There was a bright flash of lightning and a deafening roar as Heror emerged in the open. All at once, he was enveloped in a maelstrom of wind and rain, boots slopping in the dirt and mud as shouts rang out behind him. He started to turn left from the longhouse, back toward the road. But just as he turned, another patrolman stepped into the path not far down, blocking him off.
Now Heror doubled back, kicking up rainwater. He stumbled and turned to the east, sprinting past the longhouse just as the two siephalls reached the exit. He sprinted down the path, dashing past red tents as lightning illuminated the grounds and the tempest raged. All the while, he heard more yells. He glanced back over his shoulder in a rush. There were five in pursuit now, rain-matted helmets and longswords blinking in the stormlight.
Another growl from above. Heror sprinted until he reached the edge of the camp, then bounded into the forest. Down a hill, into the brush. Past trees and thickets. Through falling streams of rainwater. Lightning flashed. Anger poured from the sky.
Their voices echoed behind him, and through the sounds of the storm, he heard their hurried footsteps on the leaves. He didn’t dare look back. He kept running, trunks and branches whizzing by in the darkness. More shouts carried in the wind, but he did not hear them. His eyes fixed ahead. His legs moved without thought. When he stumbled in the mud, he clamored back to his feet and kept moving.
He was deep in the forest now, and still, the wind and rain did not relent. He kept running through the woods, until – to another flash of lightning – he came to a small clearing, underlain by grass and lined by tall trees. A blazing white bolt cracked and scraped across the sky, and there was an enraged roar from the heavens. A powerful gust met his face and rustled his hair. He stopped and looked around, eyes frantic.
After only a moment of thought, Heror’s eyes fell on a narrow corridor of trees across the small forest clearing, and he started for it. But just as he made his first steps and sped to a run, another siephall emerged from the forest to the side, flanking and cutting him off. Now he swerved to the south, but another siephall blocked the way. Back around he turned, and he saw five more redcloaks walling off his escape, slowing their pace as they closed in.
Heror’s eyes cast from left to right, and he saw that he was surrounded. Seven siephalls, swords ready, stepped toward him slowly, encircling him within the clearing.
“You have committed high crimes against the Kingdom of Ardys!” one siephall shouted above the wind and thunder. “You will pay with your life!!”
At first, Heror had felt fear and turmoil. But now, as he looked left and right at his attackers, his nose curled and twitched, and his brow creased beneath soaked curls of hair. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw and heaved his chest… and when he opened his eyes again, there was only rage.
Heror unsheathed the Sword of Sparhh in his right hand, and in his left, he brandished Kerit. He planted his back foot and readied his stance with dual-wielded blades, as the siephalls crept closer. They were almost within reach now, and as another lightning bolt broke the sky, and another roar unfurled from above, and rain and wind swirled in the clearing, stirring his black cloak, Heror let out a blood-curdling scream.
And then the soldiers attacked.
The first two strikes came at him from opposite directions, and so Heror spun and swirled, unwinding his blades in a deadly vortex. The first slash cut a siephall’s neck. The second blocked a coming swing. Heror shed and forced the sword away, then ducked to evade a high sideswipe from behind.
Now Heror reset his stance. From his periphery, he saw the glint of bronze. He swiped this attack away with an upright block to the left, then twisted the siephall’s sword down into the ground and stomped flat onto it. As the siephall’s arm was dragged down with his weapon, Heror lunged forward and stabbed through with both swords, driving the soldier into the ground.
As soon as he shoved the siephall into the ground, Heror now swung back violently with both swords. With monstrous parallel slashes – twin torrents of sharpened metal – he cut down two more siephalls simultaneously, sending their discarded bodies into the brush.
Heror rose again and planted his back foot. Only three siephalls remained. Water streaked and dripped from his twin swords as he stepped toward them. The siephalls backed away from his advance, spread out in a half-circle around him. And then, after a short retreat, they all engaged at once.
Sharp tendrils came at Heror from what seemed like all directions, but he blocked each one with ruthless efficiency and precision, rotating his swords in an effortless rhythm. Whines and shrieks of metal echoed in the clearing as thunder rolled above. Heror twisted his swords sideways to block stabs, upright to block slashes – all in rapid succession, resetting his feet. Flow of water. Ferocity of fire.
After a moment of defense, Heror went on the offensive. He parried a low slash from one siephall and swung back around with ruthless quickness, slicing open the soldier’s stomach. Then he whirled around, low in his stance, and blocked a low sideswipe just as it reached for his spine. He reset his feet – now in a swordlock – then slid his swords toward the siephall, until each forte rested against the blade. And then he levied a violent double forte counter, throwing the siephall off-balance. Before the soldier could recover, Heror lunged toward him. With a ripping tear of a swing, this one too he cut down.
Now Heror faced the final two. One siephall clutched a gaping wound on his stomach. As Heror approached, they both jolted back. The wounded siephall dropped his sword and turned to run, staggering as he held his midsection. But as he tried to flee, Heror took a bounding step toward him and sliced down his spine, sending him to the ground.
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The last siephall too dropped his sword, and he diverted back toward the camp. He quickened his pace to a dash, but Heror followed, pulling back his swords. The soldier glanced over his shoulder and stumbled in the mud. He pressed his hand against the ground and kept running, eyes wide with fear as Heror pursued him, cloaked in darkness.
“No… please… please!!” the soldier cried as Heror closed in. “Mercy!!”
The soldier turned and ran again, and this time, he didn’t look back. But before he could get away, Heror inverted his grip on the Sword of Sparhh in his right hand. And then he wound back and threw the Sword forward with ruthless force. As if a spear, the Sword streaked across the clearing and cut through the air, and then it lodged in the fleeing siephall’s back, and he crumbled into the brush.
And then below the wind and the rain and the thunder, there was silence.
Nostrils flaring, Heror made his way to the final soldier, who still stirred weakly on the forest floor – the Sword in his back. Heror approached and stood over him, then knelt down to retrieve the Sword. He was about to wrench the Sword free, when he saw the soldier’s mouth moving, as if he was saying a word. Heror glared, and his nose twitched, and he leaned in close to hear this final insult.
But the soldier did not see Heror. His eyes were not frightful or fierce. They were lost in a dying, ephemeral wonder. And as Heror leaned close to him, to listen… he heard no insults. Only a name. A name he did not know.
“Aemlai…” the soldier whispered. “… Aemlai…”
And then the soldier’s breath slowed and stopped, and his eyes and mouth hung open in an eternal gasp.
Heror stared for a moment. Then the rage and hate left his eyes. And he looked down in horror at what he had done. He looked back, at the bodies. His thoughts flamed, and his eyes began to water, and he began to cough up again. He removed the blood-dipped Sword from the soldier’s back with care – as if doing so would undo the damage – and then he swayed and wobbled as he rose back to his feet.
There was another flash of lightning, as rain fell over the forest. Heror’s head grew heavy. His vision faded in and out. He wandered off, to nowhere.
He lost track of time as he walked. He trudged and stumbled and broke his stride in the mud, dragging his two swords with limp arms, as the flicker of lightning peeked through the leaves above. As he walked, he cried. He reached another small clearing, and through a gap in the canopy, another thunderbolt cast across the night sky.
Heror stumbled again. And again. And again. And soon, he fell to his knees in the steady rain. By now, standing water sloshed around his legs and feet, and he began to weep. He threw Kerit aside and brought the Sword of Sparhh to his neck. For a moment, he tried to will himself to slice across his own throat. He gritted his teeth and let out a strained shout, and then he wrenched the Sword away and let it fall in his lap.
As he sat on his knees, tears mingled with the waters of the rain. Through stinging ducts and matted curls, he saw his reflection inside the winged design of the Sword, flashing in the stormlight. He looked up to the sky with pleading eyes. Another branch of lightning climbed down from the firmament. Thunder and electricity crackled across the skyscape. He breathed in, and then he unleashed.
“Where are you?!” he demanded, his eyes craning up.
The wind blew through the canopy. A blinding bolt ripped the sky in two.
“Where are you?!” he cried again, his lips curling.
Bushes and leaves rustled. Trees swayed. Thunder poured to the ground. He lifted up the Sword.
“Why won’t you speak to me?!!”
There was nothing. Heror loosened his grip and let the Sword fall into the grass and mud. He bowed his head and sobbed.
The night went on. The rains began to lighten. The wind began to slow, and soon, the thunder was little more than an echo to the east.
After some time, Heror heard the rustling of leaves in the near distance behind him. He opened his tired eyes and glanced over his shoulder, and he saw Shaadur galloping his way. The horse called to Heror with an anxious whinny, and Heror rose to his feet. He took a step back and held up his hand as the horse came to him, and as Shaadur nuzzled Heror, Heror shook his head, tears rolling down his cheek.
“No, Shaadur…” he said softly. “… get away from me…”
But the horse pressed, and soon enough, Heror lost the energy to push him away. He embraced the horse and fell to his knees again, and the horse sat down next to him. They sat, until the rain became mist, and the wind became breeze again, and Heror drifted off.
When he came back to consciousness, the night sky was clear, save for shadowy, starlit wisps of cirrus and cumulus. It was the dark of new morning. The wind was a whisper. There were crickets.
As Heror sat up, he peered up at the sky, and his eyes traced the stars. For a moment, he lost himself in the sight. Then his eyes dropped again, and he sat, defeated. His skin tingled, and he could almost feel his muscles drooping and melting away, as if he was sinking into the land to die…
… when a familiar thought came to him.
He reached inside his damp tunic and searched for something. He felt around with his fingers until he found it, tucked in close to his belt. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it into the open. He unrolled and let his eyes fall upon it, in the dim starlight.
It was an intricately-woven cloth, made of designs and weaving patterns from the Kingdom of Pylantheum. Stitched along the edges, blue waves rolled and rolled. On the left side, a jagged cliff lay. On that cliff, a lone wolf stood. Stray fletchings of cloth acted as fur, as the breeze rose and sank. At the center of the cloth, the name ‘Heran’ was stitched. In dark gray thread.
He read the name again, silently to himself.
Heran.
With broken eyes and breath, Heror looked up at the sky again, and he searched for the Peak of the Obelisk – the north star. Once he found it, he slowly rose to his feet, and Shaadur rose with him. He rolled up the kinship cloth and stowed it away, and then he walked back to grab his sword Kerit off the ground.
Once Heror found his sword, he slid it back beneath his belt. He walked back to his horse, and as he did, his eyes went to the Sword of Sparhh, as it lay in the forest soil by his feet – silver blade and obsidian handle catching the light of the constellations above.
He looked at it for a moment. And for a moment, he thought to leave it. But then, against his reluctance, he knelt down and picked it up. He held it in his grip, again trying to feel something. But there was nothing, except the cold tinge of metal.
He sheathed this Sword too, and then he went back to his horse. He stepped up into the stirrup. Then he vaulted onto the saddle and settled. He grabbed the reins, and with a fragile whisper, he guided Shaadur to the right and started off through the quiet forest.
His ears still listened, desperate for an answer.
He rode north.