master gifted him. Every other chapter is about war and even the peaceful times sound dangerous. Glad I wasn’t alive back then.
Just then, a visitor arrived to interrupt his studies. “Call for your father, boy,” he demanded.
He’s so tall…Father? Does he mean Master? Tyr shrugged and did as he was told: “Master, there is someone here to see you.”
Zephyrus emerged from the shadows of his abode. “Who is it?” he asked with a grimace.
The unannounced guest was as tall as a bear with a shiny, round dome for a head. Beneath the ears, a red beard hung along his jaw, reaching down to an unhealed gash that marred his broad chest of curled fur. Carrying an enormous ax of chipped bronze, its luster long sapped by stains of dried blood, he bellowed, “Zephyrus Lenalo, I challenge your honor. Will you accept or will you cower?”
When the Saint answered, his words were aimed instead at the boy. “Wait inside.” Tyr acknowledged his master’s wishes and returned within the moldy walls. Barely a handful of seconds had passed before the door opened and the swordsman quietly returned. “Remove the trash from our porch.” Behind him lay the body of the giant with a throbbing lump of red flesh atop his bald head. Scattered besides his breathless body were the shattered remains of his once massive ax.
The following month brought new name seekers to their door on a near daily basis. They sought to kill the Wind and take his fame, but instead, each warrior served as nothing more than dirt for the end of Tyr’s broom. Eventually, his hands grew hungry. “Master, I read and clear the trash each day, but when will I learn your sword?”
Zephyrus responded with his own question. “Do you want to become strong, or do you want to carry a sword?”
Tyr answered, “I want to become strong like you, of course.”
To which the swordsman replied, “Then do as I instruct, otherwise you shall become another’s trash to clean.”
The child did not realize it, but his young muscles matured more and more with each body he dragged off their land. Each book he completed helped sharpen his mind to a dagger’s point, and yet no memory of his origin surfaced. Will the boy’s fractured mind never heal? Zephyrus feared, but nevertheless, he continued to teach.
On the last day of the month, the sky was a cold gray; the sun seemed to cower behind clusters of blackening clouds. Tyr opened the door to find thirty men with a desire for the Saint’s head. He was shocked to see so many at once but did as he always did. “Master, you are very popular today.”
As the Wind made his appearance, each warrior spoke over another, attempting to issue the first challenge. They were a colorless rainbow of blades. Some stood as high as a castle gate while others stood below his knees. Whether fat and slow, slender and quick, strong and bold, or weak and clever, they came claiming their accomplishments. Dangerous words and confident threats fell deaf upon the ears of the Wind. Wonderful, a pack of annoying children have gathered at my door. On that day, the Saint changed his usual tune to Tyr. “Sit and watch closely.”
No words confirmed the boy’s affirmation; he sat and sipped from a cup of water that perspired even within the cool breeze. Zephyrus unsheathed his blade for the first time since the boy had laid eyes upon him. A bright light seemed to burst from the interwoven gold and leather scabbard. The razor-sharp blade was a harmony of refined steel and fortified ivory, thin slits along its surface reduced resistance to air, and its hilt mirrored that of Chrono’s legendary great sword, Serenity. Its grip was woven in untanned leather, embedded with seeds for a secure hold, while a golden hawk screeched from the surface of the handle. The guard bore the symbol of its master and was barely wider than the base of the blade. Prime Vain had named this pinnacle of ivory steel Gale in the Wind’s honor.
Tyr gazed in awe as his master swiftly evaded each forged instrument of death like they were mere blades of grass, destroying one suitor after another. He moves like a whisper. By the time one heard his message, their hearts had already been severed. Even thirty men are nothing to him. Compared to Master, they might as well be frozen. They thawed slowly from the fire of cascading blood as their minds finally acknowledged the death of their bodies.
Minutes later, Zephyrus sat atop a throne of fresh corpses with a disgruntled frown upon his face. Far too many know of my home. Even ants can present a threat if given time; we can no longer stay here. As he lifted from his throne, he noticed a rolled piece of parchment tucked within the belt of one of the fallen. “A bounty of one hundred thousand gold coins for the death or capture of The Crimson Swordsman.” That’s quite the reward, especially for a man without a face. The drawing had little detail besides a hooded shadow with a pair of crimson eyes. It seems the reports I received from my old comrades may be more than just rumor.
“What’s that Master?” Tyr asked with broom in hand.
Zephyrus crumpled the bounty within his hands. “It is nothing,” he said, tossing it back into the mound of dead warriors. Best not take needless risks with a man claimed to hunt Saints for their Dominion Blades, but first. “Clean the trash Tyr,” he said, wiping the blood from his treasured sword, Gale. “After you’ve finished, pack your things.”
“For what Master?’ Tyr questioned as he began sweeping flesh from grass. “Where are we going?”
Zephyrus sheathed his Dominion Blade, a weapon forged from the steel of a Beast King one thousand years earlier. “We are going to find a new home.”
“Yes Master,” Tyr answered, his grip tightening as his eyes wandered over the corpses. What did he see on that piece of parchment?
Later that afternoon, they abandoned the ancestral lands of the Lenalo, marching east in hopes of avoiding the fires of war that brewed on the edge of the western borders. As they returned to the dirt road they had first traveled together, a man, whose face hid within the shadows of his cowl, approached. “Excuse me, fellow traveler, I am currently searching for a boy who may be taking shelter in this area—a boy named Sebastian Dantes. Your child bears quite the resemblance. What is his name, if you do not mind my asking?”
Tyr stood petrified in an instant shiver when he saw the shadow of six swords crawling toward his feet. That name again? But even more so after hearing his forgotten birth name.
Zephyrus’s face was barely visible behind the rim of his straw hat as he replied, “Apologies, friend.
The name is foreign to me. As you see, I am no more than a wandering swordsman. My son is not the one you seek.” I did not expect another one so soon, but this one is different.
The stranger’s hidden eyes washed over them as if they were swallowing a memory. “Such a shame. His family has been so worried.” He questioned, “And what of you? You seem familiar as well. Tell me, sir. By chance, are you Zephyrus Lenalo?”
Tyr still trembled behind his shield of Wind, but hearing the name revived his heart. That is right, my master is the greatest warrior alive. I have nothing to fear.
When he heard his master’s words, however— “As I said, I am a wanderer, nothing more”—his discomfort returned.
Why is he lying? Is he afraid of this man? I don’t believe it.
“Come, Tyr, we have a long road ahead.” Zephyrus’s words were stern and sharp.
The hooded stranger pushed no further. “Please forgive my rudeness, and may fortune guard your travels.” Turning toward the trembling boy, he offered a sliver of his sun starved face, revealing a smile and one eye that glowed the deep red of fresh blood. “Do not tarry, child. A good boy should listen to his father.”
Chapter 9: A Castle for a Cage
Scattered beams of yellow light pierced through clumps of sickly mist as dawn scorched the Cairopan coastline. The Rusty Pelican laid anchor in waters that were quite docile for a southern summer, casting a welcome shade over the discarded Isirians who slept under roofless skies. During the hot season, southern air burned for days on end, causing storm clouds to cower within the white as fields turned to dust and crops to ash.
Beggars and vagrants were more commonplace than commoners, and so many of the nobles made their homes beyond the capital’s gates. Yet as the royal party marched through the streets, hidden within their cloaks, not a single criticism toward the crown was uttered. “The Goddess bless them. One day soon, I will give my people the life they deserve,” Marcus whispered to his brother.