On a carriage trundling in a foggy night was nowhere a swordsman should be. Cerwyn’s arse had been hurt from the continuous bobbing of the wooden cart. The axle had been creaking endlessly, and Cerwyn feared for its wooden wheels. The derelict gravel pathway that once had made the Spine wasn’t exactly kind to the daring merchant’s carriage.
Am I out of my mind? Cerwyn questioned himself for travelling south of Garrenborough. He wasn’t sure if it was the money that the old merchant had offered that made him do it. After all, only a dimwit would forgo the safety of Garrenborough for money. He was quite certain that the old merchant didn’t look like his father one bit. After all, if the merchant had shown any semblance of his father, he would’ve denied the request, no matter how trivial it might sound.
No… he wasn’t sure at all why he ever agreed to escort the old man to Skáratfort.
“Ya’ alright back there, son?” the old man said, hands on the horse’s reins.
“Could be better, Mister Nold” Cerwyn said.
“I told you to call me Bernard.” The old man let out a boisterous laugh.
“Quieten down, Bernard.” Cerwyn raised a finger on his lips.
Alone, with his vision obscured by all the fog, Cerwyn felt that their twosome were all alone in the middle of the marshes. But Angels, he knew that they were not alone. In this day and age, nobody sane dared venture into the Southern Nations. Barren swamp during the day, and at night, a macabre land filled with fogs. All he could see was ominous shadows of dead trees and wreckages of carriages. And Cerwyn knew, Angels, Cerwyn knew… that hidden in those fog, under the dead trees and amongst the wreckage, a Dead lurked.
“You worry too much,” Bernard said. “I’ve paid you a meagre amount to keep me safe, and you just said yes without much of a thought. You knew from the start that this is going to be an easy job, didn’t you? You’re just trying to scare me, wishing that I’ll pay you more!”
Bernard guffawed once again.
“I never said that it’s going to be an easy job,” Cerwyn said. “Also, didn’t I tell you to quieten down?”
“What are you so afraid of?”
“The Dead. They roamed the Southern Nations.”
“Pfft, nothing you can’t handle. Right, Sir Cerwyn?”
Sir. The honorifics triggered memories that prick his mind. “Stop calling me that.”
“Why not? Weren’t you one of them? A Verdanii knight?”
Cerwyn hugged his sword. It was the only thing that remained from that part of his life. His armour had corroded not long after the Dead rose again. His sword was the only thing he could keep pristine and flawless. He didn’t have enough oil, so he had to choose one.
Endurance. Cerwyn had named his sword Endurance. When he was an actual Verdanii knight, Endurance didn’t have a name. The sword had no lineage. No origin. It wasn’t an heirloom, nor was it a legendary relic. It was a banal sword, made in the fires of the Red Hall, issued to any other knight that had joined Verdant’s Conquest.
But the sword had endured. Through all the battles during the war. Through the Fracture. The sword had endured.
“Maybe I was,” Cerwyn said, stroking Endurance’s scabbard. Plain Verdanii leather. No patterns nor any embroideries. “But the Order of Knights fell with Verdania.”
They travelled in silence after. Perhaps, it was the earnestness in his response that shut the merchant up.
Cerwyn listened to the howling of the wind, the rustling of reeds, and the splatter of water. He listened, paying attention to the smallest change in sound. Most importantly, he listened out for a screech. The screech of the Dead that would fuel his sleep with nightmares. He turned to see the wetlands on his left, turned again to see more wetlands on his right. He paid attention to the shadows in the fog, watching for the slightest movement.
The carriage trundled, on and on, until…
“Why are we stopping, Bernard?” Cerwyn growled. “We’re not in Skáratfort.”
“Umm… the path is gone.”
“What do you mean the path is gone?”
“The Spine disappeared.”
Samael’s rod! Cerwyn leapt off the carriage and splattered mud all over when his boots touched the ground. The soil was soft, not sodden, but wetter than what Cerwyn had remembered when he travelled the route during the Conquest.
He walked to the front of the carriage, briefly faced Bernard to give the merchant a raised eyebrow, before he continued to observe the terrain.
Darkness, fog, patches of grass. But no Spine.
Once, the Spine had been a white gravel road, built to connect dozens of villages around the marshes. The Spine was the one structure that had made the Southern Nations. It was a common route, taken by merchants from all over the nation. A lifeline for the Southern Nation’s economy.
Tracing a line over what Cerwyn had believed used to be the Spine, his eyes scanned for signposts. There used to be many of those signs, erected every time a road branched off the Spine. Town names were carved on it, making sure that travellers knew where they were heading.
“There.” Cerwyn pointed to a signpost, no longer standing upright. “Look for those signposts.”
“What has this place become?” Bernard said.
“It’s a place of dea–” Death. Cerwyn wanted to say. He didn’t, when saw Bernard.
“It took us many decades to build the Spine. Now, it’s gone.”
Something in Bernard’s eyes reminded him of himself every time he held Endurance in his arms. The merchant’s face alone had grief written all over it. Cerwyn could only imagine the many moons he had spent, travelling along the Spine. Perhaps, the merchant remembered how he had met his peers along this road. How sometimes, his cart’s wheel gave out, and he had to fix it by the side of the road. Or perhaps, how he would spur his horse to a gallop when he saw Cerwyn’s kind along this road.
Cerwyn touched the mark on his neck, wiped away when he scorched it with a red-hot horseshoe. Only three moons ago, he was riding his own horse along this road, sowing terror and malice. It was on this road where he cried, mourning for the death of his wife. He had thought, once, that the war his people had brought upon this land would be the end of the Spine. Too much conflict happened along the road. Ambushes more than he could remember. But the road had somehow always endured, just like Endurance.
Until the Fracture. Ah yes, the Fracture changes a lot of things. Even the glorious Spine was at the mercy of the Dead’s rise.
A distant screeching nudged Cerwyn back into reality. “Best we keep moving,” he told Bernard who immediately wiped tears off his cheeks.
Nostalgia is such a cruel lady, Cerwyn thought, so cruel that it made a laughing, spirited man cry in the span of minutes.
Bernard spurred the horse, and the cart began to trundle again. “Are you sure you don’t want to get back on the cart?” He asked Cerwyn.
“I’m alright,” Cerwyn said.
Now that the Spine was gone, the ground they were travelling on is soft. Walking on soft ground was a huge slog. Everytime he took a step, he felt a little giddy in him. The soil was slippery, and if he hadn’t worn his Verdanii leather boots, he would’ve fallen and had mud smeared over his face and gambeson. That would have been a problem. But the alternative would’ve been much worse. He noticed that the wheels of the cart had pressed into the soil, deeper and deeper the further they travelled. Cerwyn didn’t want the cart to sink into the mud, and he was certain that it would happen if he sat on it. That would be a disaster.
They went past a signpost. Three signs were nailed on it. Pointing to the west, Alawurn was written on the plank. Pointing to the direction they came from, Garrenborough was written. Then, one more pointing to the direction they were heading. On it, Skáratfort was written.
“We’re on the right track, Bernard. Let us proceed.”
Bernard nodded and his horse continued to trot above the soft ground.
After about fifteen minutes, another signpost appeared. They went past it in silence, still following the sign pointing towards Skáratfort. Another fifteen minutes, and another signpost appeared. And only after they had passed their eighth signpost, Bernard said, “Would you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Ask away.”
“Were you one of the knights that marched into Skáratfort three years ago?”
“No.”
“Are you…” Bernard paused, finding words, “…a participant of any battle?”
“Alawurn. I am part of the Fifth Regiment. Sixteenth Squadron.”
“Ummm….”
“Why does it matter anyway? All that is in the past.”
“Yes… Yes… You’re right Sir Cerwyn.”
“I told you to drop the Sir.” Cerwyn sighed.
“I wonder then,” Bernard said, “why did you insist that I drop such an honourable title?”
“Honourable?” Cerwyn spat. “You must be either joking, or you’re just lying to yourself. Have you forgotten that we were your tyrants?”
“Well, I’ve never really considered the knights to be as such. You see, I am a merchant from Garrenborough. I’ve spent more than twenty years going around the Southern Nations, trading all sorts of things. Pelts for the Skaratfolks, then I would bring back some pearls for the Garrenfolks and Verdanii merchants that stopped by the town. In those twenty years, I don’t recall Garrenborough to be as prosperous as the days the knights were in the town.”
Bernard had to halt his carriage when Cerwyn decided to stop plodding and turned to face the merchant. “Your point, Mister Nold?”
“I know that there are many Southerners that saw the Verdanii as invaders. I know that there is a huge group of us, especially the young ones and those mercenaries in black, who called themselves freedom fighters. They fought, driving themselves addicted to the thirst for glory. Yet, most of them seemed to have missed that the Verdanii was here for a good cause.”
“Do you really believe so, Mister Nold?”
“Why of course! You built churches, and armed the Garrenfolks. You wiped the pleasure houses off our streets. And when I thought you were going to condemn those children of sins, those bastards, to death, you taught them how to be a knight instead! Made them useful for once! If that’s not for a good cause, what is?”
“Is that why you were not afeared to ask for my help?”
“Is that not obvious? You are a knight, Sir Cerwyn! You are meant to protect us! Why then did you agree to accompany me in this unpleasant journey, if not for your honour?”
Cerwyn tightened his grip on Endurance, rubbing its scabbard and feeling the velvety Verdanii leather, once again. Did I accept this quest because of my honour as a knight? His mind raced. What is a knight’s honour? It had perished long ago. Even before the Fracture. It perished the day we pillaged the Southerners. It perished the day we caused the pogrom in Skáratfort.
“Bah, you might think otherwise, Sir Cerwyn. But I know! I know!” Bernard said.
“Stop calling me sir, Mister Nold.”
“Well then start calling me Bernard!”
Cerwyn chuckled.
“There you go. Cheer up a little, young man. Then our travels shall feel much lighter.” He spurred the horse once again, and the cart continued.
The remainder of their journey did indeed feel lighter. Not long after, Cerwyn felt the shifting rocks of Maut’s shores. The shadows in the fog towered above them. Three to four storeys wooden houses, built on barnacles-ridden bitumens. His ears picked up steady, crashing waves, hitting the rocks. Like the realm’s heartbeat, Cerwyn felt its sheer power, striking doubts to those who dared venture into Maut.
Cerwyn prowled into the port town. He unsheathed Endurance, slowly and carefully. He had heard stories of iron, corroding way faster in Skáratfort compared to any other places. The salty air was not exactly friendly to metals. At first, he thought that it was a mere rumour. Quickly, he believed it. For no buildings or structures in Skáratfort were made of metal.
Bernard secured the reins to his carriage, got off, and shuffled towards Cerwyn. Even in those simple acts, Bernard was making too much noise for Cerwyn’s comfort. He didn’t like Skáratfort. There were too many tall abandoned buildings. Too many dark corners and shadows and angles to watch. And those places were a favourite for the Dead to loiter around.
They continued deeper into the town. The fog was not getting any thinner and it was difficult to see the waters of Maut. Abandoned buildings were to their left and right. The windows on it were like stalking eyes. The rotting wood splinters around its door were like gnashing teeth of a predator. They were walking into the jaws of lions.
“What are we doing in this damned place, Bernard?” Cerwyn asked his patron.
“To find oysters,” Bernard said.
“Oysters?”
“Yes, I’m looking for pearls.”
Cerwyn frowned, furrowing his eyebrow and gave him a disgusted look. “You are risking your life for pearls?”
“Sir Cerwyn.” Bernard cleared his throat. “Pearls were expensive in Garrenborough. It got even more expensive when Skáratfort became occupied by the Valravns. And now, it becomes absurdly, mind bogglingly expensive.”
Bernard nudged Cerwyn with his elbow, and gave the knight a huge smirk. “Guess who specialises in procuring and selling pearls!”
Fury welled up inside Cerwyn. I should’ve known that this man is just another greedy merchant! Money drives his life, and he’s driving it into a cliff. And I’m on the ride with him, for Angel’s sake!
“You idiot!” Cerwyn bellowed. He saw Bernard flinched, and he was ready to barrage him with invectives. But the Dead beat him to it with a long, terrifying screech.
“Should’ve brought my pistol with me,” Cerwyn whispered to Bernard. “It’s back in the carriage.”
“I thought you had it with you,” Bernard whimpered in an equally soft voice.
Bernard assumed the Swallow—a stance preferred by many Verdanii knights. Offhand on the back of Endurance’s hilt, on hand nearer to the guard. He raised it, such that the guard was at eye level, pulling it close to the side of his head. The tip of the blade jutted outwards, lined up with his vision. He widened his footing, bending his knees to better his balance.
“Stay close, keep your back to mine,” Cerwyn whispered. “Let’s move slowly. Back to where we came from and get our arses out of this place. And do me a favour, Bernard. Forget about the damned pearls.”
Cerwyn could hear Bernard swallowing. To his delight, Bernard followed his instructions.
He would’ve felt safer if Bernard was another knight. During the battle of Alawurn, many years ago, he formed the back to back formation with his wife. Mantel was an indomitable formation when performed by two knights who trusted each other. Ambushed by Southerners, they would stand together, cutting down everyone that approached them.
But Bernard was just an old man with no knowledge of the sword. And his opponent this time wasn’t the Living.
Cerwyn moved with a wide stance, his legs reached far and his body lowered. Silent and steady, the knight made his way back to the carriage. Bernard tried to keep up, but he shuffled awkwardly. He leaned a little too much, and he’d jostled Cerwyn with his arse, only to lose his own balance and wobbled. But the old merchant stood his ground. He shuffled, wobbled, and steadied himself. Until he didn’t…
On the uneven, rocky shores of Skáratfort, Bernard fell on his side. And he cried in pain, louder than Cerwyn had expected he would. Very much like a response, the Dead of Skáratfort screeched back.
Cerwyn didn’t hesitate, kneeling down and putting Bernard’s hand over his shoulder. He held the old merchant tight around one arm, and the other held Endurance. With no stances, he was holding it more like a ruffian with a cudgel. Bernard was grunting, accompanied by coarse and short breath.
“I think I broke my hips,” Bernard cried.
There was too much for Cerwyn to worry about, so he ignored the merchant’s wail. He mustered some strength, pacing his breathing. I can do this, he encouraged himself, one, two, three hufft! Bernard wasn’t exactly a light man, he was paunchy, and he was, very clearly to Cerwyn, debilitated. Cerwyn heaved regardless. One, two, three hufft! And Bernard’s loud groan came after.
A feeling of dread came crawling up Cerwyn’s back. He tightened his grip on Endurance, vigilant.
One, two, three hufft!
One, two, three hufft!
One, two, three hufft! And Bernard’s leg gave, his weight pulled them both to the ground. This time, Cerwyn dampened the old man’s fall. Brought to his knees, Cerwyn held on, ensuring that the old man didn’t hit his head.
“Leave me be, Sir Cerwyn, I’m done for,” Bernard bawled like a baby. “It’s all my fault. This is all my fault.”
Cerwyn looked ahead, towards the path they were heading. There, inside the fog, Cerwyn could see their carriage’s silhouette, faint, but it was right there. It was easy to leave Bernard here to meet his fate to save himself. After all, it was exactly just as he said, right? This was all his fault.
Samael’s Rod! Cerwyn cursed. It was MY fault that I agreed to become his chaperone! He let go of Bernard, leaving him sprawled on the rocky ground. Endurance gripped tight in his hand, he assumed the Swallow stance once again. His heart beat fast once again, stoking the flame of guts that burned away all of his cowardice.
Crawlers and walkers thronged from abandoned buildings. They amassed, and they approached. Screeches. The endless screeching made his ears hurt. The sound of the Dead was washing away his hope. Cerwyn didn’t want to lose hope. No, Cerwyn didn’t want to hear the sound of the Dead any more. So, he yelled louder than the screeches. He couldn’t care if it would destroy his throat. His cry was very much like a battle cry. The same one he had when he fought in the battle of Alawurn. A sound of a Living, crying, out of his sheer will to keep on living.
The first that came at him was a walker. Cerwyn swung Endurance at an arc, right above its left hips and up as the blade exited the corpse’s right shoulders. The walker fell before him, and Cerwyn quickly moved on to the next. Another walker. He chopped off its head and cut it again across its waist, severing its head and legs from its torso. He took a glance at the shifting rocks below him, seeing the limbs writhed. Among them, a crawler clawed its way towards Cerwyn. He stomped its head, crushed its skull along with the tricorne hat that decorated it.
Cerwyn assumed the Falcon’s Horn. A stance much more effective for killing. Endurance now jutted up, aimed at an angle above his head. Very much like a horn. The Dead’s strength didn’t come from its prowess in battle. It came from its number. Wave after wave, the Dead walked and crawled towards him and Bernard. He stood his ground. I’ll destroy them all if I need to. I’ll kill all the Dead in Skáratfort.
In this stance, his shoulder ached. Endurance was heavy above his head, a tiring stance. The weight helped him to cut through a walker’s skull, its bonnet sent straight into its rotting brain. Black ichor poured fountained from the rift he made in the corpse’s face, and he kicked it back into the horde.
Clinging onto his life, Bernard was fighting his own battle. With the rocks nearby, Bernard smashed rotting hands that crawled at him. Threw rocks at crawlers that might get too close to them. The old man crawled slowly towards the carriage. Inch by inch, dragging his broken body. A huge grimace was on his face when he did all that. He was holding the pain on his broken hips. Sometimes, he screamed his own sound of a Living, one filled with determination to stay alive.
Between waves, Cerwyn scanned for bones. Blessed be the Angels, there are no bones! The living bones were dangerous. He had seen them wield weapons before. Rakes, sickles, all sorts of farming tools. Fighting bones felt closer to fighting a Living. Many, it would be like quelling a riot. Surrounded, and that’d be the end of him.
The glass from the window above them shattered. The shards rained down on them, but Cerwyn took most of it when he covered Bernard with his own body. A screeching corpse dropped from the window. Cerwyn raised Endurance, its blade jutting upwards. The corpse’s impetus did the rest as it plunged—skull first into his blade. He twisted the blade, pulling it out of the corpse through its neck, letting the head fall first into the ground. When he saw its mouth chattering, still persisting to bite him in the leg, Cerwyn kicked it far away back into the depths of Skáratfort. Seeing the remains of the corpse writhed and reached for his boots, he flogged whatever remained of it three times. Two to shatter its shoulder, another one right through the centre to crush it in two.
He cursed at himself for not bringing a torch with him. Watching the corpses writhe made the Verdanii funeral rites of burning their dead even more sense. Even now, headless, shoulderless and split into two, the corpse still moved. The only time the Dead perished was when they were turned to ash.
The glass shards dug deep between his shoulder blade. His offhand let go of Endurance. He couldn’t move it, and he didn’t want it to get in the way. One-handed stance didn’t exist. A black-cloak, one of his instructors, reprimanded him once for attempting it. A person who holds swords with one hand ends up as ashes. Only the untrained or desperate idiots wield swords with one hand.
When the next wave came, Cerwyn had forgotten everything the Order of Knights had taught him. He swung wide, letting Endurance’s impetus to do the heavy work of cutting through rotting flesh. Endurance was leading the dance, as he followed the motion of his sword. Spinning and spinning without control.
He managed to stop his momentum when he felt that he was cutting only air. Skáratfort spun. He wobbled and genuflected before the mighty port town. He turned to see the carriage, its silhouette was darker and larger.
So close. It can be done.
How many had he cut down? He saw the writhing flesh, littering the rocks. Twelve? Fifteen?
He summoned the strength to his legs. He had to rise. He was not going to die here.
Thunder struck. A familiar thunder, for he had called them upon often. The sound of a pistol. The bullet pierced him on his shoulder, barely missing his head. It burned his flesh and the force shoved him down, back first onto the ground.
A Living? His mind raced. He scanned the amassing Dead. Then, he saw a black robe. A remnant of the Valravn. A skull hid under the black hood. A living bone, holding onto an eight-shooter, aiming directly at them.
The Valravn haunted him when they were alive. Now, after their body had turned to bones, they haunted him still. If the Angels willed it that he would die this evening, then let it be that he died the same way as his wife—assassinated by a valravn. He crawled towards Bernard, covering him.
“Sir Cerwyn?” Bernard asked.
“A valravn. Firearms,” Cerwyn said. An excuse. Money? A knight’s honour? Everything had been an excuse.
Why did he choose to travel with the old man, knowing that the old man’s journey was a suicide?
To die like his wife? No… No… He might not want to admit it to Bernard. It wasn’t honour that drove him. It was duty. We are the armour that guards the Living. Yes, it was simply duty. Duty that he had foregone during his time as a Verdanii knight when he slaughtered the children of Alawurn. He had to make amends for his sins during the Conquest. He had to redeem himself.
One life might not be enough for his redemption. But it’s still one life more than none.
He heard the pistol fired again. He closed his eyes in resignation. Then, he felt a gust of wind behind him. A huge clang followed. Metal, hitting another metal. He was still breathing.
Cerwyn turned around, only to see billowing fog, eddying in front of him. It twirled upwards, around a ragged, but majestic red-cloak.
A Verdanii knight’s red-cloak.
Cerwyn couldn’t see the knight’s face clearly. Rather, he wasn’t sure if the figure before him even had a face. Atop the red-cloak, whiteness shrouded the figure’s face, indistinguishable from the fog of Skáratfort. The cloak hung from the same armour he once wore. Beneath those armour, Cerwyn saw a weathered gambeson. Under those fabrics, he saw rotting flesh.
The red-cloaked knight seemed as if it was turning its head. Albeit briefly, Cerwyn’s eyes widened when he saw the incorporeal face of a woman.
The ghastly dame raised her sword, going into a stance different from what he had been taught. Somehow, though, he was certain that he had seen that stance before. Her form was perfect, wide and balanced. Her sword settled flat first on her shoulder. Two hands on the sword, thumb on the flat of the blade. Awkward, uncanny, but Cerwyn knew he’d still lose if he faced her.
She dashed into the mass of the Dead, and struck, crosswise. The blade sliced through the skull of a walker clean, the sharpest blade Cerwyn had ever seen. Whenever she struck, her back foot stepped outwards, and she’d spin, following the sword’s motion. It wasn’t like his spin of desperation. The way she moved made the surrounding fog dance, circling her and belled like the gossamer of a dress. Heads of the Dead dropped as she danced. She’d stop, turn and strike in the other direction. The fog followed her, eddying, churning. She took a small, spinning hop to orient herself. It looked like the pirouettes the Elaines would do in their dances. And it was mesmerising.
The valravn fired another shot, and the red-cloaked ghost reversed her grip on her sword. She leaped back, and with the fuller of her blade, she blocked the bullet with finesse and precision. Through the spark, metal against metal, Cerwyn saw the iridescent venal patterns on her blade. It was then, Cerwyn knew…
The red-cloak. The stance. The sword.
“Dame—” Cerwyn tried to call her.
But the ghost responded with a resounding command. “GO!” Her voice, one he had respected with utmost admiration, now filled with an ephemeral pitch. As if her voice reached his mind directly.
Obeying, Cerwyn rose and picked Bernard up with him. Once again, he put the old man’s arm around his shoulder. Quickly, he went back to his fleeing pace.
One, two, three hufft!
To be a cabby was not part of a Verdanii knight’s job. Yet, Cerwyn was glad that he could still command this carriage for the old merchant. He couldn’t move his arm, a glass shard and a bullet stuffed his shoulder. Yet, to see the old man at the back of the carriage, safe, put a smile on his face.
The horse was galloping, pulling the carriage towards Garrenborough at cruising speed. Finally, they were heading back into safety.
“Thank you, Sir Cerwyn.” Bernard gave a light bow.
“It’s not me that you should thank. Without her, that would have been the end of us.”
“Yes. That is true. But you, too, did save my life, Sir Cerwyn. And you are here, she is not.”
“Just do me a favour, Bernard. If I haven’t said it already–”
“Aye aye. I’ll forget about the pearls. I’ve had enough of Skáratfort in my lifetime.”
Cerwyn chuckled.
“Who was she anyway?” Bernard asked. “Was she… Why would a Dead be slaying another Dead?”
Cerwyn took a minute to look back into his days in Garren Keep. A red-cloaked knight, Verdania’s royal guard. As far as he remembered, only one had ever ventured to the Southern Nations. He remembered her and her mighty sword—the Lifekeeper. He didn’t think that even she had fallen.
“She was the best of us,” Cerwyn said. “The perfect knight.”
She had fallen. But did it matter? Dead or alive, the sword she was wielding was one true to her character. A life keeper.