Sword of Ares

by Alex Morgenstern

  “What is going on in here?” Alan asked, pointing the blade at the soldier’s armoured belly.

  “We are here… to put down a rebellion!” the soldier cried, sweat dripping from his forehead.

  “Rebellion?” Alan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Mysteries!” the soldier said. “The Mysteries of Ares, you are planning to…”

  “What are you talking about, boy?”

  “Your people! They’re trying to destroy the Empire!”

  Alan raised an eyebrow.

  “Now, tell me, take a deep breath and tell me what this is about.”

  The soldier shook his head, eyes peeled with fear.

  “Surrender your sword, the entire village is surrounded,” the soldier said, but it sounded more like a plea than a threat.

  “Tell me, boy, tell me what’s going on or I’ll put this through your belly.”

  “No, please no,” the soldier moaned.

  These soldiers were not like in the old days, Alan thought, giving up so quickly and so easily.

  Suddenly, there was clanking of metal and rushed steps at his front door, and a young soldier with tanned skin and dark blonde hair stepped inside, another one waited from outside, his skin was darker and was tall like a pine.

  “Lucius, are you done?” said the first. “Come on, you can get fun with the girls after the work is…” he shook his head in disbelief. “What in Pluto’s name...”

  “Hey!” The soldier Alan had beaten held his hands on high. “Help me!”

  “My gods, is that a dragon blade?” the tall soldier asked, rushing in. He looked no older than eighteen. “Lucius, this guy must have been one of the guys Father told me about. The Dragon Knights!”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Lucius said. “You, old man. Drop that blade or we’ll give you a slow and painful death.”

  “Who are you calling old, boy? You, boys,” Alan looked at them, then lifted his blade up to Lucius’ neck. Lucius swallowed and lifted his head. “Now,” Alan looked at the soldiers at his doorstep. “You two get the hell out of my house and my village or I puncture through this fellow’s very long trachea.”

  “You leave our friend alone,” the tall soldier said, unsheathing his gladius.

  “Wait!” the shorter one said, stopping his friend with his hand. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. You have no idea, there are five hundred of our men in this village. We entered and have overwhelmed the defences. Most of your kinsmen are dead. Understand it? Dead. Our men will kill you, so be wise and yield yourself.”

  Alan blinked. Once again, like fifteen years ago, his instincts overwhelmed him.

  “Please be quick, or he’ll kill me,” Lucius moaned, his stretched arms shook as if they were in pain.

  Alan clenched his teeth. All of his people killed. Like he had seen, an indiscriminate attack on the unarmed. A massacre. Why? Alan struggled not to let that information strike him hard. He pushed it away, to let it wreak havoc on his mind later, but… Could it be? Alana was not at home with him. She was in danger. No, he could not allow it. His heart pounded even harder, and he clenched his teeth, but he took a deep breath. It was not possible to fight with fear.

  “Well, I won’t kill an unarmed man,” Alan said, and quickly kicked Lucius in the stomach and sent him flying across the room. Lucius crashed with his back against the table and it fell, breaking it in two.

  Emotion rushed through Alan’s body.

  “I’m ready,” Alan said.

  The two soldiers lunged at him with their gladius swords. Alan’s reflexes blocked the tall soldier’s diagonal cut, and he ducked to avoid the blonde one’s sword thrust. He noticed he was way slower than in his old days, so he stepped to the side to focus on one soldier at the time. He chose the short, blonde one.

  The soldier tried to stab him again, terrible idea against a longer weapon. Alan swung his dragon blade and it cut through the soldier’s temple, piercing two inches into his skull. His head dropped to the table on the side, his eyes remained open and lifeless, and blood poured out like the filling of a berry lava cake.

  “You bastard!” the tall soldier cursed and went at him with his blade. Alan speedily pulled the blade out and blocked the incoming blow. The tall soldier had more range, and the circular blows he was attempting were faster and more dangerous.

  Alan pulled to the side and went for the soldier’s elbow, slicing through the inside. It wasn’t enough to slice the arm off, but blood did flow down like a pressurized fountain, and the soldier recoiled his arm with a loud shriek.

  Alan shut his eye, whirled, and sliced the soldier’s neck with one blow. The head dropped like a ball, unleashing a crimson purple shower, and the armoured body fell with a clank.

  The remaining soldier. The one who had broken in first. What was his name? Rufus? Lucianus? He lifted his hands again in surrender, shut his eyes, and lowered his head.

  “Please kill me quickly!” he cried. “We just wanted a wife, we just came because they told us!”

  “You will go and tell them to get out?” Alan said.

  “Are you crazy?” he blurted out. “They will crucify me or make lions devour me. Kill me. Kill me now,” he begged.

  Alan pressed his lips. The thing he thought of doing was selfish, he thought, but he could not bring himself, again, to kill an unarmed man. The pain of his past was too much.

  “Grab that sword,” he ordered.

  “What?” the soldier questioned with a moan, lowering his hands.

  “Do it,” Alan insisted.

  “Alright,” the soldier muttered, kneeling down, without taking his eyes from Alan, and grabbed his friend’s gladius with trembling arms.

  Alan smelled urine. It was coming out of the soldier’s toga. Alan stepped forward and grasped Alana’s scarf with his left hand. He felt the strands of wool and the hemp embroidering his daughter had made.

  “Go for it,” Alan said. The soldier swallowed and attacked, eyes closed and sword forward.

  Alan had to make it painless.

  He took a long step and thrust the blade through the soldier’s neck. It went halfway. Alan pulled the sword out. The body fell on knees and then dropped forward with arms outstretched.

  Alan panted and leaned on the furnace. He wiped the sweat of his brow. It had been so long. Now, he had to find his daughter.

  He reached for the corner of his house, put on the dragon shaped helmet, panting, his eyes blurred like a serpent’s eyes, his mind struggling to keep control on his emotion.

  He looked at his sword and kissed the bloodied blade.

  “The Dragon will swallow the world,” he whispered the old formula, one he thought he would never say again. He stood up, his knee aching, and walked to the open door. Through it, he saw what had seemed like a distant nightmare of the past, and now under piercing sun and not a wall of stars. He saw burnt roofs, he saw his neighbors dead on the street, others fighting with cooking knives and shovels, others being slaughtered by groups of soldiers. He saw the fair sons of his friends lying like dead dogs, their bellies cut open. He saw the fair daughters of his people with their back to the walls of their round houses, their eyes open wide, sweat and blood on their foreheads.

  His heart turned again. There was nothing but rage pulsating through his soul.

  “Alana,” he screamed.

  The soldiers saw him.

  Fifteen years ago, he heard a prophecy.

  He heard of it, and it came with images of death, and words of something that lie under the earth.

  And in that moment, his eye was open again.

  He saw Alana.

  She would survive that winter.

  He saw the forest of deep greens, flowers blooming around her, her hair, shiny like a golden sun dropping down to her hips, riding a brown stallion, a jeweled sword in her hand.

  And although in the vision she wielded a sword,
he did not mourn not fulfilling his duty as a father. He smiled, but in the physical realm, three soldiers ran toward him, their expression turning into grotesque masks of war and fury, almost eyeless under the bronze galeas, their swords sharp and lustful for blood.

  One of them brandished a bloodied sword at him. Alan blocked again, then a spear was thrust into his side. He felt the piercing metal open and move into his skin, then the world around him seemed to slow down to a minimum, the pain was sweet, like a vapourous drug that entered through his open blood and dilated time itself. What was he seeing? And in the air above he saw Ileria ride on her old white horse Yvarkas, a spear in her hand, just like it was fifteen years ago.

  Alan grasped the scarf tightly in his left hand.

  Metal cut through his knee, an attack he was not quick enough to block, and the weight of his body dropped down on one side. The blades of his enemies sought to penetrate his flesh, but his skilful arms deflected them.

  His enemies surrounded him, but he kept blocking, he kept fighting. The spear exited his side, he gasped for air. Another spear in his back, and his body stiffened, and Ileria looked at him from above, her hand extended toward him, inviting him to join her in the Elysian fields, her smile as perfect as ever, her thin red lips sweet and inviting, the scarred tanned skin of her chest, and her eyes blue and black like the raging sea of the south.

  Chapter V - Iron and Soul

  Head Priest Aranus the Elder stood before the kneeling worshippers, atop the altar, with a burning furnace hanging from a chain in his hands. A golden ceremonial breastplate hung heavy from his neck, representing the sacred beasts the stars drew every evening. Assistant priests on the side, between the pillars, throat sang and recited enchantments. A fire and a cauldron of burning seeds stood under the stairs beyond the altar, separating him from the followers. The sweet scent of the sacred seeds filled the Sanctuary of the Holy Oak; that old forest shrine that had to be converted into a marble temple according to legal requirements of the Sacred Itruschian Empire. And the sacred fire cast its light on the walls, as Guarding Stones stood on the side, and a replica of the Red Sun of Ares shone over their heads, as a gleaming rose-coloured ruby.

  Suddenly, the wooden door opened, and twenty men stepped in, one by one, all of them wearing long coats of bear fur. The worshippers stared at the blasphemous sight of the Brown One flayed and displayed as a thing of naught. The appearance of the men was also foreign, with distinct sharp features, short wavy hair, and shaven faces.

  Head Priest Aranus the Elder welcomed them with a nod. They passed through the pillars and surrounded the Sacred Labyrinth, not bowing before the holy relics, and frowning at the scent of the Holy Flowers that perpetually impregnated the temple and opened the wisdom of men.

  “Good morning,” the priest said in a low voice, ecstatic and gleeful with the holy smoke. Then, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “You are not from around these lands, it seems. We welcome thee, nonetheless. This is a sanctuary to Ares, our protector.”

  “We are traveling warriors,” one of them said in an accent Aranus could identify too well. An Itruschian. Aranus nodded and glanced back at the worshipers. The throat singing rang in their ears, and he noticed the wary glances of the travellers, as if wondering what kind of a being could produce such a sound.

  After a long silence, a veteran, Vasa, stepped forward to demand for a blessing. His hair was straight, now grey. Aranus remembered him as a Dragon Knight, fighting alongside their old chieftain, riding against the Empire. And now, Vasa’s own son was an Imperial Legionnaire. A long black moustache hung from his nose, and a humble coat, with blue and gold colours, covered his entire body. He walked solemnly up the stairs of the altar, and he knelt before the fire that separated Aranus from him and shut his dark eyes.

  “Aranus the Elder,” the man said, kneeling on one leg and stretching his arms to the sky. “Please ask for the God of War to take care of my son, Adna of Adachia, for we have received no indication of his state. We know not whether he is in health or wounded. We know not of his campaigns, and we pray his Legion has not been decimated or lost in the Northern forests.”

  “I will do, with this sacred fire,” Aranus said solemnly.

  “Please grant me my wish. I only desire to hear of my son again, and so does my wife.”

  Aranus noticed a woman kneeling, hands interlocked in prayer, and a young child next to her. The little one had his father’s features, dark hair and beautiful small eyes. A future warrior.

  Aranus started to recite the Chant of Visions, and as accustomed as he was, he quickly entered the visionary state, expecting to see something.

  In that moment, Aranus felt a surge of energy go up his spine. He clenched his fists, as a rush of memories raced through his mind, like a meaningful dream he had forgotten as the day went by.

  His eyes were fixed in the distance.

  He saw…

  Blood on the floor.

  Fire on the roofs.

  And that was not the North. The houses were round, covered with hay, with the hills of Adachia towering from behind like silent witnesses.

  Blood.

  A blade, and golden light. The earth…

  “Priest Aranus?” Vasa spoke.

  Aranus was speechless for a second, and when he lifted his head it was too late. But how could it not have been?

  Two of the strangers walked to the back and blocked the door.

  Adna’s mother, startled by the sudden gesture, rushed to the door, one of them opened his coat and revealed full Imperial armour. The woman stepped back, then turned and went back to the stones, kneeling again, as if nothing had happened.

  Then, the other soldiers jumped to their feet, throwing the coats to the floor, and revealing their segmented armours and the swords that hung from their belts.

  Aranus took a stumbling step forward as the men grabbed the worshipers by the hair, mostly women, wives of legionaries far away, and pointed the knives to their necks.

  Aranus said in a loud voice, waving his bare hands, and raising his bearded chin.

  “What is this defilement, legionaries! Who is the centurion of this legion? What is this?”

  “Remain calm, old man,” a voice spewed. One of the soldiers was speaking. He had wavy dark hair, a square jaw, and deeply tanned skin. “This has been ordered by the Governor of the Province of Tharcia, Larius Brutus Caitanus.”

  “What is this? Leave these guests of the Empire alone! For the love of all the gods of righteousness.”

  “We will need your cooperation, old man.” The soldier stepped up. Aranus recognized the armour. He was the centurion.

  “What for! Our peoples are at peace!” Aranus said.

  “This is serious. Now, swear your cooperation and...”

  “To swear what?”

  “Swear your allegiance to the Empire, old man.”

  “You know what I have sworn. My people, collectively, have agreed to move to this land and serve the Empire. No more revolutions, no more battles, as long as our mutual terms are agreed.”

  “It is not what the Imperial intelligentsia has uncovered. Now, yield yourself. We want you alive.”

  “Fine. I’ll do as you please. Now, don’t bother these people any more.”

  “Swear it, for the Empire.”

  “Swear what?”

  “Swear it!” the man said, as he pointed his blade at a mother and child kneeling beside them. She screamed, her face contorting in fear.

  “I swear my allegiance!” Aranus said. “Now, leave them alone.”

  “Your cooperation has been noted,” the centurion said, turning toward the door. “Kill all the men,” he spewed.

  “What?” Aranus stepped forward, as the legionaries unsheathed their short swords.

  Vasa turned around, trying to protect himself with his forearms, but one of the soldiers lunged at him, sword in hand, and cut through his chest.

  “Betrayal!” Vas
a said bitterly, and the soldier attacked him again, slicing his neck. Aranus contemplated the cruel irony that befell Vasa. His son’s very comrades in arms had killed him. Aranus clenched his fists and his teeth, he cursed the soldiers in the depths of his mind, but his frail body was useless against their weapons. He blinked in disbelief. Was he having a nightmare? Was he trapped in a vision of the future? He tried to wake up, to no avail. But the screams and spilled blood around him proved it was all too real.

  Chapter VI - Fate of a People

  Alana felt as if she was drawing strength from her dead friends. She ran uphill, hiding from the soldiers as fires blazed over the hay roofs and arrows buzzed by her side.

  Her heart pounded like a galloping horse as panic pulsated through every fibre of her soul. It made no sense, the collapse of her world unfolded before her eyes, like a nightmare come true. Left and right, she saw people she had known since childhood, some fighting for their lives with whichever tools they found, many bloodied on the ground, and some, especially women, elderly, and infants kneeling against the walls, cruelly watched over by Imperial soldiers.

  What had they done to deserve that?

  Badratz had died, and Uncle Jovus, and Atila... And then, left of her, she saw Tor, the mute boy, running away from a soldier with bloodied sword in hand, they passed close to her, near a round house with an intact roof of hay and wood.

  Alana screamed out her lungs. “Leave him alone!”

  She ran, then grabbed the child's arms, and pulled it, then shielded his body with hers. The boy sobbed by her side, his black hair covering terrified blue eyes.

  “Leave him!” she repeated, lifting her chin at the approaching soldier.

  “Get out of there, wench!” the soldier snapped, his bloodstained gladius held forward, facing her. The smallpox scars on his face made him more frightening.

  “I said leave him!” Alana wrapped her arms around the boy’s head.

  “We have orders,” the soldier scoffed, his square face was dark and small-pox beaten. “You let him go if you don't want to be punished. It'd be such a shame to waste you.”