VI:
Contempt of Fear
Moonwind danced between step and step, humming a song beneath her breath. She wore a black, embroidered veil that covered her face, and a light dress that went down to her ankles. She waltzed from beside him, enjoying every second of it.
Step by step, across the streets, she led him deeper into this fortress city. Step by step, she led him towards his Selection.
Casimir followed her, in silence.
“Why are you so glum?” she tittered at him. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
He constructed his reply, picked his words. “You told me to choose who would be Selected(?), and you told me I would go through my own. The papers you gave me explained nothing of what that entailed.”
She tilted her head, still dancing, still smiling beneath her veil. “And would knowing change anything?”
No, he knew.
“Would being ignorant improve anything?” Casimir asked instead.
“Sometimes, knowing something is in and of itself a problem,” she held her hands behind her back, leaning forward towards him. “Sometimes, the answer lies in the question itself. You don’t need to know, Abaddon, you don’t need to think. You need to feel,” she poked him in the chest. “You need to see.”
They stopped before a massive temple building, statues of a hundred beasts, of lions, leopards, crocodiles and dragons and serpents and wolves, lined it. It was tall, and its entrance was a staircase that went down.
Moonwind stopped, in one fluid motion, between one blink and another, she sat atop a statue of a titan. “This is as far as I can take you,” she said, humming song and lyric. She winked at him. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Casimr glanced down into the staircase. The darkness went on and on, swallowing the light in an unnatural manner.
Fear thumbed in his heartbeat. His legs felt heavy, eyes trapped into a dark so abyssal, it ate the light.
“Afraid?” she asked him. “Afraid because you don’t know? Or because you don’t understand? Or because the dark is a question with no answer? All of them, or none of them?”
Moonwind’s legs swung back and forth, and he realized she was there to stop him from backing down, to throw him in, if need be.
The humming continued.
He kept his face passive.
One step forward, one foot into the dark following the next. Then, he could see nothing, nothing but the endless black. Directionless, blind and unable to see, he kept moving straight.
Clang, sparks flashed in the dark.
Clang, fires from left and right.
With every step, they came near, until he could see them. Giants, their skin carved stone of the most elegant black marble. Sigils ran across their bodies, to the loincloths wrapped around their waists.
The sight of their physiques was awe and might, their forms illuminated by their cyclopean flame eyes, embers wafting off of their fiery gazes. With their bare fists, they hammered and moulded metal into form like clay.
Heat danced around them, obeyed them, clouds of steam rising from their bodies, seeping from the joints and out into the endless dark.
As Casimir froze at the sight, the giant nearest to him ceased. Its faceless, one eyed form locked gaze on him. It raised a limb as large as a tree-trunk, pointing forward with one finger.
He followed the guidance.
Forward.
He noticed he was going deeper, and the deeper he went, the more giants there were. Thousands of them, running forges all the way from the archaic to the advanced. From anvils and bellows, to three dimension printers.
Between them, humanoid, articulated metal dolls obeyed their orders. Helping the giants assemble mechs and vehicles and railguns and battleships hundreds of meters long.
The dolls marched toward him, armor and weapons in their hands. They knelt, offering them up to him, an armory for him to choose from.[M1]
“For me?” he asked, feeling his heart pummel.
More fervently, they pushed the weapons toward him.
He chose a shield, a carbine with a sling, a pistol with a holster, a short-sword and a dagger. They dressed him in plate armor so light, he could barely see it, a tactical vest filled with magazines, grenades, a bayonet-knife, and a first-aid kit.
They clamped the shield to the shoulder of his missing arm, bowing, as they went away.
He understood it for what it was, an invitation to keep moving.
Deep, deeper into the dark.
Sarcophagi hung from chains, like cocoons hanging from trees, they hung all over, drooping down in countless numbers. Bane-masks covered them, eyes glowing in the dark, all eyes on him.[M2]
Deeper still, he saw titans.
Titans with no armor or metal or augments, titans wrestling one another. Titans whose blows shook the air in explosions of sound. With grace beyond reason, with speed that shattered comprehension, they duelled one another endlessly.
Eyes, eyes all over their bodies. The same fiery eyes of the giants, but with the titans, the eyes were everywhere. On their faces alone, he counted twelve. Six on each side.
Suddenly, without warning, the titans ceased their fighting. They broke of their wrestling, stopped their bludgeoning and displays of martial prowess.
The stone skin of their faces broke apart, mouths with two rows of teeth unhinged.
Casimir froze, his mouth dry.
They roared, beating their chests, guttural language he couldn’t comprehend raging in the air. All as one, they pointed further in, deeper into this dark place.
His hair rose on end, he realized, this was a cheer for him.
Motivation, a show of support.
So he went deeper still.
The dark gave way to light. Gushing waterfalls of the dark water, and rainbow bark and crystal leaves that refracted the light of luminant flowers. The roots wound up, into one another, into a gate the size of a titan, veiled by a soft waterfall.
Styx water, and a Yggdrasil tree, he recognized.
A figure stood there, before the gate.
His arms were elongated, grotesquely shapen with multiple joints. They were chained, bundled up, to limit their range of motion. His face was covered by cloth wraps, underneath which orbs moved. Dozens of them.
Eyes, eyes covered by cloth wraps, and no mouth, or ears, or hair. Only eyes covered by the cloth. Chained to his neck, was a mask. A bane-mask, of a crow with six eyes.
He sat, regarding Casimir with all his eyes.
“I see your name,” the mask spoke, as the man looked at him. “I see it. Abaddon, Abaddon. Abaddon,” a chuckle left the metal lips of the mask. “Warlord of the Scented Ones, the dead returned, the champion, reborn.”
The chains clanged and banged as he moved an arm, adjusting the way he sat. “The Grand Guardian of the Hallowed Gate greets you, oh Abaddon, Selected to be Warlord of the Host.”
Casmir took a breath, a long, shuddering, breath. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked.
The Grand Guardian laughed at that, the chains slipped from his hands. He swept his arms forward, each as tall as Casimir was, and the gate shook.
Yggdrasil roots unwound.
Styx waterfall ceased.
Light blasted apart the dark, like a sun had been unleashed upon this place. It was nearly blinding, Casimir flinched, stepping back.
“Triumph,” the Grand Guardian pointed a finger, haloed by the light. “Or die.”
He pointed at the gate, too bright to look at without being blinded.
Casimir slowly nodded, nervous hand clutching his sheathed sword, his shield, the carbine slung over his shoulder. Unsure which to choose.
He closed his eye and sprinted. Feet clashing against ground, legs pumping and heart thumping.
He leapt into the gate.
It closed behind him, roots winding back, waterfall washing down, and the light snuffed.
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Casimir opened his eye.
Fields upon fields of luminant flowers, their petals the brightest of whites, reds, and blues. Roots of the Yggdrasil run across the fields like mountains, bringing river streams of the Styx that cut apart the fields.
Grass the darkest shade of black covered the ground, and a thin mist that swept the air, coiling and blanketing everything.
Casimir opened his mouth to shout. He clamped it shut. His hand leapt to his sword, drawing it out.
His hair rose on end.
Something was wrong, This place, this whole place. Something was wrong in it. Of it. From it. It was wrong.
He turned at every rustle, scanned the area with obsession.
The mist became cold. A seeping chill that rammed daggers in him, his teeth chittered, he could feel himself slowing down, his joints aching, his muscles tiring. He roamed forward, sword at the ready.
Casimir looked up, as he saw wings the size of skyscrapers beat, the backdraft picked up and hurled him away, sending him rolling down a hill.
He fell face first into a river, choking as it entered his helmet, blocked his nose and throat. He coughed and spat out, nose stinging and throat hurting.
He rolled, lying flat against the ground.
No lightning, he hasn’t been transported away. No Warhost or buildings or Returned, he hasn’t left the place. No information on where, on what, on how.
He growled, picking himself up. He started walking, blood boiling in his veins. Every step dug into the ground, sparks flashed around him, the cold chill weakened.
Casimir did what he had been doing all along.
Moving forward.
Moving forward, with teeth grit, and anger raging.
There was a crack in the air, the crack of a rifle. Casimir whirled around, just in time for the bullet to ping off of his armor.
He had one look at the figure that shot him, and with a saber in one hand, a rifle in the other, there was no doubt in Casimir’s mind, the shadow with fiery, yellow orbs for eyes intended to kill him.
The saber slashed down, Casimir jumped into it, ramming his sword into the shadow’s chest. He twisted. It fell still.
Casimir heard steps, and looking for the source, he saw six more shadows stood there. Wraiths of black form and shining eyes. No two had the same colour for eyes. A menagerie of colors, of flaming lights watching one another, and watching him.
“Triumph or die?” Casimir muttered, meeting the murder in their eyes.
They rushed at him.
He rushed at them.
He slit the throat of the first, and it stumbled and fell down, its hand latching on him and dragging him down with it. The second jumped at him, mace slamming into his head.
The world flashed white, his ears rang.
He kicked blindly, felt his foot impact.
When his vision cleared, his hand was already on his carbine, safety off, weapon aimed. He fired, bullets streaking into shadow, ripping it to bits. The gun clicked, empty.
All four remaining shadows dogpiled him, knives and daggers ringing against his armor. They slashed at him, and he slashed at them. He felt his knife pierce through, over and over and over.
The shadows refused to die.
But in the end, they did, slamming and ramming their knives against him, they died, fighting until the last possible second to kill.
His armor was scratched and pitted, his arm could barely move from exhaustion, and every step felt heavy. The cold returned, ever colder.
More shadows came. Some looked like soldiers, some like knights, some from cultures he didn’t recognize. They were fighting one another, killing one another, with single minded obsession.
The more he looked, the more he saw of them, all over these fields. Fighting endlessly, relentlessly, mercilessly, some in groups, others on their own.
His foot impacted something, so he looked down.
It was another Returned, dead in their armor, dead eyes staring at Casimir.
Casimir laughed, a demented sound.
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Casimir crawled across pitch black tallgrass, carbine in hand, as his bloodshot eye struggled to stay open. Cold, he struggled to keep still, mouth aching from how it shivered. He kept still when a shadow slithered past.
It was a serpent, a blind serpent the size of a house.
Breath choked in his mouth, as its tongue streaked out to taste the air, his only saving grace being downwind of the serpent.
A shadow wasn’t so lucky.
Fast, faster than he could track, its jaws snapped shut, bisecting a hiding shadow in two, and swallowing him in one gulp. It went past Casimir, past the squad of twenty-nine shadow soldiers hunting him down.
Eyeing one another, slowly crawling out of the same field as the snake, ready to kill each other the moment the snake was far away, the thirty of them moved ever forward.
They saw the snake move over the hill, far away from them.
Fire and sound filled the air, as the grenades Casimir turned into traps were triggered. Pieces of shadows flew into the air, nearly half of them gone.
Casimir leapt up, carbine braced against his shoulder. A round of three shots killed a shadow, another three rounds took down the second, from one target to the next. The last shadow alive sprayed rounds at him, every bullet making him stumble, pinging against his armor.
The shadow stopped firing, equipping his bayonet and charging at Casimir.
Casimir drew his pistol, firing once.
Half of the shadow’s skull blew away, as drunkenly, it kept rushing him.
He fired four more times.
One shot hit its hand, breaking it to bits, another struck the thigh, sending it rolling across the tallgrass. The last two put it down for good.
On and on, it went.
A shadow rushed at Casimir, a knight clad in full plate. Casimir let the blow glance against his armor, drawing his sword and hurling himself at the knight. The sword sunk in, nearly tearing its head from its throat.
It gurgled, trying in vain to get Casimir off of it.
He drew his knife and rammed it, alongside the sword, cutting the head off.
Without cease or stop, it went.
Casimir hunkered behind a boulder. Crack, rang a rifle, bullet whizzing by Casimir’s head. Without thought or hesitation, he rushed out, lightning arcing around him, the cold fading away as he pushed and rushed and ran.
Crack, rang the rifle, bullet hitting his shield and shattering it to pieces. The flash of the rifle fire told him where the sniper was.
He jumped over a river.
Rolled beneath a tree of ethereal white bark.
Pulled his pistol as the sniper whirled around.
Rifle and sniper went off at the same time, the bullet ripped through his helmet, cutting into his cheek, tearing its way out. His shot killed the sniper, piercing clean through its head.
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Tired, so tired, it went.
Casimir threw away his empty pistol, casting aside the tactical vest. Calmly, he attached his bayonet. Before him, a shadow circled him. Revolver in one hand, a saber in the other, a suit of armor on him.
His heart beat evenly as he took a stance.
The shadow took a stance.
He felt no fear as he readied himself.
The shadow took aim at him.
The two met in gunfire and steel, slashing and firing away at one another in nearly point blank range. Casimir slashed through the shadow’s chest, the shadow cut across his chest. His carbine clicked dry.
The shadow’s revolver ran empty.
Casimir plunged his bayonet into the shadow’s guard, using his own body as weight. He pushed the bayonet against the sabre, in one move, drawing his dagger and ramming into the shadow’s arm.
The sabre dropped.
Casimir rammed his knife into the eye socket of the shadow.
No stop, no peace, it went.
Arrows were all over his back, a few in his left leg. A dagger was stuck in his left shoulder. Shuffling, Casimir climbed upward. He’d long lost track of time. Of days. Of months. Or maybe it had only been an hour?
A minute?
A deranged smile split his face. It doesn’t matter.
His hand clambered on an outcropping, and he raised himself. He came up to yet another field, a field atop a small mountain. A field of white grass and golden flowers, a field of dead shadows and thousands of blades stuck in the grass in a circle.
Thousands of shadows hung around the circle, afraid to enter it. No, not afraid. Hesitant.
They noticed him, they rushed after him, rifle, swords, hammers, maces and polearms. A virtual army coming after him. He stepped into the ring of swords, they followed him.
Maybe he should have been as terrified as they all were.
He was not.
He was tired, he was cold, he was in pain, he could hear his heart beating in dread, in anticipation. His muscles coiling in preparation.
But not afraid.
At the centre of the ring, was a warrior with a sheathed katana on his lap. He sat still, his form was clearer than that of the rest. A set of armor over which was decorated, if torn, overcoat.
One eye opened to regard the shadows.
The sheathe clicked open, a tiny hint of the blade within exposed.
Thousands of decapitated shadowy heads flew in the air, thumbing dully all around Casimir. Their weapons falling around them, bladed tips embedding themselves in the field.
As if nothing had happened, the sheathed clicked shut, and only Casimir and the warrior remained.
“What brings the living, to the land of the dead?” the warrior asked, eyes closed once more.
“You can talk?” Casimir laughed. “You. You can talk.”
The warrior nodded gracefully. “I can.”
Casimir kept laughing, without an ounce of strength left in him, he collapsed, his back supported by one of the blades stabbed in the ground.
“It has been hard,” the warrior said in sympathy.
“Yeah,” Casimir closed his eye, trying to stop the tears. He couldn’t.
“Sit with me, friend, sit with me,” the warrior said. “Rest, speak, let us be with one another, as friends if only for how little this lasts.”
“Casimir,” he gave his name. “Casimir Voreband.”
“Masazumi Aguni,” the warrior inclined his head. “Master of the Eternal Breath, the Triune Power, and the Art of All Forms. Grandmaster of Bow and Sword.”
Casimir ripped his helmet off of his face, letting his beard and long hair spill out. The helmet, damaged beyond measure, rolled across the ground.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Aguni smiled back. “You already have.”
Pause.
Casimir doubled over in laughter. It was so good to hear another voice. He gave a smile, a wide, stupid smile.
“Yes, you can, go ahead, ask me,” Aguni inclined his head.
“Can you teach me?” Casimir asked, desperate.
Aguni nodded to himself, slowly. “You wish to learn the blade?”
“To get out of here,” Casimir replied.
“Then know this, the path to heaven lies through hell,” Aguni said, rising up. “Stand, we start now.”
Casimir complied, legs shaking, hand trembling, cold and tired and in pain. He stood up, no fear in his eyes, no fear at all.
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Minute by minute.
Casimir held the longsword, taking a practice swing.
“Too slow,” Aguni remarked.
He swung faster.
A sheathed katana slapped the sword out of his hand. “Now too fast, your grip is too weak. Your balance is off, your strike too rigid and your posture too stony.”
Casimir picked up the sword, trying again.
“You must be fluid,” Aguni stalked around him. “The Art of All Forms is not one stance, but all stances. It is not the sword, but all weapons. Your fists and elbows and knees, everything that can be used, is a weapon. You must be the flood, disposing of all, proposing of all.”
“I can’t,” Casimir took a breath, sweat dripping from his brow. “My centre of balance is wrong because of my arm.”
Aguni raised a brow. “Do you think it is gravity holding you down, in this place?”
Casimir stared.
“Do you think it is air, that you’re breathing?” Aguni pointed with his sheathed katana. “Do you think it is nerve cells that you’re using to think in this place, that I am?”
No, Casimir stared in dull shock. “How?”
“Your flesh is a vessel, a container bound by laws it cannot surpass,” Aguni cast aside his weapon, and with a flick of his wrist, it flew back into his hand. “But not when the barrier between mind and what is outside of it is surpassed. Not when the mind itself is given power.”
Power.
The word rang in his skull, sparks flashed around him.
“Your mind has been unshackled from its vessel,” Aguni pointed a finger at the sparks. “Now it holds power of its own agency, power above and beyond the laws that bind the physical flesh.”
With a flick of his hand, Aguni sparked a gust of wind, with a snap of his fingers, the gust exploded into fire. “The capacity to transform wood to metal, to turn the air into explosive gunpowder and trigger it. The boundaries of a talented alchemist are only his knowledge, skill, and intellect.”
Script shone with power on Aguni’s armor. “Or to harness the mystical, to see beyond sight, and to create your own little laws. Unbreakable metals, undulling blades, self-healing armor. Arcane beyond measure, mind bending beyond sanity.”
“To those with capacity to see into the intangible,” Aguni continued. “Even space, time, and thoughts can be bent and warped. You cannot see what is before you, nor hear what is beside you, nor recognize how the time flows, perhaps a step becomes ten, or ten become one.”
Between one step and the next, Aguni disappeared utterly. Casimir blinked, when the man was right in front of him. “Perception can be warped, affected, distorted. Illusions and delusions become realities. For time is not time, sight is not perception, and mind is not matter.”
“Then there are some, some who are beyond, some who are monomythos,” Aguni narrowed his eyes. “Forces above and beyond. Aspects of storm, and wind, and frost, and fire and lightning.”
“Like me,” Casimir said, palm open, sparks dancing amidst it.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Aguni said. “We shall see.”
Casimir smiled. “We shall see.”
Hour after hour.
Aguni’s sheathed sword was impaled into the ground. Without an iota of discomfort, he sat atop it, shadowy form still and serene, meditating with his eyes closed, and all the same, he observed Casimir.
Casimir, who was duelling the shadows that endlessly rushed at him in waves. Up and down, he swung. Left and right he dashed, lightning arcing around him and across his longsword.
He felled them, one by one.
But they did not cease.
“Those who come to this place,” Aguni spoke, still meditating. “Are those who have spent their entire lives consumed by war. Those who are demons of conflict. Wraiths of the violence. They find themselves trapped here, within this place.”
Casimir ducked under a hammer blow, spinning on his heel, as his sword gutted a shadow.
“Unlike you, foreign to this place, we wraiths feel it. Feel the serenity and peace to await us within it, if only we closed our eyes, surrendered their wills, none who end up here do. Too weak to cast aside their weapons, too strong to be carried by the tide.”
Casimir dropped his sword, one foot rising up in a heel kick, the other catching his sword and kicking it back into his hand. One slash, from left to right, and two shadows died.
“So they seek an end the only way they know how to,” Aguni’s tone became sombre. “These mindless things, these shadows of what once was. They wish an end in glory, in honour, in blade and blood. They cannot accept the respite of night, so they wage in spite.”
Lightning coiled around Casimir’s blade, with one slash, he sent the bolt scurrying from one shadow to the next. They died, twitching and convulsing.
“And those who do not die, who spend eons in this place, return to being awake. As if they had been slumbering all along, feeling without thought, moving without knowledge,” Aguni let out a low laugh. “For upon their final death, in this place beyond life, they will be given peace and serenity. A quiet slumber, a peaceful night.”
The shadows stopped coming. Casimir fell to a knee, gasping and heaving for breath.
Aguni slid down his sword, kicking it up into his hand. “For these warriors who have forgotten how to shed tears,” he waved around at the field of swords. “This last battle is their season of sorrows unending.”
Day after day.
Longsword and katana clashed. In a blink, they met with thirty blows in as many seconds. Glints of steel arcing in silver streaks.
Casimir lost his sword, in a flash of lightning, an ethereal blue blade, a construct of his power, manifested itself.
He parried the next strike, sliding into Aguni’s guard, only to be punched in the face, kicked in the knee, only then for Aguni to pull a one-handed rifle, aim it, and fire it into him, at point blank.
Casimir tried to counter, but a sword at his neck froze him in fear.
“No fear, warrior, fear is the death of action,” Aguni said, stabbing him through.
He fell, bleeding and groaning, construct dissipating into motes of light.
Lightning arced around him, his wound healing in a shower of steam and sparks.
“A warrior is not a master of blade,” Aguni said, reloading said rifle. “He is a student of war. His greatest art is the bow, his ancient lover the blade, and his eternal hunger victory. He shies from no method of war.”
“All of that, and much more, for a warrior is kith and kin to conflict, to violence,” Aguni offered him a hand, Casimir took it, and the man picked him up. “He is the guard against disorder. He is the shield against the pillager. He is the last cry of the tyrant, and the first curse of the enemy.”
They took a ten second break.
“He is also the murderer, slaughtering families upon the order of his superior, he is the pillage, violating women and girls, enslaving men and boys,” Aguni twirled his katana. “He is hesitant before action, ponderous upon the searing reflection of the blade, contemplative of the blood spilled in the shade.”
Casimir struck first, a thrust aimed at the throat. Aguni ducked under it, slashing ten times in a breath. Casimir fell down again, chest and face shredded.
“But he does not hesitate in action,” Aguni waited for Casimir to heal again. “He swings with remorse but not regret, he kills with resolve but not apathy. He seeks to give blood, not spill blood. Given peace, he takes it. Offered war, he questions it.”
Casimir rose back to his feet, back into stance, sword poised and ready.
Aguni smiled. “You have lost interest in my wisdom?”
“No,” Casimir lied. “Simply focused on the duel.”
Aguni took on his own stance. “In time, you will comprehend what I speak of. In time, the tragedy of life will make you, and unmake you, and from iron make you to steel. Or it will break you, and you will be yet another wretch.”
“Kind words,” Casimir replied.
“The path to heaven lies through hell,” Aguni gripped his katana in both hands. “Never forget that.”
The two clashed.
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Casimir and Aguni sat side by side, watching the distant horizons. The chilling mist and endless shadows below, ever duelling for supremacy, made a strange and serene peace.
A peace in conflict.
A strangeness in stillness.
Casimir had his longsword on his lap, sharpening it with a whetstone. A new set of armor on him, taken from dead shadows.
Aguni had his katana sheathed, caressing it gently. “All my life, I had lived by the sword and bow.”
Casimir glanced at the man with his eye, giving him full attention.
“Blood and steel were my badges of worth. I missed no arrow, I lost no duel, I was defeated in no battle. I was among one of two legendary warriors, unseen in nearly three thousand years of history. I, Masazumi Aguni, and he, Shoji Dayu. With every war that flared, we were the envy of all, in every conflict, we stood at opposite ends.”
Aguni drew his sword, staring into his reflection in it. A black wraith, a shadowy apparition. “What honors I held, what glories I reaped, what terrible, maddening enlightenment I received. It was a thing of nightmare, of no respite, not of one moment, but of hundreds.”
“A body of a pregnant woman floating down the river,” Aguni said, voice low. “Killed by samurai, throat slit in one, clean strike. Then again, a body of a young woman, floating down the river, every battle near a river, I would see that sight. I would think ‘what pity, these fools struck down by the dishonourable.’ It was no concern of mine, I was above such petty murders.”
Casimir flinched at the image.
“I took a mistress, a young thing, fair enough, it sated my desire,” Aguni closed his eyes. “She gave me a daughter, a little thing that cried too much, made too much noise, and asked for too much attention,” he paused, silent for a moment.
Aguni placed his sword next to its sheathe, head lolling back, eyes cast at the empty sky.
“Where I spent my years in war, this girl spent her years begging for my attention. An overlord had given me a necklace for my mistress as gift, I gave it to the girl, to make her cease annoying me.”
Casimir glanced at his own sword, at the bearded, long haired, tired man in the reflection.
“Then war had came to my province, so I rode out. Days upon days, it was the greatest conflict of history, waged upon the door front of my lands, I met my greatest foe next to a river. Masazumi Aguni and Shoji Dayu, meeting upon the greatest duel in history.”
Aguni’s hand shook, he raised it to his face. It stilled. “I saw it in the reflection of my sword. My face on one flat of the blade. A little girl wearing a necklace, her throat slit in one, clean, blow, drifted down the river, on the other flat of the blade.”
“I forget her name,” he murmured quietly. “She always yelled mine. Why did I forget hers?”
“I..” Casimir started, but closed his mouth. He had nothing to say. Nothing he could say.
Aguni stood up, sword in hand and sheathe in the other. “What terrible clarity, what shattering realization, what maddening enlightenment. Ah, how I always knew, but never comprehended.”
He pointed his blade at Casimir. “I was not the glorious samurai, I was the architect of their demise, I had killed her, my actions if not my hands. I was not the hero, I was the monster. I still am. I will always be. Too weak to cast aside my blade, too fond of war to be rid of its intoxication.”
Casimir stood up, his own sword in hand. Teeth grit, realization in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
Fear rumbled in his chest.
Ba-tum.
Ba-tum.
Sparks danced around Casimir.
“Upon that river, two of the greatest warriors slew another, and I believed it was my destiny to do so, once more, upon this plain, so I awaited my ancient foe,” Aguni sheathed his sword, knees bent low. “I have taught you all that you need know. I have given my wisdom, I have given my art, and you have given me another enlightenment. He who cannot cast aside his sword, must be cast down.”
“Please, don’t do this,” Casimir blurted, hands shaking. “Don’t do it, you don’t have to.”
“Kill me, or I will kill you,” Aguni said, specks of dust floating around him, gravity weakening, time speeding for him, perceptions slowing for Casimir. “This is the last wish of the Samurai of Red Sands! The Demon of the Crimson Steel! Of Masazumi Aguni!”
Casimir took his own stance, lightning coiling around him. A field of sparks and arcs manifesting around him. Power thrummed in his limbs, the air vibrating, motes of light popping into existence, shining bright.
Layer upon layer of construct manifested itself atop his armor, an ethereal arm and ethereal eye replacing his lost ones.
Time was not time.
Space was irrelevant.
The boundaries of laws violated.
Aguni drew his sword, a quickdraw slash. One strike, became six hundred strikes.
Casimir’s constructs were shredded, his flesh was ripped apart, meat chunks spraying, blood splashing, shrapnel from his armor exploding upon impact with ground. A torrent of blood pumped from severed arteries.
In a flash of lightning and steaming flesh, his mortally wounded body moved. One slash, one, impeccable swing.
Aguni cut through it, shattering Casimir’s sword in two, his swing cutting through Casimir from shoulder to hip.
It didn’t stop him.
Casimir grabbed the broken end of his sword, ramming it into Aguni’s throat, he rammed the rest of his sword into Aguni’s chest.
Aguni blocked both, with one hand. Hilt end running through his forearm, as the sword end pinned his hand to his shoulder.
He reversed his grip, stabbing his sword into Casimir’s thigh. Blood geysered, pain flashed hot white across Casimir’s eyes.
In one, hammering blow, he punched the katana out of Aguni’s hand. Slammed his face into Aguni’s, formed an ethereal, clawed, arm, and cut across Aguni’s throat.
Aguni staggered, hand staunching the cut on his throat.
Casimir dropped to a knee, heaving, swaying, spitting blood. Ethereal arm dissipating. Corners of his vision darkening.
He kicked himself into rising, into standing.
Aguni closed his eyes, unpinning his destroyed arm, letting it hang limply. Fire sparked, as Aguni burned the cut on his throat shut.
The katana stood between them.
“Bothersome child, she was,” Aguni exhaled, opening his eyes. “Excited. Happy. Joyful and so bothersome,” he flexed his remaining hand. “Her face refuses to stop smiling at me. What a bothersome smile.”
Casimir struggled to stay awake. Barely managing to keep breathing. “Our children,” Casimir managed. “Always want us to smile.”
Aguni laughed, in pain, in regret. “How aggravating.”
Casimir smiled, in understanding, in sympathy. “It is.”
They rushed the katana.
Aguni kicked it into his hand, his slash a silver glint. Casimir manifested an ethereal longsword, hurling himself, thrusting forward.
The katana dropped.
The ethereal sword stood still, cutting through Aguni’s heart, and out of his back.
Aguni gripped Casimir, gasping and choking for breath, trying in vain to reach for his katana. Then he stopped trying, and suddenly the fight in him ceased.
“Her…name…I remembered…her name…” Aguni broke into a smile. “Hina,” he focused his eyes on Casimir. “Forgive me…”
Two arms wrapped around Casimir, holding him close. Hugging him weakly. Casimir returned it with his one arm, barely managing a tiny squeeze.
“Forgive...my...bothersome...smile…”
The sword dissipated.
The wraith slipped off of Casimir, falling dead to the ground.
Off in the distance, roots rose up from the ground. They wound up into one another, they formed a gate of rainbow wood and crystalline doors.
In silence, Casimir dug a grave with his bare hand. In silence, he used Aguni’s katana to mark it. In silence, he left.
A field of buried swords behind him, the centre of which yet one more sword.
----------------------------------------
He walked out of the gate, armor shredded, covered in blood, long black hair flecked with gray. A broken sword in one hand, and his legs dragging behind him.
“Rise,” the Grand Guardian said behind him, finger pointed up. “Rise, in triumph. Rise.”
So he rose.
Past titans kneeling in respect, fists beating against their chests.
Past giants standing in line, hammers upon the ground, heads held low.
Past the dark, up and up he rose. Every step a battle against pain and exhaustion, every step a declaration of resolve, of will, of defiance.
Up the stairs, and almost outside of the temple.
Moonwind sat there, upon a set of steps. “It’s not over,” she said, gently. “The selections are not finished. You will be put into the field, under assault by machine gun, bioweapon, arcana and machina. A single mistake will mean your death, and the deaths of all who follow you.”
“Is that all?” Casimir asked, quietly. “More pain and violence, is that it?”
She nodded.
“Then the path to heaven lies through hell,” he said. “And I am not afraid.”
She stood up, motioning for him.
Out of the temple they walked.
The Warmaster stood at the centre of a semi-circle. Moowind joined said semi-circle. Besides her, Four’O, Rostrum, and a figure clad in white robes over black armor.
“The Grand Arcanist, Harishem stands as witness,” the figure said.
“The Grand Machinist, Four’O, stands as witness.”
“The Grand Orator, Rostrum, stands as witness.”
Moonwind winked at him. “The Mistress of the Veiled, Moonwind, stands as witness.”
“This man has faced death, and will do so, who shall tell me who he is?” the Warmaster asked, two hands laid on a sword placed tip first into the ground, the blade of the sword was ethereal, transparent.
“Who is he, that stands before me, yet is not of our ranks? Who carries a blade, yet no banner?” the Warmaster asked.
“He is a veteran of the Asazum Boundary, he stood fearlessly upon the fields of Asazum’s capital, shielding his fellow brothers as they retreated from hails of lead and fire,” Harishem said, faceless helmet hiding his face.
“I deny this,” the Warmaster said.
“He is a valiant survivor of the Seventh Imperial Offensive, when the Warband of the Irehearts shattered, and all the brave and courageous fled, he stood alone, blade in hand, head held high, voice raging against the dark,” Rostrum spoke, hands clasped behind his backs.
“I deny this, once more,” the Warmaster said once again.
“He is one of the honoured few, who charged into the fray against the Scourge of the Raptor, I lost sight of him amidst the steel and blood, but all who saw remember, the Sword of Keoan, champion upon the fields of that black day,” Four’O said, optics locked on Casimir.
“I reject these lies,” the Warmaster said, slamming the sword against the ground.
“No, I know this man, I know him better than any of you,” Moonwind started. “He fought to the last upon the field of Cyrsal Boundary, beset by tides of mercenaries, drowned in snow and ash, frozen by frost and wind, he feared not, ceased not, broke not.”
“I asked of you,” the Warmaster said. “Who is this man?”
“He is audacious, reckless and arrogant, overestimating his skills,” Rostrum said.
“He is slow of wit, hesitant of choice, overgrown of ambition, lacking of respect,” Four’O said.
“He is careless and honourless, disregarding the traditions and rites, he is no warrior, merely a cast-off flotsam, violent and greedy,” Harishem said.
Casimir felt his blood boil, felt his ire rise, felt the pain flare and irritation froth. He closed his eye, he calmed himself. Locked eyes with the Warmaster, his face hidden behind the visor of his helmet.
The Warmaster raised the sword, and offered it to Casimir. The blade disappeared.
Casimir slowly, hesitantly, took it. Confused.
“Ah,” the Warmaster said. “Now I recognise this man, now I recognise the truths in what has been spoken, now I accept what has been said.”
“Indeed, he is quick of wit, sharp of action, confident of his capacity,” Rostrum smiled.
“He is ponderous and deliberate, hungry for greatness and honour, irreverent of needless vanities,” Four’O inclined his head.
“He is a newly christened warrior, unfamiliar to us, eager to master his craft, talented and soon to be wise,” Harishem said.
Moonwind spoke next. “He is Casimir Voreband, he bears a fine sword in fine hands, he holds a great banner upon great hands.”
Casimir gripped the sword, it activated, a blade of lightning emitting from the hilt.
“He is bane-mask Abaddon, master of the Warband of Scented Ones,” the Warmaster spoke at last. “If none know him now, then soon they shall, for he has returned from death, to haunt the living, to topple the gods, to slay the tyrants, to break hell upon mailed fist and knee.”
“He has returned!” the Warmaster slammed a fist against his breastplate. “To stand amidst us. Amidst the Warhost of the Returned, to stand in contempt of fear!”