The last rays of light streaking into the valley casting the world in twilight, the biting chill in the early autumn air, breathing in deep heaving gasps, the ring of steel on steel, the ferrous odor of blood, the last of the magic within her dwindling, straining against her dented armor, crouching slightly Kirru struck. A rising blow, her foe moving far too slowly, the blade biting into it’s hulking arm, she sent the limb flying across the battlefield with the force of her blow. With the enemy maimed, she slipped past as he collapsed into a heap. Despite the din, her mind was quiet, her body moving with practiced ease, a smile on her lips. Plunging further into the fray, a whirling strike, she cut down three smaller foes in a blur of metal and fury, her blade cutting flesh as easily as air. Her count at seven so far, She paused, glancing at what remained of the battle. Nearly half of the enemy remained, a small raiding band as the report had claimed, but the same could be said of her support forces, two score of her own men lay slain. While she had taken stock, a few of the remaining demons had taken the opportunity to surround her, their bloodied claws twitched in anticipation. Not to be bested so easily, she raised her blade in defiance, reaching within her soul, where the power of her peoples prayers lingered, she gathered all that remained, forging it into one final spell, uttering the ancient incantation in a world of quiet. They pounced, and were immediately rebuffed, a cacophonous crash of thunder, the scorching heat of lightning turning flesh to ash. Calling down heavenly wrath, her foes smote and in ruin, the last few demons, less than a dozen, were scattered, and they retreated back to the shadowed lands of Dol Aram. She collapsed, falling to one knee, the battle finished, her support troops collected her, and she was carried back to camp. The rest of the night passed in a haze her. She slept, a dreamless sleep, until long after dawn.
The young woman awoke alone, her tent bright, garish beams of day slipped in through the front fold of her tent, swayed by a gentle breeze, and seeped through the translucent canvas from above. Propping herself up on sore limbs, still dressed in a dirty gambeson, she looked around for her armor. Carefully arranged on clean canvas, ceremonial oils and enchanted hammer in place already, She rose from her bedding and moved to take a kneeling position before her equipment. She began with a prayer, ‘Blessed Bargoria’ taking the breastplate in hand, dipping a cloth in the sacred oils, ‘Defending together’ polishing a large dent, ‘Your strength mine’ tapping it with the hammer, magic doing its work ‘My blade yours’ with a satisfying chime the damage undid itself, the oil burning off like steam. Quietly, precisely, she continued to repair her gear. It was short work, for her it was a special pleasure, the act of setting something wrong to right. Having finished, her mind absent, fingers tracing grooves of rune-work, her thoughts drifted to the coming season. She and her mentor were to be replaced on the front. She’d hoped all the members of her circle had made it through. Taxing though the magic was, seeing the front, witnessing demons first hand, the summer had cemented the importance of her duty as a Valor. She lamented that she could not yet do more. Her feelings were a jumbled mess, desire to stay and fight, fear of the demons, worry for her circle, sadness over the lost lives of her soldiers, dread of the intrigues of court.
Rising slowly, her feet finding their own way, she came out of her tent, wandering idly looking for her mentor. As expected, after these events, she found her. Sitting nestled against a tree, whistling a melancholy tune, Mauvawen Tafnen sat nestled between root and trunk, her own gambeson still splattered with blood, the stink of battle pervading her space. ‘Eighth Sword. Noon yet?’ came her mentors soft tones, despite her use of formal titles.
‘Third Axe’ Kirru spoke with a teasingly over respectful. ‘Report! Negative! Lunch incomplete.’
‘Never will.’ came the retort, a cocked eyebrow took Kirru’s measure. ‘Soon’ Kirru saw her mentors eyes gaze fell to the camps wagons, which were hastily being packed. Mauvawen noted her junior’s eyes flash wide, the nature of her disappointment obvious, before the sound of a growling stomach disturbed the lingering silence. Kirru dramatically sobbed, earning a roll of the eyes from her mentor, earning the juniors pouting glare, then silence fell over the pair. After having spent so long together, it seemed to Kirru like Mauvawen could almost read her thoughts. ‘Hesitation?’ came her mentors inquiry, the care audible, the between them closed by Mauvawen rising to her feet. This was just another such time. She probably even knew the question already.
‘Stay? came her whisper, being taken into an embrace, burying her head into Mauvawen’s chest.
‘Gods sleep.’ came a firm but gentle reply. ‘Tired fighters die.’ she finished. Stroking her hair, the senior valor offered what comfort she could, and it was not a long wait for her charge to grunt with understanding.
‘Wondering. Husband.’ Kirru rebounded with a change of the conversations thread. Her aging mentor had been dreading a return to their home city. A veteran, and as the seasons crept by forces conspired to force her hand, a point that the younger Valor found to be an endless mine of drama.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
‘Cursed’ spat her mentor, her tone harsh, a smile creeping on her face, well worn wrinkles coming into view, as though to spite their bearer. ‘Demons take me’ a shake of the elder’s head, head jutting forward, finding a resting place on the juniors own head.
‘Chose…’ the junior dragging the word out for as long as she dared ‘have chosen.’ she intoned, with comical seriousness.
‘Redundant.’ was fired back. ‘Know. Begrudge’ each word dropped like a weight, with increasing venom, the elder’s feelings retread as before. ‘She avoids’ an accusation caused Kirru to mentally screech to a halt.
The two stood, asilence between them, as Kirru processed. Words were difficult, her mind still numb, only able to make the usual jokes, to have the same conversations, her mentor’s eyes bored into her soul, and finally all she uttered ‘Too many.’
‘Too many.’ was echoed. ‘twelve and eight, them? Yours?’
‘four tens and five’ tears beginning to form on her yes. She could not bring herself to meet her mentors gaze, she could feel her knees shake, unable to bear the weight of it.
‘Too many.’ A kiss on the forehead jarred her from her reverie, they had all been so kind, yet she found their names missing as if being able to name them made it more real. ‘Other walks, attempted.’ was the continuation. ‘Scatter, villages burned.’
‘Less next time.’ a sobbed but determination rang clear in spite of it.
‘Less next time.’ came the echo. ‘None.’ She met her mentor’s visage, her brow was furrowed, with an edge, a fire burning some where behind them, the heat of it radiated though her mind.
‘None.’ Kirru choked down a sob. ‘None’ she intoned again more firmly.
‘Gods must rest.’ came the refrain. ‘Recruits train.’ Mauvawen jabbed a finger into Kirru’s chest and finally, as if to lighten the mood. ‘Husbands found.’
The two continued to talk for a while, and the comments on footwork, questions of conserving movement, husbands, children, mothers, and priests all were run into the ground, per their usual. There was a tint to it, a backdrop of sadness ever present, but ignored as best they could. A call rang out, some time later, leading the two to make their way back to camp. Everything had been set up, her tent, was disassembled but her armor, was left alone, with a few of the support troops standing around, keenly noticing not to notice. Kirru felt her face burn with the heat of embarrassment, and she hastened to pack it with the proper care but an obvious rush were anyone to be paying her any mind. Darting to the anointed wagon, she placed her gear, gingerly next to a much more tightly bound, and more elegantly prepared bundle with an axe, almost impossibly big next to it. With the task done, she made her way to her place in the band, and the wagons began to roll.
Mavuwen, having already arrived, could be seen holding a small basket, covered with a light, white cloth. ‘A minor miracle.’ handing the basket to the young valor. Glancing around as if taking possession of some contraband could smell the contents before even pulling back the cloth, was straining to retain her glee. A treat she had not had since the start of the campaign, a treat of fried dough, the dough usually filled with spices, covered in a glaze of melted sugar, sometimes the glaze was further modified with various fruit flavors, a favorite of hers since she was a child. They were best fresh, though at this particular moment she was glad to have them besides. Peeling back the cloth, allowing the smell to slowly drift off them, she was met with a bounty of the treats. Quickly, almost cautiously, holding a taste of her childhood which after this summer felt so long ago, almost like a different world, popping it into her mouth she was met with a shocking surprise.
The pastry practically melted in her mouth, the kiss of an ovens heat filled her mouth, the sugar flowed almost like a syrup, and she could practically smell a bakery. Surely this was the work of magic. The awe must have been written on her face. A knowing chuckle slipped past Mauvawen’s lips. ‘Fresh?’
‘Yes. God’s touch?’
‘Aye.’ This came from one of the men, who flanked the two Valors in their traveling formation. Many of the men, especially the more seasoned veterans, their faces wore a kind of a satisfied joy. Kirru offered one of the treats to one of the men, a front-line veteran who was practically her shadow on the battlefield, a grizzled, bearded, wall of muscle and scars, a man named Branndel rebuffed her offer. As did anyone else who was within arms length.
‘Look.’ Mauvawen directed her attention to the sight of the soldiers around her. Many quickly adopted a more stern expression but many more could not hide the hints of smiles.
‘Daughters.’ she whispered. ‘Take your joy.’ An invocation that she took too with gusto. The baked goods were gone too soon, the world they had built collapsed into the stomping of feet, the chill of the wind, and the dim light of a day grown cloudy. It was many hours before they finally came to see sight of the walls of the garrison.
They entered, to no grandeur, no fanfare, but with the satisfied grunts of many men, who could at last take rest. Villagers who tended the garrison set to the work of unloading wagons, helping the warriors doff their armor, storing armaments, and seeing so that the warriors found warm beds and full bellies. The small fort was spartan. There was a small retinue of guardsmen bearing banners of some noble from the capital. Kirru did not have long to wonder the ides of that omen before she and Mauvawen were set upon.
A well dressed man approached them, the symbols of a bureaucrat plain to see on his chest, and in his hands, his tawny blonde hair was untouched by the road. Kirru wondered as to why in a place such as this he would spare time for a bath, but surmised Valors could be powerful allies at court, or so she had been instructed and warned to avoid those too eager to curry favor.
‘The Third Axe, Eighth Sword.’ his tone warm, and his bow deep, his smile practiced. ‘Good Tidings, new assignment.’ and he produced from a jacket pocket a sealed letter, and handed it to Mauvawen. Kirru was less than pleased when her mentors expression soured.