Sword of the Goddess
Chapter One: "The Broken Man
"It is here, son of Blackhand, that you shall be cast out of home and honor to die on the stones below."
Under the height of the winter moon's arc, at the edge of the tallest peak in creation, stood two men-taller than tall, broad as a barrel-and in their arms they held captive a bloodied, broken man. He was stripped naked, his body covered in the black marks and open wounds of a beating that left him without the heart or strength to rise against them. He was an unremarkable specimen save a mane of platinum hair, crusted with blood and dirt, that flowed about his shoulders.
His captor peered over the side of the cliff to the endless stone teeth below. The sheer cliff was impassable by any means. No path to take and no step for a foot, the Crags were thought to be a wall that the earth had put in place to keep nations apart from each other. The eldest of the captors-balding and with a smoky gray beard that stretched to his waist-held a stained knife in his hand and approached his prisoner.
With a cruel yank, he twisted the prisoner's head up and said with a snarl, "By Wolfeye's decree, you must die. You should have had your throat opened and your body tossed into the dog pits, but I begged him that I would be the hand that cursed you. Our ways are the holy way of War and you have brought nothing but dissent and discord to your own people."
The other captor-a clean-shaven brute-could hold his tongue no more. "You brought shame to our house, brother. I told you time and again that your tongue would be the death of you and I would not pay your price no matter our blood. My pride is shorn! All of my pride and glory gone! Only Father Stoneheart's intervention spared me my life, but no matter how long I live, I cannot wash away the stain you leave on our bloodline. You are no brother of mine!" He reared back and struck the prisoner with a brutal kick to the head that sent the prisoner sprawling.
The prisoner, exhausted beyond measure, had not the strength to pick himself back up and lay on the cold stone with only the blood trickling from his wounds to warm him.
"Your brother Madmouth is justified in his anger." said Father Stoneheart as he circled to stand before their prisoner, a trail of his breath vanishing in the cold winter air behind him. "I am, however, a holy man of War and not without my mercy. Repent your transgressions and you shall receive honor which is not due to you. I will allow Madmouth to end your life swiftly before we cast you over. It is more than you deserve."
Madmouth grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and yanked his head back. Through swollen, purple lids and a haze of red, the prisoner held a weak, but firm gaze upon the two of them. Madmouth's overly large bottom jaw quivered in rage, "Take back your lies, brother. And I will make you suffer no more."
A pause. Longer than a lifetime, full of anger and anticipation. The prisoner looked beyond them, to the stars in the sky and the free expanse of space beyond them. So simple, to think these men were all that stood between him and the freedom to leave. A surge of raw power and strength was all it would take, but it was an effort he could not have summoned. Exhausted, awake for days, beaten without remorse by a merciless leader who would not hear of his words spoken openly amongst their people.
Theirs was the way of War. His words were blasphemy of which no other crime could usurp. No man spoke of peace and lived, least of all him.
But no ache or pain could compare to the great sadness that welled in his heart, knowing his flesh and blood, his people, would brush his words aside without consideration. They would condemn themselves and did not know it. Looking into the pitiless eyes of Stoneheart and the numbing rage of Madmouth, he could have spit at them, cursed at them, screamed in rage and tried feebly to fight against them with strength he did not have. He could have thrown himself over the cliff that awaited him and deny them the satisfaction.
He opened his parched mouth and said, "I…pray….for you…brother."
Madmouth rocked back on his heels, stunned, but then roared and struck his brother with all his might, driving him to the stony surface of the Crags.
Stoneheart pointed to him and said, "Seize him, Madmouth."
Madmouth clutched his brother from behind, holding his arms still, though the prisoner had no strength with which to resist. "Mark him!" he spat.
Father Stoneheart withdrew a curved dagger from his belt and grasped the prisoner's chin with an grip as hard as stone. "For the crime of dishonor and blasphemy, I hereby curse you, son of Blackhand. From the skies to the ground-" He cut a deep gash into the prisoner's forehead, down across his eye and into his cheek. "-and from one end of the horizon to another-" He cut across his eye from side to side. "-you will forever be cursed in all men's eyes and cast out of all courts. No home shall accept you, no people shall harbor you. No woman will bear you sons, so that your name may die along with you."
The prisoner screamed, his last bit of strength expended in the loss of his left eye and he collapsed, seeing nothing, hearing only mumbles and distant voices.
Father Stonehand stepped back. "Your cross forever marks you as cursed. Should you live, you will never find home or food or wife to comfort you. Your days will be an endless crawl on your belly with only stones to sustain your hunger and dust to slake your thirst."
Father Stoneheart stood aside, baring the cliff behind him. "Go forth into eternity as a broken man-irredeemable!"
With a nod from Stoneheart, Madmouth rushed forward and shoved his brother over the cliff's edge, sending him sailing silently into the dark of night. Stoneheart and Madmouth watched, listened, but heard nothing once their prisoner had disappeared into blackness. All that could be heard was the howling wind at the peak.
Father Stonehand produced a waterskin and splashed water onto his hands. "In the name of War, we wash our hands of his unclean blood, lest it infect us." Then he poured water over Madmouth's hands.
"What of my honor?" Madmouth asked.
"Wolfeye will protest, but I will convince him to let your keep your name to restore it."
Madmouth sneered and asked, "And the rest? My family honor? My coffers? My dignity?"
"For the rest? Nothing."
On a bed of jagged stone, the broken man lay still, his body shattered as it had dashed upon the ground below. His arms splayed out, curtained by his immense mane of hair, legs bent back in ways no limb was meant to bend. He stared open into the blinding light of a dawn that was hours away.
His heart thudded once, then again.
His eye twitched with a start and he drew in a ragged, desperate breath. He knew only a deep-seated, thundering pain in that dwarfed his scourging at the hands of Father Stoneheart. Fingers trembled, not daring to move lest they shatter from exertion. His throat, barren of water for days, could not form sounds, much less words. Steam lifted from his skin, out of his mouth in short puffs of white. A heart full of strength and despair waged its own war to beat again, just once more, each thud against his ribcage threatening to truly be his last. But against the onslaught of torment came an awareness, a dawning realization that was both wonderful and terrifying.
"I live."
In that instant, a light in his eye came forward and all pain and anguish silenced. He moved his eye and watched it. As a boy, he had loved the fireflies of late summer, twinkling in the dear evening, dancing back and forth much like this light. But this light was as no light he had ever seen as it threatened to shame the dawn. Holy light flooded his vision, blinding what remained of his sight. In this presence, there was no ill, no pain, so suffering. His heart longed to let go, but the divine presence before him made him linger just to have a longer glance at this purest of forms.
The light receded, though the holy presence did not. Standing before him, towering in presence, was a man clad in the finest red robe. The fabric immaculately clean, woven in a way no hand could form and free of any imperfection. And such was his broad-jawed face. Though he appeared as a man, there were no imperfections perceivable on his face, no lines that indicated his age. His hair seemed made from the same holy red as his robe. No eye met his, for his head was covered by a single strip of red cloth.
"Rise."
The chilling, unearthly voice spoke to him and his heart-fluttering before-now calmed. With an awareness that seemed detached from himself, he knew he could not comply, for his body was broken beyond any measure that could mend. A strange cold filled him and he could not find the power to answer, only to stare.
"Son of Blackhand, why do you lay there when Ignis, the messenger of the Goddess has commanded you to rise?"
The authority! Spoken with the undeniable authority by this holy being, the broken man found no force in all creation could compel him not to obey. If this messenger had compelled the sun to rise in the west, it would have done so. There was no denial of the Truth, and the Truth came from the voice of Mathias.
The broken man felt an unworldly power coupled with his own will and as his will demanded his thusly defeated form to rise, so too did the holy power give him the strength-true strength!-to lift himself.
He fought for a short moment, but lay still. The weakness of his flesh, a spirit of fear, overcame him and he said, through a mouth that had not touched water in nigh a week, "I cannot…rise! For…I am…broken."
"There is no ill that the power of the Goddess cannot cure, no pain she cannot wash away. What are ravages of the flesh when compared to the power of the Goddess? Behold! You say you are broken, but it is not so."
The broken man looked upon himself and saw the truth of it. No wound festered his body and not a bone protested in break. He blinked twice and his left eye-which had been cut so ruthlessly-saw again. Had he been healed by this being's power? It did not feel as such. No, it felt more as though he had never been broken to begin with. Not so much as an ache to remind him of his past sufferings. They were there, though, lodged in the front of his mind as a waking nightmare.
But in the presence of Ignis, whose being radiated the very power that had healed him, there was no contemplation of the past horrors. Only joy. And strength.
Strength!
Fingers closed into a strong fist made whole again. The man, now unbroken, lifted himself with great care until he stood to his full height.
Strength! Such undeniable strength! Sensation returned to the nerves in his body, joints bending after being dashed, his every muscle coursing with strength such as he had never felt before. His heart beat with renewed vigor and his chest heaved in the cold winter air in great gasps, filled as they had never been filled before.
Ignis held out a waterskin to him and he accepted it with relish. He drained the flask into his mouth, the refreshing clean water washing away a week's worth of drought and starvation if only for the moment. Then he draped a traveling cloak around his naked form. At once, the wind was cut off and the son of Blackhand felt warmth return to him-it had been so long since he had felt true warmth he had forgotten what it felt like.
Left in awe, he turned to Ignis and said, "Surely I see the holy power of which you speak, Messenger. In my heart, I feel the Truth, the sense of peace that I have only touched in my heart so recently. Be you a Messenger of the Goddess of Carter?"
"The same." Ignis declared, "Carter sows seeds for the Goddess where others dare not tread. Here he sowed in the worst of places and behold a seed has taken hold in you."
The unbroken man looked back up at the cliffside from which he had been thrown. The height was dizzying, impossible to fathom from where he stood. And yet here he did stand, whole and unspoiled.
Mostly.
His eye twitched in a manner most strange and his hand lifted to feel the scars where Father Stoneheart had cut him while cursing him and his lineage. Though the wound was healed, through this messenger's power, he remained marked over his eye. "This mark curses me." he said. "Why has it been left?"
"The curse of an idolater is powerless before the might of the Goddess. You are not cursed, but blessed. Truly do you think that She who has healed you would leave you cursed? You were born again when you accepted the Goddess into your heart. Your spirit was washed clean when Carter baptized you in waters most pure. Now you have been cast out of the black heart of hate that dwells in the Valley of Shadows so that you may follow a greater path."
Ignis stepped aside and the soft glow of approaching dawn flooded his vision. The unbroken man stepped forward and found himself perched on a short ledge upon which his body had landed. The ground was still a hundred strides below and his vision beheld a majestic forest spread out as far as his eyes could see. The sea of green rolled in gentle hills over the land with only the Crags to mar their beauty.
The Crags did not stand alone. Off in the distance, near the horizon's edge, a black plume of smoke rose from the forest canopy next to the face of the cliff. It was small, indiscernible against the face of the cliff, but from his vantage point, at the Crag's edge, he could make it out.
"You have heard of this place. Carter spoke of it. A world's worth of evergreen; standing green even in winter's grasp."
"The Kingsfield Forest." The unbroken man breathed, his lungs burning with the cold air, "As majestic as Nathaniel told me. Would that he were here now."
"Carter is out about the Goddess' business. I am here now to guide you."
For the first time, the unbroken man was flooded with uncertainty. "Guide me to where? I have no knowledge of the world beyond the Crags. I have no gold to spend nor cloth to wrap myself, nor food to sustain me. I am lost in a land that will see me for what I am and shun me."
"Your faith sustains you. Has it not kept you alive even now? Such is the grace and power of the Goddess, who has spared you from death to carry the mantle that every servant of Her's is given."
"And what is my mantle?" The unbroken man cried, his heart full of despair, "I brought the Goddess into my heart and my words of peace fell on ears that would not hear. I spoke to the hardest of hearts a message of salvation they could not comprehend. I've no silk tongue for preaching, though my heart is full of love for the Goddess. My people have cast me out-my own brother thinks me dead at his own hand. What has any of this gained Her?"
Ignis stood impassive against his cries, "It has gained Her a warrior beyond compare, now free from the constrains of his warring people and set loose to do Her will. Not all in Her service speak with the clarity of others: many are called to be prophets while others called to simply serve . Some wield strength of hand while others wield strength of mind and yet others still serve offering nothing more than their hands and hearts. How shall your gifts serve the Goddess?"
"Indeed, the ways of my people are the ways of War. Where shall the Goddess find use for such as I?"
Ignis cast his gaze across the length of the Crag's cliffside to the smoke the billowed lightly in the distance. Against the gray stone wall, the smoke was indistinguishable but from where they both stood.
"Here in Castanet, enemies of the Goddess take root within this forest. Their claws are deep in the kingdom and their plans far-reaching. They serve another lord, one who sees herself above the Goddess of the Harvest. And within their black hearts dwells undying fealty to the fallen princess."
Ignis let his words sink in. "There is one Mantle. It is one of great strength, seldom given but to those who can truly wield its power and harbor its conviction. Take it and you embody the Mantle-name and all."
"What would I have to do were I to take this Mantle?"
"Only those who accept this Mantle may know. You spoke words of peace to your brethren, but they were trained and bred for War. Make no mistake, son of Blackhand, for War is coming and the people of Castanet will lie still in the slaughter without a Sheppard to protect them. The Sheppard needs a spear to protect their flock and with the Mantle of Samson, you would be that spear."
The son of Blackhand looked down to the scarred flesh that covered his calloused hands. "The Mantle of Samson? Is this, then, the path that the Goddess has chosen for me?"
"This is the path that the Goddess has provided. You are the one who must chose it."
For the longest of time, the son of Blackhand stood there, his gaze cast out over the tops of the Kingsfield Forest to the plume of smoke that rose in the distance.
After a time lost in thought and memory, he dropped to his knees before the Messenger and said, "I am nothing, if not the Goddess's servant. Samson is an old word from a tongue I have never heard. What is the word for it in my own tongue?"
"In your tongue, your name is…Vaughn."
Across several leagues, buried in the depths of the Kingsfield Forest, a stronghold lay nestled against the base of the Crags. Walls of stone three hundred strides long and at least five men high and a cart's length thick. The double gates stood near as tall as the wall itself, iron-bound, made of the thickest of the forest's few oaks.
No flags adorned its walls. No standards were flown to identify themselves.
On the wall, shivering in the cold as the winds blew down from the peaks above them, stood a trio of men, muttering curses as they longed for a fire.
"Wessin."
The three turned at the voice and gave a half-hearted salute to the gruff officer who approached them. The youngest of them, dour-faced and pale, stepped forward, "Captain?"
"I don't recall assigning you to hold hands while on duty. Back to your post. All of you! Eyes on the forest."
Through mutters and cursing, Wessin and the other two returned to their posts along the walls. Wessin sneered as he did as told, turning his eyes outwards towards the woods. He cursed his luck to be assigned to the Solomite Fortress, away from the familiar fireplaces and warmth of his old home in Terminia. Here, there were no brothels or taverns to occupy his time-only the eerie fog of the twilight twisting around the great evergreens. Rumors had always swirled around Kingsfield for longer than most could remember and those rumors had kept foragers, hunters, and settlers from occupying the region for as long as memory served most men. They all ended much the same: someone entered and was never heard from again, no sign of their passage found. Never mind that those who were oft never heard from again were those that no one knew themselves. It did not help that the forest was sparsely populated by wildlife and seemed to have an ever-present fog drifting lazily between the pines.
And through that fog came the shadowy figure of a man, approaching slowly.
It took Wessin a long moment to snap to his senses and sound an alarm. "Captain! Captain! Someone approaches."
The Captain came running along with others who had heard his warning. As one, they pressed against the edge of the wall, watching the figure approach slowly from the distance. Twilight was fast approaching and a few of the setting sun's rays managed to pierce through the forest's canopy. He weaved into and out of the light as he approached and the Captain of the fortress squinted his eyes to catch a shade of earth on his cloak and a glint of fire-forged steel. When at last he came to a stop beside a great stone as tall as he was, he heaved a massive war hammer over his shoulders and set it onto the ground before him, the long handle rising five handspans above the earth.
The stranger leaned against the handle, seeming to catch his breath, and then slowly waved a hand to the men stationed on the wall. "Goodman on the wall!" He cried.
The Captain felt the other men's eyes boring into the back of his head, waiting to see what his lead would be. "Curse my luck." He spat, "We've not had so much as a stray buck wander onto us and now this?"
"Were the Dragon here, he would know what to do." Wessin said.
"Keep your tongue, fool. I don't need the Dragon here to deal with a lost straggler. But I feel something is amiss." The Captain waved his hand back and cried, "Claim yourself!"
The strangers hands swung out wide in a helpless shrug, "Just a lost poor man looking for a bite to eat and a warm bed out of the snow for a night. Be a good man and open the gates for me?"
The Captain's mouth tightened into a thin line. Even in the midst of the cold and snow, he began to sweat. Send the men down there to cut him down or, better yet, loose a few arrows and cut him down. Easy enough, but the Captain knew that this "beggar's" presence raised more questions than it answered. For a moment, at least, he played along.
"Who are you with?" The Captain called.
"Alas, I am alone and lost! I was robbed on the road while escorting a wagon and was left for dead in the dark wood; No food, nor shelter, nor bearings. I have been lost until I saw your fortress from afar. I ask again, my good man: open the door."
"Shall I down him where he stands, Captain?"
The Captain considered Wessin's request. There was no consideration that what this stranger said was true. Even if it were, they could not allow him to live knowing the location of the Solomite Fortress. Open the door as he asked and they risked tripping into whatever ploy the stranger playing and the Captain would not fall for such folly. The stranger hunched over, playing the part of the weary traveler, but the Captain knew better than to trust such a façade.
"I will not open this door now." The Captain replied, "The sun is coming down and the door must remained closed until dawn's next light. I cannot break my orders nor my oath."
The stranger in his earthen-colored cloak gave a helpless shrug, "Then alas, for I am without provision for the night. Perhaps, though, I shall return tomorrow and find your fortress more accommodating. Until then, farewell." He made to leave, then paused. "Might I ask one favor before I can seek shelter elsewhere?"
The Captain huffed, "Speak it, then."
The stranger shook the handle of his great war-hammer. "My hammer is too much a burden to carry any further. If I may leave it here within your sight, I will reclaim it in the morning when I return. I fear my strength will not let me bear it until I find my own shelter."
The Captain shared a puzzled glance with the men around him, but said, "Leave it then and we shall make sure no one shall take it."
"Good man." The wandering stranger let his hand leave the handle, "I shall return to it, then, with your word that it shall go unmolested. Should you change your mind and open your doors early, look for me the way I came. I passed a number of places perfect to put up for the night less than a hand of time away. I pray it does not snow or I shall freeze to death."
The Captain, Wessin, and the small gathering of men at the wall's peak watched the cloaked stranger wander back into the foggy forest from which he emerged.
As soon as he was out of sight, the Captain turned to the man on his left and said, "Hurry and rush out the side gate. Scout into the forest, find where he is sheltering for the night and if he is truly alone."
The lone scout reacted to the order with a nervous look, but knew better than to disobey. Within moments, the others watched him vanish into the forest after the wanderer.
The Captain spun to Wessin and said, "Gather a round of men and saddle horses for them. I want them ready to ride within a hand of time. Ride this baseborn beggar down and either bring back his head or bring down those with whom he rides. I'll not have Solomite overrun by bandits and their like by falling for the tricks of a fool."
As per his orders, a round of men, armed and eager to ride, rode out of the fortress's side-entrance and rode into the dark of the Kingswood. In the distance, a soft orange glow marked the campsite. He was fool to allow himself to stand out so, but it would make finding him all the easier.
"We wait." said the Captain.
Wait they did. The moon rose and fell and with it fell the strong confidence of the men lining the wall. Hours passed and not a man returned, not even their horses.. That the round of men was missing so easily, with no word, was a concern all shared. Their place in these woods had never been at risk, for all within knew the price to be paid for spreading word of Solomite's existence. The Captain had been there the longest, had laid the first stone himself after abandoning his life in Terminia. It had taken years and the effort of not a few black hearts to ensure that many who entered the wood against wisdom were never seen again, victims of a forest that many spoke of in hushed whispers. And here this stranger, this errant fool, threatened all of that.
Solomite was no homestead and the men within were not ones to grant a warm bed and a hot bowl. In here, they were set to a task, grim in determination. Their allegiance overwhelmed the earthly desires of a routine pay, good wine, or wives and children. Theirs was not the pampered way of the soft-spoken and only hard drinks passed their lips. Their loyalty was without question, for those who did question never questioned again under the service of the Black Dragon.
The other men begged him to send more riders, but the Captain would not hear of it. A whole round-ten men strong-did not merely vanish without due reason. He had lost ten and would not suffer to lose ten more. They were a hundred strong still and would need every man in case they came against an overwhelming force.
Dawn approached and with it came the still quiet that made the forest a place of whispers. Soft, eerie fog hung still between the trees and paths like a waiting spirit. They could no longer make out his distant firelight. For the night, the guards dared not speak aloud what they felt in their hearts. So the saying went: "Spoken fears come near." Voices had given way to whispers and whispers to fallen faces, and now with expectant worry they knew soon the stranger would return. Would he bring legions with him? Or was he really a traveler who lost his way? What traveler carried no pack and only a weapon?
"Wessin." The Captain finally spoke, breaking the silence of a hundred men, "Bring the hammer in." Only nodding, Wessin was glad for the chance to do something besides wait. The waiting had unnerved him to the point of panic. Feeling purpose fill him, he quickly had the fortress doors opened but a crack and ran out into the still fog. He reached the hammer, took hold with one hand, turning around quickly to run back with it when he was jerked to a stop by his own hand, falling to his feet. Before he could pull his face out of the cold dirt, he felt his cheeks burning red as the sound of laughter drifted down from the fortress walls. Looking back, he saw the hammer standing definitely in the same spot. It had not budged.
He grabbed the handle and pulled, but it remained steadfast. He frowned; it did not look so heavy in spite of its size. Few men possessed the raw strength required to make adequate use of such a weapon, but even so it should not have been impossible to budge. He pulled again, leaning with all of his weight, but the hammer would not move. He kicked and pulled and stood over it to try and lift it straight up, but still the hammer would not move. Wessin's cheeks burned with every laugh and taunt that came down from the walls above; he sputtered curses over and over with every failed attempt
Two men ran out from the door to join him. They heaved and pushed, but still the hammer did not move. The guards up on the wall laughed all the more, some falling onto their knees and holding their sides. When three men could not move the hammer, they laughed. When seven men could not move the hammer, their laughter stilled. When twelve men with rope and strength could not move it, their hands clawed at the wall in worry and clutched the hilts of their swords until their knuckles were white. Astonished breaths escaped open mouths to become tiny clouds of steam in a forest already filled with the silent fogs of winter.
They brought out a horse and fifty strides of rope and tied it about the nag's neck and to the hammer. With a strike against it's flank, it was sent galloping towards Solomite, hoping to at least drag the hammer there. The length of rope was spent and with a horrid snap the poor nag was yanked off it's feet and slammed to the ground.
Still the hammer did not move, defiant against their attempts.
Now in the grip of fear, the Captain shook his head, struggling to accept what he was seeing. He had come to terms with the unnatural works of his lord, but this hammer shed an air of profanity about it. It seemed to mock them as it sat there, awaiting it's master to return at dawn.
The dawn!
The Captain gasped, his gaze lifting to the east as the first rays of light began to creep through the empty branches of slumbering trees. As he had come with the sun at his back, so came the stranger again with the sun to his front, shining down on him as he walked calmly in the distance.
"Turn back!" The Captain gave but one warning and pointed. They saw the stranger returning with the dawn and the cold fear that had settled into their guts now blossomed full bore into terror at what the man might do should he catch them trying to take his weapon. They fled back into Solomite, shutting the door fast behind them and found their stations again, but there was no relief to be found. Though the thick stone walls might protect their flesh, it did not protect their hearts and they feared. They feared when they were not prepared to fear and that fear only grew.
Wessin returned, "Sir, the hammer…it is as though it is cast into the ground itself. It nary moved in the slightest. I could neither move it aside nor turn the handle in any way."
"A trick, no doubt." The Captain remarked, waving his hand to dismiss it. "Think no more of it."
Wessin said nothing, but he thought only of the immovable war hammer. Strolling confidently, clad now in motley collection of garb that undoubtedly had once been on . When at last he returned to his weapon, he found his warhammer exactly as he had left it and smiled. He gripped its handle and slung it with ease, using only a single arm, across his shoulder, smiling to himself at the collective gasps and astonished stammers coming from the top of the wall. He tossed a wave to the Captain, whose grim expression he could make out even from where he stood. It was all he could do not to laugh. The fools had tried to take his hammer.
He called back up to them after he received no greeting, "Good morrow, Captain of the wall. I thank you for guarding my hammer. It is dear to me and I would not like to think of what I would do should someone steal it."
The Captain cursed under his breath at his own bad luck. This would happen under his watch, when their commander was not there. He leaned over with a scowl. "What do you return for?"
The wanderer held his hands out wide. "Night has come and gone. My feet no longer ache, my back is ready for another day of travel, but my stomach could use a tiny sliver of food for the road ahead. Alas, my provisions are gone and you are the only people within a day's worth of travel from here. Surely you can open the door and spare a morsel?"
The Captain shook his head, "No! Now you've taken the last of my patience, stranger. I ask you be gone or we will force you from these woods. We've enough trouble with brigands without troublesome wanderers begging at our doorstep."
"Brigands, aye! A round of them came after me last night. Fell men, the whole lot of them, but you need not fear them any longer. I slew them to the last man."
The Captain had to turn and hush the angered whispers and fearful gasps that rose upon hearing that. "Be still!" He hissed, and turned back, "You slew ten men with no weapon?"
In answer, the stranger raised his clenched fists, "These are all the weapons I need."
Curse this man, the Captain thought. Curse him to the bowls of the infernal. "Those ten you slew were of our own men, stranger! Ten of my scouts sent out to keep this area safe from brigands. How you slew them with no weapons is beyond me, but I will not suffer your presence in this forest a moment longer. Take heed of my warning and flee, far and fast, if you value your life at all."
"Captain, are you mad?" Wessin snarled beside him, his voice low, "The Black Dragon would have our heads to let this man leave knowing of Solomite."
"That I know, but I've no intention of letting him leave the forest. Foresters and rangers and trackers have ever been a constant nuisance here, but this man brings a chill to my spine, a sweat to my brow. We will drive him away and when his is in the forest distant, five rounds will ride him down and bring him back alive. When the Black Dragon returns, he shall be the one to question this man." When the Captain turned back, hoping with all hope, to see the stranger gone into the forest, he found the man hefting his hammer back to the ground to rest as it had throughout the night.
"Claim yourself, dear Captain." The stranger called.
The Captain's mouth twitched, "Claim yourself, first. I do not answer to beggars."
The stranger laughed, "I would not soil the good name given to me by my mother by having it fall at the ears of men such as yourselves, who let the king of all lies into your heart."
Now the Captain and his men felt their hands grip at their swords in anger. "Who are you who speaks foul of our born savior, the Morning Star?"
"Born savior? Aye, I agree to half-a that; she is a born liar, a born serpent, a savior of no one and enemy to all. You ask who I am, dear Captain? My name is a forgotten thing, but I am known now to many as the Might of the Goddess, the Hammer of the Lord, her beloved son and chosen warrior. I was reborn by the power of the one true goddess and I carry her mantle-the Mantle of Samson-against her enemies. Behold, I am Vaughn the Mighty!"
He cracked his knuckles methodically, "Now then...I have asked that the door be opened, and open it shall!" Vaughn thrust his arms at the great stone next to him-as tall he was and twice as wide-and sank his grip into it, cracks arcing out from where impossibly strong fingers sunk into the stone itself. He gave a single heft and the great stone, lifted above his head. He never gave the men atop the walls time to react as he heaved it back and hurled the boulder with a strength that was beyond his own. The great stone soared hard and crashed into the great door of Solomite, tearing it asunder. The door exploded inward and the wall shook. The men fell off their feet, some tumbling backwards and down to the ground below. Samson grabbed a fallen tree trunk and cast it at the door like a spear, reducing what was left of it to flying shards.
The door was open, just as he said it would.
Now grabbed his hammer. A horn's call sounded throughout Solomite and the men within took up arms, coming to the call of alarm. A night of frayed nerves and cold fear blossomed into a panicked rush to clear the door to get at the man attacking their stronghold.
Swift and strong, Vaughn fetched his war-hammer and was off in a brisk run towards the fortress wall on the side of broken door. The men on the wall took aim with their bows, letting fly loose a volley. Vaughn ducked low as the arrows seemed to merely graze his cloak and came up to hurl his hammer at the base of the wall. It soared as straight as an arrow and impacted against the base of the wall with the same might as the great stone. The force of the blow nearly drove the hammer through and through, leaving a crater the size of a man in the cracked and broken stone wall.
The impact of the hammer knocked the men off their feet again, keeping their arrows out of his back, if for only a moment. Vaughn ran for his hammer and snatched it up again, then gave a great heave and drove another great blow to the wall's base next to the first. The men atop stumbled and fell, crying aloud as they did so. Vaughn strode along the wall's length, one great swing after another, one great crater after another, brick and dust flying out with each impossibly strong strike. The craters began to buckle and fall apart, sending webs of cracks up the wall to its top. The cry of alert came as the wall wavered, but for many it came too late. Vaughn ran as the wall to one side of the door's arch buckled precariously. The Captain of Solomite, gripped the side of the wall in fear and closed his eyes. In his final moment, he embraced a quick death from a fall rather than face down the demon and his hammer. As the wall crumbled and swallowed dozens, the Captain vanished into the rubble. On the ground, Vaughn stood aside as the dust and stone flew around him.
A small semblance of order came about even with the fall of the wall, and a round of horsemen rode out past the gate's threshold and to a waiting Vaughn, hammer in hand. The first horsemen learned, too late, that the swing of Vaughn was as strong, swift, and true against a man as it was against a stone wall. An ordinary man may take much strength to swing a hammer, but to the Might of the Goddess, a swing of his hammer were as if swinging a small branch. He swung with one hand and smashed the rider's warhorse full in the chest. Both man and horse flew into the air, high, and soared over the wall that still stood, coming to a fatal landing near the base of the Crags.
The round drew swords, but their steel was no match for his strength. The second man to come up to him swung down from his horse, holding a measure of leverage above Vaughn, but as sword and hammer met, the sheer force of Vaughn's swing turned the blade back and out of his hand. The head glanced his arm, but before he could even pass by, Vaughn had halted his hammer's momentum and reversed the swing, slamming it into his back and driving him to the ground, breaking the man with one blow.
Vaughn turned to the charging horsemen and swung his hammer before him in a long, arc that swept back and forth before him. Men were thrown from their warhorses, broken; the horses were swept away, broken. Every sword swung at him was shattered; every charge made towards him was undone with a single sweep. His blows turned every blade aside and he moved with a swiftness that was terrifying to behold. No man could manage more than a single swipe at him. When two men meant to run him down, he caught one horse by the neck and tossed it aside, othen spun to the second man struck the horse with a single blow to the head, tossing it's rider. All of Solomite emptied, trying for the entrance to rush out and meet their enemy, but Vaughn proved the better.
With the entrance clogged with men, Vaughn took the moment where no more horsemen charged for him to rear his hammer far back. He swung it and let go, the hammer flying from his fingers with a speed no man could match—as if thrown from the hand of a giant. It flew into the men and crashed through them without slowing in the slightest. Those unlucky enough to be caught in it's path were crushed out of the way, the hammer tearing apart anyone or anything in it's path, sheering through flesh as easily as it sheered through the air. The men in the path of the hammer fell, leaving an opening that Samson easily ran through.
Once inside, the remaining men roared to arms, thinking Vaughn easy prey now that he had tossed aside his only weapon. If they thought that he was defenseless without the hammer, they couldn't be blamed. What man had ever slain so many with his bare hands?
What man indeed.
They had forgotten his words earlier, for they would have known he had the only weapons he needed. They came with swords unsheathed, bows lifted, and spears raised. On one of the remaining walls, a man hurled his spear. Vaughn spied it and proved the quicker, his hand snapping out and catching the spear before its head could find his heart. He cast a wry grin and a tilt of his head at the man, telling him that his effort was well acknowledged, but ultimately useless. He turned the spear in his hand and hurled it at the nearest man charging him. The spear went through him and buried itself into the chest of the man behind him. The leather and light armor they wore made no difference.
A charge of men arrived, but rather than rush him they halted them and reformed, making a semi-circle around him outside of his reach. Their heads turned to the men dashing upon the wall's top, bows ready and arrows already notched to fire. The men on the ground grinned, thinking he stood no chance wearing only a cloak, tunic, and breeches, but again Vaughn turned a trick of his hand.
The bows let loose and as a volley of arrows flew in at him, Vaughn grabbed the edge of his cloak and ducked under it. It was a laughable notion, but when the arrows found their mark, they struck the cloak and fell to the ground. Amidst their gaping, his head came back from under the cloak and laughed.
They charged Vaughn with a battle cry that was empty of its valor. Already they had seen too much to harden their determination against him and now they charged out of desperation. He ducked under a sword and grabbed the man by his collar and hurled him up on the wall above, knocking aside an archer. They trained their bows on him, but now he was in the midst of the men on the ground. The archers wavered for a moment but as they saw Vaughn begin to thrash their minute numbers, their resolve hardened and arrows began to fly into the fighting. With his back to them, their arrows that actually found their way through the rabble would bounce off his cloak harmlessly. The rest of them found other marks on the men trying to surround Vaughn and overpower him. Those that were found by an arrow were lucky as Vaughn ducked and weaved under swords and spears and came back with fists flying as hard as his hammer, sending men flying over the heads of the soldiers behind them. When the archers found their arrows were of no use, they drew their swords and joined the rest of the men on the ground.
These men of Solomite fell into a terrible dance with Vaughn, always following the same step: Vaughn would dodge a blow from sword or spear and came back with fist or foot, crushing bones and breaking the men in one blow. Their forms flew aside and landed in a broken heap, never to rejoin the melee. One strike was as good as the touch of death and as soon as the men at the back of the charge found this out, their hearts left them. Watching man after man fly aside, dead before they landed, stole the valor they had at the onset of the battle. With his hammer and fist, all of Solomite was at the brink of ruin and he had not a scratch on him.
Now he had fought through the throng of soldiers and reached his fallen hammer. With it in hand, he began to sweep aside four or five men aside at once. The strike of his hammer was as swift and deadly as the strike of his hand. Seeing his war hammer raised again, the escape of their valor was complete and the Solomite soldiers who remained-and their number was small indeed-called for a retreat. Even in retreat, Vaughn was relentless in his attack. A group of five ran for the door and he slung his hammer at them, taking two in the blow and the other three stumbling. One reached to grab the hammer, meaning to take it with him but he had quickly forgotten that lesson once learned. Vaughn caught up to them and felled each as they tried to fight their way to escape. The last of the men stumbled over the remains of the Eastern Wall, but Vaughn was not to be and took up the rubble from the wall and cast them down at the fleeing men. One by one, they were crushed or bashed from afar.
At long last, in the morning chill, Vaughn stood by himself in midst of Solomite, surrounded by the men he had slain. No screams of wounded sounded, for there were none. Vaughn's strike, be it fist or hammer or stone, had driven each man into death's embrace. He finally sat down and heaved a great sigh, running his open fingers through his dusty mane as it hung over his shoulders. His knew the way of War well indeed.
After a short reprieve, he walked through the midst of fallen men to retrieve his hammer and took a moment to drink from a discarded waterskin until his thirst was sated. Then he set to his task again. He brought his hammer against the Western Wall the same as he had the Eastern Wall. Great blows driven one after the other into wall until the wall finally collapsed. He made his way through Solomite, working the same pattern and bringing down the ramshackle buildings down to the ground. He grabbed the barrels of oil and pitch and tore them open, spilling the fuel about. He took salted meats and preserves from the food stores for himself and then broke an oil barrel in there as well. When he finished, he took a torch and turned it on the spilled oils, setting the ruin of Solomite ablaze.
As the fallen fortress went up in flame and smoke, his eye caught a black banner waving in the air on a broken pole. The black cloth held a standard embroiled in faded silver and black: a pentagram flanked on both sides by a pair of dragons, their claws seeming to hold it between them, mouths open in silent roars. Vaughn's eyes narrowed as he committed the vulgar image to memory. This was their standard, their insignia that they lived by and wherever that image lay he would seek to strike down those who waved it openly and professed their loyalty to it—and if he met the Great Liar himself, he would strike him down as well.
If not in this world, then perhaps the next one.
Without word, he took up what little he needed and struck out into the forest. It would not take long for the remains of Solomite to rage into an inferno and when they did, the smoke would be seen leagues away. It would raise an alarm and Vaughn had no intention of being here when this was investigated. They would know he had been here and that was enough. He had struck a great blow to anyone who would take the standard of the pentagram and dragon.
When Vaughn stepped over Wessin's fallen form, the solider clinched his eyes shut until Vaughn had passed. He dared opened them again, watching as Vaughn disappeared back down the horizon. He dared not breath a full breath until the warrior was gone from sight. He had fallen with the Eastern Wall and struck hard on the ground. He had lain there half-covered in rubble, waiting as he listened, playing dead until the fight was at last over. Now he stood as the only man left alive of one hundred strong. But he wasn't unsure of what to do. He had his duty; his fealty to the Kingdom of Earth was clear. The Black Dragon would return and would want to know what happened and when he did the Dragon would call down on him a wrath that was unspeakable.
Wessin curled up in a makeshift hovel as snow began to fall. In the distance, Vaughn vanished in the snowfall.
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Author's Note: This is an Alternative Universe fantasy with some familiar faces from Harvest Moon. I've wanted to do an epic fantasy for a while now and I hope you'll enjoy it.