Sword of Ares

by Alex Morgenstern

  “Are you okay?” Atila asked, wiping the dust off his vest.

  “Thank you,” Alana said, arranging her hair, and smiling awkwardly.

  “Be careful,” his honey coloured eyes fixed on her. “People are not considerate these days. Pushing people around like that.” He revealed a crooked smile and perfect teeth.

  “Right,” she said, blinking.

  An awkward silence ensued on her part because he immediately turned to his comrades and kept talking about a peculiar experience at bootcamp.

  Notice me, please.

  If not. Who cares?

  “Hey, you,” she heard a male voice behind her. Someone tapped on her shoulder. “Ala, good to see you!” the voice said.

  Who was calling her Ala? She hated it when people other than her close friends did.

  Badratz, the stable boy, was pushing through the crowd and walking toward her. He had a wide face, a giant chin and disheveled blond hair that dropped on his shoulders. His face was strangely big for his skinny body. Not a good looking fellow.

  “Ah… It’s you,” she muttered, then turned her back on him and looked for Atila, but he had disappeared into the crowd.

  “Yes! Good to see you here!” the boy said. “I’m surprised I found you. How have you been?”

  “Yeah, good to see you too,” she said, stretching her neck to spot Atila’s perfectness again.

  “That was your chance,” Irema said, rubbing Alana’s shoulders.

  “I don’t know if I should thank you for that,” Alana said, biting her lip.

  “Sorry I pushed you too hard,” Irema whispered.

  But Alana would not have changed anything in the world for that closeness. As grandmother used to say, she should be with someone who would appreciate her. She had to find someone ideal before they forced her into an arranged marriage. And Atila was more than ideal.

  One more year, and pressure would be on her.

  “And then… I think I’m going to buy my own horse,” said a voice behind her.

  Alana remembered Badratz was still talking to her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “Yes… I’m going to have my own horse!” he exclaimed, chin up and hands on his hips.

  “Oh, yes. That’s amazing!”

  But she did not want to settle for Badratz. How many people were there in the village? Okay, she could not count that high, but… A couple hundred to choose from, at least.

  Suddenly, Irema sighed in surprise.

  “Ala,” Irema whispered in her ear. “Karus is there.”

  “Your fiancé?”

  “Yes. I’m going to surprise him,” Irema said with a wide smile and light in her eyes.

  “Oh, sure. Have fun.”

  “Good luck with Atila.” Irema winked at her.

  Badratz kept talking to her. Poor guy, she thought. Hopefully he could find someone or stop being weird.

  Then she heard wheels moving slowly, coming from the road below. The multitude made way, splitting into two factions against the street. It was three carriages made of wood, of about ten feet in length each and small windows on the side, guided by half a dozen horses. Jesters dressed in their red and white costumes, with furry hats painted blue, whipped the horses sporadically.

  “Wait, Badratz.” Alana lightly tapped on the stable boy’s shoulder. “The fair is coming.”

  “I wonder what kind of a show they will put on today. Interesting, huh? I bet they will do the sword dance they did last year. You know, the one with the fiery swords. I liked that one, and what about the one...”

  Then, her eyes were overshadowed by a wide figure. She turned and found Atila looking at her. She blinked, startled. He held two brioches of grilled lamb, charred onions on top and bell peppers in between the lamb slices.

  “Hope you didn’t get hurt,” he said, his voice was deep and pleasant like a war trumpet. He slowly handed her the treat. The aroma of melted fat and spices made her drool as much as Atila’s presence. “Here you go. Hope you like it.”

  Alana felt like her soul was shot up toward the clouds, and slowly, perhaps a minute later, she nodded.

  “Thank you,” she muttered so softly she could not hear herself, and a wide smile formed on her lips.

  “Enjoy it,” Atila said.

  Alana’s mouth had dropped and kept smiling like a fool. She noticed Atila’s eyes had dilated a bit. They fixed on her and did not flinch. She did flinch.

  “It’s my favourite. How did you know?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s my favourite too,” Atila declared. His smile, so crooked, his teeth, sparkling white, that square chin and those chiselled cheekbones. He was just perfect.

  “Alana, it’s coming!” Badratz was pulling the sleeves of Alana’s cloak. She turned slowly, almost bitterly. As she did, she noticed something raise in the hills around the village. She narrowed her eyes. Yes, there were men rushing out of the bushes, wearing dark hoods. There was about a hundred of them. What was that? Some kind of new protective squad?

  What if it was the local legionaries coming back? Now that would make for a sweet surprise.

  “What the Hades…?” Atila said, looking through the houses, as bewildered by the vision as she was.

  Half a second later, a sentinel blew the horn of alarm. A few of the men looked around, confused, as some reached for their swords.

  Alana overheard Atila talking to a comrade beside him.

  “Blast! Do you have your sword with you?” he asked his fellow cadet.

  “No. Do you?” Atila’s comrade said, his eyes narrow with suspicion and fists clenched.

  “What the devil could this be?” Atila looked around and grasped the handle of the small knife he carried on his belt.

  The carriage stopped a few feet away from them. It stopped, as if freezing in time. After a few seconds, its upper door flew open with an explosion of fireworks and…

  Alana blinked in disbelief.

  Her stomach turned.

  A dozen arrows pierced out of the window’s holes. And they broke loose, penetrating bodies of men, women, and children who stood in the way. A few of them fell to their knees, arrows piercing through their necks.

  The people who stood in front of it, wounded or unharmed, stepped back in a fright, and turned around to run to the hills. The archers shot again, and more people dropped down, including a woman and an old man, both with arrows stuck in their bodies, panting, as their relatives screamed in horror.

  “They’re imperial soldiers!” Atila said, as he rushed opposite of the crowd.

  Alana stood paralyzed. A dozen men jumped out of the carriages. They carried long spears and dashed into the crowd. The crowd scrambled through, and Alana saw them pushing the women as they ran and targeting the unarmed men. The men ran towards their homes in search of their weapons.

  Her heart pounded like a war drum.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Badratz said as he grabbed her by the arm.

  She reacted. She nodded lightly and ran by his side into the crowd, feeling a slight melancholy for leaving the brave and strong Atila behind, he could surely protect her.

  But the wisest thing was to hide.

  She felt a quick gust of air buzz next to her head, and she realized an arrow had flown by her. She swallowed.

  As she ran, she tripped over a man’s body, and she fell forward and put out her hand, which crashed roughly against the rocks, and lost contact with Badratz. She turned back. It was someone she knew. Uncle Jovus’ brown hair and beard, his aquiline nose and the bandana on his forehead. He agonized in pain, narrowing his eyes and gasping. An arrow pierced through his belly.

  “Uncle...”

  Alana felt a scream escape her mouth, as if she had lost control of herself.

  Was that really happening?

  Her stomach lurched, what little of the lamb she’d eaten threatening to come back up.

  “Alcha...” Unc
le Jovus said. “Tell your father to run… I was right… They… They...”

  “Uncle,” she said, dropping down. She grasped the man’s calloused hands.

  “Run...”

  “Uncle, don’t...”

  As she got up, she noticed Badratz’s weight had disappeared. She turned around slowly and saw the boy’s wide body on the ground and a lance stuck in his lower back.

  He moaned in agony, as a pale faced soldier removed the lance from his body and blood sprinkled around.

  She stared at him from below. It was an Itruschian man; a man from the Empire, it seemed, with dark hair, a pale face, and a segmented bronze armour under a coat of fur. He looked at her with wide eyes and a hungry glance.

  She swallowed.

  Then, she saw a tall figure approaching from behind. It was Atila. Blood gushed down his shoulder descending from an open cut. That did not stop him from wielding his knife and lunging against the legionnaire. The Imperial soldier dodged, swinging his lance against him.

  Atila ducked, jumping and passing the knife to his left hand. He moved swiftly, hitting the soldier in the neck.

  The soldier stepped back, touching the blood on his neck. He clenched his teeth as Atila tackled him and took him to the ground. Atila struck the knife on the man’s heart, then pulled the knife out. Blood dripped from it onto the dusty rocky ground.

  Suddenly, an arrow flew hitting Atila in the back. His body tensed immediately, and he opened his eyes in horror.

  “Atila!” she screamed.

  Alana was still paralyzed. Atila panted, and his eyes slid upward until his gaze was fixed on her.

  Another arrow rang through the air, among a hundred others. Buzzing left and right, but that one echoed in Alana’s head. Atila rose on his hands and knees, locking his gaze with her as the arrow went through his neck, and blood started pouring out.

  “No!” she screamed again, until she felt like her vocal chords were tearing. Atila stopped moving. Her mind raced and sensed every dream and desire she held collapse in two.

  A dry shriek escaped from her mouth.

  She tried hard not to faint.

  Alana struggled to her feet, looking around. Father, what about Father? She had to find him. But where was Irema?

  Around her, the crowd had dispersed, valiant fathers and husbands, no armours on their bodies, swung their woodcutting axes and tools against the soldiers. They resisted bravely, until the soldiers from the hills reached the village, surrounding and locking the struggling men, pushing the women aside or guarding them around the walls, as the men were executed. Horses’ hooves rumbled and made the ground shake, arriving from the forest and fields around the village, wielding lances and swords, entering and killing.

  “You, get over here!” A lance wielding soldier pointed at her, as she scrambled through the fighting, and she ran again. She then looked at the upward rocky path and the hill above, where Alan of Vharzia’s housetop still emitted black smoke.

  Chapter IV - Child of the Dragon

  Alan of Vharzia rubbed two rocks together, and lit the coal inside the furnace for another day of hard work. He pressed the blower and a flame slowly erupted from what at first were only red sparks. He pressed again, and small particles flew out of the furnace. Heat emerged, familiar and exhausting, giver of both beauty and pain.

  The loneliness around him made him weary. Where was that boy that travelled every morning from the provincial capital to a barbarian village? Had he fallen ill? It left, however, the day to himself. He could not go out running behind Alana. She, although youthful and fiery, was old enough to take care for herself. And, he trusted, old enough to understand. After all, he could not blame her. Alan remembered his wife Ileria, the same fire and light in her blue eyes, the same rebellious spirit and wish to fight. She had been a General, a married woman, a mother. He sighed, and his eyes moistened.

  But he knew he had not completely lost Ileria, as her essence had, in the mysterious way of the gods, taken shape in their daughter, and as he hammered the iron piece against the anvil, and red and yellow sparks jumped out into the autumn air, his heart was also warm.

  He could not complain, so long had he fought, chasing after a peace that finally, the gods granted, his daughter was safe. Safer than Ileria ever was.

  Alan’s sweaty arm did not stop. He smiled to himself and glanced at the red scarf on the side. The symbol in it, too familiar, too painful to remember, and yet so fascinating and personal. An emerald coloured dragon, its tongue sticking out and wings spread open. And his daughter was obsessed with it, like he had been, and that obsession had brought his people to the greatest battle ever fought.

  He swore, once again, not to let her daughter near a sword, for his mind raced every night with images of the war. He woke up in screams almost every day, seeing the burnt roofs, and the dragon flag above, seeing Ileria die over and over. And lately, Alana.

  And he would not let that happen. He would not lose the one he loved the most again.

  Just dreams, never accurate enough to be called visions, he thought to himself. He wiped the sweat with his forearm and stared at the window.

  Something moved in the trees below. His smile faded, and he narrowed his eyes. He pulled the window open and stuck his head out into the cool air. He saw riders approaching from the hills and woods, like ants, their bodies armoured and their necks covered in fur. But they could not be Gadalian legionnaires in service of the Empire, as their fur coats were dark, not made of possum, but probably of the Sacred Bear.

  Alan focused on the furious riders below and the figures that emerged from the bushes in the distance.

  Then, he heard a sound he recognized from the distant past. An alarm horn, deep and piercing. It was the same type of horn he heard back in the steppe, this time coming from the watchmen’s tower, and it meant only one thing. His hands paled, and a million images from the past passed through his mind. His soul weighed on him, as if being pulled away from his body.

  But how could it be? They were at peace. What did it mean? How could they be attacked by their own hosts, the very people they served?

  What he saw through the window made him gnash his teeth in rage. The riders and foot soldiers had their swords drawn, their lances in hand, going after the men Alan knew, who ran or tried to fight with their hands.

  He stood, paralyzed, unable even to think, even to be in denial. Turning his head, he reached for the door and shut it. He had faced an attack time and time again, he had always survived. He looked to the side where the dragon armour leaned against the wall. He grabbed it carefully, fidgeting through the dusty iron plates that muddied his sweaty palms. He wiped the layer of dust with a hemp handkerchief. The reptilian scales regained a bit of their old brightness, but they still seemed dim. It had been more than a decade since he had worn it.

  Behind the door, he heard the hooves of horses, and the horn kept ringing in his ears. The threat was serious, and he had to act fast.

  He rushed to the corner, lifted the armour, and put his hands through the shoulder pads, but was surprised to discover that his frame could not go through it. He growled in frustration. How come? He did not feel fat at all, but of course, was not the slim, muscular youth he had been in his prime. He tried again, squeezing his arms through the small shoulder protectors.

  He sighed, giving up, and dropped it in frustration and haste. He looked around for scraps or bronze plates for unfinished cuirasses, but all his armour models had been sold. He only had an unfinished piece of chainmail, which he put on promptly. Then, in an old chest full of metal scraps and nails, he had hidden his greatest work. He knelt beside it and gently put his hand through the piles of metal, pawing through them, trying to feel the leather sheath that hid his dragon blade.

  Then, the door flew open.

  “Men of the house, yield yourselves!” he heard the too familiar accent from the Imperial capital.

  “I am only a humble artisan,” he
muttered, his hands still scanning through the scraps.

  “Stand up, put your hands where we can see them!” the soldier growled, Alan lifted his head and glanced toward the small hallway. An effigy of the Bear Goddess stood at the entrance, and next to it, he saw the soldier. The armour had not changed after fifteen years, he had made hundreds of them, all in the same old design they wanted to preserve.

  “Stand up,” the soldier said, and Alan noticed bloodstains on the sides of his drawn gladius sword and his forearms, partly hidden by dark leather wristbands.

  “What is it about, soldier?” Alan asked, trying to keep his cool, but his heart hammered and yearned for Alana’s safety.

  “Are you deaf, blacksmith? I said stand up and put your arms up. You come with me.”

  “What is going on? We have a right to know, this is a peaceful village in the service of the Empire,” Alan said in a calm voice.

  “Shut your rat mouth and come over here, or we’ll get you crucified. We have direct orders, any hindrance to our operations will be dealt with in extreme measures.”

  “I understand.”

  Alan knew that soldier could not be reasoned with. There were some times he could just not trust and had to be ready for violence.

  The soldier shook his head, impatient, and with his sword drawn, forward, ready to be used, he dashed into the forge.

  Alan kept his arms behind. He had found it. He slowly stood up, grasping the handle of his curved dragon blade, and unsheathing it silently behind his back.

  The soldier went for a sloppy forward thrust.

  But Alan’s weapon was longer, and taking a step back, he blocked with his dragon blade, knocking the blade out of the hands of his attacker. The soldier paled, confused.

  “What kind of behavior is this, boy?” Alan said, holding his dragon blade in both hands, forward and slightly bending his legs. The blade felt heavy in his tired arms, but he trusted his training.

  The soldier instinctively lifted his hands, his expression had morphed into fear.