Legend of the Swords: War

by Jason Derleth

  Renek leaned forward. “I think it’s the army…and it looks like they’re on the far side of that keep.”

  Indeed, there was a small keep several miles to the west.

  “Something’s happened," Hesiod said. “There’s no way that they could have advanced that far in our absence.” He looked back at Renek. “How long have we been gone?”

  Renek shook his head. “No more than four days, I think. But we couldn’t see the sun, so it could have been longer.” He paused. “Although I think we would have eaten more if that were the case.”

  “Well, we had better get riding," Hesiod said, nudging his horse forward. “We’ve got further to go than we thought.”

  * * *

  As they passed the small keep, they realized that there were more soldiers on the Kingdom side than before. At least there were more tents. One of them had a giant banner flying over it.

  “Oh, gods no," Hesiod said, fear dripping from his voice.

  “What?”

  “King Aiden is here.”

  Interlude

  The corpse sat on its bed. People came and went nearby, the sun rose and set. The monks brought in a young woman on a stretcher and lay her on a bed nearby. Days of nourishment and nurturing followed, and the corpse watched with disinterested eyes.

  Occasionally, the monks would grab him by his elbow, and he would stand, and walk with them. Once, he was led out into the night air, and the monks pointed up at the twinkling stars, discussing things for hours as the wheel of the sky turned, moving the stars along with it.

  The young woman sat up one day, and pointed at him fearfully. She muttered to herself for a few minutes before the monks came and took her away. Nothing much changed, for a time. The sun rose and fell, but time did not seem to really exist.

  One day, several monks came to him at the same time. They lifted him, he stood. They steered him, he walked. Soon, they were in a large, round, domed room that had several channels cut into the dome. There were wheels, gears and levers on the side opposite the door. Two monks turned one of the wheels and the entire dome began to rotate. Another monk turned a smaller wheel, and several circular openings of various sizes came up out of the walls and moved through the channels in the dome. The sky was visible through the openings.

  A shaft of weak sunlight fell through one of the openings, and the corpse was guided into it. He looked around and saw that the full moon shone through another opening nearly opposite of the sun. Strangely, he could see stars shining through the other openings despite the daylight.

  Then the monks sang.

  It was a sad song, and tugged at the frayed edges of his mind's memory. Had he heard this song before? They sung no words, no discernible melody, but the sadness was palpable. The golden eye of the sun shone down upon him.

  The song continued, becoming clearer, colder. The corpse looked at the faces of the men singing, carrying the wordless tune an octave higher. Had it become less sad? There was promise in the song, and, for the first time since arriving, the corpse began to feel desire—desire for the culmination of the song.

  The song split, the tenors rising higher, the basses dropping lower. They had a weird harmony, neither happy nor sad now, but with a thrumming bass providing a slow rhythm that had not been there before. The rhythm echoed forcefully in the round chamber, and for the first time, the corpse realized he was standing at the center. The bass's thrumming seemed to be driving deep inside of the corpse, he could feel it in his very bones.

  A countertenor added his voice to the choir, singing in descant, his voice high and clear. Although nothing else changed—the underlying melody remained the same—his voice somehow brought the pure force of indescribable joy to the room. The monks were all smiling, their faces beaming, but covered in sweat. They were putting more than just their voices into this music.

  Finally, the two women sang. Their soprano voices lifted to the heavens. If the music had been joyful before, it was now ecstatic, a pure celebration of life. The corpse looked on at the chorus in awe. Tears rained down from his face.

  The bass's thrumming voice sped up—or maybe he had been slowly increasing tempo the whole time—and everyone followed him. The song's joy crashed over the corpse in waves.

  The moon and the stars seemed to be focused by the dome--suddenly the shaft of light that he was standing in was no longer just made of sunlight. Motes of dust played in the shafts of light, seemingly moving in time with the music.

  The monks were no longer smiling. Exertion and fatigue were the clothes that their faces wore. The corpse realized that they, too, were adding to the light in the room. In fact, it was too bright to keep his eyes open. He didn't want to close them, something was happening, something important, but the brightness hurt his eyes.

  There was a sound as one of the monks, a tenor, collapsed. The corpse opened his eyes slightly to see a broad-shouldered, white haired man step forward out of the hallway to take the unconscious man's place. The replacement's voice was strong, full of power.

  The bass singer's thrumming had become so fast that it merged into a single note. The corpse wondered how much effort the monks must be spending, to be sweating so profusely in such a cold room. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. And how could they stand the brightness? He could no longer even squint against the brightness, and closed his eyes again.

  The music stopped. All was silent.

  When he opened his eyes, the monks were gone, the door was closed. Nothing in the room was casting any light. The shafts from the celestial bodies were gone—the Sun, Moon, and stars had all turned away from the openings in the dome. Or perhaps the openings had been closed. Yet the walls glistened with dappled light, as if the sun were shining through a tree's leaves. The corpse looked around, trying to find the source of the light. He looked down on the floor and realized that it was his body that was glowing, and, along with the glowing, he could feel a great deal of energy building within his flesh.

  The glowing brightened, brighter patches swirling around his skin. He brightened, and brightened, but the light did not hurt his eyes. He did not know what to do; he could not move, but the energy within him was growing stronger, and already made him feel as if he were going to burst. There was no release possible.

  The energy increased the tautness in his body, smoothing wrinkles, strengthening bones, restoring blood. He felt a strange pressure in his chest, and he drew a breath that no longer rattled ...

  … and began to sing.

  Warm radiance poured out of his mouth. He was a baritone. His voice sounded rich, like velvet, or gold. He sang the tune of joy that the monks had sung, carrying his voice up into the tenor range.

  The light slowly dissipated from his flesh. His breathing fueled the sound, and his very heart kept time for the song. His body rapidly became tired, although his mind was intact, his thoughts whole.

  He brought his voice down, to where the song had begun, to the wonderful and energizing tonic—but it was not energizing enough for him to remain on his feet. As his song finished, his flesh cast no more light, and he found he could no longer stand. He sank to his knees, heaved his labored breath for a moment, and then collapsed into unconsciousness.

  The Heart of the Mountain

  The king of the Bourne drained its cup of blood and water. It gurgled, clearly laughing in joy.

  “You bastard!” Armand advanced on the king, who laughed again, more deeply this time. It gurgled for a few seconds before Ryan realized that it was speaking intelligibly. It held up its hand pushed at Armand, who stopped cold, as if he could not move.

  “You have come here looking for greatness, tall one,” it gurgled.

  Other than the gurgling, this thing speaks fairly clearly, Ryan thought.

  The king turned to Ryan. “You have come seeking what is just—but also to assuage your anger.”

  Finally, it turned to Kevin. “And you have come because you did not know what else to do.” It laughed for a long time, after s
peaking.

  It gestured to Gregory’s still form. “Your friend, here, came because he wanted things to stay the same.” It shook its head. “Things never stay the same.

  “But his blood was good, nevertheless.” It smacked its lips. “Powerful.” gestured at Armand, who staggered backwards. “Now, you will pay for killing my brethren.”

  Armand quickly looked at Kevin and Ryan, and gestured with his sword. The three of them moved as one to confront the green king.

  It made the armored door guards seem slow. Holding its scepter with one hand, it brushed aside their attacks, and hit Ryan so hard that he flew into the curtained wall nearly twenty feet away. He was stunned, and missed the next few moments.

  When he opened his eyes, Kevin was slumped against the doorway that they had come in. Armand was wheeling around, blade flashing, constantly retreating from the king’s almost lazy attacks.

  Ryan tried to get up, but the curtains had fallen over him somewhat, and his arms were tangled in the now sodden drapery. He pulled down hard on the curtains, and more of them came free, exposing the gemlike, weeping wall.

  He pushed against the wall, trying to regain his feet, but his hand quickly slipped off of the slick surface. He pushed on the floor, but a thin film of liquid was running over the floor where the drapes had clogged the gap between wall and floor.

  He rolled over and touched his wet pants. His heart skipped a beat. The vial! He dug deeply into his pocket and pulled it out, still intact. He stared at it for a moment.

  On instinct, Ryan pulled off the cork and held the vial up to the wall, letting the water mix in with the flower’s potion. He capped the mixture, shook it, and drank about half of what remained.

  Unlike the pure flower potion, which had been bitter, the combination of flower juice and water was indescribably sweet. Like thin honey, it coated his tongue and throat. He felt that same energy as when he tasted it on the mountainside, but multiplied tenfold. He pushed against the wall, finding it easy to hold on, and sprang to his feet. His boots splashed in the sweet nectar of the mountain, and he slipped the vial back in his pocket.

  He ran forward and swept his sword down on the king’s scepter. He had so much strength, so much speed, that the scepter was ripped out of the hand that held it. The king’s green eyes narrowed, and the he spun around to catch his royal weapon as it bounced off the floor.

  Armand’s eyes opened wide as he stared at the two blurs fighting in front of him. He could barely tell which was Ryan and which was the king.

  “Squire!” he called, dropping onto his hands and knees behind the caverns’ king.

  Ryan saw Armand dropping as if he were moving slower than maple syrup in wintertime. He swirled his sword around the king’s scepter, setting him up, then drove his palm into the Bourne’s chest, driving him back.

  Armand sprawled to the floor from the force of the impact, but his trick worked—the king flew backwards, landing with its legs and arms akimbo—and then Ryan’s sword pierced through its chest, driving into the floor.

  Ryan wiggled his sword out of the floor, sheathed it, and ran over to Kevin. He touched Kevin’s arm, gently, but it flew out with such force that Kevin flipped over.

  Huh. I guess I’d better not touch him. Ryan thought. Or, for that matter, anything. I’m a bit hungry, though…maybe I should get some food from my pack. He ran over to his pack, and pulled out one of his last three biscuits.

  Wait, Gregory! Ryan shook his head. What’s wrong with me? I forgot Gregory! He ran over to Gregory and checked for a pulse.

  There was no pulse. Gregory was dead, his lifeblood still dripping out the table’s spout.

  Ryan groaned, and looked down at his biscuit, no longer hungry. He was trembling from the energy in his body. He ran a couple of laps around the room, quickly, then went to check on Armand, who was finally sitting up.

  “ArmandGregory’sdeadandIwashungrybutcouldn’teatoverhisdeadbody," he said.

  Armand blinked, slowly. “Wwwwhhhhaaaaaat?” he said, while Ryan did jumping jacks in an effort to stay in front of Armand instead of running around the room.

  Ryan suddenly ran out of energy, at the top of one of his jumping jacks. His arms were still in the air, biscuit in his right hand. He sat down and began eating ravenously.

  “What did you say, squire?” Armand said, pulling himself to his feet.

  “Gregory’s dead,” Ryan said around a mouthful of biscuit. “We were too late.” He finished his biscuit, crumpled to the floor, and slept.

  * * *

  Ryan woke many hours later. Armand had decided to camp in the throne room, and had dragged all the dead Bourne, including the king, behind the throne.

  Ryan stood and stretched, gazing at Gregory’s body. Armand had flipped him over, cleaned him, bandaged his wounds, and clasped his hands on his chest.

  Kevin and Armand were sleeping on their pallets near the doorway. Ryan turned to look more closely at the throne.

  It seemed to be made well, with parts of solid gold and parts of the strange weeping mountain crystal. There were traces cut into the gold and the crystal in a complex pattern, and the water seemed to splash playfully as it flowed down those traces. Its legs drove into holes in the stone dais below. There was a hole, about two inches across, in throne’s left arm.

  That’s probably where the scepter is supposed to go, Ryan thought. He looked around. The scepter lay near Armand’s bag. He went over and picked it up, studying it closely.

  It was simple, but beautifully made. It was very heavy, and the gold was polished mirror bright. It had a ring around the bottom of the crystal that caught the water that was flowing off. Where the water went was anybody’s guess—it seemed to go into the shaft and disappear.

  “I’ll be having that back, now, squire," Armand said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Ryan turned. “I didn’t know that you had claimed it, Sir knight," Ryan said apologetically—but with an unmistakable edge to his voice.

  The knight was sitting on his pallet. Ryan walked over to him and handed the scepter over. Kevin sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

  Armand gazed at the scepter. “I’d take the throne, too, but it’s attached to the dais.” He spat on the ground. “At least we got one valuable thing for the king out of this … little adventure,” he groused. “No swords, dead commander, and two insubordinate idiots to lead back home.”

  “Hey!” Kevin said. “That’s not fair!”

  Armand turned, eyebrows raised. “You have a different opinion, squire?”

  “Sure I do!” Kevin’s eyes shot daggers at Armand. “I killed those two door guards. Ryan got us past them in the first place.”

  “Luck comes to all of us," Armand said. “That explains your ‘killing blow.’ As for Ryan…” he turned, eyes narrow. “I hardly think that sneaking past your enemies in the dark bodes well for his chances of becoming an honorable knight.”

  Ryan’s mouth dropped open in shock. Armand continued.

  “Now that Gregory’s dead, I am the commanding officer of this … unit, such as it is.” He stood up, and grabbed his pack. “We have failed. We are out of food, or close enough that it doesn’t matter.”

  Ryan’s stomach grumbled loudly, as if on cue.

  “We’ve failed to find the swords,” Armand continued. “And we’ve lost our commanding officer.”

  Ryan snorted. “You didn’t even like Gregory," he said. “You thought he was wrong most of the time.”

  “That does not matter!” Ryan was shocked at the vehemence that Armand displayed. “He was our commanding officer, we were his soldiers.” Armand took two steps toward Ryan, staring into the younger man’s eyes. “An army is nothing if its men ignore their leaders. A small, but disciplined force can overcome a much larger undisciplined one!

  “And you’d better hope that we can hold discipline on the field below," Armand said, more quietly. “Because the Triol forces are vast in comparison to ours.

  “Now, get your pack.
Let’s go.”

  “No," Kevin said.

  Armand stopped, and turned to look at Gregory’s squire. “What did you say?”

  “I said: No.”

  “Say that again, squire, and I will knock you unconscious and drag you out of here.”

  “I don’t care what you do," Kevin said, shaking his head. “If you do that, I’ll just steal your food and run away.” His voice rose. “Ryan’s right, you didn’t even like Gregory. You always disagreed with him.

  “Thing is,” he said, smiling, “Gregory was usually right. And you were usually wrong.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling more broadly. “Why would I follow someone who was wrong all the time?” He asked.

  Armand reddened, sputtering.

  Kevin ran over to where the two had been sleeping, grabbed both packs, and bolted out the door and down the hall. Armand was caught flat-footed for a moment, but then tossed the scepter towards Ryan.

  “Hold on to that,” he growled, drawing his sword. “We will be right back.” And then he was out the door, chasing after Kevin.

  Ryan caught the scepter, and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he turned and drove the scepter home into the hole on the throne’s arm.

  The ring at the bottom of the crystal fit tightly. The water from the scepter’s crystal stopped draining into the handle, but began to pool in a small well on the arm of the throne. It overflowed into a previously empty channel, and Ryan watched with fascination as it traveled down the arm to join with the rest of the water that was splashing so playfully.

  The throne’s water reversed course, where the scepter’s water touched it. More and more rivulets flowed up, as the scepter’s water spread. The crystals on the high back of the throne started to glow brightly, and pulse as water began to enter instead of exit.

  Armand came back into the room, dragging Kevin by the arm. He looked up at Ryan and the throne. “What’s going on?” He demanded.