Chapter 59

Can a broken sword still be useful?

Gazef ran his hand over the corpse's shoulder blade. The bite marks had gone deep, and part of the body now found itself without a significant portion of flesh and bone.

"Name?" He asked the chief assistant. A young man with a face that had seen too few springs for his liking.

"Captain, you don't need to..."

"I asked for the name, boy." Voice firm, but gentle. He didn't want to give the impression that it was a rebuke.

"Gaman, my lord."

"I am not your lord." Gazef covered the deceased with a cloth so that those lifeless closed eyes could not judge him. Not too much. "Did he have a family?"

"A peasant who enlisted out of pure patriotism. There are many like him among the deceased. Men who had lost everything and had nothing left but to enlist."

'A fool, then. No more than a child, and a fool.' What use was there in them? Of those, they had plenty by now. A repulse of disgust kneaded his throat. Gazef had to restrain himself from shouting at an unknown enemy, an unfathomable doom. "How many others are there like him?"

The assistant raised his head from the report he was filling out. Before he spoke, it took him a few seconds to be able to find the right words. "Too many, captain." The result was not the best, but with the time allowed asking for more would have been tyrannical.

"I understand."

Never once had the answer been the opposite. Vain hope. One alone was already too many for Gazef.

"I want all their names. History, family, reasons why they were fighting. Prepare worthy eulogies and send them to the capital. Establish a fee as compensation for the surviving loved ones. It doesn't matter if it's too high."

More than a few pennies they would not have collected anyway. Rations were already scarce for those fighting, let alone squander wealth for those in safety.

Safe. It sounded like a bad joke just thinking about that word.

"Captain, you're not going to read them all?"

"What do you think I have to do?" Gazef turned away, without waiting for an answer. In fact, there were far too many things to do. But he owed those boys the respect they were due. The memory accorded to their sacrifice was already too little in the way of compensation. To give less? What madness.

Preserving sanity required mourning.

In the camp, the air was gloomy. How many had been lost since the beginning of all this? To know would only have been more painful. He had lost count after a short while, and he did not intend to start again.

Gazef walked past the swollen body of a demi-human. The skin had been skinned in order to make clothing to cover the people with, and the fangs and claws extracted to be sent as materials to blacksmiths. Survival also meant using what the enemy offered you, no matter how gruesome the end result.

Something began to throb in his side. In the pocket, the magic orb was effortless in sucking in that malignancy. But if there was one thing magic could not do, it was to wash away one's sins. Those stayed stuck, determined to remain with you forever. 'And you, did you have a name?' What was now a shapeless mass did not answer him. How could it?

Gazef's curiosity was just a quirk. A name. A name was important, wasn't it? Remembering the name of friends, those with whom you had fought side by side, was simple. It was respect. It was honor and duty. And, in part, it was done with the faint hope that someone would someday return the favor.

But an enemy? One could be reminded of the valiant general who had shed blood. Of the champion who had mowed down armies. But of the ordinary soldier? Of the one who had seen his head severed with a single sword stroke? Of the archer skewered before he could string his bow? Of the sorcerer who had seen his throat ripped open before he could finish reciting the formula?

His sword had been indifferent to all those stories. In the last few days, the fighting was getting harder and harder, and fatigue hammered him like a thorn in the side. Just staying awake was a nightmare, the cries on the battlefields an ominous lullaby that resonated with the sweetness of the melody of an old carillon.

The blood... The blood he had seen was not only of fighters, but also of civilians. He was sure of it...

Posture, resolution, skill. Mixed in with refined formations were more and more weak links, more and more opportunities to exploit. For someone like him, at least. Or Cerabrate, or Iovino. The heroes…

'For Gaman? What elsewhere might be a mere peasant , before him turned out to be a ferocious monster.'

And that monster had taken away a valiant young man. While an old carcass like Gazef was still there. And the worst thing? He alone, there in the midst, would have gladly traded his life for Gaman's.

Because the correct choice was not always also the right one.

"Nice sword."

He had not noticed that someone had approached him. Iovino was on reconnaissance, and the Crystal Tear on a punitive expedition to a nearby enemy camp with a handful of adventurers. Of all those present, only the aides-de-camp and longshoremen disturbed him in those few remaining moments of meditation. And only on matters of the utmost urgency.

"Thank you. It was a gift from the queen herself."

The newcomer had a sharp look, and small, inquiring eyes. Blue hair, from which roots of an even darker color could be discerned. Light clothes, more like a bandit than a soldier. Yet high-value magical objects spread out the whole body. An image carved in contradiction.

"I doubt it. Excellent trimming, handle enchanted with high magic. Even the energy it emits is not natural. It is more like those for the upper ranks of the Theocracy."

It was not only the fact that the stranger was able to reveal the lie, but also the naturalness with which it had been disclosed that made him uncomfortable.

"I don't think we know each other..."

Standing at attention, Gazef Stronoff wondered if that was an enemy to watch out for or a new comrade to trust.

"I was told to look for the captain of this unit. We have mutual friends..." Every word was sharp, despite the atmosphere of placid tranquility that enveloped them. "Are you Stronoff? Gazef Stronoff?"

The captain still had the blade in his grip. Normally, he would have put it down to offer his hand to that newcomer, but there was something that made him desist. As he approached, Gazef noticed that his interlocutor was also armed. A long, sharp blade, at the same time as thin as fine silk. A delight of pure and fine metal.

"How do you know?"

Not a gust of wind passed by, yet the air was chill. The sun was high in the sky, but its rays did not infuse warmth. In the exchange of glances that followed, there was like a sigh of the world, a pause from every moment, from every action.

"I made a guess," the stranger replied. His mocking smile was one of radiant melancholy. Unperturbed by what might have made it vanish, curious as to what might make it flourish.

"Your name?"

There was a slight hesitation, almost as if that question was unimportant.

"...Brain."

Gazef recognized that name. "Brain Unglaus! The old captain of the Royal Guard of Re-Estize." A champion, whose skills had been extolled in every corner of that part of the world.

A sense of excitement bloomed, in wondering what a renowned personality like that was doing in that forgotten place they were now in.

"You're wrong," for the first time, the man called Brain looked away. Even without prior knowledge about him, it was not difficult to determine how unusual that gesture was. "I'm just a wanderer. A sword at the service of the highest bidder, trying to give meaning to his craft."

'A romantic,' Gazef thought. 'Or an idiot.' He did not question why Brain had the need to lie on that very point. Perhaps it was not a lie in the first place? "In any case, nice to meet you."

Gazef held out his hand, not expecting to be reciprocated. The error in judgment caught him by surprise. Brain's strong grip sent a chill through his bones, a shiver of perturbation ran on his back.

"The pleasure is all mine. I've heard a lot about you, Stronoff."

"I only hope for good things."

A gleam of curiosity sprang from his brown eyes. "Countless. The unwavering guard that holds a kingdom poised on the edge of the precipice. The demihumans' scourge. The unbreakable wall."

Too far generous appellations, in the opinion of the captain of the Theocracy. "I am not alone. My comrades and the many adventurers who have waived appropriate compensation have also been very helpful."

"I don't doubt it," Brain began to move closer, so close that he could whisper straight into Gazef's ear. "I did not come alone. Our mutual friends sent someone else. Don't ask me more, because that's all I know. They did warn me about one thing, though."

"What?"

"There won't be much left for us to enjoy if we don't hurry..."

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A repulsive feeling. The pungent odor of vomit mingled with the quartered bowels. The sinking into the flesh required stepping deeper and deeper. The crumbling breath, the dilating pupils, the puff of one last glowing expletive. Then came the realization. What had been accomplished? What would be the next move? The legs were ready to jerk, the arms to move and the eyes to scan.

There were four-five enemies approaching. The sky above was calm, and the sunset was looming.

The strident scream of grief from a nearby comrade had to be ignored. The tip of the weapon was still wedged between bone and muscle. A heart that had stopped beating. A gaze that had frozen toward an imprecise horizon. Then came the doubts. 'Am I doing the right thing? For what reason am I fighting? If I do not survive, who will take my place? Who will lead my men?' They would be driven away as easily as they came, blown away by the ominous breeze of the afternoon. 'Of course I am doing the right thing. I am fighting for others, for their salvation. If I do not survive, there will be those who can take my place.' Cheap answers for cheap questions, fitting for a cheap man.

Gazef was not irreplaceable after all.

He was not a philosopher, or a strategist. He was a soldier. Just as the monster now lying defeated was. The imposing physique now fallen on the ground had lost its fierce frightfulness, the jaw twisted into a sneer suited a jester, not a warrior. The abandoned ax would find no new master. Children, if there were any, would cry out for vengeance. Friends, if there were any, would seek to right that wrong. Enemies, if there were any, would have toasted that end. Then came the silence. That was precious. A second that could last a century, and for that it had to be treasured. What happened in that second? What would occur next? The unknown was a given, but the hope of a new experience knew how to make itself desired.

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Some men called it the whore's kiss. You knew when it would come, you knew what its price was, and most of all you knew you would want a second one after the first, before you would ask yourself 'can I afford it?'

The answer, usually, was a dry no.

Finally, there was the smell.

Smell of shit.

That was not a euphemism. The intestines turned in on themselves after death, and what came out...was not pleasant. In fact, more than shit it was something even worse.

Gazef, however, was not an expert in coming up with neologisms or catch phrases. Why strive for something that was not within his competence? So he just called it that, as they all did. The smell that impregnated you like a jealous lover never to leave you again. The smell that only needed to be sniffed once to become unforgettable. The smell that you would have loved to forget, and that would accompany you to the grave.

The smell of shit.

'Three to the right. Two to the left.'

This time, the raid had gone into territories close to the most populated cities. At that pace, they would have to fall back to Biblo's fortress once again.

Gazef looked to his right. Cerebrate and Crystal Tear were holding off a pair of extremely leathery bouffalors. The holy lord's brittled sword darted like a thunderbolt between the enemy defenses, but failed to establish itself as dominant in the confrontation.

Another soldier fell to the ground. The stench of shit was unbearable. The Theocracy captain's rush found no rest in taking down two enemies for every one of his who left that world. The shrieks of pain penetrated the eardrums, leaving behind only a nausea that echoed with disgusting stubbornness. Saliva created lakes of moisture in his throat, and sweat stopped on his eyes, wetting his pupils and digging furrows in his skin.

It was hot.

Too hot to be endured in that filth. The armor was a glowing piece of metal, sticking to every extremity, every crevice of the body. The infamous desire to shake it off, to abandon every bit of protection to remain naked in a primal state of arousal caressed the mind. The madness of that chaotic tussle grew with each moment lost in contemplating how much precious was forsaken in those few instances.

As the wounds piled up, the sword swirled. The song of a siren was less deadly, the dance of an accomplished prima ballerina less enchanting. The drops accumulated, until they became rivers, and the icy, merciless fresco of the massacre was painted in a single, deadly color: crimson.

'Ah, but that's not all.' Was the landscape red? Was the sunset red, the starless sky? Was that color the primordial sap of life, or just the last remnants of it, now painting its face? Gazef felt a pain in his side, yet he did not flinch. It was a natural reaction now to ignore it. To ignore the pain, as one ignored the voice whispering to stop, to lay down one's arms, to seek peace.

The generous warrior hailed by the songs was not there, perhaps had never been there. There was only one man who wanted to protect something, who wanted to do only one thing: kill. And kill he would do. That they had given him victims to sacrifice, young men to avenge, and wrath to impose. That they had found other altars on which to sacrifice young heroes, models to inspire to sacrifice. He was none of these things.

And then he saw it.

Brain Unglaus, surrounded. Since their brief acquaintance, they had not exchanged more than a few words. Who was he? Only a wanderer, as he proclaimed? The genius swordsman that Gazef believed? At that moment, he was alone. Those who should have fought by his side had withdrawn.

Gazef made an approach in his direction, but a horde of horuners blocked him, their bellowings splitting the eardrums. They were so close he could smell their dung breath. The spears that tried to halt the passage broke against his fury, but for each one he knocked down another came to replace it. It was equal to trying to drain a river by drinking a single drop, one at a time.

"Unglaus, try to resist!" He was not sure if he had been heard. The stance the lone swordsman had taken was unusual, but it did not take a genius to see how much dedication had been refined by it.

A lump in his throat. Fear?

"『Field]』!"

Gazef managed to hear what was being said, although the distance should have made it impossible. The demi-humans hurled themselves at Brain, but found only one thing waiting for them...

The technique was so extraordinary to leave breathless. Brain was not moving. Or, at least, he gave that impression. All he needed was one lightning-fast attack to bring down anyone foolish enough to come within range of his blade. A precision so methodical that it would have been appropriate not to call it sword technique, but something even more extraordinary. It was not simple butchery, or devastating power. In a way, it was more like being brushed by a light, soft feather dragged by the morning wind. A caress, similar to what a parent might lovingly give to their offspring.

A caress, which was enough to bring death, to repel arrows, to deflect spells. When Gazef was able to reach it, the demi-humans found themselves trapped in a vise. On the one hand, merely advancing led to a quick and painless fall. On the other, they faced the last precious seconds with the knowledge that they would not be painless.

In the end, was there a difference?

"An excellent martial art!" When they were finished, Gazef congratulated Brain. The enemies were en route, and Cerebrate had led the adventurers to drive them as far back as possible. In the next day, more would arrive, but for today they could rest.

"I've never seen anything like this before."

"Thank you," Brain slid the sword back into its scabbard, though not before inspecting every inch of it. He was satisfied only when he could ascertain that not even the smallest stain had marred its luster. "My own creation."

Personalities capable of creating a martial art out of nothing were cloaked in a legendary aura, usually as elusive and incomprehensible just like the one who now stood before him.

"Admirable. Not everyone is able to reach your level... I was also working on creating my own art, but I have not yet been able to perfect it."

Curiosity flashed in Brain's gaze before disappearing just as quickly. "It's nothing special. Believe me, it's nothing to be proud of," a pause, to wipe his doughy lips. "But I would be curious to see what you are capable of making, Stronoff. I will wait with anticipation."

Although there was nothing to say to each other, Gazef felt that they could stay talking for days on end.

"I have all the more reason to give it my best shot now." They shared a laugh, and that little was enough for Gazef to be able to start considering him a friend.

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The taste of beer ran down his palate. Bitter. There was, however, pleasantness in tasting it. Gazef allowed himself a second mug, while Cerabrate was already on his third.

"Tough day, I wouldn't like to repeat it." The leader of the Crystal Tear had an unkempt beard, a rarity. His hair had now grown uncombed on the head, and some of the perfection that had previously distinguished him was lost. The armor, of which he had not yet stripped, shone with a golden sheen, the only mark of perfection in his current figure.

"Very..." The fire they had lit barely warmed. The evening was not cold, in truth. Gazef, however, felt the need to experience the heat on his body. "Is there any news from general Aderbaal?"

"Not a single one..." Cerabrate spat on the ground, some lumps of roasted meat ended up on the ground with the spittle. "He remains encamped in the fortresses, while we are here to die for him. One shove after another, while he remains locked in the dungeons with those necromancers..." That last sentence was uttered with particular rancor. Obviously, a paladin could have no respect for those who toyed with the undead. At least, we have company. Today there were a couple more, mixed in with the beasts."

"Undead?" Gazef asked.

"What else? Our enemy adapts. A few years ago there were only a few of them versed in magic, and now every one of their above average teams has capable spellcasters. If they were to develop their necromantic skills even more ... I don't even want to think about it."

Gazef was of the same mind. Still, it was hard to believe that the demi-humans had broken the taboo of necromancy so easily, achieving results in such a narrow time frame. Even the Theocracy had taken decades, as far as he knew, only to get just a handful of experts with not so high regard.

"We must put an end to this right away so that they can no longer take us by surprise."

"The scouts and messengers are constantly moving, yet we have no idea where the enemy is."

After the pitched battle a few months earlier there had been many skirmishes, but nothing comparable to an actual war. Not all the news was bad, though...

"The quality of enemy soldiers is decreasing. Do you think they are finally beginning to cash in on our offensive?"

The holy lord let out a fat chuckle, filled with loathing. "I have been fighting the beasts for years... Let me tell you something, Stronoff. They never end. Humans are said to breed like ticks, but there must be a reason they are also said to mate like animals, right?" He no longer looked so much like the glittering warrior Gazef had known a few years earlier. Just a tired man, consumed by a conflict that had no end in sight. Judging him for that would have been unfair.

"It may be as you say ... but lately the offensives have grown sluggish. We are not fighting disciplined warriors, but poor desperate people."

"I wouldn't get too relaxed about that. In fact, maybe it would be better to start worrying. That they are simply trying to wear us down before the actual assault? Ah, maybe we can put an end to this whole thing once and for all."

Gazef looked at the crackling fire, wondering if his comrade was right. "Do you ever wonder what you would do next? If the war with the demi-humans were to end, I mean."

Cerabrate looked at him confused, taken aback by something so seemingly trivial. He smoothed his chin, biting voraciously at a second slice of meat. After a few minutes, a banal answer followed. "I don't know. An adventurer like me doesn't have many options. Stick with the trade, or retire as a personal guard for some rich lord. Some, the luckiest, or the dumbest depending on your view, go on to train the new generation. I would love to be surrounded by a bunch of brats. Make all their talents blossom, you know what I mean?"

"In part," Gazef had coached more than one promising youngster, and he understood what it meant to take pride in seeing those to whom he had imparted lessons replicate and expand them. That pride was little, in any case, compared to the heartbreak of seeing someone he had taken to heart lie with his eyes open, looking for help that could not be granted when it mattered the most. "I admit I don't see you like that, as a teacher I mean. Maybe I'm wrong..." An unpleasant instinct warned him that this would not be the best of ideas. "What about the rest of your team? Have you ever talked to them about it?"

The Crystal Tear leader cast a furtive glance at the horizon, where the other groups were enjoying a well-earned rest. "No, never. Lilianne and Imilcone have many different opinions from mine... Don't get me wrong, I would put my life in their hands without hesitation. However, that does not make us friends who share plans and aspirations."

There was something wrong with this, but Gazef preferred not to go any further. "Have you managed to find a fourth member for the group?"

"Not yet. Ideally, we would need a cleric, or a priest. Even someone who can fight on the front lines wouldn't be bad, but quality has been in short supply lately. If only Optics and his people were more reasonable. We could make a great team."

Optics. The best worker in the Draconic Kingdom, and also a top-notch money lover, Gazef had heard. Cerabrate, despite his shortcomings, had given up any chance to enrich himself to defend his nation. Not all talented people, unfortunately, shared that mentality.

"Do you think we need more money?" Even without doing the math, the financial situation of the Draconic Kingdom was known to everyone.

"For sure, but it's also a matter of risk. Optics believes that the fight against demi-humans is doomed to failure no matter what... He wants to enjoy life as much as possible before they knock on his house, believing he would be able to just get somewhere else when things will really go astray... Fucking idiot."

It was fortunate that not everyone thought like him. "Do you think it's hopeless, too?"

Cerabrate looked at him mockingly. "What's the matter, Stronoff? Are you afraid? Don't worry, I will fight to the end. You won't see me turn my back on the country I love. To the queen I have decided to serve. If the adventurers were only interested in money there would be no difference with the workers. We also act for something else... Something bigger than ourselves. Dreams, aspirations, future. We want to give all this to those we have decided to protect. To those who have decided to call us heroes." It was a patriotic and inspiring speech on the surface, but also not entirely sincere. There was something that was not to be shared, and Gazef could not help but wonder what.

In any case, he would not spoil the atmosphere with unnecessary pondering. As he looked around, the Theocracy captain could not help but focus his attention on someone who was dining alone.

"What do you think of him? As a future member of the Crystal Tear..."

Cerabrate cast his gaze toward the man Gazef was pointing out.

"The mysterious swordsman?"

"Yes. I believe his name is Unglaus, like the previous captain of the Royal Guard of Re-Estize."

The holy lord whistled in astonishment.

"I had heard that he had betrayed his own nation and died in some hole. Evidently, only part of it was true," getting up, the darkness of the night covered his woeful face. "In any case, I need someone I can trust to have my back. It's not enough to be skilled to be good companions. Now, if you don't mind, I have a meeting with my team members."

Cerabrate walked away, leaving him alone. Gazef stood and watched the fire starting to die in front of him before moving away.

"May I?"

Brain did not speak in return, but with a wave of his hand gestured for him to take a seat.

Silence was as easy to establish as it was difficult to budge.

"Why are you alone? Haven't you made friends with anyone?"

"No."

Nothing more was added. Gazef wondered if it might not be better to get up and leave. He would have done so if Brain had not resumed the conversation.

"What are you fighting for, Stronoff?"

"Me?" It was a fairly routine question, especially for those like them who had entered that profession. "I have thought about it many times, and I like to think I do it to be an inspiration to those who have nothing. By being here, I can show that you don't have to have illustrious beginnings to be able to make a difference. Some people have called me a hero, and it took me a long time to accept that I was one. Now, I think it is my duty to give credit to their acclaim."

"I see."

"How about you?"

Brain threw a piece of wood into the fire, to feed the flame. The end result made very little difference, to be honest.

"To become the best part of me."

"You want to become stronger?" To reach the summit, to observe the world through the eyes of those who had touched its pinnacle. A common aspiration among warriors. An aspiration that Gazef partly shared.

"Yes, but not only that," Brain ran a hand over his face, to rub his eyes. He did not look sleepy, yet there was a certain weariness about him. "I saw the peak, and I realized how small my horizon was. It's not so much reaching it, what I want to do. The important thing, at least for now, is to keep walking. Never stop, and keep going."

"Is that why you are here?" The Theocracy had sent Brain, probably to provide support after withdrawing the scriptures. But what remained to be deciphered was why he had accepted. "Do you think fighting on this front will give you a chance to keep going?"

The fire crackling in front of them did not compare to the fire now blazing in his eyes. "I don't know. Probably, it won't... Not as I wish, at least."

"Then why come here?"

"Because I have nothing else. Do you have anything, Stronoff?"

A kingdom to defend. Friends to count on. People to protect. It was a treasure, Gazef was certain. But placed before that question, his certainties wilted.

"Yes... I have much to be thankful for."