The Path of the Sword

Rites of Ascension I

The Path of the Sword

By R
é
mi Michaud

Copyright
© 2011 All rights reserved

To my wife Cori who has watched me go through a very long

process with a tolerant smile and the patience of a saint.

Prologue

Stars in all their glory sparkled in the velvet vault above the chamber. Under: clouds, a thick, churning fog. The chamber was immobile but for all the world appeared as though it floated in the nothingness between. The strangeness of it made sense in a way, for the chamber itself, if viewed by the average person would have been seen as more than strange. Truly, it would have driven most mad.

The walls were soundless waterfalls that fell to the floor, no more than a flat pond, kelp floating and multicolored fish that did not exist anywhere in the world hanging almost motionless as though suspended, in its depths. Prismic colors danced on the mirror flat surface of the pond like gems in sunlight and across the waterfall walls. That too made sense for this place that was not of the world. It was between worlds, in the void where worlds met and rubbed against each other.

In the center of the room stood a chair that defied description. The best one could do would be to say it was a throne, but it was more than that in the way that a throne is more than a wooden stool. A huge thing, it was perhaps gold, or silver, or platinum. It was studded with jewels of all colors of the rainbow, or perhaps it was not jewels but instead the gem-lights that cavorted gleefully about the room. Great arms like cresting waves flanked the sides, and the back rose to unimaginable heights before merging with the velvet canvas above.

In the chair sat a man, or at least he looked like a man: Two legs, two arms, a head, two eyes, a nose, a mouth...

But to gaze upon him was to know that this was no mere man. His eyes, as blue as a clear sky at noon, were as the very portals of time itself. His face was as craggy as a mountain, and as beautiful and majestic. There was a stoop to his back but it was not the stoop of frailty; it was as though he carried the weight of a universe on his shoulders.

In front of him, three figures stood. They were as disparate as anything could ever be. A woman with skin the color of pale emerald, with wheat gold hair, with features and a slender figure that had made countless men fall to their knees, gibbering. A balding man wearing a leather vest over a pristinely white shirt, bespectacled, with an ink stain on his chin, and carrying a massive tome whose title was visible but indecipherable. A figure—Man? Woman? Impossible to tell for it was shrouded in a cloak so black that not even the insistent rainbow lights could touch it.

“It must be soon,” the bespectacled man said, crisply, his words clipped and learned.

“We cannot wait forever,” the willowy woman said, her voice lilting and full of life.

“The world will die,” the voice came from the black shroud like a grating tomb.

The old man in the chair smiled as he gazed down upon them, his eyes lit with a thousand suns.

“I have chosen. It will be soon,” he pronounced. “This time, it will be different.”

A hard white light flickered between the seated one and the three standing ones. As though made of oil, it resolved itself into the shape of a large tureen made of filigreed gold. Inside the bowl, water—which did not leak through the fine mesh—created a mirror that all could see their reflections in until an image began to form. Hazy at first, indistinct, the image resolved itself, and they were presented with the face of a young boy with blond hair and an open, innocent face.

The three kneeled at the bowl and bowed their heads, watching.

Part 1:

In The Beginning...

“
...Born of Shadow, raised in sunlight, bathed in blood,

He will walk among us, a child, and yet so much more...”

-excerpt from Sacred Writings of the Salosian Faith,

Salos

Chapter 1

He sat his horse in the courtyard under a sky that might have been cloudy, or perhaps not—it was difficult to tell cloud from smoke—listening, watching, waiting, fingering the hilt of the sword that waited restlessly in his scabbard. Around him, six hundred of his fellow cavalrymen did the same. Pages and squires darted through their ranks discharging duties, performing their tasks as efficiently as their training had made them.

Around the cavalry and along the ramparts of the high walls, squads of men-at-arms ran from one point of defense to another as needs demanded, making them hop like fires had been lit under their feet as their lieutenants barked orders. On the walls above, partially obscured by a pall of black smoke that oozed like oil, the battle waged in full force. Glints of armor rushed into and out of the haze, appearing and disappearing like wraiths. Though the voices on the walls had melded into one overarching roar, shouted orders could be heard, angry insults hurled, despairing wails howled.

From the top of a set of stone steps that led to the colonel's vantage, a silhouette appeared. Quickly, it resolved itself into a man they all knew. He whirled his arm in a wide circle over his head.

“
Open the gate!” Major Tomis bellowed from the front.

The soldiers manning the winches grunted and strained, marching in unison around the great wooden spool, and with a creak and a groan, the gate shuddered, started to swing outward ponderously.

The soldier checked his sword again as Captain Tain marched his cavalry force through the gate and to the south-western corner of the main wall where he paused, raised his horn to his mouth, and blew one long mournful blast that echoed eerily from the very clouds above: the call of some vengeful war god. With the moan of Captain Tain’s war horn still lingering, shivering in the air, and a battle cry six hundred voices strong, they spewed forth, and flew at the enemy. The earth trembled with the thunder of hooves as though the clouds overhead threw their voices downward, and they roared their defiance. Lances were lowered level to the ground and six hundred men braced themselves for the inevitable clash.

Sergeant Daved Histane wore a ghastly grin as he approached. The uneven gray stone of the wall was a blur to his right as he raced in the very forefront of the attack and for a brief instant, he rejoiced in the power of the charge. Nothing would stop them, he knew. Nothing
could
stop them. They would gore their enemy with their lances, crush them under hooves, and tear them, open them with their swords, spilling their blood on the ground they desecrated with their very presence.

Killhern City burned. Hundreds if not thousands were dead. The savage Dakariin in their filthy leather cuirasses so primitively made they still stank of death and decay, and their nasty serrated swords, like half a crocodile's jaw, had committed atrocities. They would pay with their lives. Daved rejoiced. And he rode. And he braced.

Fate was not on their side that day. The Dakariin had seen their approach and they responded. The south flank, which had been such an easy target, melted away followed by the front line, leaving a gaping hole that the cavalrymen, with all the momentum of their sledgehammer charge, could not help but fall into. In a horrible turning of the tables, it was the Dakariin who managed to attack the Killhernans exposed flank, clamping the cavalry, vise-like between their vicious serrated swords and the main gate of Killhern castle, halting their charge dead in its tracks.

Those who witnessed from the relative safety of the walls would later say—over their cups—the cavalry fought valiantly. They fought bravely against the surging masses and, against all odds, decimated a huge number of the enemy. Daved knew better. It wasn’t bravery or valor or even vengeance that drove them. It was desperation. It was terror. They discarded their lances—useless in such close quarters—and drew their swords. Daved saw only one hope for him and his fellows. Ahead of him, the ranks of Dakariin were sparse. Most of the enemy were on their left flank and Daved exhorted his comrades to push forward in the hopes of breaking through the thin north ranks and reaching the shelter of the city proper where at least there was some chance that they would survive.

Dakariin rushed him, their expressions feral; he lost track of his fellow Killhernans in the frantic struggle. He swung left and right from his higher position on horseback. He struck and slashed, feeling a jolt run up his arm to his shoulder every time his sword connected with serrated sword or with Dakariin bone. Blood glittered like broken ruby necklaces in the air. He parried a strike, thrust, and was rewarded with the sight of a red flood from his attacker’s throat. He swung in a wide cut, felt the shock of bone cracking, and another figure went down. A flash of steel approached and he turned in his saddle, bringing up his own sword. There was a resounding clash and he almost dropped his sword when his arm went numb. Another thrust and another red spume. For a brief instant, no one attacked him. He turned to see how his battalion fared and howled in dismay. A glance showed that perhaps a third of those who had sallied from the south gate so short a time ago still remained in their saddles.

He knew, in that place where thinking was still possible, somewhere beneath the terror fueled rage, he could not dwell on the terrible losses. He concentrated instead on swinging his sword and staying alive for another heartbeat. Slash, thrust, parry; he continued the grim work with his remaining troops at his side but in the end, with no room to maneuver, Captain Tain’s battalion of heavy cavalry were doomed.

A few more minutes passed, an eternity, and Daved perceived that a hole had appeared in the Dakariin ranks ahead. He did not exactly see the hole; some instinct, some sense other than sight or sound—perhaps it was the years of training, the years of experience in countless battles—told him that there was a weakening there, a chance. Calling out to whomever was left to follow him, he spurred his horse into a gallop and raced for the city. Glancing back, he spied a meager handful of Killhernans following him. The rest had been cut down, left sprawled and broken at the base of their castle’s wall. He and his small group of survivors drove their horses ever harder across the broken cobbles and churned earth that surrounded the keep, demanding everything in their headlong flight to the city, but the Dakariin did not give up so easily.

They were still within arrow range and the Dakariin took advantage of that fact; missiles whirred past, humming like wasps, strangely loud over the thunder of racing hooves, and disappeared into the trampled grass ahead. The Killhernans hunched low in their saddles, presenting as little a target as possible but it was not enough. Glancing back again, Daved saw two men stiffen, slump, slide bonelessly from their saddles. Then a third went down. There were only four left, including himself.

He spurred his horse savagely, urging it for yet more speed but there seemed to be no more left to give. His mount was already frothing at the mouth and over the thunder of hooves Daved could hear the animal’s shallow pants, feel the labored creaking of ribs between his thighs.

Ahead he saw a palatial estate, owned by the Duke’s closest advisor and friend, Chancellor Gustav, and he raced dreading and expecting the searing pain of the inevitable arrow in his back. Another glance over his shoulder revealed that he was alone. The remaining men had fallen. He was the only survivor of Captain Tain’s cavalry. So far. Where was that arrow? He knew it must come.

Passing through the palace gate, he turned his horse so that he would be at least partially protected by the low wall and the row of neatly pruned trees that surrounded the estate. Only a hundred more paces, and the palace itself would provide him with cover and obscure him from the Dakariin’s sight. Fifty paces left and he glanced back one last time. Through the trees, he thought he glimpsed movement. Could the Dakariin be following? Of course. Of course they would. Bastards.

He arrived at the blue and white marble corner of the palace and yanked at the reins. His mount squealed in protest and reared, dumping Daved gracelessly to the ground, and with the snap of bone, his horse landed, squealed a second time. The beast pitched forward, rolled, hooves whipping over and over, and came to rest on its side. Its sides heaved as its lungs worked and it raised its head feebly, only to let it drop to the ground. Daved, dazed by his fall, crawled on hands and knees to its side. What he saw wrenched his heart: there was blood flecked in the foam at its mouth and its eyes spun wildly in their sockets. Daved glanced down and spied the reason for the blood. There, jutting from its side no more than two inches from Daved’s saddle, was a Dakariin arrow buried to its feathers.

“
I’m sorry old boy. You been a good horse to this old soldier and I thank you for saving my life,” Daved muttered. “I gotta go though. They’re gonna be after me soon. No time to make this emotional.”

With no more ceremony than those final words and an affectionate rub on its nose, he plunged the tip of his sword through the throat of the fatally wounded and suffering animal, and hot blood, red and sticky, bathed him, sluiced over him. The animal jerked once, and then lay still.

The fall had added to his own growing list of injuries, but aside from the gash on his forehead that poured blood into his eyes, none were, thankfully, serious. Some minor cuts, a few bruised ribs, and a black eye were all he had to contend with as he picked himself up and pounded into the city with nothing but his sword and his fear for company.