Fantasy

An Assassin is Brought to Justice

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A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

The grass of the forest floor tickled the soles of Fenreir’s feet as he stalked his prey. These forests had been Fenreir’s home for decades now, and he had called a little village his home for almost as long. When they found out about his hunting skills, they quickly welcomed him into their fold. Now, as he aged, his skills had begun to wane, but he still insisted on carrying his own weight. He told the village priest that he would hunt until the day the gods hindered his movement. Unless he was unable to hoist himself from his bed in the morning, he would hunt and provide for this place that had sacrificed so much for him.

There was a great buck before him now, a male of the commonly hunted deer species in these parts. It was likely twice the size of Fenreir himself, and if he could take it down and bring it in, it would feed half the village. Other hunters had offered to attend him on these hunts, but he felt they were only trying to pity him. A decade before, he had taken apprentices and had taught them the ways of the hunt: how to stalk, how to read the forest, and how to kill, but now they wanted to pity the old man and help him when he was the only reason they knew their blackberries from the deathfruit.

He raised his bow and drew back the fresh string on the old bow. His biceps tensed, and his brown eyes focused. His slim body tightened to steady his breathing for the killshot. The leaves of the bush he hid in did not so much as move in the wind as he loosed his fingers. The arrow flew true and pierced the chest of the great beast. Fenreir knew from experience that the buck was dead, even if that fact took several seconds to register in the brain of the great beast.

At that moment, a blood-curdling cry split the air from gods knew how far away. The hunter whipped around to look for the source of the sound; the knife slipped free from its sheath on his waist purely on instinct. When he saw no immediate danger, he looked up, through the canopy of the forest, back the way he had come, and saw a pillar of smoke rising high into the clouds.

The buck watched as his killer leaped from the bush and ran through the foliage away from the kill. He groaned and fell forward into the dirt as he died.

Fenreir was back on the outskirts of his village, Konray, and orbited the place he called home, looking for the danger. Finally, through an opening in the homes that let him see straight to the village center, he saw that the temple was burning and the priests were on the ground. The whole village center was filled with villagers. Fathers, mothers, children, holy men and women, and elders watched as a company of soldiers surrounded them and held them all at swordpoint.

“…my father!” The man who looked to be in charge of the lot of soldiers held a knife to the throat of their high priest. “He killed the man who allowed these pagan practices to persist in our Great God’s land. He killed the source of the mercy you benefited from so greatly.” Fenreir recognized the voice but thought it was wrong. This man was dead; the hunter knew that. Could this new man be related to that old voice?

“Tell me where he is, or all of your holy ones die with their pagan temple.” Fenreir had moved through the alleyways to get close enough to see the fear in the eyes of all the women and children. “Tell me!”

Fenreir recognized the garb of the soldiers. These were imperial men, soldiers from the capital itself. What were they doing out here?

Fenreir called out, stepping out of the shadows, “Stop! Don’t hurt the old man!” He realized he was speaking in the Imperial tongue, which none of the villagers even knew. That was probably why they weren’t responding to the demands of this nobleman.

“Rek orj, thun, ojkat!” the high priest told Fenreir. It meant, “Don’t concern yourself, old hunter, run!”

In their tongue, Fenreir told the priest, “I can’t do that.”

“You, hunter! You would take this old man’s place?” the nobleman demanded.

“Who are you looking for?” Fenreir asked the man, his hands raised as he continued to approach the man.

“Take those head coverings off, man, let me see your face.”

“It seems neither of us can get a straight answer from the other,” Fenreir said as he took off the coverings that covered his forehead and mouth while he hunted. A breeze caught his hair and blew away a bit of the sweat that had been coating his forehead.

The Nobleman threw away the elder, unharmed, Fenreir thought from the lack of blood, and pointed his sword at the hunter. “It’s you! I’ll kill you! Guard, give him your sword. I will not kill him unarmed like some filth-ridden assassin.”

One of the soldiers near them, with a confused look on his face, tossed Fenreir his sword. A few of the other guards had stepped forward to help their lord kill the old hunter. “Stay back!” The Nobleman insisted, “This kill is mine, just close ranks, ensure he does not run. Rats are known to run when their lives are in danger.”

“Who are you, boy, and why do you desire death?” Fenreir asked the noble.

“You don’t recognize me? They say I have my father’s eyes. Look into them and see if you find the eyes of the man you killed.” The Nobleman took a step forward and brought his blade down to strike at the older man.

Fenreir parried the strike and side-stepped another blow. The old hunter was trying to look into his opponent’s eyes. Could it be true? Could some poor orphan that he had made in his old life have found him all the way out here? Then Fenreir saw in the rage-filled eyes of the Nobleman the eyes of the old Emperor. That made him stumble. His sword was knocked aside, and he felt a gash open on his chest. He fell to his knees.

“Know me! Ye people, know your emperor. I am Jonathan the First of his name.” Emperor Jonathan picked up Fenreir’s weakening body by the hair. He dragged the old man before the villagers, who had treated him like family for decades. “I name this man, Fenreir the Subtle, assassin of the guild, slayer of my father, and reuiner of the Empire. Know you of his past! I demand that you know! Would any stand for this man?”

“Fenreir, do you deny any of this?” asked the village elder.

The old assassin weakly shook his head. “I cannot.” Fenreir remembered it now. His last kill was over three decades ago. The Emperor of the Silver Throne. The only witness was the man’s son. That boy must have made him and spent his life hunting him.

“I speak for my people, my lord, we did not know of this man’s treachery. Do with him what you will, we will not resist you.”

“So, you savages do speak!” The man pointed at the gathered villagers and commanded his soldiers, saying, “Kill them all and make sure Fenreir can see each die. The Empire will no longer suffer the pagan to live.”

Fenreir felt his lifeblood seeping out onto the dirt. He would die with his people. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Emperor Jonathan hoisted the dying man back to his feet. After the horrors subsided and all the village had been slaughtered before the assassin, Emperor Jonathan spoke, “Look at them all, look at their innocent pagan blood, know, assassin, that this blood is on your hands. Now, with your final thoughts being the knowledge of the cost of your murderous ways, go and be with them in the fires of eternal damnation.”

Fenreir felt a sharp pain in his scalp as his hair was given to someone else to hold. The Emperor stepped in front of his father’s assassin. No more words were spoken, and the last sight that Fenreir beheld was that of his old life catching up to him.

How Warsingers Fight

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A Short Story from the World of “The Battle of Johanna Valley”

By: A.B. Timothy

Zennith was a young lad sitting under the tutelage of a veteran warsinger. His attire was that of the standard youth, a plain brown tunic with trousers to match. His eyes were a deep, almost black, blue; his face was round and pudgy; his hair was blonde and well-kempt. His mother refused to let him out of the house if a comb hadn’t at least touched his hair.

The young man sat in a semi-circle that surrounded their teacher, the veteran warsinger. They all sat on the ground in an attempt to be as connected to the earth as they could manage inside this building. Around them were decorations that reminded them they were in school, tools of math, books of language, and implements of science. But now, all the young boys in the school had gathered here to learn from a master, just as the young girls of the school gathered in a different classroom to learn from another teacher, their secrets.

That day, the warsinger, Master Henry, was teaching the children a new song. This song was a song of protection. Henry began in a low baritone, as he had spent the last week teaching them all the fundamentals of Warsinging, strength is found in the deep bass notes. “Oooh shield strong, shield wide, brush our enemies away and put them aside.”

The melody stayed in the lower register of young Zennith’s voice. He sang the song and tried to follow his teacher’s vocal footsteps. The veteran’s voice became manifest in their air, a blue shield sprang into being, its color was a deep, barely translucent blue. Zennith knew that this meant the shield was strong and unlikely to break. When the young singer tried his own, it too became manifest in the world. A small blue shield floated in front of him, almost the same color as the sky, very easy to see through. His voice was not deep enough, his notes were pitchy, but the air heard his song and granted him protection.

Henry looked around the small semi-circle of young boys who were trying their part in the song of protection. Several of them managed to create a little shield, like Zennith, but others were not getting low enough with their voices, or their notes were too pitchy. He sang the song for them again, and again they all tried. They did this call and response for an hour before Henry called it for the day.

“You all have the gift of Warsinging, children, but some are tenors, and some are basses, and some are baritones. Take young Jor, his shield is light and you can almost not even see it, for his voice is naturally higher than most,” Jor blushed at first, but then Henry continued, “but now look at Zennith’s shield. Strong, and it got darker with each attempt, for his voice is naturally lower than most. However, next week, after I have given you your lore for the day, we will be learning a new song, a song of speed. I can say with certainty that Jor will be outpacing all of you before the day is out, and Zennith may be behind the group. This is not to belittle nor to bolster Jor or Zennith,” Henry explained, “rather this is to help you all understand. Each gift is different, but all are needful in the fight. Sopranos, altos? Those ranges are even more vital, some argue, than we bass clef ruffians. Your sisters or mothers may have learned some of those skills in school. Can anyone tell me what they do?”

A boy named Ramth raised his hand. Zenith knew he had three sisters and a very influential mother. “Yes, Ramth?”

“Well, sir, the higher voices are able to move things even faster than tenors, which allows them to bind wounds, light fires, and restart hearts,” Ramth said.

“Very good. This is why most hospitals will be staffed with alto nurses and soprano doctors. You will rarely find bass surgeons because of what some true basses have learned they can do with their gifts, but those men are rare.” Henry stood from his teaching chair and straightened his blue tunic, and swept the legs of his pants clean with a few brushes.

“That is enough lore and training for today, boys, now go home and be good sons.” Henry returned to his desk and began marking things off on a sheet of paper. Zennith stood and followed the crowd of students out of the classroom.

Zenith returned to his home, where he prepared for his extracurriculars. Mostly, his brother, who was five years his senior, would be home soon, and he would continue to teach his younger brother swordplay. It was good practice for Hock, Zennith’s older brother, as he was on the dueling team at the local youth school, and it was good foundations practice for Zennith as he hoped to join his brother on the team next year.

Hock was a tenor and ran in the yearly tenor race, so he had made Zennith promise not to use song in the duel. Duelists on the team had to wear mouth guards that muted them to prevent a tenor from merely outrunning a bass. Dueling was not about who could Warsing the best, but rather who knew the duel the best. This, they had been told, prepared the boys for real war. In those real battles, they did not wear mouthguards, but neither did the enemy; to tenors and basses used their voices to counteract each other. Shield walls grew from the ground in front of choirs of basses, and tenor soloists would have to run around the wall before they could close the gap and do any damage. At least, that’s how the stories went.

Zennith was practicing sword forms in the field behind his home when Hock arrived. The two brothers clapped their wooden swords and took their stances. Zennith was warmed up from the forms and Hock from the practice at school. They each put in their mouthpieces and went at it. Zennith was smaller, but sometimes faster than his brother, so he was able to win a few points, but the points that Hock scored were draining. Zennith received a bruise on his calf from a smack Hock gave him with his sword. The bruise drained his energy and sapped him of strength. It was less than five minutes later that Zennith surrendered the duel.

“You’ve got to work on defense. Your speed is good, Zennith, but if I can land those hits, your speed does not matter one bit.” Hock tapped his brother’s calf with the point of his wooden practice blade.

“Well, in a real fight, I’ll have my Warsong to defend me.” Zennith protested.

“And that’s why we practice with these,” Hock gestured with the mouthpiece he was still holding. “In a real fight, your only hope against a Tenor Assassin is your skill and instinct with the blade. He’d cut your vocal cords before you could get a single bar of a protection song out. Come on, let’s go again.”

They both took sips of water before putting their mouthpieces back in. Zennith attacked first. His sword flew from targeting one of his brother’s temples to the next, his hands twisting in the air. Finally, his brother caught his blade and threw it up, pushing Zennith back and pressing the offensive.

Hock pressed his brother hard, using up a reserve of energy he found to force his brother to practice his defence. To Hock’s pleasure, Zennith held his defensive line well. Hock tried all of his usual tricks and feints, but Zennith had been ready for each one. He stabbed at an opening in his brother’s right guard, but his thrusting sword was met with a sweeping reposte. Zennith’s blade knocked Hock’s aside and, in an impressive display, the young warrior brought his sword around in a defensive twist and put it right under Hock’s chin.

“I yield!” Hock cried, spitting his mouthpiece out. That made the score one-one. They each took a few moments to ready themselves for the inevitable tie-breaker.

They took their battle stances again and put in their mouthpieces. Just as Zennith went to move in, they heard, “Boys! Dinner!” They both sighed and lowered their blades; they would have to have their tie-breaker another time.

The Mad Man of the Tower

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Taken from The Shards of Arthur’s Shield

Written & Edited by A.B. Timothy

The room was filled with those same glass instruments Thomas had seen in his dream. They covered arched tables that lined either side of the circular room. Thomas looked around and saw a man in small clothes huddled against the wall near what appeared to be a chest that had been flung open. Thomas recognized the chest and then turned. Across from the chest, there was a table with a dozen books open and strewn about. There was a space in the middle of the books where the sword he had seen in that same dream must have been recently.

Thomas took note that the only sounds were his knightly armor creaking and shifting as he moved, and the sobs of a man in the corner. “You, man, you aren’t the one I saw in my vision. Who are you?” Thomas asked the man huddled in the corner. He was covering his face and weeping.

Thomas heard him say, “I betrayed my king and killed so many of my people. I am nothing, I am dirt, I am the worms beneath the dirt, I am the invisible creatures upon which the worms feast. Oh LORD, GOD, Forgive me.” His ramblings were those of a madman. Not another one. Thomas silently prayed.

“Come to man, the chest is open, you are free. If you wish to atone, start by helping the Lord’s servant in his quest.” Thomas took several steps closer to the man.

“NO!” The man cried. He flung out a hand, and Thomas felt a force of air crash into him. It almost threw him backwards, but he managed to recover his balance before falling. “Don’t come any closer! You are his spirit returned to kill me. Old Friend, I’m sorry, PLEASE HEAR ME, what I did to you, and the weakness of my flesh, they torment me.” He broke into sobs, “plea-e-e-ese.”

“I assure you, I have not come to kill you.” Thomas put his sword away as a sign of trust. “I’ve already killed one man, and watched a good friend die, I don’t intend to suffer the sight of another man’s death, at least not this month.”

“You, aren’t you him? I recognize his spirit in you.” The man uncovered his face and pointed a shaky finger at Thomas. “Arthur, please, return to your place in the West. I-I will join you there once Merline says I have atoned. Go, please.”

“I can’t do that, Lancelot.” Thomas realized who he was speaking with. Arthur’s best friend turned betrayer was the madman of the tower. “I have come for the shard of my shield that resides here.”

“Your shield?” Lancelot clawed at his head, like he was trying to physically pull a memory up from the depths of his mind. “No, no, you can’t have that!” The man was suddenly furious. “I won this piece from you in our battle at Alnwick. It’s my prize!” The man went from mournful sobs to screams of rage in a flash.

Thomas stepped back as the man stood from his cowering state against the wall. As Lancelot rose, he went from wearing rags to being covered in gleaming steel armor. He and Thomas were transported. The room around them fell away, and Lancelot grew distant. The place elongated as it filled with sand and dirt. Above them, the roof disintegrated to reveal a bright grey sky. In the middle of the room was a long railing. At either end of the railing were horses clad in haraldry, one the three bendlets of Lancelot’s own and the other had the mended shield on a field of blue, almost black, speckled with stars. Thomas also realized that his armor had gone from the shining grey of steel to a stained dark black. His Lady Alice’s favor was still on his arm, its decorated white stood out against the black.

Thomas looked to where Noah was standing off to his side and saw that the boy was holding a helmet and a lance. The helmet had a wreath around it that was black and white. He took the helmet and put it on. The first thing he noticed about the jousting helmet was how limiting the field of vision was. He worked through his instincts and mounted his horse before taking the lance from his squire. As he settled into the saddle, he felt a strange extra object hanging from his belt on his backside, a dagger? He did not have time to check.. Noah stepped back, the shock on his face slowly diminishing into acceptance. Thomas looked down the field and saw Lancelot take his helmet and lance from the air.

Thomas mounted his shield onto his shoulder and, when a horn blew, he kicked his horse’s side. The mare started on a trot. Lancelot had begun his own trot. Thomas had to calm his nerves and empty himself again, just as he had done with Sword Breathing. He let the horse, the lance, and the field take all the space in his mind. He called upon some deep instinct, the same that had given him words to say in times past, now guided him as his horse began to gallop.

Thomas lowered his lance and felt the tip strike true. In the same moment, he too was struck in the shoulder with a mighty blow. Both riders were thrown from their horses. The squires ran and found the reins of the horses before they could trample their riders and pulled them off the field.

Thomas was groaning on the ground where he had landed. His shoulder was blackened; he could just tell from the pain, and the air had fled his lungs at the impact. He steadied his breathing first, then began to rise. When he rose from the ground, he found that Lancelot was already on his feet and walking towards him. The knight of legend had lost his helmet, but Thomas’s had remained attached to his head. The difference in fields of vision would be apparent in the fight, so Thomas quickly threw his own away.

The next motion was to take his sword and shield from Noah, who had brought them to him. He flexed his grip on the sword and stood ready for Lancelot’s attack. Lancelot continued marching towards Thomas, now having collected his own sword and shield. Thomas had not realized before, as the mounting of the horses and the joust were so quick, but the stands around the arena were not empty. They were filled with people Thomas recognized: his family and friends from Alnwick and clergy who had ministered to him both in Alnwick and Camelot. Even Jonathan and, strangely enough, Darek. The Steward of Camelot presided over the duel, and his family was there too, including Princess Alice.

Thomas heard the creaking and groaning of Lancelot’s armor as he raised his blade to strike. That warning was enough to allow Thomas to raise his shield. The Mad Knight’s sword bounced off Thomas’s defense.

“Sir Lancelot, you would risk your life for a souvenir? A piece of a shield that does not even belong to you?” Thomas asked.

Lancelot had no words, only striking at Thomas again. This time, the young knight caught his opponent’s blade with his own and carried it around so he could get close and shove the man. Thomas managed to put Lancelot on the back foot. As this old man stumbled back, Thomas saw a vision, no, a memory. He had shoved him like that before. A rage filled his muscles as he began an offensive. “You betray me, then raise an army against me?” Thomas yelled, indignant. “You would rebel against your king who so graciously let you walk, a free man, out of his castle. I could have hung you!” Thomas struck at the old man’s defense. This was not right, this was not him. Thomas was a spectator in his own body, but the pain and the rage felt so real.

He took in a deep breath, sucking in all of the pain, anger, and betrayal. He let them go and saw only a weak, frail old man whose defenses were dwindling. Lancelot had acted on lust, Thomas could recall the story now: Lancelot had bedded Queen Guinevere and emotionally crippled his king. The rage that filled him made sense with that revelation, but it was not made right by it. Forgiveness is The Way. Punishment, by God, inflicted by His church, on both the Queen and the knight, and perhaps a stripping of rank, were due, but death? That was for the Church to decide, not Arthur.

Something broke through his practiced breathing and screamed. “I showed you mercy before, I gave you grace after you sold me for less than even thirty pieces of silver. What did I get, poisoned? Cursed to die away from my beloved home, because of your lusts.”

“Perhaps you had first betrayed your wife, neglected her as her husband, always waging your constant campaigns in the north and against the Saracens. Your wife was cold. I just gave her warmth.” Lancelot pushed back, youth returning to the frail old man.

They went back and forth like that for several minutes. The duel became one of silent ice-cold hate. Thomas knew that this would not end peacefully. He also agreed with Arthur. Lancelot had been given grace twice, and both times he had gone behind Arthur’s back. First to raise an army against him, then, after that army had been crushed, he fled the field of battle, Arthur specifically commanding the archers not to kill him while he fled, and went straight to Merlin in this very tower, only to disappear and never be seen or heard of again. His cowardice and dishonor enraged Arthur. 

Thomas had resigned to the fact that this man must die. He has lived an unnaturally long life, and it must be ended. The pair were in each other’s faces and had been pressing into one another with their shields. Thomas broke away from the press only to grab Lancelot’s shield and twist it off his arm. Even after that, one-handed, the legendary knight kept up his defense. Thomas had his own shield ripped off his arm, the pain leaving him groaning as he fought on with just his sword.

Thomas knew that he alone was no match for Lancelot and was, at that moment, thankful for his spiritual heritage. Arthur’s spirit maintained the combat, Thomas reasoned, as nothing else would have explained it. In the last moments of the duel, Thomas had his sword stripped from him, and he rushed inside Lancelot’s defense to wrestle the older man to the ground. Thomas’s youthful strength and Arthur’s know-how managed to disarm Lancelot and tackle him to the earth. Thomas straddled the knight and began laying punches into the man’s face. His right would strike the hardest, and Thomas knew the heart of Arthur was in those strikes. His left hand would hit almost as hard; those coming from Thomas’s own convictions.

“You betrayed my love for you.” His right fist fell.

“You betrayed the land of my fathers.” His left fist fell.

“You poisoned me.” His right.

“You killed the best of them!” His left.

“You broke my shield.” Right.

“You nearly killed me in the joust.” Left.

With a scream that was produced from centuries of pain, rage, and betrayal, Thomas ripped the dagger from his back and raised it into the sky. Both of his hands held the hilt as the sun glinted off the blade. Together, Thomas and Arthur plunged the knife downward. Thomas fell forward as his dagger sank into the sand where Lancelot had been.

In a blink, the blade was gone, the sand was gone, the arena was gone, and the spectators were gone. The world dimmed as the only sources of light became the tinted glass window of the tower’s room and the torch Noah still held. Thomas was in the middle of the room, kneeling, his fists holding one another as the dagger had vanished from his grip. Thomas looked and found the old knight sitting by the chest again, bloodied and bruised but breathing. The young knight stood to find his sword still at his side. Had the entire duel been an illusion? Clearly not, the old man was full of bruises, and Thomas could feel his own shoulder again, hot with pain from the jousting bruise.

“I have decided you are to die, Lancelot. I will not change my mind now that the dream is over. You are still at my mercy.” Thomas pulled his sword from his scabbard and readied himself to run the old knight through when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Sir Thomas,” It was his squire, Noah, tapping him, “open your eyes, look.”

Thomas blinked hard and saw that the old man had propped himself up against the wall and was holding something out in his hand. “You’re right, of course.” Lancelot coughed up blood. “You were always right, Arthur. All those years ago, your wars were just and true, your bed was cold because your people needed you elsewhere. I conspired against you and betrayed your love and trust. You trusted me with Camelot itself, and I… I failed you. My lusts overwhelmed me, and your wife did not resist me. I do not pretend to know her motives, but you were so benevolent. You let me leave with my head.” He shook that same head and bowed it.

“You are dying, are you not?” Thomas asked softly as he began putting away his sword.

“I am. When I fled the battle of Alnwick and watched my castle burn, Merlin offered me penance after I confessed to him. He told me my penance was to stay in that chest,” He gestured at the chest that was still open near which he had been huddled when Thomas first entered the room, “until the time was right. I offered him the piece of the shield I had taken from you, but he told me to keep it and to only give it to you.” 

“He knew me?” Thomas asked.

“Not by name,” Lancelot explained. “Well, at least he knew you not then. He said that there would come another soul who, like the Baptizer and Elijah, would embody the spirit of Arthur, noble and true. He also said that it would be someone willing to kill me for what I did.”

“That doesn’t sound like Arthur,” Thomas admitted.

“No, it does not.” Lancelot agreed. “But have no shame in that, Thomas, I knew Arthur when he was a lad, he was not always so noble and pious. He killed Sarcens for less than what I did.” Lancelot began spitting up blood. When the fit passed, he spoke again, “Take the shard, boy, and remember the story of Lancelot the Betrayer.”

Thomas reached out and took the shard.

“Become the Arthur Britain needs you to be.” With these words, Lancelot, the four hundred and seventy-three-year-old knight, passed away.

Thomas said a prayer for the man’s soul, hoping that his penance had truly been paid and that his soul could rest with God. “Go with God.” He said. The young knight watched as Lancelot’s body fell to dust in a blink, armor, skin, bones, and blood all just faded into a cloud of dust. At that, he stood with the shard, a much larger wooden piece lined with silver and covered in Celtic decorations, and turned to thank his squire.

“Thank you, Noah. You opened my eyes and saved me from the rage that threatened to consume me. You may yet sit at the round table.” Thomas approached the boy and showed him the shard.

Noah did not even look at the shard as his eyes grew wide, “Really?”

Thomas scruffed the boy’s hair and laughed, “One day, when you’re taller. For now, say a prayer for the dead and let us be off. The Shield of Britain must be mended.”

A Brother’s Death

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A Short Story from the “Gifted Cycle” by A.B. Timothy

Richmond, Bodhi, brothers until the very end. One, a stalwart protector of the old crown, a five-century-old monarch, and the traditions she represented; the other, a newly enthroned king of a rebellious union of principalities. There, on the fields of their childhood, nestled between the hills of the Queen’s Spine Mountains of Terra Prima, they stood some hundred feet apart from one another. There along those same hills they had played, they had laughed, they had discussed the mysteries of their reality, and so much more. Now they would have one final discussion, one final battle, though this time, their swords would be very real.

The wind rushed through the grass blades, the sun illumined the field of battle without any needless heat, and the birds had taken up their song, far off, once again. The wind stopped, the sun froze, and the birds went silent as Richmond drew his sword. A heartbeat later, Bodhi had his own blade in his hand. Perfectly matched in their speed, they meet at the heart of the battlefield.

They danced… like the days when the children would dance together to the sound of the birds in the trees, but there was no music to this dance, other than the music of steel meeting steel.

“She loves you… You know.” Richmond’s voice was calm and empathetic to his brother. A frozen stream of white puffed off his tear duct. Richmond watched at least three of the same form around his brother as they danced.

“I know,” Bodhi said, his voice equally calm and empathetic.

“Then why do you not go to her? Be with her? End this war?” Richmond asked.

“My people need me more than I need to be romantically fulfilled by a Terran queen.” Bodhi’s sword sounded on Richmond’s.

“They need you to kill her?” Richmond’s voice rose in offense, the first sign of any emotion in this dance.

“Or her champion… they need me to be the king they crowned, they need a ruler who will put everything he holds dear on the line for his people.”

“Even your own blood?” The double meaning of Richmond’s word caused the first slip in his brother’s guard in the dance that persisted for three minutes. Bodhi caught the slip, and Richmond was only able to scar his cheek with a glancing blow. Taking advantage of this action, which seemed a mistake, would prove fatal for the twenty-year-old swordsman, however, as he felt, between the fourth and fifth ribs, a cold edge of steel enter his chest.

“For my children, I would do anything.” They both sped up to twice as fast as either of them ever had, when Richmond fell to the floor. Blood did not flow; they were in the space between heartbeats, even a beat of their own hearts.

“You have slain me… my brother, but stay with me a while in this place between and hear my heart, hear your brother,” Richmond’s voice was openly sorrowful now, “please.”

“I will stay with you here, for as long as you desire it of me, Richmond.” Bodhi’s voice was stronger than his brother’s, only bolstered, however, by victory.

“Then help me stand and let us dance on the lake of our youth, once again.” Richmond reached up his arm to his brother, who stepped back and hoisted him from the ground. The pair walked south now, away from the heart of death. This was the ultimate fate of their kind: to live the moment of death for all eternity, until they accepted their death.

The pair found their way to the small lake, which had now been converted into a field hospital for the battle, but with the gifts of their time, there was very little blood seeping into the water. Bodhi and Richmond took to stepping across the lake, like they had done in their youth after discovering what they really were. There, they relived memories and danced across the motionless waves of the lake to a music of their own creation, laughing at jokes heard only by themselves and the creator.

Then they rested with their backs propped up by a tree, both picking at the grass beneath them with their eyes afar off. 

“What about that tree?” Richmond asked.

“Oh, the tree where Shona and I kissed… that must have been a lifetime ago,” Bodhi remembered.

“It only feels like a lifetime to us, Bodhi, remember.”

“Ha, yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Whatever happened to you two?” Richmond asked.

“I went off to the army, and she didn’t like that much. She knew about our powers, but she thought she’d never see me again once the government could do its tests. ‘I’d be too important,’ she’d say, ironic. She was right, for all the wrong reasons. I never went back to her, not due to import, but because I was smitten with the empress… then you joined up with me because of your own… gifts. The rest is history.”

“So what happened to us?”

“I’ll chalk the memory loss up to your condition.”

“Humor a dying man, will you?”

“They killed your wife and children… Richy, they killed ‘em dead, ordered you to do it with your own ship.”

“I remember, but duty comes first…”

“Yeah, that’s what you said four years ago.”

“They ordered you to kill your brother… kill ‘em dead, ordered you to do it with your own sword.”

“Oh, come on, Richy, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” There was a silence that stretched several moments; Richmond broke the silence with a confession. “I love you, Bodhi. You held my heart in your hand our whole childhood, you were my inspiration, my role model, after our father died.”

“I can’t even cry in your death moment,” Bodhi’s voice choked with sobs, “so what are you trying to prove, Richy?”

“I forgive you, Bodhi. I can’t blame you for coming to a conclusion I came to years before. I’m only sorry it took you this long to come to it. How about a pact with your dying brother, hmm? Like a dying wish?”

“What is it, Richy?” He instinctively shoved away the absent tears from his eyes. “In the name of the empress, if it is in my power, I will grant it.”

“End this war… stop the bloodshed, make peace with our queen.” Richmond’s own words were full of sobs now.

“Richy, I can’t—”

“I don’t mean submit to her authority, I only mean make peace.”

“I promise…” He leaned over and hugged his brother on the other side of the tree they had been resting against. “I swear I will see this bloodshed brought to an end, so no brother will ever again have to kill their kin… not while I live.”

“Good… now, I’m ready to go now…” Richmond’s voice was weak and close to giving up, “pull this sword out and… hold me, bubba, please?”

Bodhi could deny his brother nothing now. He stood and walked to his brother’s side of the tree and pulled the sword out, shrinking it once again and putting it on his belt. He fell to his knees and took his brother into his arms and began to sob, kissing his brother’s forehead again and again. “I love you, Richy… I’m so sorry.”

“Know this as I fade now, Bubba… you are forgiven… may you find shelter in her light.” Richmond’s eyes filled first with little white stems of steam, then tears as his heart began to beat again. Bodhi sat there, rocking his brother back and forth, sobbing as he felt the lifeblood pour out of him and stain the grass.

Near a different tree, a line of black was cut in the grass as a split in reality solidified above it. Out from it stepped Her Majesty, Lady Sal of Terra. Her white gloved hand stretched out to Bodhi… “Let us fulfill your brother’s final wish, my lord, let us end this shedding of blood.”

Richmond’s Bubba did not respond; instead, he sat cradling his brother and sobbing into his corpse for an eternity. It took Bodhi much longer to accept his brother’s death.

The Man at Craginth

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A Short Story by: A.B. Timothy

And behold, Elyon spoke, saying, “Thus, when you ask for my mercy, leave none of your disgrace hidden. I am perfect in mercy, but only to those who are true in repentance.” Publo Magister looked from his copy of the holy text to the children who sat in a semicircle around him, listening intently to the story of the repentant killer. Ocis felt his heart swell. Publo continued to read the scripture. He fell to the ground, lying flat upon his stomach, and cried for forgiveness. Lying before Elyon all that he had ever done from childhood. “Please, Lord, I am unworthy to be seen by you, for now you know all my heart.” “Child,” Elyon said, “I have always known your heart, from the beginning. Now you know all your heart and the true, profound wickedness thereof. Arise, go and confess all this that you have to me, to the man of the Temple at Craginth, he has heard from me and will instruct you further.” Ocis arose and did as he was told, pursuing the Lord even until his last days.

One of the children threw up his hand as Publo finished reading. “Yes, James?”

“Bard Magister, is that something everyone must do? Sister Elvera said that we must be ready, and to be ready, we must do what the scripture says. Do we all need to go to Craginth and find the man whom Elyon has spoken to?” James asked.

“Well, James, Craginth was lost many years ago, during the last Burning War,” Publo said.

“Well, maybe I can find it again, so everyone can do what Elyon said to do, again,” James said.

“Perhaps you can,” Publo said.

The man’s back was weighed down with cuts and bruises from a hail of arrows. He and his two brothers had been the only ones to wade through the hail alive. The man still saw, before his eyes, the fading light of his lover’s eyes. Her mouth was frozen agape, eyes wide, and blood trickling from both eyes and mouth. He shook his head to throw away the image. He turned to his shrinking brother on his right and asked, “Brother Burn, how much further?”

“Brother Man,” the shrinking Burron turned to his smaller brother whilst ripping his ax free from the neck of a Burron who had stood in their way, “the star-line says we are only a few hours away.” The Burron aged backward, beginning as a giant and shrinking as they aged.

“Shouldn’t…” The two brothers turned to their lanky third, an elf, and saw the tears running down his face. He pulled his spear from the ineffective shield of a Burron. His tears nearly broke his otherwise stoic speech pattern. “Shouldn’t we rest for the evening? Finish our trek in the morning?”

The man slowly shook his head and looked up at dark clouds that shadowed the valley of the great twin rivers that flowed down toward the faraway ocean. The castle of men that once stood perched next to the rivers along an ocean-side cliff was now half crumbled and smoke, from feed-fires, billowed up, feeding the clouds, along its once great wall. The man looked back to the field of battle and saw again his lover’s eyes now dim. Hadn’t he given enough? Had he not suffered enough for a lifetime, let alone his short twenty years? Apparently, he had not, because the Guide of Elyon knocked on his heart’s door even now; he knew what needed to be done.

“Have you both heard the story of Ocis?” The man asked. He looked from brother to brother, and they both nodded in understanding. “If we truly are approaching the city of darkness… our fathers prepared us well, I think.” The man looked back towards this half-crumbled tower of darkness and felt the weight of the metal plates that hung on his back and chest. Loosening the straps, the plates fell away. The gauntlets soon followed. His hair, matted and muddy with dirt and blood not his own, stuck to his helmet as it was lifted from his ears. He set all these things aside and lowered his head as deeply as he could manage. He still felt the Guide’s knock. He stood and removed his sword, his leg guards, and sabatons, laying them all aside with the rest of his armor. He heard his brothers doing the same. As his, now cloth-covered, legs touched the ground, he felt the knocking stop, and the guide approached him. He felt an overwhelming presence before him just beyond his eyelids. “Open your eyes, child, as you have opened your heart.”

The man opened his eyes and everything was gone, the mountains to either side of the battlefield, the bodies, and the dark castle, were all erased in favor of a void. Not black, no, the presence before the man was too great to call the emptiness black. Speech did not avail our hero, as the presence spoke again, “You come before me, child, seeking what?”

“Mercy, Your Grace, I seek only mercy for me and my brothers as we accomplish your will in this next day of battle.” The man said.

“Henry, my child, have you forgotten your own name?” The presence pulsated and moved with the voice.

“My name, Lord?” Henry said.

“Yes, for when you think of yourself, you have become merely ‘the man.’”

“That is the name the prophets gave, ‘the man.’” Henry said.

“My prophets were not told the name of my chosen, because it was not theirs to give. But they gave you other names, did they not?”

“Yes, L’ordi, Jerki, and Ot’undi,” Henry said.

“But I have called you Henry, since the day you first saw me, have I not?”

“You have.”

“So what is your name?”

“My name is Henry, my lord.”

“Thus, when you ask for my mercy, leave none of your disgrace hidden. I am perfect in mercy, but only to those who are true in repentance…” The whole scene, as if his father was reading it to him out of the holy text. He felt his heart swell, he fell to his stomach, he cried, he confessed, and he was commanded. Henry arose and did as he was told, pursuing the Lord even until his last days.

The Cursed Sword

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An Excerpt From: The Shards of Arthur’s Shield

By: A.B. Timothy

Thomas’s boots ran over cold, slick, and muddy turf as it changed from urban foot paths to the more wild floor of the woods. The sky disappeared overhead as he raced into the trees. Just before he crossed the treeline, he spotted the pale woman again. It was certainly dark enough for her to be out, but it still seemed early. The timeliness of her appearance did not faze Thomas; however, instead, he called out to her, “Run, Miss! Get out of here!” He only spared her a glance and a swiping hand of warning. He hoped she would get out of there, but she just stood her ground and watched him approach the treeline. Thomas gave up on her and turned his focus back on the path before him. She began to sing: “Arthurus, rex occidentis.” Thomas gave her another glance, and her mouth was still not moving, even this close, but that was the same voice he heard every night.

The way wound before him as he jumped over branches, slid under foliage, and pushed through weeds. After a minute of brushing, Thomas was shocked to hear his foe still pursuing him. Thomas questioned how that man had even managed to slip through some of the spots he had. It did not matter; what mattered was escape. “Arthurus, rex sepultus,” the siren kept singing.

Thomas slipped and fell face-first into the brush and only managed to turn over in time to see his foe breach the bush with a swipe of a sword. “There you are, you little rat, no one likes a rat in their backyard!” He brought his sword down, but it sank into the mud as Thomas had rolled away. The young man stood quickly, gathering a fistful of mud as he did.

“Can a rat do this?” Thomas threw the mud in the man’s face and took off into the brush again. He heard the man curse and roar in rage, and he knew his mud had made its target.

Thomas hopped over another fallen tree and pushed deeper into the woods. He could not remember ever being this deep before. He did not recognize the trees and only knew what general direction he was heading. He had passed his last established landmark a few strides ago. “Surge, Domine Matutinae,” the voice sang.

How had she been keeping up with him, and if she could keep up with him with enough breath to sing so sweetly, why hadn’t she come to his aid yet? Would she? Thomas decided he would not count on this clearly ethereal being. The thought crossed his mind to circle back, maybe try to get the jump on the bandit, but something called him deeper into the woods.

“Surge, Mundus Vocat.” The words swam through Thomas’s mind, confusing him and dragging him further into the forest. The young man feared for his life. The armed bandit behind him, an unknown world in front of him.

Thomas stopped only long enough to catch his breath in a clearing. The moonlight shone down from above and painted the scene in a silver glow. The young man’s breath caught in his lungs. The grass, only moments ago green, was now coated in the moon’s silver; the trees, which had been changing color, now shone; and the little stream that ran nearby had pricks of light jumping into Thomas’s eyes. This place was strange, almost holy. It was as if God cut a hole in the trees just for this small meadow. To emphasize the thought, a head appeared to rise from the water, and if Thomas had not recognized it, he may have screamed and run for his life towards the bandit. The head in the water rose further, just enough to imply an entire woman underneath the surface; it was the pale woman, the siren. She opened her mouth and raised a hand from the water. The hand pointed at a small hill in the center of the clearing. She sang the words, but he knew them. Not what they meant in whatever language she was singing, but the words fell into the depths of his soul, and he knew them, “Tua ferrum manet.” That’s what she said, but in his heart, Thomas heard her sing, “Your sword awaits.”

Cold, muddy, bruised from his fall, and bleeding from a few different places, Thomas limped forward. A breeze rushed through the clearing, and from the hill several dozen leaves were blown. This revealed a rod of iron, clad in leather. The rod had a puck of wood on the bottom, and a first-quarter moon’s shape of wood on the top. He recognized the grip; this was the same grip he had been training with for the last half-month. Ideas of what this sword meant or why it was there came only much later, when Thomas was back at home, dry and safe. In the moment, however, all he knew was he had access to a weapon and his assailant drew closer. He wrapped his fingers around the blackened-with-age leather and gave it a tug, but it did not move.

The hilt was as rigid as a dead man, and the ground did not even shift. Thomas could hear the man who wanted to kill him draw closer, so he tried again. This time, he gripped the hilt with two hands and pulled with all of his strength, but nothing happened. The sword remained buried and unwilling to move. Thomas looked at the woman in the stream with panic in his eyes. The woman sang again, but this was a new line he had not heard before. The tempo was wrong, the notes were different, a new song? Why would she start singing something unfamiliar now? Then he noticed that her arm was still raised. She was pointing at him, but when he stepped to the side, her finger did not move; she was pointing at the sword, singing a new song.

“I don’t know those words,” Thomas pleaded. “I only knew that other line because you’ve been singing it to me since I was a child. Can you,” he struggled with the sword again, “can you even understand me?”

She sang the words again, and Thomas remembered his training. Before even lifting his sword, he needed to empty himself. He breathed in deep and as he exhaled, fear, doubt, pain, cold, sound, sight, language, and self left. He worried for a brief moment that he had gone too deep; what if he couldn’t recover himself this time? But then that worry was gone in the next breath.

The next time the lady in the stream sang her song, Thomas listened, free of even his own language. These words, this language, felt ancient, like something he should know as easily as he knew how to breathe. “Memento palmae meae, gladii potestatis, et esto liber.” The words meant nothing to Thomas, but being so empty, they filled his whole being. He tried once more to pull the sword free in his own strength, but still, nothing happened.

The words came to him once again, and Thomas breathed them out, allowing the memory of the pronunciation to vibrate through his vocal cords. He was never a singer, but if he could do that again, he might have become a bard later in life. The words sung from his lungs into the air and vibrated the sword. “Memento palmae meae, gladii potestatis, et esto liber.”

The ground shook and almost threw Thomas to the ground, but his grip on the hilt steadied him. He pulled again. This time, at the end of his effort, when he gave all of his strength, the sword was released, and it slid free of the earth below. Lightning cracked across the otherwise clear night sky, blinding Thomas for a moment. The man raised the sword high into the sky and smiled. As the blindness cleared, he saw the sharp blade shining. The sight filled him with a warmth he had never felt before. Like someone was holding a torch to his stomach. His face was split by a smile that would not end. The silence of the moment was broken by Thomas’s hearty laugh. This was the best thing that could have happened to him. A sword given to him when he needed it most.

The Battle of Johanna Valley

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A Short Story by: A.B. Timothy

The armies of Farthia and the armies of Horatia gathered on either side of the great valley of Johanna to do battle therein. The light of heaven besieged both sides before a sword could be drawn; according to the alchemists, it was over one hundred and twenty degrees that day. Zennith, a man of age from one of the great Farthian cities, stood watch over the battlefield yet to be battled in. The bird of prey that floated above his head gave his graying hair some much-needed relief from the blistering sun. Zennith’s breastplate of iron weighed heavily on the old, rusted, and reluctantly patriotic man’s chest. He stood watch to warn his people in the event of an attack by the Horatians. The last time Zennith had held a sword, his wife and child burned for it.

Though he was only a mere carpenter for many years, Zennith had been pressed into service by the desperate Council of Farthian Lords. After he first refused, claiming his lack of interest in fighting a war and his desire to teach, the Lords breathed a convenient sigh of relief when a Horatian arson burned half of Zennith’s city. Zennith had come home that day to find his daughter burned alive in his blackened workshop and his wife half naked with a split throat, surrounded by her own blood.

Zennith had once been a Captain of the armies of Farthia, but that was a lifetime ago. Now he had joined the military as a mentor, training young men in the best way to die and to kill. The old man taught them how to use their Warp Lances, their Jump Crossbows, and their Air Daggers to the greatest effect in battle. Now the day had finally come, the armies, too massive to number on either side, would soon turn this beautiful, lush, green, and yellow valley into a field of air-holes, craters, and streams of blood. Just like his younger days as the mentor of great adventurers, Zennith would again watch as most, if not all, of his proteges die. The man was callous; who could blame him? Seeing so many proteges come up and die under your watch did something to a man. He’d never trained a Koran the Great or a Hapthro the Destroyer. He was always the one to train the heroes no one wrote about.

This was all his past, however. On that day, he stood and watched the battlefield with a horn of violet glass dangling at his side. “Korin!” He called up to the bird of prey above him.

“Yes, Captain Zennith?” The bird replied. “Have your eyes spotted something beyond my perception?”

“No, my friend, but is it not time for you to move to the next guard post?” Zennith wanted to keep his schedule as best he could. The cold-blooded bird might freeze if kept so stationary for so long.

“Yes, perhaps it is, but I do enjoy watching over you,” Korin said.

“I understand, I am quite the conversationalist.” Zennith’s words were dry and matter-of-fact.

“That is exactly right.” Korin laughed. “Everyone else is too busy asking everything there is to ask about me and not watching the enemy; you are stalwart.” The great winged beast rolled his shoulders and jumped off the resting pole. “I’ll be off then, until we meet again, Captain.”

“In this life, or the next,” Zennith called. The bird leaving his pole let the sun beat down on Zennith again. His already grey-blonde hair began bleaching even whiter, immediately.

Minutes stretched into hours. Finally, at the setting of the sun, Zennith could, along with his fellow guards, put that violet horn to his lips and give a single long and loud note. Horatia had begun to move, and the men of Farthia would meet them. But Horatia was too fast… with a unspoken word passed between the men of the guard towers, the foreguards, each stepped up to a platform that protruded from his guard tower, a railless balcony of sorts, and threw himself therefrom in a leap. Zennith reached up and snatched the legs of his giant transport. The bird, a different bird than he had spoken with before, which he grabbed, floated him down to the middle of the valley before any of the main troop could begin their march. There he stood with the other foreguards’ spear now slung off his back and planted into the ground.

The line he made with his fellow foreguards quickly burned blue when they began to sing a song. A song of protection and deliverance. The space between each guard and his spear exploded in a line of blue energy from the earth. Their grand song made manifest in the world. Almost as soon as the mile-long wall had sprung up, it began to falter under the barrage of cannon shot, boulder droppings, and spell lobbings. The spearhead of the Horatian forces was held at bay, to their great dismay. The deceitful speed of the Horatian horde, now brought to a screeching halt. Tens of thousands, brought to a standstill by the efforts of one hundred guardsmen. The ground shook, and Zennith smiled as he knew the march of the great Farthian hosts had finally commenced. Beasts, Men, Winged Beasts, and Giants all now descended on the field of Johanna.

The foreguard’s song now rang like a gong in the midst of a screaming horde. The Horatians tried, and failed, to drown out their songs with their war cries, and while the cries gave their speakers a strengthening red hue—made purple by the blue of the shield wall—it was not enough to beat the shield song.

At the climax of their song, the foreguard cried out in a sound that shocked the earth, sending a wave of blue energy out in front of them. This wave washed over the Horatian forces, shoving them back, allowing the surge of the Farthians to meet their enemy. Now the battle had begun in earnest.

Over the next seven hours, the armies surged back and forth, great swathes of both dying in fire, water, blood, or air. Zennith left his post in the foreguard after slaying his dozens and took command of a battalion of cavalry. He led his battalion in the Great Counter Surge of the West Valley, a maneuver that, despite costing nearly three hundred men, almost certainly won Farthia the day. Three hundred more fallen heroes, never to be written about by name. Oh, the historians will laud their brave charge, but their names will be quickly forgotten. Zennith knew them all by name; however, he had trained them after all. Perhaps he would ensure their names are remembered… or perhaps that was too much for one man. Either way, he would visit each of their families and tell them how their boys—No, he thought to himself, their men—fought and died there that day. Once again, the old man was left alive by a cruel act of fate, only to stew in his own regret and guilt.

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