The Savior

The Great Hall stretched majestically tall.
Windows as high as the walls stood as guards with gray, glassy and severe eyes, watching any shadow laid motionless in that sacred place. The light was not welcome.

The ambiguity of a cold twilight, rather; and this twilight deprived the long carpet of its scarlet colour, transforming it into a dark red path that divided the room in its exact middle, for its entire length.

At the end of it was the huge throne of stone - with a variety of shapes and bas-reliefs carved on its surface: growling lion's heads on its arms, soldiers coming out of the stone to pierce the enemy with spears, the shape of a huge sun with intricate rays, on top of the backrest.
On the throne, at the end of this dark tunnel of a hall, sat the Queen.
Her head was bent while she was busy reading the long letter she was holding in her hands. Only two candles were burning on top of tall candlesticks, one at each side of the seat.

She raised her head and leaned it back on the purple pillow of the backrest. She stared at the words on the paper, her black eyes barely open.

Her face was a still, cold and pale mask; but at the bottom of her irises there was this spark of intense concentration, manic, almost – much as the lightning in a leaden sky, when the storm is ready to lash out.

She twisted her mouth into a grimace of disgust, and threw contemptibly the paper to the ground. Her hand closed angrily into a fist. Fuck.

The Legion's army had crossed the river.

They had been chased away less than a week before; they had feigned a retreat; they went back on the other side of the water, and had even marched deep into the Forests in order to deceive the scouts she had sent after them - and when the scouts returned to communicate the enemy's final escape, they had ridden, retracing their steps, in haste and without rest for a whole night and had crossed the border when the new day was not born yet.

And now they were burning villages on the banks.

She passed a hand through her black hair, her nails drowning into dark waves. She looked at the huge, empty twilight in front of her.

That cold and wet grave, as if emptied from some sacred spoils that it should have guarded forever, as if desecrated by some blasphemous and barbarous people who had broken its silence after centuries of immobility... And such barbarous people had invaded her kingdom, now.

The one that had crossed the Great River was only a fraction of the Legion; about a thousand units. Cavalry was a substantial part of it - fast and deadly. It wasn't going to take many days for them to penetrate further into the valley.

So what was she supposed to do? On the opposite side of the river, the bulk of their army was waiting in three huge camps – so her spies had told her - arranged in a triangular formation, at the bottom of the Rocky Mountains.

Waiting for her to make a move. Waiting for her to make a mistake; for her to unbalance her own forces in a rash decision, perhaps dictated by panic.

And then, they would immediately attack her on her weakest side. A grimace of disgust and ridicule folded the corners of her mouth. This, this she would not let happen.
Her voice thundered breaking the silence of the room. "Raeel!"
A few seconds passed. Then, massive wooden double doors opened down the hall, on the opposite side of the throne. A figure slipped through the weak lighted gap that had opened, closed the door behind it, and quickly went through the path in the middle of the room. His footsteps echoed on the hugely tall arch and roof. When he found himself in front her, he bowed before the throne, one knee on the ground. "My Queen."
His gray eyes looked unsure at her. She glared at him with her dark eyes, from above.
"Raeel, why is it that the Captain has not yet come to talk to me?" Her voice was deep, raspy, full of irritated impatience.
"My Queen, the Captain has not yet returned from patrolling the ford East of the valley."
"A whole morning seems more than enough for such a patrol" she growled slowly, as if she blamed the man in front of her for the Captain's delay.
"My Queen ..."
"Call the council." She cut him off sharply. "I cannot wait forever. We must send a counter-offensive as soon as possible - and cut the throats of those infidels. " Her voice sounded terribly disturbed by a disgust - one would have said - almost visceral.

As she said those words her features stiffened, almost as if they were carved in stone.

She turned her head, looking at the cold glass of one of the tall windows, as if she was afraid of burning something just by staring at it for too long.

She struggled immensely to control the anger that tormented her - her breathing was heavy and fast, as could be seen from the unnaturally rapid rising and falling of her chest, below the black dress.
She had been fooled; she felt so confident, she let down her guard. And now those damned mercenaries had invaded her border.
"Yes, my Queen." Raeel murmured softly, then stood up and, almost running, returned to the door and then close it behind him.

The queen squeezed with her hands the throne's white stone arms. Her long fingers slipped between the jaws of the carved lions with gaping mouths that decorated the seat.
She had always thought that this war would have been her life's crusade; her great pride and her big victory, the act that would be remembered in the history of the continent, in the history of the world.

Getting rid of the infidels had been the campaign of the reign of her mother before her; and that of the kingdom of her grandfather, even before.

But none of her ancestors had had the strength - or the total devotion to the cause, the full, passionate ambition – that she had.

No one before her had managed to repress the Legion so far inland as did the army under her command. The bloody conflict dragged on, now - between short interruptions and frequent carnage - for almost a decade.

Yet, in recent times, the Legion had found a way to move forward again; they had broken her lines beyond the river, on their side, and she had been forced to withdraw a large portion of her army. How this could have happened, none of her officers, ambassadors (nor, for that matter, herself, who was a strategist) had been able to clearly explain.

All that her spies had managed to find out, was that recent years victories were due, it seemed, to a military reorganization of the Legion.

New officers were placed in command of the legionary fractions, and one of them in particular had been able to raise the morale of the people beyond the Great River; one of them, more than anyone else, stood out for his victories.

All she knew about him were just rumors - some so ridiculous to be thought nothing more than popular legends.

What was clear with no doubt, was that he had become a symbol for the enemy's nation; and in this, more than in his military skills, was the danger.

Because a leader could always be killed: but his image as a liberator, as someone able to bend the Queen's army... the hope he gave to those miserable bastards, how could she take that out of their minds, and crush their souls?

Oh, her spies had even told her that this warlord was called "The Savior" by common people. A bitter and cruel laughter broke out of her scarlet mouth, not a trace of joy in it. Ridiculous. More than anything else, at that moment, she wanted the head of this "savior" on a pike.
She slowly stood up from the throne. Her curvy figure wrapped in black stood out against the white marble. Her very flesh and skin looked like marble, where the curves of black hair leaned on her shoulders. It was time to go to the Council.

The fraction of the Legion that had overstepped the boundaries was not large, and it sure was conducted by some impertinent, ambitious young officer who only wanted to impress the commanders. For no experienced soldier would dare such an enterprise as to invade the enemy's territory, with a force so thin and so isolated from the main troops.

Their corpses were going to be food to the vultures by sunset, of that she was sure.

The boardroom was a narrow room with a high ceiling, decorated with a painted sky full of nocturnal demons; their lifeless eyes were turned towards the center of the room, as if they were a warning to those who sat around the large wooden table: "your sins will not remain unpunished, your tyranny will not go unnoticed, the decisions you make here and now will not be without consequences." , they seemed to whisper.

But who ever looked at such a high ceiling? The black eyes of the queen moved on from face to face, looking at the counselors who sat with her. All of them had dark, serious faces.

No one dared to look back at her. In their midst was a map that covered the entire surface of the table, a pile of papers, ink, letters. The men and women who surrounded her were murmuring among themselves.

Ser Klaus, to her right, leaned a little towards her, and murmured from under his short black mustache.

"Your Majesty, I agree, it would be very wise to send at least a thousand men against the Legion. But to pick them up from the West garrison... " he moaned, shaking his head in disapproval.

Ser Jorge intervened from on the other side of the table. "And from where should we pick them up? From the East? The east side needs to be strengthened, rather; there are too many fords in that direction. And no city with strong walls to defend them. This night-crossing of them, Your Majesty, might be just a distraction to divert attention from a much bigger army coming our way ... ".
He fall into silence when the Queen opened her mouth, raising a hand towards him as to shut him up.

"You think I don't know that? We do not have enough time, my dear Jorge, to send a larger army from the capital towards the invaders, nor to send troops from the West. There is an entire marshland that separates them from the valley; they would never make it in time. It's pointless."

Her penetrating gaze seemed wanting to stab him as she spoke in a firm and cold tone, displaying a patience that seemed on the verge of collapse.

As if he - and everyone else - were children unable to understand the most basic things. "We'll send men from the East. In the meantime, the troops will begin to march from here to replace them; we'll triplicate the number of soldiers in that direction. And I want an advanced guard in both East and West. But we need an immediate counterattack. "

She emphasized the last words, as they were her decisive verdict. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. At that moment Raeel stood next to her, leaning forward. "The Captain is back, my Queen."
"Send him here immediately," she said.
Raeel opened the door to let in a tall man in a silver armor, with a big bald head. His wrinkled and scarred face was hardened and burnt by the merciless sun.
He bowed briefly. "Your Majesty."
"What news do you bring us?"
The Captain's armor clanged. "I can confirm what was seen by the first scouts. It's an army of about one thousand units. A third of it is cavalry. They stopped at the valley's mouth, for the moment. " There seemed to be some discomfort in the soldier, because his armor clanged and clanged metallically as he continuously changed his posture.

He looked at the queen in her face, but he couldn't dare to look her in the eyes. That was too much to bear even for a war veteran.

She lowered her head a little and raised an eyebrow almost sarcastically; it was clear that there were also other news. The soldier's procrastination was unnerving "And... ?".
"The enemies carried a very particular banner, your Majesty." He finally resumed. "We have reason to believe that their leader is the Savior."
A sudden silence fell. The queen left her lips parted, a startled and speechless expression on her face, her black eyes widened. Around her, the same disconcert was painted on the old faces of the councilors.
"The Savior ...?" Murmured the queen, lowering her head and staring with menacing eyes at the Captain; that sound was more a low growl than a human voice. Her eyes sparkled under the sculpted eyebrows. Then the anger came out all at once.

"The Savior!?" She yelled, jumping up to the soldier. He did not move, but pointed his gaze to the ground. The advisers shrank and stiffened on their seats.

The queen raised an accusing finger at the man in armor. The long black skirt dragged on the ground, when she approached the soldier to face him, her white teeth gritted.

It was unclear whether that was a bitter smile or a look of disgust.
"How is that possible? You let this "savior" cross the border? What kind of useless, helpless, miserable, coward leader would ever do such a thing? " Every word was spat on the humbly bowed face of the Captain, as if it was poison from her depths. That invasion was certainly not his fault – but she didn't seem to mind any of that. She just needed to scream and break something or someone.

The queen withdrew her hand pointing towards the knight, and walked away in disgust, distancing her face from his. She closed her eyes and clenched her mouth as if to calm down. She took several deep breaths.
"This is what we'll do," she announced finally, her voice suddenly calm and cold. As she spoke, she began making sweeping gestures with her arm, pointing with her skinny hand and palm open upwards at all of her advisers.

"You, Captain, shall gather a force of two thousand men. You will directly face the enemy's army; by nightfall you shall be at their camp, with a decent handful of soldiers."

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow and frowning her forehead slightly. Her red lips bent in a sarcastic grin, as if she was explaining something to a child.

And her first anger had now fermented into sloth.

"You will charge them in the darkness, tonight. This will give me time to prepare and send troops from the capital." She stepped closer to the soldier.

He kept his face down, his bald head glistened with sweat. "Was I clear enough? Is there something too difficult to understand? Do I need to make a simplification for you idiots? ".
"No, your Majesty."
"Good." She hissed between her teeth. She turned her back on him and, without looking at him, with an indifferent gesture of the hand stirred the air and dismissed him. "Go on, then."
"My Queen." Muttered the Captain, rigid, and with an annoying squeaking metal sound left the room.
The queen placed both hands on the table, bending her torso impatiently. Her black eyes stared grimly at the faces of the council members, one by one.

There was a strange light in them, angry and vivid. "It's time to move."

The night had fallen.
The queen was watching, from above, the burning torches of the enemy's camp. Everything was silent. A slight wind, some night birds, nothing more.

All suspiciously quiet.

Her men, in black armors, were already gone down the slope toward the mouth of the valley. There they were, surrounding now the motionless camp. Suspiciously motionless.

She arched an eyebrow and her forehead furrowed a little. Her long black hair was tied in an intricate tail, her lips dyed purple. She rode a dark, massive stallion.

The Captain gave the attack signal. Her soldiers entered the camp; from such a distance they seemed a bunch of flies.

They walked among the tents, destroyed them, dismounted them; without finding a living soul. The enemy's camp was empty, despite the fact that all the fires were lit. It was empty, of course. But this… she had expected this.
A scream suddenly burst into the night.

At that moment, from behind the low hills that surrounded the camp, the Legion's cavalry emerged from the darkness and charged ravenously on the black soldiers.

Most of the Legionnaires rode on horsebacks; those of the queen were mainly infantry soldiers. When the first sound of a metallic collision was heard, a violent battle began.

The knights slaughtered the men on foot; the men on foot, on the other hand, were striking down horses with spears and throwing themselves on the fallen Legionnaires.
The queen's expression was still: her black eyes were evaluating, they were calculating. It seemed that none of the enemy's soldiers thought of asking themselves where was her cavalry; they were too busy killing people like animals fallen into their trap.

Or at least, what they thought was a clever trap. She stretched out an arm covered by a light black armor, and with a hand gesture called over an officer, who approached her immediately. "It 's time."

She said to him in a dry tone, without taking her eyes away from the battle. He nodded, and retreated his horse into the bushes.
Now that the enemy had concentrated around the field and was distracted by the battle, the real surprise could begin.

Her eyes found her Captain's banner - which was also that of her own army – a big tree with roots as wide as its branches.

She recognized him from his large stature, even if the helmet covered his bald head, and because he was the only one among her soldiers to have a silver armor instead of a black one.

Then something else caught her attention.

A knight on a white steed charged on her Captain. His armor was almost golden.

Even from that distance, one could see he had an unexpectedly slender figure for a war veteran.

His movements, his landing from his horse and wielding a long sword, had an extraordinary agility and security.

He was quick in both dodging and hitting, as he proved the moment he engaged in battle with the much larger queen's official. He made the latter look like a giant by comparison.

The Legion's soldier had a helmet that covered his face. On the sides of the helmet were two golden wings, and two wings were also carved on his chest armor.
That, the queen suddenly realized, had to be the Savior.
Since that moment, she did not took her eyes off the duel.

The captain struck with force and precision; but the Savior's game was very atypical.

His relatively low height allowed him to skilfully dodge every shot. He seemed to dance effortlessly, it was absurd.

A couple of times he deflected with his sword lethal blows; the weapon of her officer seemed to slip on the Legionnaires as if on ice, seemingly failing every stroke without the slightest use of force on the part of the enemy.

This strange dance continued for a bit. But while the Captain's movements became increasingly slow and fatigued, those of the Savior, astonishingly, did not diminished in pace.

The Captain, on the limits of his patience and endurance, tried then a powerful sword stroke from above, grabbing the hilt with both of his strong hands.

With a flick to the side the Savior dodged the blow: the heavy blade stuck in the ground.
It was just a moment.
The Legionnaire (with a skill that she would never have believed possible for someone in armor), while the Captain was raising his sword from the ground, put a foot on his enemy's blade and used it as a lever for an almost feline jump.

The sharp end of his sword pointed straight at the throat of her officer.

It pierced through it, coming out on the other side. Even from the top of the hill on which she stood, she saw the blood covering her Captain's silver armor.

He remained motionless for some seconds, stuck in this point and position by his death, and when the Savior drew his sword out from his flesh, he fell to the ground.
The queen was stunned by the speed of what had happened.

What she had just seen was still trying to make its way into her brain. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted.

Then, a vague expression of horror began to take possession of her face. She became so very pale. Her mouth trembled.

She had never been so angry in her entire life as she was now; so furious that she wanted to cry with rage.

The lifeless body of her Captain laid on the battlefield, the slender figure of the Savior already passing into the next battle.
There wasn't much time for her anger, however. For, finally, her black cavalry had emerged from the trees, attacking the camp from every direction, closing the Legion's soldiers into a lethal circle.

And then it was clear that the battle would not last longer.

Some hours later, indeed, the fighting had died down.

The dawn rose with its first rays of light. The queen and her retinue of guards were headed towards the tents erected by her victorious army, in place of the camp that was occupied by the enemy.

The wounded were groaning and the dead were being collected.

On a stretcher, his face covered with a cloth, was laid her Captain's corpse; the bronze shield with the engraved tree was resting on his chest.

She stopped for a moment, watching the body, her gaze emotionless. A morning breeze swelled the long black cloak that covered her shoulders.

The corners of her mouth curled downward. She raised her head and moved along.

She arrived in front of a rather large tent and turned to the high commander who was waiting for her.

"Is he able to speak?" Her voice dry and hoarse, a little trembling. She did not look him in the face.
"I suppose. He has not said a word, and has resisted all attempts to remove his armor. "
"I want to see him now."
"Yes, Your Majesty."

He pulled back the flap of the tent and made her enter.

It was dark inside; when her eyes adjusted she saw that a wooden column was planted the middle of the tent, and bounded with chains to the column, his hands behind his back, was the captured Savior.
He sat on the ground; they had taken the breastplate off of him, but he was still wearing his winged helmet.

Now that she was able to see him so closely, the queen realized that his body was with no doubt much more slender than that of a typical soldier.
She walked around him in silence for a moment, observing.

She tilted her head a little to one side and a venomous smile appeared on her lips.

"Your reputation is well earned soldier. I've seen how you killed one of my best men." She smiled coldly and without any joy.

No reply.

He stood motionless, his head inside the helmet bowed. She clasped her hands and held them on her lap.
"You know what I do to dogs like you? I like to put them in front of an audience and have them tortured in horrific ways. Ways that you dare not even imagine."

She growled in a low tone, pronouncing each word slowly.

"But you, oh, you'll have a very special treatment. You'll be tortured for my own pleasure, for the soldiers that you killed, for the borders - my borders! – that you have invaded. You, you will pay a heavy price ..." Now she was yelling, her face was red and her voice trembled with anger. Suddenly, with rapid steps, she went beside him.

Her hands clenched like claws on the metal wings that sprouted from the helmet and pulled hard. The Savior did not put up any resistance. She took off his helmet and threw it away with fury.

And then, she froze on the spot.
As she had taken off the helmet, a cascade of long blonde hair was suddenly released.

Two large green eyes were staring at her from under long lashes; a battle-scarred face, yet incredibly delicate.

She was looking at a woman.