Eclosion (4)
Warriors who have spent their lives honing themselves say this:
That a single strike—each combatant pouring everything they have into one decisive blow, crossing blades to decide victory and defeat—is the end they yearn for above all else. And yet those same warriors know the truth.
Such an ending is almost never granted.
Duels, battles, fights to the death—that is simply how they go. When the gap in power is too wide, a true exchange of full-force strikes never even takes shape. Even between equals, the pattern rarely changes.
Psychological warfare. Dirty tricks. Traps. Tiny mistakes.
Those are the things that decide winner and loser, the living and the dead. It is almost laughable. Far too many fights are decided before a man can even bring to bear the techniques he spent a lifetime refining. The smallest things tip the balance of victory and defeat.
So crossing full-power blows to settle a match is the stuff of heroic legends. Reality is rarely so kind.
But in this moment—
In this single moment, it became real.
Ah, Klaus Aten breathed, and a shiver ran through every inch of his body as he drove his lance charge with everything he had. For every step he took forward, the swordsman opposite him took one as well.
They were charging each other.
There was not a scrap of ornament in that charge. No yielding, no compromise, no retreat. Only full power. Only an all-out sprint and an all-out strike existed in this place.
How could such a sight not be beautiful?
As a knight, as a warrior—this was the finest possible ending.
Come on, then. Come as hard as you like. As hard as you want!
The commander of the Blue Wings, the vanguard Klaus Aten, burst out laughing. Thanks to that single swordsman, his final charge in this life could be this beautiful.
Whoosh—!
And so one cavalryman thrust his lance. It tore through the air, split the wind, and drove straight ahead. Meeting that spear racing in a single line was the sword swung by a single swordsman. The longsword wreathed in constellations did not aim for the lance’s flank, nor did it crash down from above.
Without retreating, head-on—
He simply met the tip of the lance thrusting in a straight line with everything he had.
Because that was Atanga’s sword. Because it was the praise and the respect an Atanga knight offered a rival he had acknowledged. Najin’s constellation-wrapped longsword swept horizontally. The instant blade and lance tip collided, a spray of light burst in every direction.
Kakakakakakakak!
The aura carrying the mindscape of a cavalryman racing across the battlefield crashed into the sword-energy carrying the mindscape of a star risen over a subterranean city. At the moment of impact, a scatter of stars exploded outward. Whirling aura made the air itself tremble.
In an instant—less than a second—dozens of collisions erupted. Not metal against metal, but aura against sword-energy. The shockwaves shredded Klaus’s and Najin’s skin. Blood sprayed.
Slash—!
Through the flying blood, sword and lance pressed forward. Aura and sword-energy tore at each other and stripped away, as if their very clash were an intrusion upon the meeting of spear and blade. At last, if only for a heartbeat, aura and sword-energy peeled free of the weapons.
In the instant those stripped layers tried to refill—
In that fraction of a fraction of a second—
Skipping every obstruction, lance and sword met each other bare. That meeting was brief. And victory and defeat are always decided in a single moment.
Thud—.
A heavy footfall echoed. In the last of last moments, Najin took one more step forward. And so his sword advanced one stride farther. That decided it.
Tick. T-t-t-t-t-tick…
In a landscape flowing in slow motion, Klaus watched Najin’s blade split the tip of his lance and drive on ahead. The beloved weapon that had been with him all his life was singing its end.
Severing cut.
Najin’s sword completed its arc. The longsword that had bisected the lance and driven forward split the hand gripping it clean in two. The blade drew its path first; the constellations followed after in a lavish cascade.
Blood flying. A lance cut in half.
Constellations flickering fiercely before his eyes.
A perfect defeat.
In that final moment, feeling much the same as Jerold had, Klaus laughed. It was a strike without the slightest flaw. Crushing the enemy’s full power head-on—that was Atanga’s sword. Truly the swordsmanship permitted only to a knight among knights, Klaus thought to himself.
If it was Atanga’s sword that put the period on his life, then it had not been such a bad life after all.
The cascading constellations detonated. Caught in the backlash, Klaus flew, vomiting blood, and slammed into a great tree with a heavy thud. Blood still pouring from his mouth, he closed his eyes.
2.
Blink.
Klaus Aten slowly opened his eyes.
His body was heavy. His mind was dull. He should have met his death—was there something after death in this world? And if so, was he bound for heaven or hell? Hell, almost certainly…
He was deep in that rather philosophical brooding when a voice drifted past his ear.
“Like this? No—explain it properly. I’m not a mage. So basically…”
The voice circled his ear. Too sharp to be an angel’s, not nearly wicked enough to be a demon’s. And above all, it was familiar. With a groan he blinked again.
“Ah. That’ll do.”
Sizzle—! The sound of flesh searing.
Even through the dullness of his senses the pain cut clear, and Klaus’s eyes flew open. His mouth dropped wide and a scream tore free.
“Gaaaaaaaaah!”
“Uh, is this thing working right? Is it supposed to hurt that much? Tch…”
Pain that forced the eyes open.
With a mind suddenly clear, Klaus looked ahead. Najin was looking down at him. Muttering as if speaking to someone, Najin blinked when he saw Klaus open his eyes.
“Oh. Coming around, are you?”
“What… did you do?”
“Nothing much. Just what needed doing.”
Najin patted his own neck lightly.
“That brand on your neck. Leave it alone and it was going to explode, wasn’t it? I’ve seen a fair number of people burst open, and it’s not much of a spectacle.”
The brand? The one the Church had carved into him?
Klaus hurriedly groped at his neck. The brand that should have been there was gone.
“How?”
“She says to tell you the greatest archmage of all and an alchemist who has mastered all things lent a hand… In short, I had help from someone rather remarkable.”
Najin waggled a potion vial in front of Klaus. It was a potion brewed with Merlin’s knowledge and Dieta’s support.
“It makes the brand register you as ‘dead’ and ‘believe’ it has already triggered… according to her. The Church will think you’re dead now.”
Klaus turned Najin’s words over and over, blinking. The situation was hard to keep up with. But he could grasp what the boy in front of him was saying.
“Why… spare me?”
This boy had chosen to let him live.
The attacker who had come for his head.
Klaus could not understand the reason.
“No particular need to kill you.”
“What…?”
“It’s obvious the Church had you by the throat. Hostages, maybe, or your honor on the line… From what I saw with my own eyes, you were sick with disgust at being the Church’s hunting dog. Am I wrong?”
Klaus did not deny it.
Najin went on.
“And you failed your mission. The Church believes you’re dead. If they were holding hostages, they may already have decided to kill them. I’m sorry. Unfortunately, I can’t die for their sake on your behalf.”
Najin spoke evenly.
“But I can make you an offer.”
“An offer?”
“I’ll give you a chance at revenge against the Church.”
Revenge.
“I’m Najin. Eighteen years old, and as of today I’ve reached the realm of Sword Seeker. How do I look to you, in terms of skill?”
“A vicious question.”
Klaus gave a bitter smile.
“Strong. Absurdly so.”
“Yes. And I intend to get stronger still.”
“For what?”
“To hang a star in the highest place in that night sky. And to bring the Church down.”
Najin grinned.
“I will reach the realm of Sword Master. I will become strong enough to topple the Church alone. Because I have to reclaim my master’s honor—and the honor of the knight I served—from the Church.”
An empty, absurd goal.
But Klaus, who had taken that sword head-on, could not laugh it off. It felt real.
“I will bring the Church down. I will drive my sword through the heart of High Priest Orlan, who looks down on the world from the top of the Lighthouse.”
But, Najin added—
“Along the way, I won’t stop anyone who wants to follow after me. If their revenge is just, I’m even willing to leave them one of Orlan’s arms.”
“One arm, is it…”
“Yes. Sorry, but that bastard’s heart is mine.”
Klaus burst out laughing.
“So you’ll spare me? Me, who tried to kill you—me, who may have taken who knows what offer from the Church?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you trust in me?”
“Your pride.”
Najin answered, and Klaus fell silent for a moment.
“I saw pride in you. The pride of a man who still wants to remain a knight. That is something a hunting dog cannot have. I believe in that.”
And then Najin shrugged.
“Even if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter. If you’d rather cling to the Church again, come at me. I’ll take you on. Anytime.”
Najin tapped the hilt of his sword.
“Though I don’t think I’ll be able to spare you next time.”
“An insolent attitude—yet I can’t quite call it insolent. Not after a thrashing this thorough.”
Klaus smiled bitterly.
He had been defeated completely. He did not believe he could win if he threw himself at the boy again. To the smiling Klaus, Najin extended a hand.
“Choose. Die on my sword here and now and have it end…”
Or else—
“Choose the path of revenge against the Church.”
Klaus looked at the hand Najin held out.
He had no hostages. His comrades were already dead. The only reason Klaus had cooperated with the Holy Light Church was that the Holy Light Church alone could lift the brand of heresy stamped on his fallen comrades.
Because the Holy Light Church was the one that had stamped it.
He had hated them, cursed them, and still been forced to obey. A mere defeated commander could never bring the Holy Light Church down.
But…
Klaus looked at the boy before him.
Surviving a life-and-death duel after defeat was an ugly thing. And yet there were things that had to be accomplished even if one fell as low as one could fall.
“Hah…”
After a brief silence he let out a long breath. A bitter smile clung to the corner of his mouth.
“The victor has the right to show mercy and the right to make an offer…”
Klaus recited the sacred rules of the duel.
Najin took up the next line.
“And the vanquished has the duty to accept it.”
“That’s right. Because that is what a duel is.”
“Then?”
“I accept. Gratefully.”
Klaus took Najin’s hand and slowly rose. Stanching his wounds with the potion Najin had given him, he exhaled a long breath.
“And the others?”
“They’re not dead.”
Najin indicated them with a sidelong glance.
There lay Jerold, clinging to life by a thread, and several Experts.
“Not all of them may agree to my offer. Whether you persuade them or tidy them up is up to you. I’m leaving it to you.”
“You’re asking a hard thing of me.”
“You were the strongest of them.”
Najin said it, and Klaus laughed.
“Then I have no choice. I’ll try.”
Having answered so, he slowly drew a breath.
Steadying his breathing, with a body that barely obeyed him, he raised his arm. Blood poured freely from the reopened wounds. Ignoring the pain, he brought the raised arm down and struck his own heart with a heavy thud.
Blood sprayed. Through the flying blood, Klaus’s voice rang out.
“I thank you for elevating a dishonorable, pride-less ambush into a true duel. I thank you for shattering full power with nothing but full power. I thank you for showing the vanquished mercy, and for granting a chance at revenge.”
Thanks.
“I, Klaus Aten, do not forget a debt of grace.”
Slowly he sank to one knee and bowed his head.
“The last Blue Wing cavalryman will answer your call whenever it comes, and on the day your sword-point turns toward the Church, he will charge the Church ahead of any other. I swear it on the honor of my fallen comrades.”
“Unfortunately, the one at the very front will be me. I don’t think I can give you the vanguard role.”
“A pity. Then I will chase after you one step behind.”
The last Blue Wing cavalryman smiled. Because his lance could now rest in the hands of one who knew honor and pride.
3.
“Take those who will share your purpose and go to this place. The Dieta Trading Company should be able to help you.”
Along with the brand-erasing potion, Najin handed Klaus several documents. Accepting them and listening to the explanation, Klaus stroked his chin.
“There’s one problem.”
“What is it?”
“Those deployed on this mission were hunting dogs like me—people with no direct link to the Church. But I doubt that slippery bastard would have left us without a single watcher.”
Klaus clicked his tongue.
“There will be watchers. People observing this situation from a distance. They may already have seen me joining you. And for the moment I am branded a heretic by the Church. If that happens…”
“‘He associated with a heretic.’ They could push that angle. After an armed assault comes religious pressure, is it?”
“Exactly. That’s closer to the Church’s true nature.”
“Well, I do have some thoughts on that side of things…”
Najin gave a short laugh.
“This business won’t leak as far as the Church.”
“What? What do you mean—”
“My collaborator is far more capable, thorough, and terrifying than any of you imagine.”
The snake that swallows gold coins—Dieta.
The net she had cast did not end at something this small. From the start, Roselyn Ascalo had not been the only mercenary she could command.
“By now, it’s probably already been cleaned up.”
The watcher the Church had sent hung nailed to a tree, arms and legs severed. Dangling from the trunk, the watcher stared ahead with trembling eyes. There, a woman was lining up and tending an array of torture implements.
The woman who had, in an instant, seen through the presence of a man watching the battle from afar and subdued him. The watcher knew her name well.
Cambria’s White-Horn adventurer.
Former heretic inquisitor, Baschen Corte.
A mercenary under exclusive contract with the Dieta Trading Company.
A woman who loathed the Church to the bone and was bound to High Priest Orlan by a bitter grudge. She let out a long breath and fixed the watcher with her stare. In the dim forest her vermilion eyes gleamed like a beast’s.
“Seven.”
She said.
“Including you, there were seven watchers. I killed four. No need for too many mouths. I meant to keep two for cross-examination, but…”
Baschen rolled something in her palm.
It was a plucked eyeball, and a severed tongue.
“They begged me to just kill them and fought back. So I killed them. What’s left is one blind man with his eyes gone, and you—who are more or less intact. Two.”
A chill ran down the watcher’s spine.
Baschen Corte had been a heretic inquisitor. That meant she knew dozens, hundreds of ways to torture a person until they talked.
“You don’t need eyes to speak, do you. Can you read braille? Essential for a Church priest, I would think. In that case you won’t need ears either. No need to hear anything. Ah—but with your arms gone that won’t be easy.”
Muttering, Baschen approached the watcher. Then she seized him by the hair and shoved her face in close. Madness swirled in those beastlike vermilion eyes.
“Either way, eyes don’t seem necessary.”
Baschen reached out.
A scream echoed through the forest.