The Wandering Sword

"Ser Mathias... please, come with me."

That order from the Lord Mayor and owner of the mansion, Lucios of Galeras, echoed in the dining hall until they reached Mavros' ears. An order in which the knight could discern a certain weariness, well-concealed by his polite tone.

A few seconds passed. All eyes were fixed on him, awaiting his response with anticipation.

Finally, Mavros simply nodded in silence. He pushed away from the table to follow Galeras and his companions, who led him out of the dining hall.

I don't know what's happening, but it's serious. Galeras has never been an effusive man, but I've never seen him so serious before... What did that soldier tell him? Why did he say it in a hushed voice so no one else could hear? Luciara wondered with suspicious anxiety, watching as he and Mavros turned into blurry silhouettes in the distance until they disappeared around a corner.

From that same corner, three servants appeared, pushing a wheeled table. It carried, in addition to cutlery, a bread basket, plates with silver round covers, a bottle of wine, and crystal glasses. The servants advanced until they crossed the threshold of the dining hall and entered it. Lunch had arrived. In methodical order and silent coordination, they placed the plates, cutlery, and glasses in front of Luciara and her mother, Menuha.

However, the lady remained indifferent to the activity around her, completely absorbed in her reflection, projected by the cover of the plate that had just been served to her.

"Mother?" Luciara called her, noticing her deep preoccupation. She could tell something was bothering her.

"Hmm?" Menuha glanced at her, returning to the present. "Did you call me, daughter?"

"Are you alright?" Luciara asked her. "You seem distant."

"I'm fine, it's nothing," she replied with a forced smile, which soon faded. She lowered her gaze again. "I'm just a bit uneasy about this situation with the beasts... and your escort's intentions."

One of the servants uncorked the wine bottle and poured each of their glasses halfway, the second placed the bread basket in the center of the table. Once both were done, the third servant lifted the plate covers in succession, revealing slices of juicy grilled breast.

Duck, thought Luciara and Menuha simultaneously, recognizing the origin of the meat instantly. It wasn't the first time they had eaten this Grianzan dish in the mansion. Two sliced and peeled peaches, along with slices of dill-seasoned potatoes and boiled vegetables, adorned each plate.

"Enjoy your meal," the three servants said.

"Thank you," the two ladies replied.

The household staff nodded and turned around to leave, taking the wheeled table with them.

"So... Are you worried about Ser Mathias going out to hunt those beasts?" Luciara resumed the conversation where they had left off. "I understand why you would be, considering they seem to be more dangerous than everyone expected, but I can assure you that no matter what happens, he will be safe," she affirmed with full confidence. "He's been escorting me for just over a day... but I've come to realize he's stronger than he appears."

Menuha slightly furrowed her brow, her emerald ovals meeting her daughter's crystalline grays.

"I know, I'm already aware. Your father told me everything about 'Ser Mathias'," she clarified firmly. "But still, I can't help but feel a bit uneasy. Even someone like him shouldn't underestimate what might roam the woods."

What might roam the woods? Luciara felt her veins freeze in a shiver as she recalled those words. She didn't know why, but the sheer tone and icy manner in which her mother spoke them made her momentarily share in her unease. She sensed that she was hiding something dreadful, just like the soldier and the mayor.

Menuha picked up her cutlery, shifting her focus to the plates. She had spoken enough.

"Let's eat..., the magret de canard is going to get cold."

***

Threads of wind that sneaked through his helmet caressed Mavros' face, accompanied by vegetal fragrances that pleased his senses. The mayor and the soldier had led him to the gardens on the mansion's outskirts. Close to the gated entrance through which he and Luciara had entered, a large curros was parked, guarded by two soldiers. The robust carriage looked like a mighty rhinoceros at rest. A rhinoceros with wheels, which unlike its fierce natural counterpart, awaited docilely to be mounted.

Galeras and the soldier paused beside the vehicle, turning toward Mavros.

"Ser Mathias, I will be frank with you," the Lord Mayor said. "These beasts attacking my domains are no ordinary creatures. All available information indicates that, unfortunately, they are Ashaim monsters."

The knight remained unimpressed, calmly awaiting the mayor's next, expected words.

"As written in the Blinitaka, the Ashaim are creatures corrupted by an infernal essence. A dark legacy of the Immortal Union, resurfacing from time to time as a reminder of their wicked cruelty," Galeras continued. "An essence of unbridled malice and brutal violence, beyond the reach of ordinary weapons and methods. Only the Holy Warriors, with their mastery of nefesh and sacred arms, have the capacity to eradicate it. Not to offend, but for these reasons, you are not up to such a threat," he pronounced, delivering the judgment. "Now that you know, I ask the favor of keeping this matter in strict secrecy. Do not mention it to my servants or the ladies."

As the rocks of a cliff against a fierce wave, Mavros stood his ground, unswayed by the expanded details, not the least bit intimidated.

"Verily, I comprehend thy concern, thou wishest not for me to peril my life in futile endeavor," he said calmly, devoid of any displeasure, "I have conveyed unto thee the semblance of a common knight."

"Uh?!" Galeras and his companion’s pupils widened to their maximum. The burgeoning aura of the wandering knight was reflected in them. A luminous and light amethyst halo, like that of a nighttime star, radiated from his entire armor.

"Do you know... do you know how to use the nefesh?" Galeras struggled to comprehend, "Are you a Holy Warrior? Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Thou art mistaken... I am not a Holy Warrior," he quickly refuted, "Yet, I am well-suited for this noble quest: I possess the power to manipulate the nefesh, and my trusty blade can readily inflict harm upon the Ashaim; many of their kind have met their doom by its edge. For these reasons, I do hereby pledge my participation in this endeavor."

The mayor raised his eyebrows in skepticism, increasingly noticing how the knight had completely abandoned the Grianzan accent with which he had presented himself. His new and eccentric speech patterns sounded even more foreign to the poet.

"Who are you?" he inquired, "You're not a Grianzan knight, are you?"

Mavros shook his head.

"I beg thy pardon for the falsehood, I did not know how thou would take the truth," he confessed, "I pledge that I shall reveal it unto thee, but upon my return from the completion of mine quest."

With that, he took a few steps towards the gate, leaving his astonished witnesses behind. He flexed his legs.

"Wa…"

Before the mayor could finish his call, the knight took a powerful leap that carried him to the other side of the gate. As soon as he landed on the grass, he sprinted away, quickly disappearing from the sight of his amazed audience.

Maskirio... he can leap over walls with ease, and runs as fast as a curros, Galeras cast a short glance at the parked vehicle, Not even most Holy Warriors reach that speed. Only the most prodigious achieve such feats, he added, drawing even more perplexed as he realized the extent of his guest's abilities, If he's not a top class Holy Warrior, what is this man?

***

I arrived too late, someone lamented, stopping at a point in the forest that immediately caught their interest; a point they wished they could have overlooked.

The corpses of several soldiers lay scattered alongside their weapons near a group of toppled bushes, like abused dolls mutilated by a deranged child. All the bodies bore claw marks and bites that had torn off entire limbs, some had even dented and penetrated their armor. Fresh blood still flowed from their lethal wounds, revealing their recent demise. The tip of an arrow was embedded in the trunk of a pine tree. The missed mark was the only trace of what had undoubtedly been a brief resistance.

Driven by great indignation, the individual clenched the hilt of their sheathed rapier with their right hand.

Fools... I warned you, and yet you chose to ignore me. If you had the sense to listen to me, none of this would have befallen you, the masked Holy Warrior berated the dead men in their thoughts, with suppressed desolation. While the soldiers had earned their antipathy for their stubborn attitude during their only encounter, the last thing the foreigner had wished for was that the reckless adventure would have these consequences.

"Hm?!" Subtle but distinct signals they perceived made the warrior forget their sorrow and focus on their origin. An origin they estimated to be a mile away from there.

In that area, a small caravan had set up camp in a clearing among the trees. Picturesque wooden wagons, with curved wooden roofs like barrels, were lined up haphazardly alongside their horses. Groups of people of all ages surrounded them: men in lightweight leather vests over shirts, trousers, and multicolored pointed shoes. The women, on the other hand, wore similar upper garments; long skirts covered the rest of their bodies. Beyond their attire, their most striking features were their skin, as tan as the sunset, their eyes, amber like honey, and the lobes of their ears, pointed like water droplets.

Oblivious to danger, they all enjoyed the sunny afternoon. Some conversed and ate around campfires, while others cheerfully practiced with musical instruments.

Among this gathering of artists, one stood out from the rest. A young musician, instead of guitars and flutes like his peers, played two strange black objects that resembled oysters. Small, round indentations dotted the surface of each, forming a heptagonal pattern around a wide, round protrusion fixed in the center of the simple structure. The musician's palms struck both objects at different points, creating sequences of harmonious and synchronized sounds. A dynamic yet gentle and warm melody perfectly in tune with nature, capable of plunging even the fiercest spirit into the deepest peace and serenity.

He told me he intended to travel to Netzach as part of that 'personal journey' of his... I wonder if he's already there.

The young man's thoughts turned to someone he had met the day before, a person who had left an indelible mark on his memories.

I hope he doesn't have the same problems he had in Cirencre, he mused, his lips forming a small smile. I still find it hard to believe I had the honor of meeting him; not only did he defeat a Holy Warrior with a single blow, but also a Sahiron in his own domain. Perhaps, as he insisted so much, he's not an Abiyr, but he definitely has some connection to them.

His gaze shifted to the entrance of the camp, which connected to a rugged trail through the forest. Maybe I'm asking for too much, but I wish to encounter him once more. To see him with my own eyes perform some other feat, just like the ones I've heard about since I was a child, he yearned.

However, a noticeable change in the atmosphere interrupted his daydreams. The young man noticed that his fellow companions almost simultaneously ceased their practices, murmuring in fear.

The reason soon became obvious: something was lurking in the shadows of the trees.

That something slowly emerged from the veil of darkness, revealing itself in the daylight. Several screams couldn't be contained as the campers' fear turned into terror upon getting a closer look at the pack that was encircling them. Quadrupedal beasts with tails, sturdy yet athletic bodies and limbs, thick, curved claws resembling hooks. Their heads were broad, with strong jaws and long, blunt snouts, large, triangular ears. While their shape resembled that of a wolf, their intimidating musculature and size were more akin to that of a bear - a completely impossible crossbreed in nature.

But more than that, what horrified them was his grotesque appearance: mostly torn and cadaverous skin revealing swollen muscles, especially around his eyes, bulging and reddened. Viscous saliva dripped in hungry threads from his horrendous half-opened jaws, growling and revealing his long, sharp fangs: protruding and irregular, both in size and shape, like the unsheathed blades of a Swiss knife.

Those eyes... that skin... The young man was petrified as he associated this terrifying image with several old stories, legends of twisted monstrosities. Could it be...?!

“Back!” several men, the older and stronger ones present, ordered. They formed a barrier to shield the boy and other vulnerable members of the camp. In their hands, they held long knives and improvised torches that they brandished at the monstrous creatures, hoping that the sight and heat of the fire would be enough to keep them at bay.

Terrified, the younger ones, women, and the elderly retreated to the wagons. However, the young man with the peculiar musical instruments still couldn't move from where he was, not wanting to miss anything.

"Sheida! What are you doing?!" One of the torch-bearing men scolded him, momentarily diverting his attention from the beasts to look at him over his shoulder. "Go with the others now!"

His brief distraction was not forgiven. Without showing any fear of the flames, one of the creatures poised to lunge towards him.

"Baba!" Sheida screamed in horror.

The man turned his gaze back in front of him to be met with the open jaws of the monster; its fangs about to close and tear his head off in a single brutal bite.

But…

A powerful sound reverberated in everyone's ears. Then, absolute silence.

What... What happened?

Sheida quickly snapped back to his senses, anxious to find out.

How?! The lifeless body of the aberration that had been on the brink of killing his father lay sprawled on the ground, observed by him and the other men in astonished shock. A large hole pierced through its head, severely scorched.

A crackling sound dominated the atmosphere, constant and fluid like the flow of a swift river. The beasts were the first to pinpoint its source, emerging from nearby trees. Baring their fangs and emitting prolonged growls, they took a few steps back.

Men and the young Sheida watched in astonishment as a masked warrior in tattered pants and a leather jacket walked up to stand in front of them, confronting the monster pack without a hint of fear. In the palm of his left hand lay what had left them dumbfounded: a small shield, but not an ordinary one, rather one composed of ceaseless bursts of dazzling electricity. In his right hand, he gripped the hilt of an elegant, silvery rapier, which he inclined forward as he assumed a rigorous combat stance.

"Who is…"

"That man?"

The campers murmured, captivated by this mysterious individual who had just averted a tragedy. Especially Sheida and his father, who had the fortune of being rescued by this providential intervention.

The swordsman couldn't afford to dispel the justified confusion of his onlookers. His survival—and theirs—depended on his absolute focus on his objectives, ready to strike at any moment.

His sword and shield would measure up against an old and relentless evil, his reason for existence and battle.