Legend of the Swords: War (40 page)

Finally, I will see battle today.
He thought, smiling confidently.

Kevin wasn’t so confident. He kept shifting his gaze back and forth, first nervously looking to the hill that the Triols would soon crest, then looking at Ryan—even more nervously, if that were possible.

There came a rhythmic metallic pounding from the other side of the hill. The Triol infantry marched up the hill, slapping their shields with their swords at each step. There were thousands of them, and they kept coming, streaming over the hill.

Ryan grinned maniacally.
Finally,
he thought once again.

Petrin waved above his head, and a trumpeter sounded the charge. The cavalry drew their swords and galloped toward the enemy.

Ryan rode towards the largest Triol he could see, gripping the wire-wrapped hilt tightly in his hand. His breathing had slowed, like the calm before a storm. The crystal pommel started to weep as he reached his mind into the sword’s seemingly limitless power.

The large Triol lifted his sword to defend himself, but neither the uplifted sword nor his armor slowed Ryan’s attack. He was cut in twain, his right arm falling to the earth, but Ryan did not pause to watch—had already sliced through his next victim. The pommel of his sword seemed to sweat more with each cut that he made.

General Petrin reined in his horse, mouth falling open as he watched the slaughter. In mere minutes, the Triol front line had begun to fold, their morale destroyed, their forces decimated. Ryan lay about him, killing man after man.

Several pikemen ran toward Ryan, injuring his horse before he could lop off the heads of their weapons. He leapt off of the dying animal and ran at them. They scattered, but he chased them down, one by one. The last one he hamstrung and left alive to watch the destruction.

Something’s happening.
He thought to himself.

His sword had begun to visibly glow, and taken on the reddish tinge of the blood that had covered every inch of the blade. The crystal pulsed, slowly beating like a heart.

As general Petrin watched in awe and slowly rising fear, Ryan continued to destroy the Triol army.

They were actively running from him now, and so he reached more deeply into the sword’s power. He couldn’t help himself; it came so easily, so automatically.

Something bad is happening.

As he swung the sword into empty air, a blade of white light detached and shot forward, killing several of the fleeing Triol soldiers. He swiped several more bands of snowy light, each one more powerful than the last, as he ran towards the center of the Triol army. Kevin dutifully followed his friend’s destructive wake, riding with a dozen or so of the knights who took care of any Triols who were separated from the rest.

The bulk of the Triol army was in disarray. The soldiers from the front lines that were still alive were fleeing pell-mell away from Ryan. Meanwhile, the Triol rear generals were calling for their men to attack. The men in the middle were uncertain of what to do. Most of them ran toward the battle.

Ryan ran into the confused tangle of Triol bodies and began slicing again. Water was pouring off of the crystal, but, like the throne in the mountain, it was flowing upwards, over his hand. The steel shone blood red. Ryan paused for a moment, looking at the sword—he was certain without knowing that the steel itself had changed. This was not just simple blood covering the blade.

Something very bad is happening.
Mounting fear was keeping him from thinking clearly.

He found that he could not stay still. He could feel his body changing. The speed with which he moved seemed to steep into his muscles. His very bones seemed to throb with power. He turned back to his terrifying job, and the Triols renewed their attempts to flee.

As Ryan swung the sword, even if it bit Triol flesh, it released a glowing blade that rent bodies up to a dozen feet away. The blades of light shone red, now, and seemed to tear rather than cut. Ryan felt a sense of dread; he knew that something had gone terribly wrong.

His eyes grew wide with fear. He stopped his feet for a moment, but could not control his arms. They seemed to be submerged in the sea of power, and he could not withdraw them.

He managed to turn his torso far enough to see Kevin.

“Kevin!” He screamed. “
Kevin!
”

Kevin’s eyes bulged. He shook his head at Ryan, and pointed at the glowing sword.

The red blades of light had grown larger. As he swung the sword, his body rocked with a concussion, force flowing through flesh. He looked down at his sword hand—the pommel, glowing brighter than ever, was weeping blood that flowed upwards over his hand. He swung the sword, involuntarily, and a blast wave of red light flattened a hundred people in front of him.

“
Kevin!! Get the army out of here!”
He screamed, and turned to his uncontrollable sword.

Kevin turned and fled, taking everyone with him. He raced back to the bulk of the army, but Petrin was already commanding the army to flee.

“Run!” He yelled. “Quickly! Retreat!” He hit a footman with the flat of his blade. “Faster!” He looked back at the top of the hill in fear, watching the red explosions throw Triol footmen into the air. He saw Kevin coming, nodded, and gestured towards their camp.

Kevin rode up next to him and tried to help organize the panicked retreat. Petrin put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, who turned to look at the general.

“I fear that your friend may bring demise to us all. See to it that as many live as can be spared.”

Kevin nodded, shocked at Petrin’s calm, and turned back to their men.

Back on the hillside, Ryan’s breath came in ragged gasps. In his mind, a storm blew across the sea of power. Its winds whipped the waves into a red-tinged froth. He stared down at his hands as they swung the sword; he saw violent waves of death emanate from the blade and destroy his enemies.

The blade was glowing cherry-red now, as if it were in a forge, waiting to be struck by the smith’s hammer.

Ryan’s body slowed, and he stood still. He turned his gaze left and right, searching, but could find no other living person. He stood alone on a field filled with the dead.

He threw back his head, and cried like a newborn babe.

This wasn’t supposed to be like this!
He thought. Or perhaps he said it aloud, to the world.

The sword throbbed with power. He looked down at it, and saw that the blood had reversed course. It was flowing back into the pommel, which was growing darker and heavier by the moment. It seemed to call toward the bloody ground, but Ryan lifted it above his head and did not let it drop.

Ryan’s eyes were wide as saucers. He tried to will the crystal white again. He tried to turn away from the sword, but could not bring himself to look at the destruction that he had wreaked. All he could do was stare in horror, as death itself seemed to flow into the sword.

Why is this happening?
He screamed in his mind.
Is it because I showed no mercy to Armand? I’m sorry! I should not have hated him!

“He was so bad to me!” He yelled aloud. “What was I supposed to do?”

The pommel had grown so heavy that it dragged his arm down, towards the bloody ground. He struggled to keep it from the earth, dreading what would happen if it touched real blood.

Is it because I wasn’t ready for this? Is it because I’ve become …
He looked at the black pommel. It had swollen with the dark energy.

“Have I become …
evil
?” he whispered aloud to himself.

He lifted the sword, putting the pommel next to his eyes, and gazing into its inky blackness. He saw his face reflected in the crystal, twisted around the sphere, with the piles of dead beyond.

He did not like what he saw.

Ryan closed his eyes. His strength failed. He toppled to the ground, his arm fell. The black crystal sparked as it ground into the soil, cracked, and shivered into shards.

There was a flash of black light, and Ryan knew no more.

*   *   *

The kingdom army had run almost to their camp. They had just reached the first tents when their world ended.

There was a huge flash of black light that left the sky darkened. The ground rumbled, and the hill that had been the battlefield disappeared, collapsing dozens of yards into the earth. Most of the soldiers were caught; their bodies dissolved in the black explosion. Their tents and supplies flew through the air. A dozen miles away, the sawmill disintegrated into tinder. The mountains, which tried to hold fast, gripping the plains below, found themselves shifted—peaks moved, ridges shifted.

Two hundred or so kingdom soldiers and Singers had managed to get far enough away to only be thrown violently to the ground. They picked themselves up, and gathered as many things as they could find that had not been pummeled into dust.

They began the long march home that very day.

When they arrived at the castle, the king greeted them as heroes.

*   *   *

The mountain that had seen the world end watched from above. The winds flew around him in a different way, now that he had shifted. They carried more water. There was more rain than before.

There was more snow, too, that winter.

It was only a matter of a year before the hollow that had once been a hill was filled with stagnant water. The next year saw plants and insects thriving. Within a few more years, the swamp was a thriving ecosystem in its own right.

Ten thousand corpses lay at the bottom of the cold water for a score of years, until, at last, Ryan opened his eyes, a circle of light just above his resting head.

He struggled to his feet, unconsciously holding his sword in his hand. He saw the road that ran just beyond the swamp’s shore. He saw the mountains in the distance.

He sighed a useless sigh.

It seemed he had a long way to go.

Interlude

“Father, he is awake.”

Father Matthew looked at the young man who spoke. Dressed in the traditional black robe of learning, the Neophyte seemed nervous, rocking back and forth on his feet. Matthew sighed.

“Awake, and confused, I’m sure.” The father was old, bald, and had a bit of a paunch—his white robes, stained here and there with dirt and grass, accentuated his girth. His blue eyes still twinkled with energy and a certain … lightness, despite the corpulence of his body. “I’ll be along in a minute, Gregory. Please make him as comfortable as he can be—and make sure that William and George continue the chants of strength for our guest.”

“Yes, Father.” Gregory ran off through one of the doorways that led out of the garden.

Matthew had been digging up some small red potatoes when Gregory had come to him. He struggled to his feet, pulling himself up with his staff of yew. He rinsed his hands in the fountain before turning towards the northeast walkway. It was time to see the patient.

***

William and George were hoarse, but they continued the chant of strength. Matthew nodded appreciatively at them as he entered the infirmary. The Awakened Man was flexing his fingers, and his arm twitched.

“You will be weak for a few days, my new friend,” Matthew said. “You were further along the path of death than anyone we have ever called. We were not sure that you could return, despite the fact that you clearly wanted to.”

 The poor Awakened man’s eyes were so crusted with salt that he obviously couldn’t open them. Matthew brushed the salt away, smiling as the invalid’s eyes snapped open, revealing hazel eyes, green fading into brown. Matthew reached out to the bedside table and took the cup of
vitlach
, a strong drink made with the Abbey’s healing mineral water and fermented roses. They came from the garden that he had been tending for as long as he remembered. He tipped some into the mouth of the Awakened, who swallowed eagerly. Matthew smiled.

“Rest, now, and know joy. You have survived, which in this time of war is no small thing. Most men who walk the path do not return. You must have had great reason.”

The Awakened’s eyelids were already shutting. This must have been a tremendous effort for him to be awake, and to begin to understand what had happened. Just as his eyes closed completely, though, his body stiffened and his eyes opened wide with fear.

“What troubles you, my new friend?” Matthew said, his voice full of concern.

“I …” His voice was scratchy, his throat parched despite the
vitlach
. And weak with unuse. “I don’t remember anything.”

Matthew’s eyes rose. “Nothing? That is unusual, but not unheard of. Perhaps it is important for you not to know. Perhaps you had gone too far along the path when we called you back. Or, perhaps, you will remember all in due time.”

Matthew stood. The Awakened needed rest. “But there is nothing you can do about it now. Sleep, my new friend. Tomorrow is a new day. A new day for your new life.”

Realization

The next day, the Triols broke the external gates. A thousand kingdom soldiers died in an hour—but several thousands of the Triols found themselves in the perfect sleep.

Renek had stayed in the courtyard until the last possible second, his blade whirling around him. Death found any Triol that came near him, but even he could not withstand the press of hundreds of men. In the end, Hesiod had to grab him and pull him in before the gates closed.

Renek looked around the room, teeming with soldiers and sighed. “This isn’t how I planned it to be, Hesiod," he said, quietly. He glanced over in the corner of the room, where several wounded were being bandaged.

“It’s not, sire?” Hesiod’s eyebrows were raised questioningly. “To be completely honest, Renek, I hadn’t known there was a plan.”

Renek smiled. “No, Hesiod. It is not what I had planned.” He paused. “Or maybe you’re right. There wasn’t really a plan—but it’s not what I had hoped.”

Hesiod put his hand on the king’s arm. “If you had it all to do again, would you do anything differently?”