Bladoria-15 years after The Fall

When I crest the hill, the first thing I notice are the bodies. The crows come next. They circle overhead, their carrion call clawing at my ears, spreading amidst the mountain of dead. An old, buried part of me wants to look away, wants to turn back. But the weight of the blade across my back reminds me. There’s a man I’ve come to kill.

“How much further?” Galmar asks, his grey beard twisting in the wind.

“Not much,” I say, looking my old Wolf-brother up and down. “You shouldn’t be here. This is my battle. My oath.”

Galmar flashes a smile, his pointed teeth catching the midmorning sun. “Did you forget? I’ve an oath of my own.” He traces the old scar across his palm with a gnarled finger. “The pack may be dead, but we’re brothers, Kasten. Sealed in blood.” He stretches with a grunt, then rolls his shoulders. “If you’re to meet your end, I’ll make sure there’s someone left to tell the tale.”

I chuckle. “If I die, he’s going to kill you next.”

Galmar shrugs. “My bones are old, but my fangs are sharp.” He slaps the dual axes on his hips. “Reckon I’ve got one more fight in me.”

I step forward, eyes fixed on a distant hill. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The field ahead is choked with corpses. They lay amidst their weapons, heaped atop dull red snow. Stepping over them, I can’t tell who they fought for. Battle standards flap uselessly here and there, but I don’t recognize the symbols.

“Must have been bad to leave so many behind,” Galmar huffs. “And they’ve been dead for a while by the looks of them. Crows will have a hell of a time pecking through all that frost.”

But the birds don’t seem to mind. Many are already feasting, their beaks plunging and cracking into flesh. A sound I vowed to never hear again.

“Never thought I’d be back on a battlefield,” I half mumble, my hand absently rubbing the notch where my left ear used to be.

“And I never thought I’d live to see a gray hair.” Galmar sighs. “Now I have a whole head of the bastards. Oh…”

I turn to find Galmar kneeling over a corpse, his eyes fixed on a gold chain dangling from the dead man’s neck.

“Galmar,” I say, shaking my head.

His shoulders sag. “Sorry.” He stands and dusts the snow off his knees. “Old habits.”

***

“It’s this way,” I huff, legs straining, foot buried in the snow packed hill. Galmar grunts something behind me, the old wolf’s ragged breath both a constant annoyance and a constant comfort. I want to command him to go home, to go curl up around the hearth and tell war stories to his grandchildren like a good old man. But I think he feels it, that growing dread. The inevitability of a duel sealed long ago in the old tongue. A battle that all my thirty summers have been preparing me for. A battle my heart tells me I cannot win.

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“We’re here.”

Nothing is left of the old village. Part of me isn’t surprised, the raging fire all those years ago would have left little behind. But in all the years since, did no one bother to rebuild what we destroyed? I grimace at the emptiness, at the stretch of land where my blade first tasted flesh. Swordfather told me that sometimes there is a battle so ugly, it leaves an invisible scar upon a man. Maybe then, the blood and ash of that night left a scar on the land itself. One that will never heal. Not until our swords cross, our blood debt repaid.

I walk forward, old memories surging like the fires that night. The clash of steel, the heat of flame, the cries of the dying. My cheeks burn, seared hot by the ice-laced breeze. There used to be a street here, I think, the one where I killed an old farmer. He was the second man I killed that night, cut down before the killing became easy. If only it had been someone else.

A silence settles in, broken only by the soft crunch of ice hardened snow beneath my boots.

“Will he honor the agreement?” Galmar grunts.

“His rage will suffice if his honor fails,” I say, pausing to shake out my stiff shoulders.

And then he appears over the ridge. He’s tall—taller than I remember. He has a shield strapped to his left arm and a sword sheathed at his hip. Closer, I make out the Emerald Legion’s insignia on his surcoat. Fully a knight then, no longer the squire that took three of my fingers and nearly an eye. He stops fifty paces from me, eyes cold as a frozen corpse.

“Galmar,” I say, gulping down the fear. “Tell Ta—”

“None of that,” he snaps. “Tell her yourself.”

I hear his boots crunch away. I’m alone now. Maybe more alone than I’ve ever been. Despite the cold, a bead of sweat rolls down my face.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” Luther says, his voice a dry rasp. There’s a nasty scar stretching from his left temple down to his chin. It takes me a second to remember I’m the one who gave it to him.

“Hafthan’s honor their oaths,” I say, standing proud.

He smiles, a gesture that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hafthan is a land of bloodthirsty, Godless whores.” He undoes the latch of his fur cloak. It tumbles away, revealing the studded leather and chainmail beneath. “And you’re the worst of them. A monster among beasts.”

“Your people are no different,” I reply, gesturing behind me to the field of corpses. “Bladoria drowns in blood, just as it always has.”

A spasm spreads across Luther’s face and his eye twitches. “And who delivered the first cut?” He draws his blade, the enchanted steel shimmering. “A blade drawn must be used, and Hafthan’s fangs drew many blades.” He shakes his shield arm loose and sucks in a deep breath. “You say Bladoria drowns in blood? Then let that be the blood of your people. I’ll string them up by the thousands. Our rivers will choke on your dead and their corpses will feed the crops they once burned. Maybe then, some kind of penance will be had.”

I pull Ash-Maker from my back, the long length of the blade sucking in the surrounding light. The air twists and the blade hisses with heat, the steel turning blood red. “Penance? No such thing exists. Not in this world. Not for men like us.” I set my stance, heart racing, the air filling with steam.

“Let’s end this, Kasten.” Luther lowers his shoulders and brings his shield up. “For my father. For my country.”

I reach down deep within me, deeper than even my darkest regrets. The Beast’s blood courses there, ready to receive my rage. I might lose myself to it, but I can’t let this man survive. He must die, no matter the cost.

“Swordfather give me strength.” I say, my vision shifting, enhancing, my teeth sharpening. My nails fall to the ground one by one, replaced by claws. I grip Ash-Maker with both hands and bellow forward. Our blades flash out, enchanted metal sparking brightly. The world blurs. The last thing I see before the battle madness overwhelms me is his face.

How innocent it once was.