BALM OF FAITH

The eastern theatre was one of the bloodiest, but even it saw occasional moments of respite. One such battlefield, in which Garder took part, saw brutal fighting daily despite a harsh winter. There was no truce nor treaty, but on the eve of Yule, both chose not to attack; not to send their lancers, nor their cavalry, nor to loose any arrows. Not a word of discussion—both sides took the initiative, patiently waiting to see if their foe would comply. They did. They were not foolish enough to celebrate together, but did so with their allies, on their respective sides of no man’s land. They danced as night turned to day, to Yule proper, drinking ale and draught at sunrise, as was tradition. They knew that back home, their loved ones were doing the same.

The next day, Garder shot flaming arrows and sent heavy cavalry to annihilate them, but that was customary. Their might knew no peer this side of the Pink Sea.

- from “A Thousand Years of War” by Leo Foclóir

ALICE

You pirouetted, the light glancing off your blade, its edge like silver thread. Your feet glided over stone like a water-strider steps across a still lake. Your muscles stretched taut like bowstrings, yet your body moved lithe and supple, your sword weighing nothing at all. I had seen war: how men cleaved others in two with swords and halberds, skewered them with lances and arrows. They would swing and spin wildly as though pulled along by their weapons. They could never wield a blade with grace such as yours.

You looked up and our eyes met. The spell broke and your sword slipped from your grasp, clattering against the floor. “Say something if you’re—”

“You’re very skilled. Where did you learn to move like that?”

You picked up your sword, dusting it off. “I… I didn’t learn from anyone. I watched how the others swung their blades, but I couldn’t move like they did. This blade is too heavy for me to spin it like a berserker.” You sliced the air a few times with it, each stronger than the last. The fifth made you stumble.

“It’s iron. It must be heavy.”

“It is. I learned to lean and step with each slash to balance its weight, so it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Is that why you move like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a dancer.”

You stared. “I’m just following the inertia of the blade. It’s not a dance.”

“It could be one. It’s mesmerising to watch. Could you teach me how?”

“I… I thought you might already know, considering this came from you.”

I laughed and rolled back my sleeves, revealing arms thin to the bone. “Do I look like it? A dagger would suit me better.”

Your face fell, dismayed. Did I say something strange? You held up your sword, took my hand, and wrapped my fingers around the hilt, securing the edge of my palm against the pommel. You kept your hands clasped around mine for a moment before letting go. The weight took me by surprise; I almost let the blade fall, but somehow managed to keep it in the air. It trembled as I struggled to keep it vertical.

“See? You can hold it. Nobody is born with muscle.”

“It’s a lot heavier than it looks,” I grunted through clenched teeth.

“Maybe you should focus on holding it up for now. Swinging might be… dangerous.”

I shook my head and handed it back to you, shaking my hands loose. “This is yours. I don’t want to drop it and chip its edge. Take good care of it—I trust you to take good care of me.”

“I can teach you! It’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll build the muscle you need quickly—”

“It’s fine.” I’ve lived longer than any human deserves to. I haven’t felt the urge to fight death in a while. “Let me watch you. I won’t distract you—do your thing.”

You reluctantly stepped a safe distance back from me and resumed your training.

*

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The winter gale howled through the cavern as I chopped carrots with a knife, sliding them into a steaming bowl of stew. I knew you hated them, but I was cooking tonight, so I had final say over what went into dinner.

My hand paused mid-slice as I listened to the wind. There was something else—muffled, straining to be heard, but what? I could not tell. I walked over to your room—your cave—where you sat greasing your blade with a dirty rag. “Did you call out to me?” I asked.

“Huh? No. I’ve been here the whole time.”

My ears twitched—the noise grew louder, though still at the edge of my hearing. I rushed back into the living room where the stew boiled unattended. “Oracle.”

He orbited my head and stopped in front of me. “Shall I scan the area?”

“Yes, quickly.”

Oracle’s sigil blinked rapidly. A low hum shook the floor as Mobius calibrated its sonar. “The ground clutter from the trees is difficult to penetrate, but I see heat signatures moving towards the cave.”

“What are they? Animals?”

“I can’t tell. They’re moving in a pack, however.”

Bears? Do those hunt in packs? “How close are they?”

“They’re very close.”

“Tell Evie to stay hidden. Keep her safe at all costs.” I stood and tightened my robes before walking towards the cave entrance. The heavy, unrelenting snow smothered my cloak in white. My eyes struggled to cut through the trees, searching for signs of life, but it was near impossible—the sun had almost set, the horizon a red gash across a pale sky. A small orange glow sprung in the dark. Fire? Another appeared next to it, followed by another, like stars coming to life, until they formed a massive array of lights. These are not bears. I never taught them to light fire.

Then, from the trees, a mob emerged, some armed in chainmail and swords, some holding sticks and axes and lit torches. They continued to stream out of the woods—a dozen, two dozen, a hundred. I stood there in a daze, counting, until one of them finally marched up to me, his nose an inch from mine. He was a guard, or a soldier, perhaps—maybe a knight—I could not tell the difference. His plate was dull, scarred by battle, the chaps and vambraces beneath woven from thick, fraying leather, studded with metal. His steel boots did not slow him one bit, even in the snow. Above it all he wore a thick cloak dyed in vermillion, a once proud shade worn down by time, a full helm covering his head. A hilt wrapped in tape towered from his back; he was armed.

“You. Are you her? The Child of God?” He turned before I could answer, beckoning to a woman dressed not for combat, but for warmth, her thick, white cloak hiding her from the neck down. Her golden hair flowed over her shoulders, icing over. Her amber eyes saw far and deep. She stepped forward, reaching out with gloved fingers before recoiling. She looked deep into my eyes, down, up, examining me like a specimen. “It’s her,” she said. “No doubt about it.”

She looks kind. What is she doing here, with these brutes? My mind moved slow like ice.

The man nodded and reached for his sword, unsheathing it over his head in a practised arc. It was iron, like yours, but did not shine in the light. It was bigger, chipped, scarred by battle, rusty with dried blood—but most of all, it was black, like the pitch dark of space. His feet took stance, one behind the other, the snow trenching between his boots to reveal the dirt beneath. He does not move like you do. What a cruel stance. He lowered his sword to waist level, pointing it straight towards me, gripping it with both hands. He moves apart from his weapon, holding it, but not wielding it like you do, as though it were part of your arm. I looked into his eyes, and saw only duty. There was no joy nor love for his blade. He holds it like a tool. Did I ever teach them to move like this? No, they learned this on their own. He has his own way, adapted to his own strengths, just as you have yours. His is no less beautiful. He loves his sword not for what it is, but for whom he wields it for. Pride spread in me, warm like honey.

He drew back his blade, breathed in, and stepped forward, driving its worn tip into my abdomen. It ripped through my guts and severed my spine before tearing through my back, skewering me. I looked down and saw blood gush from the wound, a pulsing red font, staining his sword and pooling in the snow below where it hissed and dried. I touched the blade—it was slippery and stained my hands in bright red. I smelled copper and rust in the air, mixed with the frost of winter.

Then, the pain set in. Every burst artery, every torn organ, muscle and nerve, every crushed bone—all screamed and burned in agony. The fire spread into my lungs, choking me. It hurts. My grip on the blade weakened suddenly and my hands fell to my sides. The blade sapped strength from my legs, and suddenly my weight shifted, my legs no longer there to bear me, gravity dragging me lower—but the blade did not move. It remained horizontal. It was child’s play for him, being strong as he was, to keep it still.

I screamed. My insides split like wet tissue. My sternum ground against its edge, each grain of rust raking against raw bone. Stop. Stop! My knees crumpled, but still I was forced to remain upright, anchored on his blade. Run! Run, and do not look back! Take Mobius and flee!

I had never once felt the mortal fear of death. Still, I was no fool—I knew how animals would rip and tear their prey, mauling them to death. Even immortals like me were no exception, made of flesh and bone like the rest. I had never once expected to be mauled by a human, however. I brought them here. I seeded this planet with life. Which mother fears her child? Those thoughts quickly made way for pain, searing and white-hot, as he slowly twisted the blade. I howled and sobbed and choked on blood and bile. Kill me. Please!

“Stop,” the woman said. “That should be proof enough, no? She is mortal like us all—a charlatan, nothing more. I will not have her die so easily.” The soldier nodded and held up my shoulder with one hand, keeping me still as he pulled out his sword. The pain doubled and I screamed some more, my throat bloody and hoarse. Finally, his sword came loose, and I collapsed onto the snow. Even that brief respite was short-lived—he picked me up, cradling me in his arms, turned, and started walking back into the woods. Each step was agony. All I wanted was to lie still in the cold and go to sleep.

“Flush the cave,” the woman said from behind me. “Leave nothing behind—burn it all. We cannot take any risks.” Do not chase—I beg you. Run.