It was midnight, the stars twinkling overhead like lofty fireflies. The Human army, exhausted from their battle with the dark Werewolves and more than a little shaken by barely escaping being buried alive by a landslide, were almost dead to the world. The infantry mostly slept where they could for warmth, even against one another. Their fires were kept low to avoid giving away their positions to any scouts of the local forces. Sentries had been posted and scouts were routinely making sweeps of the terrain to the south, in amongst the trees to keep on the lookout for unfriendly spies.
Off-key snores, mixed with random drunken babble, echoed up from the sleeping mass as two large men began to make their way through the curled up forms of their fellows, taking as much care as possible not to make a sound. The two of them carried a large canvas sack between them that made a metallic jingle as they walked, clinking and gently rattling.
As they had been instructed, they took great care not to be noticed leaving, slipping away as the sentries on watch changed shifts. They had both been expressly told that no one was to see them, and if they were discovered they would be disavowed as thieves and hanged on the spot. This made their job somewhat perilous and risky, but they had also been promised great rewards if they performed the task.
These two were an older and younger brother from Uschtenheim, recruited at the point of a sword to this army from the inside of a tavern. They had been trying to escape the recruiters through the back door, but the press gang had placed several men out back to prevent such flight and they had been caught. Neither of them were good fighters and the idea of being involved in any more battles with the natives, mutant wolves, or whatever else this unwholesome land had in store for them was intolerable. The risk of being hanged was worth taking if it allowed them the gold to bribe an officer or two to look the other way and allow them to make off with enough supplies to get back home.
Once clear of the light of the campfires, the two men paused to make sure that they had indeed not been seen. Only then did the younger let out a small sigh of relief. The older man glared at him and held a finger to his lips, reminding his younger brother to keep his mouth shut. They were not quite out of this yet. Quickly they proceeded up and around the debris left by the day’s unexpected landslide, the earth still loose underfoot.
They had been told to go to a very specific place some distance to the north and that they would know it when they saw it. With only that vague instruction to guide them they continued on, looking around for anything that might mark their destination. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when they almost stumbled directly into the very place.
Hidden from sight of the camp by a large rock was a flat, open area, the perimeter perfectly round. In the exact centre of that circle was a single square block of stone with a smooth top and sides which showed very clearly that it had been carved. The two men stared at it, knowing this was no random place, but had been fashioned to some purpose. The younger man shot his brother a suspicious and worried glance. The elder man shrugged and then pointed to the centre of the circle. Quickly they took the bag they were carrying over to the spot and gently set it down beside the square stone, the contents clinking.
With their task accomplished, neither man was inclined to hang around to indulge their curiosity as to what would happen now. They both made off back towards the camp as quickly as they could go, eager for the reward that would get them out of this nightmare of a campaign.
Vorador watched them go from his hiding place atop the rock, so silent and still they had not noticed him perched there at all, like some gargoyle atop a church leering down and hardly looked at. Humans did indeed have a great skill for not seeing what was right in front of their unobservant faces; it allowed them to see only what they wanted to see and that often changed depending on their religion or culture. How blissful such ignorance must be, he thought idly to himself.
The Vampire waited until they were out of sight and then slid down the side of the rock to the ground, turning to look at the large canvas bag they had deposited with a disagreeable frown marring his face.
It had only been after William had already left to organise all this with the agreement made that Vorador supposed it might have indeed been quicker to hack his way through the encamped army to beat the upstart monarch into telling him what he wanted to know. That being said, he still did not really feel inclined to expend such efforts in pursuing such a bloodletting. While time was of the essence he needed to conserve his energies for important battles, not a meaningless and easily avoided squabble.
Grimly, his face creased in a disapproving frown at his own actions, he started towards the bag on the ground.
-0-
“I was out in the cold wilderness to create a sword at the behest of an upstart popinjay with an elevated notion of his own self-importance who continually quipped with what he mistakenly believed to be wit.”
-0-
He took hold of the bag and began to undo the knots of cord that held it together, its contents inside rattling.
-0-
“Had I been told I would be performing such a task when my quest began, I would have thought the informer quite mad.”
-0-
When the bag opened, Vorador saw inside all that he had requested in order to fulfil William’s commission. There was a large blacksmith’s hammer, along with a pair of sturdy iron tongs. While they were the most pedestrian of tools imaginable, they were essential to the trade of any blacksmith from any race or time.
Beneath them was the metal he was to re-forge. It was a suit of armour, dented and broken in many places. The breastplate was caved in and the bracers had long claw marks scraped over them. At the sight of the helmet, the Vampire let out an annoyed sigh and rolled his eyes. He recognised the armour of Ser Barentein easily enough, all the leather fittings removed, leaving only the dented steel behind. It would seem William would prefer to make something noble of his bodyguard’s sacrifice, to let the armour in which he died live on in some other form.
It was a theatrical, bombastic gesture and so typical of the young monarch that Vorador almost felt like laughing about it. Then he set such thoughts aside and examined the metal. It was good strong steel, but not perfect. The Men of this era had not yet learned how to properly smelt all the imperfections out of their ore, but whoever had created the steel for this armour had certainly been gifted, perhaps taught some methods handed down by the Serioli. It was enough for him to work with.
He piled the pieces of armour up on the square rock he had fashioned for the purpose of serving as an anvil. He slipped the tongs into his belt and took up the hammer, standing before the piled mass of metal. Ordinary blacksmiths would require a well-heated forge before they began, but Vorador had been trained in the art of elemental control and was a master at controlling the element of Fire, so such preparation would not be necessary.
-0-
“Here I came to a dilemma of my own personality. All that was required of me was to create an impressive-looking sword. I could simply make the fool a weapon that certainly looked monumental but would be near useless in combat and it certainly would serve the fop right for daring to take advantage of me. However, I had never once in my entire career ever made an item that was simply a cosmetic prop. Such a thing would be an insult to both my own skill and the skills of my teachers.”
-0-
He paused as if in indecision; hammer in hand, looking down at the armour. It sat there, waiting silently, almost expectantly. He stared at it mutely, his expression creasing and relaxing, going back and forth from annoyance to interested consideration. Despite himself, he felt a growing excitement in the task that needed performing.
-0-
“Before me, I decided, lay a challenge. I had learned much over the course of my long life and now was the moment to test my skill one last time. To forge a weapon that could withstand the Reaver blade itself if need be. Perhaps I was being as ridiculous as William for considering it this way, but the idea appealed immensely nonetheless.”
-0-
The crowning achievement of his art had been the creation of the Reaver, a serpentine blade forged from the iron in blood and teeth, a unique alloy. It had been perfectly balanced, a claymore light enough to be wielded like an ordinary one-handed blade but strong enough to cleave through flesh and bones with ease. To attempt to surpass or even equal that weapon with mere ordinary steel would be an impressive task.
Contemplating it in such a manner, all the spirit of competition he had once held in amongst the other novices in the Serioli came back. It was still there even after all this time, the drive to prove himself to be the best at his craft, to earn the respect of his tutors and to prove to himself that he was unmatched at the forge. He had thought such passion had been quenched in him for centuries. To find it aroused again now was both a pleasant surprise and worrisome.
After a brief struggle he yielded to the impulse and with his free hand gestured and called up with his Serioli skill the element of Fire. The square stone before him began to hiss and from within, an intense fire burst up, flames locked inside the stone to prevent the light from being seen from the camp. The rock itself grew near white-hot in an instant. Vorador stood there, feeling the heat wash over him, watching and waiting.
Slowly at first, the broken armour began to glow red. Then its edges became soft and indistinct as the metal started to lose its solidity. Nodding once to himself, Vorador raised his hammer high. As he did he gestured again with his free hand and invoked the Serioli control over the element of Earth. It reinforced the hammer he held, augmenting it so that it transcended its pedestrian nature and origin, becoming in his hand a master’s tool.
He brought it down sharply on the metal and again and again, over and over each strike on the metal was accompanied by a gesture from his free hand or a muttered phrase from his lips. Even as he hammered the metal out of its original shape and into a pliable mass, he was infusing it and reinforcing its structure. First with Earth, to make the steel stronger and binding its parts together more tightly. Then he infused it with Air, allowing it to retain its strength while decreasing its overall weight. After that came Water, driving out all impurities, leaving it undiluted and solid; the waste slag dribbling down the sides of the stone cube to the ground. His mastery of Fire was used to bind all these efforts together to make a whole.
For half an hour he continued, until the armour which had once clad Ser Barentein was now a lump of glowing metal, its nature and strength vastly improved. But Vorador was not done yet. Now he had the material he needed, pliable, strong and ready to be moulded into any shape he desired. The real effort at creation would begin now.
The Vampire paused for a moment. The blades he preferred to make were twisted and serpentine, like the Reaver. Even Marrow at his side was similarly shaped although with more jagged edges. He preferred such blades because at such odd angles they could slice through flesh easier. Such a shape would not be desirable, for Humans often found such weapons alien and repugnant and preferred straight blades. This did not mean that straight swords were inferior. They had a far better thrust, allowing them to pierce through armour more easily. That could be improved upon.
Quickly he drew up the design of the blade he wanted in his mind. Perhaps a tad unwisely he compared what he had in mind to the Reaver, pitting the two swords against each other to determine which was superior. Oddly enough he could not come up with a definitive answer. The idea of making a blade to rival the Reaver itself was tantalising and he could not help becoming excited.
He raised his hammer and brought it down, over and over. With each blow he invoked more and more of the elemental lore. As the metal began to lengthen, he took the tongs from his belt and used them to hold the metal in place as he worked. With both hands occupied the elemental incantations he spoke were quick and almost guttural, and correctly speaking them all over and over while physically bashing molten metal into shape took a great deal of concentration. Sweat broke out across his forehead, running down his face to drip and sizzle on the hot metal.
Vorador did not pause. He pressed on, keeping the flow of energies surrounding the emerging weapon going. The metal rippled like the surface of a pond under the blows of the hammer, its very substance visibly rearranging itself under the strikes. He folded the metal often, making layer upon layer and hammering it flat again. Slowly the metal lengthened, stretching out longer and longer until it was a good meter long.
Vorador slowly raised the hammer, drawing it up above his head, his arm tensed. As he did the stream of incantations from his lips came so rapidly that to any outside listener he was babbling high-pitched gibberish. Then with one mighty effort he brought the hammer down on the prepared metal in one massive strike. The shockwave of elemental forces from that strike burst out, making the rocks and stones all around him rattle for a moment and the air flicker as if seen through heat waves.
The metal burst with that blow, fragments of it scattering in many directions. A mixed cloud of dust and steam filled the air, obstructing the view for a moment. When it cleared, lying on the stone cube was a sword blade, perfectly straight with a blood groove down its centre. Its pedestrian shape was not the interesting part, for the metal had been turned snow white by the process, making the blade appear as if it were forged from light itself.
Vorador reached out and picked up the blade, fearing not being burned as all heat had vanished with that one hammer stroke. Pressing one talon to its edge, the Vampire called up the elemental power of Air. While not a master in controlling that element, he knew enough to sheer off the rough edges. Dragging his talon down from base to tip, he watched as the polished surface came into view, the dullness falling to the ground in fragments.
When he was done he held the blade up and examined it by the light of the stars. It was a beautiful blade even if he did say so himself; a marvel to look at and merely holding it he could feel how perfectly balanced it was. Despite its length and size it felt light and flexible, easily able to respond to the slightest movement.
Creating the hilt was easily done. He had enough of the metal left to create a crosspiece, handle and pommel and join it to the blade. Then when this was complete he set about applying the detail with the zeal of a devoted craftsman. No inch of the newly born sword was left unattended, carving decorative and imposing patterns representing the elements that forged the weapon. The symbol for Water was on the pommel. Earth was stretched across the crosspiece. Air was carved into the hilt. Fire’s symbol ran the length of the blade.
The sun was beginning to rise again when he was finished and held the complete sword out in front of him, its blade catching the first rays as they peeked over the horizon. Standing there, holding such an excellent blade he had created through sweat and toil, at the behest of a Human he really did not like, Vorador suddenly felt amazingly and dangerously foolish and despite searching for the reason, he could not tell why.
It quite dispelled the jubilation he might with more justice feel at the completion of such a magnificent weapon and was beyond the ordinary dislike of his situation. He had no rational reason for thinking so, but he could not shake the intense feeling that he had just done something that he was going to regret. That feeling puzzled him and left this moment of triumph bittersweet indeed.
With the first light of the sun, the generals of William’s army gave out the order to get the men moving to begin the slog southward through the Fens. The officers had to, more than once, resort to kicking quite a few dozen infantry awake and driving the points of their swords into the others. For those that didn’t rouse when first ordered they were forced to march without their morning food ration. The camp was methodically broken up as the preparations for the march were performed. As they would be marching through a thickly forested marshland, full of sinkholes and other hidden dangers, equipment such as makeshift rafts and portable bridges were readied.
Scouts were sent out to prowl the land through the swamps in front of the army. It was they who found the small pagan shrine on a hillock protruding from the marshy ground, perhaps a mile from the encampment. Finding the landmark, they pulled back and reported it at once to the generals. This was not a good sign for the army, as their strategy hinged on traversing the swamp quickly and without being seen by as many of the local populace as possible. The presence of a shrine seemed to hint that this place was frequented by some natives at least.
The king, however, was intrigued by the scouts’ description of this shrine and ordered the army to march to that hill, much to the chagrin of the generals. Even for such a large body of men with supplies, weapons, and horses to manage, the distance was covered fairly quickly. Soon the army surrounded the hill, most of the men trying to find solid land to stand on rather than slogging through thigh deep muck.
The shrine was an elaborate set of standing stones arranged in three rings around the sides of the hill, the tallest stones at the bottom and each ring composed of smaller stones going up. At the very top, there was a square stone altar on a raised pedestal which was covered in dried herbs and berries, the standard type of offering to be seen on such pagan places of worship. What grabbed everyone’s attention immediately, however, was the sword.
Thrust blade down into the altar was the most beautiful sword any of them had ever seen. Its blade was pure white like the light of day, its hilt and crosspiece gold mixed with silver and engraved with strange, heavenly symbols. Such a weapon was clearly a divine relic and out of place among the primitive surroundings of this place of pagan worship.
The men muttered amongst themselves for a little while, looking at their officers and wondering what they should do. Then a few bolder men made their way up the side of the hill to the altar; everyone watching them intently. They walked around the sword a few times to look at it from every side. The small group then talked amongst themselves and after a moment, one of their number was pushed forward towards the altar.
The man hesitated for a moment and then wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword. Taking hold of it he pulled, trying to remove the sword from the rock. His entire body tensed with the effort but he could not budge it, the sword remaining stuck fast. The men behind him laughed at his efforts.
“Stand aside!” Another of them, a far larger man with wide shoulders and well-developed forearms, chuckled dryly. “Let a real man try!” He knocked the first one aside and took hold of the hilt himself with one hand, giving it a negligent seeming tug. The sword did not so much as wobble. Frowning, he took a hold of it with both hands and tried again. Once more the sword was steadfast. This time a few amongst the army down at the bottom of the hill laughed as well.
“Well lads, looks like we need to search for a real man!” Someone was heard to laugh. Several more made to start up the hill but by now the officers were in place to force them back into position.
The ranks of the army parted and the generals, with the new king in the middle, made their way up the hill. The rest of the group quickly bolted down the other side of the hill, giving their betters the precipice of the hillock undisputed.
The generals all took turns trying to remove the sword themselves one by one and each time they failed, the sword seemingly stuck and immovable.
“Can no one move this sword?” Someone in the army down below asked in wonder. Another one shook his head.
“Only one blessed by the hand of God could do such a thing.” He replied in a tone often used by the awed religious. Thus was the conversation in the army started about the nature of the sword. Perhaps it was blessed, a holy relic of some kind, sent by the heavens.
Perched, hidden by the thick foliage of the tree in which he was hidden, Vorador watched this ridiculous pageant unfold with an intense level of disgust. It was almost obscene. He had known Humans were not overly bright, especially in this uneducated era, but what was unfolding below him was utterly foolish.
It was all an act and anyone even the least bit cynical could see it. The sword he had made for William had been lodged in the stone by several of the king’s men after they had found this primitive altar, finding it perfect for their purpose. Every man who had tried to remove the sword up to now had been acting, of course. Anyone could remove that sword if they wished; a mere tug would free it. But William was orchestrating this event to make him appear like some messiah sent by the divine elements of the universe. Even now his agents were amongst the troops, whispering their prepared propaganda about the nature of the sword. The lies they were telling were so blatantly obvious that Vorador was faintly surprised their tongues didn’t turn black and drop out of their mouths.
William it seemed was a complex character. While he was willing to fight alongside his men proving he was no coward, he was also quite content with manipulating them any way he could. He had an elevated notion of his own social graces but seemed to genuinely grieve and feel for other people. Vorador found he disliked the young king even more for that, for not fitting perfectly into a stereotypical box of Human behaviour and personality. The foolishness of that thought made him pause.
When William finally approached the stone himself, a prearranged hush silenced any conversation amongst the crowd of troops. The king stood before the sword in the stone for a long silent moment. Then he began to slowly raise his hand. The theatricality of this was so blatant that Vorador was seriously tempted in that single moment to use his elemental knowledge of Earth to really make the sword stuck in the stone.
William drew the sword out of the rock with a hiss of metal on stone and held it high in one hand, its tip gleaming in the sunlight. The dramatic vista was like something drawn as an illustration in a children’s book and like children, the army before him was suitably impressed. Gasps and shocked murmurs ran through the men without any dissenting cynic to spoil the effect.
At that exact moment, a cloud which had moved in front of the sun began to break up in the wind, casting a shaft of sunlight right down onto the king with his new sword. Obviously William couldn’t have prearranged this, but the timing of that could not have been better to produce the effect of making the young monarch look like a living saint.
“Behold! Our King is blessed!” Someone called out into that moment of stunned silence of religious awe. “God Himself favours our young King!”
The army’s elation was so sickening that Vorador had to turn his head and look away. Cheers rang out, great cries of jubilation and rejoice.
“Let the word go forth of this wondrous blessing!” One of the generals on the top of the hill called out in a booming voice. With a dramatic wave of one hand the man gestured back to the king with his sword.
“All hail King William…the Just!” He thundered and the army below took up the praise, fists, swords, axes, bows, and lances raised in salute.
“All hail William the Just!” The army called back as one, repeating the call over and over in celebration.
Vorador almost fell out of the tree. He crouched there on the branch, mouth wide open and eyes bugged wide. If he could have seen himself he would not have been amused by his thunderstruck expression of sudden alarm. It all came rushing in on him with such force that his mind refused to function normally.
-0-
“What sort of a fool was I?! I should have recognised this sardonic boy for who and what he was immediately! The era in which I was now was just right for the emergence of the historical figure, William the Just! His murder at the hands of a Vampire would set into motion the events and bloody deeds of Moebius’ crusade. I had inadvertently and with foolish narrow-mindedness helped set up the sainted King to become the martyred catalyst for the genocide of my own people!”
-0-
It ought to have been obvious from the start to him. He should have seen it, should have realised just who he had been interacting with. But he had been so focused on his own goals that he had ignored nearly everything else that had gone on around him.
One thing was very clear, though. The Seer had tricked him into this. There was no way she could not have known about this and had deliberately placed him here to play some part in the timeline, a predestined role set aside for him. Bitterly he remembered the tales Raziel had told him back in his castle, that this was the nature of time travel, that one is destined to make such a journey into the past in order to ensure the continuality of the timeline. He had failed to heed that warning and the Seer had used him.
But what stung the most was his earlier observation about Humans, that they only saw what they wanted and expected to see. The same had just been irreversibly and humiliatingly proven about himself, and it was a bitter message to absorb.