What Songs They Would Sing

[Virgilijus]

Any comments, critiques, errors more than welcome.





This is the first draft. Most recent version is here: http://smashboards.com/threads/what-songs-they-would-sing.358238/#post-17093824.

Spoiler

The old armor dwarfed her frame as she rode. Even with the straps pulled taught, the iron plates sat twisted on her collar and wore her raw. Perhaps this was common among knights. She sat hunched in the saddle, covering the faint outline of a bull elk etched onto her breast. Pressing down her back was a great shield nearly half her size and made of a metal she did not know. It was lighter than steel but dark, not just on its surface but throughout. On the front of the shield was a large oak tree riddled with the scars of arrowheads and fire. Etched onto the leaves of its outermost branches were the names of her father and her brothers. When she was younger she used to trace their names in jealousy, but had not done so in some time.


The paths through the timberlands were far more unforgiving than Sylvia had imagined. Looking down on the sea of conifers and pines from the mountains had given her the impression of a lush and thriving land; deep greens that bend and sway in the wind like summer grass, a thick rug to comfort and mend her ailing mind. It was not until she had reached the base of the steppe that she saw the ground beneath the canopies, a graveyard of crags and boulders cracking beneath the weight of the arch trees. An endless cobweb of roots grew over the stones like a cancer, slowly crushing and suffocating them, draining the rocks of their color. With reigns in hand she led Malon over the fissures and root ends, listening carefully to the unsteady clop of its hooves. The sound carried too far over the stone and she looked back frequently, certain the echo was not her own.


It was near the middle of the Evening months and the sun glowed a fine amber atop the ridge; gold coins of light broke through the tree tops to dance upon the forest floor, kindling the dust in the air and letting it burn like fire. In a few more days the low arc of the sun would stop and slowly make its way back towards Noon and then Morning, never fully crossing the horizon. Those not born in the north fashioned the endless days a novelty. Some sought to tame it, but with no sleep and poor resolve most grew mad and left, abandoning their families and losses. But these days were all Sylvia knew and the light shed off her like the storm on new thatch. But still she slumped in her leathers. Despite her fatigue the clock in her head kept its perfect time, unable to rely on the mapmaker’s sun or stars it knew in name only. Through hazed mind she remembered the lessons of her father, the hourly then quarterly lashings she and her brothers endured until the pain was memorized. Even with drugs or fever, she would always know and never sleep more or less.


In time the two reached a small opening in the woods where the bedrock was too thick for the arch trees to root. The rider sighed, taking in but for a moment the dry, frigid air of the welcome expanse. From the edge of the arch trees she stared out towards the center of the clearing and saw an old outpost made of rock. It was small and pale-worn, the stones themselves unworked, never meant to fit or conjoin with the others, bearing large gaps where crude mortar should be. When the breeze quickened and the tree tops swayed, it whined with a thin whistle. The lichened stone around it spread out like an infection; perfectly round, emanating from the outpost and pressing against the growth of the tree line. The sluggishness Sylvia once bore drew thin and surged through her chest, prying her eyelids apart till they hurt. For some minutes she glanced back and forth between the outpost and the tree line. Between forced breaths she swore it must be ages abandoned but knew she was no master in such things. With the soft click of her tongue she steered Malon in a great, slow arc around the cairn.


The door on the front of the outpost hung loose and ajar, the planks beneath the hinges splintering under the weight. Sylvia strained through her visor to see the age of the tears but could not. After two passes she stopped and held Malon at the tree line. Even if the stones were dead, there would be no man in a thousand miles who would not check its gate once seen. But the wind is fierce and the storms fickle and flesh does much persuading. She looked up at the skies. An hour, she thought. If they don’t come in an hour they won’t come tonight. She guided Malon back into the trees, dismounting far enough therein to see yet not be seen. She unstrapped her bags from the saddle and heaved them between in the folds of the roots; raw grain and jerked meat, flasks, blankets, a small lantern of oil once lit. Malon followed her to the ground and tried to nestle into her metal breast. She took off one gauntlet and raked her hand through his mane like barley. The touch and motion soothed and brought great pains for home. But as she sat, leaning against the warmth of her horse, quietly chewing her rations, her mind remained on the outpost.


An hour passed before she moved to brush the frost from her visor. She had grown so used to the stillness it seemed irreverent to break it. One more, she thought, just to be safe. At her side, Malon grew restless. She whispered in his ear to calm him, patting his neck and tracing patterns through his hair. It was thick and coarse and unkept, but even through gauntlets she would know its touch. The gentle repetitions lulled both horse and woman to slumber. As Malon closed his eyes and stirred, Sylvia, finally looked down from the outpost, wrapped her arm about his neck and whispered that two can never be lost.


Another hour passed and she woke. None seemed to have followed her and the outpost remained unmoved. Sylvia stood, shield still on her arm and stretched, letting the warm blood burn through her icy fingertips. She twisted, loosening the joints of her armor as silent as she could. The leather straps creaked in the cold as Malon’s ears twitched. As Sylvia turned she stared at the gray tree trunk she had been resting against; carved into the bark, level with her eyes, was a name, hers, in old letters, sap still fresh in the wound.


She turned, back against the tree, and struggled to pry her sword from its frozen sheath. Malon jumped, the whites of his eyes clear, and took a short stride before slowing. He paid no mind as his master gasped through the slits of her helm, her head turning within its shadows to check the edge of the trees. There was no other movement. In the stillness she reached down and pulled her brother’s great shield up from between the roots. When held by such giant men as her father, the great iron tree covered only their chest and lower torso and for only as long as their shoulders could bear the strain. But with Sylvia the bulwark covered all save her toes if she were to crouch, and, already so close to the ground, could be planted instead of carried. From behind the iron her mind raced. A stranger that close was sure to wake her or Malon, no matter how fatigued they were. But the proof was there. And what man knows her name but would not strike her on sight and drag her home? An unease grew within her far separate from fear of pain. No matter how hard she tried to watch the tree line, her eyes slowly pulled back to the outpost.


Her breath turned the edges of her visor white. She knew she could not outlast this fear. She could stay as entrenched as she was until the Morning months and her heart would still be as a hummingbird’s. But why had she stolen the armor and shield if not welcome danger like this? Perhaps the reality is fiercer than the dream. She gathered Malon’s reigns and tied them loose enough about a branch that if he truly struggled they’d come free. He stood still and calm, following her hands as if they might hold a carrot. For the first time Sylvia found herself wishing that he were human, that he understood what choice she was making and would plead with her to stay. Instead he stared, not knowing the difference between today and yesterday or a year ago. She patted the star between his eyes and whispered gently as she kissed it.


The door creaked. Dust and bits of stone fell from the hinges as she struggled to push it open. Inside, needles of light poured from crumbling walls to probe the darkness. In the center of the room, directly in front of the door, was a table covered in red silk. Around the edges of the table were a set of chairs, mostly broken, and all scattered across the floor save one, which remained untouched beneath the nearest side. On top of the silk was a basket of round fruit with dark green swirls she had never seen before. The skin of one had been torn off and, despite the cold and fickle wind, the juicy orange flesh was still pungent enough to fill the room. Their size reminded Sylvia of pumpkins and squash, but these were softer, with more vivid and patterned rinds. She touched the torn fruit with her sword and watched it stagger across the table.


Against the far wall was a ladder. Her eyes traced it up to the roof and saw the constellations of holes above her. Once the ceiling could have supported her. But now there was more air than wood and the rafters bowed desperately under their own rotten mass. Only after searching the room once over and did she realize the ladder also went down through a hatch in the floorboards. Resting her shield against the wall, Sylvia squatted next to the latch and pulled the door open. She leaned forward and watched the flecks of gold dust drift down into the pitch. With her sword tucked into her arm she pried off her gauntlet finger by finger and unhooked the small wicker lamp hanging from her waist. The ridges on the flint knob were smooth as marble beneath her sweat and only after a moment’s stillness could she grip it proper. A chance spark hit the wick and the lantern burned a pale yellow behind its glass cage. From outside, the outpost illuminated; large spines of light bored through the holes in the walls like an urchin. Sylvia hooked the lantern to her belt and slid her hand back into the leathers of her gauntlet. Like the chairs, the ladder was sturdy and had been crafted by knowing hands; the beams were a perfect geometry; the joints, though old and worn, were cut and joined so precisely that nails were not needed. She put a foot out onto the nearest rung of the ladder and pushed left and right, testing her weight. The comfort of those menial tasks, dressing, fixing the lamp, testing the ladder, all work she had done thousands of time without mind at home, thinned as she looked past her feet to the darkness. With a prayer in her throat she began her slow descent. Outside, the outpost relaxed and slowly retracted its golden quills.


Beneath the floor, the room widened with each step and the glow of the lantern no longer reached the walls. The temperature grew as the air became grew dense and humid; water seeped between her cloths and pressed against her skin as sweat. She rested often, clutching the bars in her forearms until her shaking stopped. She knew not the depth but she knew the time and, eight minutes in, she felt the thickness of the ground. It was ash, not bedrock, moist but like starch underneath her greaves. Despite the brilliance of her lantern she could not see the walls or ceiling about her but only the pale island of ground she steadied. Set deep but faint in the ash before her were overlapping prints leading out into the darkness. She squatted beside them; heavy, flat marks that packed the soil, no two the same size or form but all men. With her shield open and useless at her side, she followed the light and brave men out into the sea.


Farther and farther into the nothingness, flecks of light came and left, mirroring her steps. She paused and watched them. They remained, unblinking, eerie but lifeless. As she approached one straight ahead, Sylvia could finally see them whole; armor. Shattered greaves and helms with red stains long since turned black, chain mail torn and jagged, breast plates pulled inside out. With each step they grew in number as their metals grew more precious; bronze gave way to iron then steel with black silvers and gold.


On the horizon, nestled between the shores of armor straddling her path, grew a flame, small yet steady, not unlike the lantern about her waist. With a grunt, Sylvia threw her shield before her and stabbed it firm into the powdered ash. From above its rim she watched the flame. It looked like no one held it, but she was not sure.


‘Come.’


The voice was deep but feminine, some years older than her own. Despite the vestiges of blood and death before it, it called with warmth, like the tendrils of a winter furnace. How could a man walk towards so tender a voice with sword and shield raised? They, an intruder, breaking the sanctity of welcome. Perhaps their blade would scare her off, forever wound their honor. But Sylvia’s heart still beat fearful and as she walked, she held her shield, now with both hands, before her.


‘Come.’


As she approached, the walls grew solid and narrowed. The edge of her great shield nicked the stone about her shoulders. If someone approached there would be no room to swing axes or clubs. If they were to thrust with halberd or sword, even the King’s Hand would only find shield. Her back, though, was bare and there was no room nor speed in which to turn even at the widest spaces. But she would not dwell on this; her spirit grew thin and death had grown old. If it were to come it would come, no matter her worry. The walls narrowed one last time, forcing her sideways, before opening into a large, rectangular room. As she crossed the threshold, she saw the flame that led her way was the center of four others that lit the corners of the room. The floor lay buried in the furs of beasts she had never seen. Velvet tapestries lay draped over absent windows and bookshelves, bulging at their joints, stood weight against the walls. In the center of the room was a large bed with red silken sheets and a dark, oaken frame. A woman with black hair, long and straight as a razor, sat in profile along the edge. With her back upright they were the same height.


‘I have been waiting, Sylvia.’


‘How do you know my name?’


There were no callouses on her fingers, no veins on the back of her hands. The muscles in her thighs drove against her skin as she stood. Sylvia could see great strength with each step and knew she earned it some other way. Resting on the corners of her hips was a thin skirt cut to her outer thigh. Beyond this she wore no clothing save a golden chain about her neck and waist. Her torso was as slender and forceful as her legs and her shoulders were as wide and pale as any man’s. But for her great stature, her breasts were small, more skin than fat, and they did not sway like her hips as she stepped forward.


‘I am Can, one of the Witches of Izalith.’ She stood unnatural, arms stiff and rigid at her sides. ‘You have come to slay me. I know this well.’


There was something so comforting about the witch’s voice. Even with the dead and ravaged piled at her heels, Sylvia felt a desire kindle within her. Her heart quickened as if she were a child again, watching the chieftain’s sons and her brothers wrestle in the fields. Jealousy and lust swelled within her breast. But as her mind fell to the pleasure she opened her eyes and before her was only the witch, thin and hairless, stiff, devoid of scars. The more she stared the more desire faded to curiosity, then ambivalence and disgust. There was nothing for her here. With eyes pried open Sylvia rested the tip of her sword atop the great shield and pointed it at Can. The witch held out her hand.


‘Stop, sister. First, let us talk. I want you to know why you are not adorning the walls like the heroes before you. Why even this moment of peace is given to you.’


Her finger drew slowly to her right eye.


‘This eye. It gazes, always, into the past. The other into the future. Together, the present. With this eye I saw your brother inherit his father’s armor and I watched as disease crippled him. I watched you, next eldest, beg and plead to complete his right of passage. I watched you steal it and leave as they slept, watched you ride into the forests, searching for your demon to slay.’


The witch lowered one hand and raised the other.


‘And with this eye I have seen who leaves here, seen who limps through the arch trees.’


The point of Sylvia’s sword stayed on the demon but her pose softened and became more upright.


‘I let you slay me. I could butcher you, tear you like all the knights gallant who sought my head and my pleasure. But I do not. I let you, a woman, the first I have seen don the armor, cut me down. And I see in my death more sisters to follow you, to forego the contentment of dress and children. To slay demons. To become the power they seek and crave. But…’


The witch stepped forward with a new assertiveness.


‘If I just… kneel before you, bow my head….’


Another step, her palms open at her side.


‘The men will ask “Where are your scars? What lies do you weave?”


From the moment Sylvia had entered her room, the witch had betrayed no emotion. Perhaps she couldn’t. She wore a face that had been carved from the heart of men but there were no creases from laughter or sorrow. Despite the power of her voice, when she spoke her jaw was stone and her lips were strained to move. But as the tip of her shadow rested on Sylvia’s shield, an ecstasy filled the back of her eyes and a smile, taught and inhuman, cracked her skin.


‘Be strong, sister. You will earn the stories they sing.’


Sylvia crouched behind her shield and readied her sword. She had never fought, only watched and sparred. How does one kill a demon? Have they fire? When should she strike? What madness convinced her she had any chance of becoming a hero? She shook the thoughts from her head; doubt would not help her now. Through the thin slits of grating her eyes remained fixed upon the demon as they darted from wall to wall to ceiling.


***


Sylvia collapsed in the corner. She could not see out of her right eye so threw off her helm and it did not change. Her sword was broken; she clutched the hilt in her hand and the demon the blade in her neck. On the other side of the bed her shield blackened in the fire. She was proud never to have never lost her grip, even as the witch hurled it across the room. She looked down at where her forearm once was and saw only black. When she was stronger she would pick up the shield before searching for Malon. Everything else could be damned but she needed the shield. But first she needed to rest, find her wounds and dress them. There was no pain, only the steady loss of blood and heat.


As she closed her eyes, the demon was all she could see. She thought about how the witch did not flinch and the dark, pungent flesh knotted beneath her skin. She thought about how her strikes slowed as they fought, and the acceptance on her face as she knelt and pulled the hair off the nape of her neck. And at last she thought about her father and his ire, or perhaps his joy, and what songs they would sing.

 

[Jam Stunna]

Hey Virg, sorry it took so long for me to get around to commenting on this.

I think this is a good idea for a story, but there are a couple of issues with it. First, it's unclear and confusing in many places. I had to re-read some sections several times, in particular the section when Sylvia falls asleep and wakes up to the tree with her name on it. I didn't understand why she'd gone on her quest until the end, when the witch explains her reasons. It made sense at that point, but I was unsure of Sylvia's motivations and what she was trying to accomplish for most of the story.

The other big problem is the witch herself. She's referred to as both a witch and a demon, and this is confusing because I'm not sure if she's human or not. That's important, because it contributes to the major issue with Can, which is unclear motivations. She wants to advance the cause of women in this fantasy realm I suppose, but why? And why at the cost of her own life? Why does she establish a bond of sisterhood with someone she knows will kill her? It's an interesting idea, but without more understanding of who Can is, it makes no sense to me as a reader that she would give up her life for women who seek to destroy her, and others like her.

 

[Virgilijus]

Thanks for the feedback Jam.

I was wanting it to be more of a reveal at the end in terms of what she was actually doing (a little mystery), but I'm guessing the delay killed it a bit. I like Can revealing it, but she does come in rather late. Hmmm.

Yeah, I don't know why I switched between demon and witch interchangeably. The original title was 'The Demon' and I changed it at the last second. Honestly, I think it was just because I was using 'witch' to often and wanted to give a hint that Can was a little more than human. And yeah, her motivations aren't . I was imagining this as one of a few short stories that set up the world that would explain the dynamics, but yeah, it's not too strong here. While I don't think I could fit them all fixes in, there are a few that come to mind.

In terms of prose and style did it read well? I haven't written in a while and felt rusty as hell.

 

[Jam Stunna]

You do a great job of describing the visual details of the story, especially the environments. However, I think the "fantasy voice" is a bit too strong in places. Lines like

Those not born in the north fashioned the endless days a novelty. Some sought to tame it, but with no sleep and poor resolve most grew mad and left, abandoning their families and losses.

read as generic fantasy, when you have a rather unique story you're trying to tell. I think a more direct and straightforward prose style would serve your story better.

 

[Virgilijus]

What Songs They Would Sing

Spoiler

The old armor dwarfed her frame as she rode. Even with the straps pulled taught, the iron plates sat twisted on her collar and wore her raw. Perhaps this was common among knights. She sat hunched in the saddle, covering the faint outline of a bull elk etched onto her breast. Strapped against her back was a great shield more than half her size and made of a metal she did not know. It was light, lighter than steel but dark blue in color, not just on its surface but throughout. On the front of the shield was a large oak tree riddled with the scars of arrowheads and fire. On the leaves of its outermost branches were the names of her father and her brothers. When she was younger she used to trace their names in jealousy, but had not done so in some time.


The paths through the timberlands were more unforgiving than Sylvia had imagined. Looking down on the sea of conifers and pines from the mountains had given her the impression of a lush and thriving land; deep greens that bend and sway in the wind like summer grass, a thick rug to comfort and mend her ailing mind. It was not until she had reached the base of the steppe that she saw the ground beneath the canopies, a graveyard of crags and boulders cracking beneath the weight of the arch trees. An endless cobweb of roots grew over the stones like a cancer, slowly crushing and suffocating them, draining the rocks of their color. With reigns in hand she led Malon over the fissures and root ends, listening carefully to the unsteady clop of its hooves. The sound carried too far over the stone and she looked back frequently, certain the echo was not her own.


It was near the middle of the Evening months and the sun glowed a fine amber atop the ridge; gold coins of light broke through the tree tops to dance upon the forest floor, kindling the dust in the air and letting it burn like fire. In a few more days the low arc of the sun would stop and slowly make its way back towards Noon and then Morning, never fully crossing the horizon. Southerners fashioned the endless days a novelty; every year droves of farmers came, trying to reap the never ending harvest. But the winter light is as cold as a glacier and with no sleep and poor resolve most grew mad and left, abandoning their families and losses. But these days were all Sylvia knew and the light shed off her mind like the storm on new thatch. Despite her fatigue the clock in her head kept perfect time. It had to; with the sun forever anchored in the sky, she and all her tribe were unable to rely on the mapmaker’s sun or stars they knew in name only. Slumped in the reigns, she remembered the lessons of her father, the hourly then quarterly lashings she and her brothers endured until the pain was memorized. Even with drugs or fever, she would always know and never sleep more or less.


In time rider and horse reached a small opening in the woods where the bedrock was too thick for the arch trees to root. Sylvia sighed, taking in but for a moment the dry, frigid air of the welcome expanse. From the edge of the arch trees she stared out towards the center of the clearing and saw an old outpost made of rock. It was small and pale-worn, the stones themselves unworked, never meant to fit or conjoin with the others and bearing large gaps where crude mortar should be. When the breeze quickened and the tree tops swayed, it whined with a thin whistle. The lichened stone around it spread out like an infection; perfectly round, emanating from the outpost and pressing against the growth of the tree line. The sluggishness Sylvia once bore drew thin and surged through her chest, prying her eyelids apart till they hurt. As a child she had a great affinity for maps; while the other children memorized the ballads and epics Sylvia had learned years ago, she stowed away in town hall and poured over the old cartographer’s journals. There were no creeks or wolf trails in a thousand leagues she did not know of. Yet here, in this inkless expanse on every map, was an outpost no lone man could build in a lifetime. For some minutes she glanced back and forth between the outpost and the tree line. The base was more round than the outposts she’d seen before and the parapets atop where the sentries patrolled more jagged, but the design did not feel foreign. There was no footpath through the lichen to the door. Sylvia cursed beneath her breath; the whole structure must have been abandoned for ages but she knew she was no master in such things. But if it had been here, dead and isolate, for so long, why had it not appeared in any of the journals? With the soft click of her tongue she steered Malon in a great, slow arc around the cairn.


The door on the front of the outpost hung loose and ajar, the planks beneath the hinges splintering under the weight. Sylvia strained through her visor to see the age of the tears but could not. After two passes she stopped and held Malon at the tree line. Even if the stones were dead, there would be no man in a thousand leagues who would not check its gate for her once seen. But the wind was fierce and the storms fickle and flesh does much persuading. Sylvia shivered and looked up at the skies. An hour, she thought. If they don’t come in an hour they won’t come tonight. She guided Malon back into the trees, dismounting far enough in to see yet not be seen. She unstrapped her bags from the saddle and heaved them between in the folds of the roots; raw grain and jerked meat, flasks, blankets, a small lantern of oil. Malon followed her to the ground and tried to nestle into her metal breast. She took off one gauntlet and raked her hand through his mane like barley. The touch and motion soothed her and brought great pains for home. But as she sat, leaning against the warmth of her horse, quietly chewing her rations, her mind remained on the outpost.


An hour passed before she moved to brush the frost from her visor. She had grown so used to the stillness it seemed irreverent to break it. One more hour, she thought, just to be safe. At her side, Malon grew restless. She whispered in his ear to calm him, patting his neck and tracing patterns through his hair. It was thick and coarse and unkept, but even through steel gauntlets she would always know its touch. The gentle repetitions lulled both horse and woman to sleep. As Malon closed his eyes and stirred, Sylvia, finally looked down from the outpost, wrapped her arm about his neck and whispered that two can never be lost.


Another hour passed. She woke and looked around; only the clouds had moved. No one was going to find her tonight. Sylvia stood, shield still on her arm and stretched, letting the warm blood burn through her icy fingertips. She twisted, loosening the joints of her armor as silent as she could. The leather straps creaked in the cold as Malon’s ears twitched. As Sylvia turned she stared at the gray trunk of the arch tree she had been resting against; carved into the bark, level with her eyes, was a name, hers, written in the old letters.


She turned, back against the tree, and drew her sword. She had not taken the blade out of its sheath since she left and a thick frost had welded the blade to the hilt. The iron plates and leathers on her breast and hips rattled and twisted as she pried the sword free and held the tip out towards no one. Malon jumped, the whites of his eyes clear, and took a short stride before slowing. He paid no mind as his master gasped through the slits of her helm, her head turning wildly behind the bars to scout the edge of the trees. There was no other movement. In the stillness she reached down and pulled her brother’s great shield up from between the roots. When held by such men as her father, the great iron tree covered only their chest and lower torso and for only as long as their shoulders could bear the weight. But with Sylvia the bulwark covered all save her toes if she were to crouch, and, already so close to the ground, could be planted instead of carried.


Her mind raced. A stranger that close was sure to wake her or Malon, no matter how fatigued and senseless they were. But how could it be a stranger? They knew her name in a wilderness that neither she nor any one she’d known had traveled before. But of all the tribesmen tracking her, none would choose to waste his time and health playing these games with her. No doubt some of the men who loathed her had joined the party and would have paid coin to know how much she suffered now, but they were brutes and not clever enough to know suffering could come from anything other than their hands.


Perhaps she imagined it. Maybe the adrenaline that kept her body strong had made her mind weak. There were a thousand reasons why this couldn’t be, but despite each one the grooves of her name were still there beneath her fingers. She looked closer at the carvings and pulled out some of the frozen sap; the cuts were old. At that depth, she knew the sapwood should stay pale for a few days. But the letters here were as dark as the old knots that peppered the trees. How had she missed it when she first sat down? An unease churned within her far separate from fear or pain. She turned; no matter how hard she tried to watch the tree line, her eyes slowly pulled back to the outpost.


***


Her breath turned the edges of her visor white. She knew she could not outlast this feeling. She could stay entrenched until the Morning months and her heart would still be quick as a hummingbird’s. But why had she stolen the armor and shield if not welcome danger like this? If all she wanted was to survive she’d have stayed at home, traded field work for children, and watched as other brave warriors willingly stood and fought and died for her. She yearned for something more rewarding if more foolish than survival. But with each churn of her stomach, that fantasy of honor earned with the sword, still as true today as it was ten years ago, became overshadowed. Perhaps, she conceded, the reality was too fierce for the dream.


The saddle and ration bags had not come loose once through the mountains and the steppe, but she still checked and tightened each strap three times over. If the lightest whisper didn’t carry so far on the bedrock she’d have taken out the whetstone and whittled her sword down to a skewer. Anything to keep her mind busy and delay how hasty and foolish her choice was until she could not turn back. Malon watched as his master tied and untied his reigns about the thinnest branch she could find; if she did not return, it would not hold him long. He stood ignorant and calm, eyes following her hands as if they might hold a carrot. For the first time Sylvia found herself wishing that he were human, that he understood what choice she had made and would plead with her to stay. Instead he stared, not knowing the difference between today and yesterday or a year ago. She patted the star between his eyes and whispered gently as she kissed it.


The door creaked. Dust and bits of stone fell from the hinges as she struggled to push it open. Inside, needles of light poured from crumbling walls to probe the darkness. In the center of the room, directly in front of the door, was a table covered in red silk. Around the edges of the table were a set of chairs, mostly broken, and all scattered across the floor save one, which remained untouched beneath the nearest side. On top of the silk was a basket of round fruit with dark green swirls she had never seen before. The skin of one had been torn off and, despite the ice in the air, the juicy orange flesh was still pungent enough to fill the room. Their size reminded Sylvia of pumpkins, but these were softer, with more vivid and patterned rinds. She touched the torn fruit with her sword and watched it stagger across the table.


Against the far wall was a ladder. Her eyes traced it up to the roof and saw the constellations of holes above her. Once the ceiling could have supported her, but now there was more air than wood and the rafters bowed desperately under their own rotten mass. Only after searching the room once over did Sylvia notice the ladder also went down through a hatch in the floorboards. Resting her shield against the wall, she squatted next to the latch and pulled the door open and watched the flecks of gold dust drift down into the pitch. With her sword tucked beneath her arm she pried off her gauntlet finger by finger and unhooked the small wicker lamp hanging from her waist. The ridges on the flint knob were smooth as marble beneath her sweat and only after a moment’s stillness could she grip it proper. A chance spark hit the wick and the lantern burned a pale yellow behind its glass cage. From outside, the outpost illuminated; large spines of light bored through the holes in the walls like an urchin. Sylvia hooked the lantern to her belt and slid her hand back into the leathers of her gauntlet. Like the chairs, the ladder was sturdy and had been crafted by knowing hands; the beams were a perfect geometry and the joints, though old and worn, were cut and joined so precisely that nails were not needed. She put a foot out onto the nearest rung of the ladder and pushed left and right, testing her weight. The comfort of those menial tasks, dressing, fixing the lamp, testing the ladder, all work she had done thousands of time without mind at home, thinned as she looked past her feet to the darkness. With a prayer in her throat she began her slow descent. Outside, the outpost relaxed and slowly retracted its golden quills.


Beneath the floor, the room widened with each step and the glow of the lantern no longer reached the walls. The temperature grew as the air became grew dense and humid; water seeped between her cloths and pressed against her skin as sweat. She rested often, clutching the bars in her forearms until her shaking stopped. She did not know the depth but she knew the time and, eight minutes in, she felt the thickness of the ground. It was ash, not bedrock, moist but like starch underneath her greaves. Despite the brilliance of her lantern she could not see the walls or ceiling about her but only the pale island of ground she steadied. Set deep but faint in the ash before her were overlapping prints leading out into the darkness. She squatted best she could beside them; heavy, flat marks that packed the soil, no two the same size or form but all men. With her shield open and useless at her side, she followed the light and brave men out into the sea.


Farther and farther into the nothingness, flecks of light came and left, mirroring her steps. She paused and watched them. They remained unblinking, eerie but lifeless. As Sylvia approached one head on, she could finally make out what it was; armor. Shattered greaves and helms with red stains turned black, chain mail burnt and jagged, aegises pulled inside out. With each step they grew in number as their metals grew more precious; bronze gave way to iron then steel with black silvers and gold. On some of the breastplates she could make out the sigils of all the great families; the Twin Wolves of the founding brothers, the Mad King of Red Lions, the Raven of his usurper, and the Reaper of the Dead her chieftain still wears.


On the horizon, nestled between the shores of armor straddling her path, grew a flame, small yet steady, not unlike the lantern about her waist. With a grunt, Sylvia threw her shield before her and stabbed it firm into the powdered ash. From above its rim she watched the flame. It looked like no figure held it, but she was not sure.


‘Come!’


The voice called from beyond the farthest piles of armor. It was deep yet feminine, some years older than her own, and though it said just one word there was a tantalizing warmth within it. To the great heroes before Sylvia it had called like an old love from across the sea. The scent of youth returned to them; memories of joy, selfishness, and regret grew warm in their minds. They closed their eyes and pained for home, for those handful of invincible years that made them. They listened beneath the woman’s voice, to the voice of the girl they ran away with, so confident and overwhelmed, who had hurt them as much as they hurt her. At her call they dropped their swords and shields and walked forward to embrace her once more, to hold her tight against their chest, to smell the old earth in her hair, and to ask and give forgiveness. The memories called to all the old heroes, but not to Sylvia; she was too young to have fought those battles and gained those scars and at the sound of the woman’s voice she did not loosen her grip but tightened it and held her shield closer to her chest.


‘Come!’


The walls grew solid and narrowed. The edge of her great shield nicked the stone about her shoulders. If someone approached there would be no room to swing an axe or club. If they were to thrust with halberd or sword, even the King’s Hand would find only her shield. Her back, though, was bare and there was no room in which to turn at even the widest gaps. Without a moment’s hesitation she continued forward. What could she do? A numbness had spread to her thoughts and the anxiety of death had grown old; if it were to come it would come, no matter her worry. The walls narrowed one last time, forcing her sideways, before opening into a large, rectangular room. As she crossed the threshold, she saw the flame that guided her was the center and largest of four others strewn about the corners of the room. Along the right wall was a large fireplace that burned like a tempest and made the shadows tremble around the room. Beneath Sylvia’s feet, the ash gave way to the furs of beasts she had never seen. On each wall, velvet tapestries filled the empty space between rock filled windows and bookshelves that bulged like casks. In the center of the room was a large bed with red and white silken sheets and a dark, oaken frame. A woman with black hair, long and straight as a razor, sat in profile along the edge. With her back upright they were the same height.


‘I have been waiting, Sylvia.’


‘How do you know my name?’


There were no callouses on the woman’s fingers, no veins on the back of her hands. The muscles in her thighs drove hard against her skin as she stood. Sylvia could see great strength in each step the woman took and wondered what she did to earn it. On the corners of the woman’s hips was a dark red skirt with a slit all the way to her thigh. Beyond this she wore no clothing save a thin, golden chain about her neck and waist. Her torso was as slender and forceful and her shoulders were as wide and pale as any man’s. But for her great stature, her breasts were small, more skin than fat, and they did not sway like her hips as she stepped forward.


‘I am Can, last vestige of the witches of Izalith.’ She stood unnatural, arms stiff and rigid at her sides. ‘You have come to slay me, brave warrior. I know this well.’


There was something so comforting about the witch’s voice. Though it had not swayed her like the others, she knew at once how extraordinarily beautiful it was. And now, without the echoes and distortion of the cave around her, she listened to the witch and could not help but close her eyes. Even with the dead and ravaged piled at her heels, a strange desire kindle within her. Each word brought a warmth she could not explain. Her heart quickened as if she were a child again, watching the chieftain’s sons wrestle in the fields. Jealousy and lust swelled within her breast. Her breathing began to falter. If something deep within her mind screamed in fear, she did not hear it. The rush came so fast and powerful and pure that for just a moment she grew disoriented. As she stumbled against her shield, her eyes flashed open. She could feel their hands wrap around her hips, taste the sweat in the air. But now she saw only the witch before her; thin and hairless, stiff, devoid of scars. And the more she stared at her the more that strange desire faded to curiosity, ambivalence, and then disgust. There was nothing for her here. She leaned against her shield like a drunkard and shook the stupor filling her head. Her eyes grew wide and white and with the flick of her wrist she drew her sword and rested it on the rim of her shield. The witch raised her palm.


‘Stop, sister. First, let us talk. I need to tell you why you do not adorn the walls like the heroes before you. Why even this respite is gifted.’


Her finger drew slowly to her right eye.


‘This eye; it gazes, always, into the past. The other, to the future. Together, the present. With this eye I watched your brother inherit his father’s armor and I watched as the *****’s disease crippled him. I watched you, next eldest, beg to complete his right of passage. I watched you steal his armor and slip into the night. Watched you ride into the forests, searching for your demon to slay.’


The witch lowered one hand and raised the other.


‘And with this eye I have seen who leaves here, seen who limps through the arch trees.’


The fireplace cast an orange hue across the room but even so she could see the rich jade circles in the witch’s eyes. As they closed, a lifelessness overcame the woman, as if the last opening of a furnace had been shut. With great deliberation the witch inhaled, her stomach growing round and taught, and Sylvia could not help but feel as if some conflict still lingered within the woman.


‘I let you slay me. I could butcher you, sunder you like all the naïve men who sought my head and my pleasure. But I do not. I let you, woman, Sister, the first I have seen don the armor since Our fall, cut me down. And I see in my death your rise. I see more Sisters and Daughters come to follow you, to forego the servitude of dress and child. I see through the haze, perhaps, Our might reclaim its place in the fearful heart of Men. I see Us born anew through my blood on your sword. But…’


The witch stepped forward with a new assertiveness.


‘If I just… kneel before you, bow my head….’


Another step, her palms open at her side.


‘The men will ask “Where are your scars? What lies do you weave?” ‘


From the moment Sylvia had entered her room, the witch’s face had betrayed no emotion. Perhaps she couldn’t. It had been carved from and for the hearts of men but there were no creases from laughter or sorrow. Despite the power of her voice, when she spoke her jaw was stone and her lips strained to move. But as the tip of her shadow rested on Sylvia’s shield, her eyes closed in euphoria and a smile cracked the marble of her skin.


‘Be strong, Sister. You will earn the stories they sing.’


Sylvia crouched behind her shield and readied her sword. For all her eagerness she had never fought, only watched and sparred. Through the thin slits of grating her eyes remained fixed upon the witch as they darted from wall to wall to ceiling. And for the first time in two days she was not afraid.



***



She collapsed in the corner. She could not see out of her right eye so threw off her helm and it did not change. Her sword was broken; she clutched the hilt in her hand and the witch the blade in her neck. On the other side of the bed her family’s shield blackened in the fire. She looked down at where her left forearm once was and saw only black. Mixed with the pain was pride; she had have never lost her grip, even as the witch tore the shield from her and flicked it across the room. When she was stronger she would drag it from the fire and take it with her before searching for Malon. It and the witch’s head; all the gems and gilded armor could be damned but she needed the shield and her proof. But first came rest, finding her wounds and dressing them. The pain slowly faded away, leaving only the steady loss of blood and heat.


When she closed her eyes, she saw the witch before her. She saw the grace and power of her strikes and the swiftness of her movements. She saw her fingers drive through the armor on her belly and watched the iron crack and splay like wax. She saw the witch’s hand melt away like fog as it pressed into her abdomen and she remembered the nausea that festered inside as she pulled. She saw the dark, knotted flesh beneath the witch’s skin as a desperate strike landed. She saw the look in the witch’s eyes as she knelt and pulled the hair off the nape of her neck, and how she staggered when the first swing did not go through, nor the second. She watched her body fall to the floor like cattle and wondered what had forced the strongest being she’d ever known to this pitiful life. And at last she saw her brothers and her father, with his arms outstretched, his ire turned to joy, and dreamt of what songs they would sing.

 

[tmw_redcell]

Sup Virg!

So it looks like you solved the issues Jam brought up as far as I can tell. Though the "fantasy voice" is still there. It is more fantasy-voice than I am used to reading, though I didn't mind it.

Your prose is pretty good. Good word choice and variety of sentence structure. I think you need more paragraph breaks though. That's understandable after a long break. i remember one time I came off a break and I had forgotten paragraph breaks entirely.

I think your story would be served well if you were to spice up the opening a bit with some more conflict. On my read-through, I didn't really become interested until the remark that the fort was not on any map. I think you should do something earlier on to more strongly indicate the sexism in your fantasy world. It is difficult because your character starts out alone. I rarely suggest flashbacks but you could consider one. Doesn't have to be big, could even just be a few lines of dialogue remembered by your main character.

Your climax is interesting. Though from the way it is presented, it appears as though your main character is basically uninvolved and the witch does everything. Like, it cuts away during the final fight. My interpretation was that the with basically faked the final fight and gave controlled Sylvia into giving her a big final fight worthy of legends and songs even though the with had no actual intention of harming her. Is that correct? That's not a bad thing, but it is unorthodox. I think the story would be more gripping if Sylvia did something more dangerous to prove her worth so to speak. A simple answer would be something like the witch fighting her, knowing what would happen if Sylvia would beat her, but also not wanting to die. Her reasoning could be something like, wanting to make sure her visions were accurate, and wanting to be sure that the legend of Sylvia she left behind could be backed up by later deeds.

Also I would suggest not cutting away from the final fight. It's basically the climax, even if the fight is only symbolic and it's not meant to be an action kinda story.

One place I think the prose needs clearing up is after Sylvia goes down the ladder and the bodies rise and move. I stumbled a couple times trying to figure out what exactly was happening.

Also that time you said it it's "pored" not "poured" over the maps.

 

[Virgilijus]

Thanks for the feedback.

Were there any parts that stood out as 'fantasy voice'? I really tried to cut that out but, after looking at it for so long, might not have been the best judge.

I was toying with the idea of the witch struggling more with not wanting to die/Sylvia causing more damage to the witch, but was thinking it would be more interesting for her character down the line (if I were to write another story, which I think I may whenever this one is done) to cope with feeling like an imposter. She gets what she wants, but in a sort of degrading way. I could probably do a better job with that at the end.

And I think you're right about there not being enough of a hook early on. I was wanting it to be sort of a retroactive 'A ha!' moment, but I don't think I did a good enough job with that.

Hmmm. No bodies rise and move after the ladder. Guess I do need to fix that section.

Thanks again!

 

[Virgilijus]

All right, another go with the edit-hammer. I tried to get all the clunky 'fantasy voice' bits out because they didn't mesh with the tone I wanted. All comments more than welcome.

Spoiler

The old armor dwarfed her frame as she rode. When she first set off she had pulled the straps as tight as she could, but even so the iron plates hung loose and twisted her collar raw. Perhaps this was common among knights, she mused. She tried her best to sit tall and upright, with the good posture her father taught her. And she did for the first day. But now she was sore and tired and the weight made her hunch like a crone.

It was a burden, but one that she would gladly bear. The armor had been the pride of her family for generations and she could feel the history inside it. But in addition to the prestige, it was beautiful; so many of the other families had armor that was all rust and fur without a trace of ornament. But when she looked down through the folds of her cloak, she saw the silver outline of a charging bull elk etched onto her breast. And on the shield strapped to her back was a pale oak tree riddled with the nicks of countless arrowheads and spears. She didn’t know the material; it was light, far lighter than steel, but dark blue in color, not just on its surface but throughout. And it was strong. She had seen more than one axe shatter against it and not even leave a dent. On the leaves of the outermost branches of the tree were the names of her brothers and her father and all who came before. When she was younger she used to trace their names in jealousy, but had not done so in some time.

The path through the timberlands was more unforgiving than Sylvia had imagined. Looking down on the basin from the mountains had always given her the impression that it was a lush and thriving land; the deep greens of the pines looked as soft as fur from a distance and they bent and swayed in the wind like summer grass. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the ridge that she saw the ground beneath the canopies for what it really was; a graveyard of crags and boulders cracking beneath the weight of the arch trees. An endless webs of roots grew over the stones like a cancer, slowly crushing and suffocating the boulders and draining them of their color. She led Malon slowly over the fissures and root ends and as she did, she listened carefully to the jagged clop of his hooves. The sound carried far over the stone and she looked back frequently, certain the echo was not her own.

It was near the middle of the Evening months and the sun glowed a fine amber atop the ridge. Gold coins of light broke through the tree tops and danced on the forest floor, kindling the dust in the air and letting it burn like fire. In a few more days the low arc of the sun would stop and slowly make its way back towards Noon and then Morning, never fully crossing the horizon. Southerners fashioned the endless days a novelty; every year droves of farmers came and tried to reap the spoils of a never ending harvest. But the winter light, bright and constant as it is, is also as cold as a glacier and with no sleep and poor resolve, most of the farmers would grow mad and leave, abandoning their families and their losses. But these days were all that Sylvia knew and the light shed off her mind like the storm on new thatch. Despite her fatigue, the clock in her head kept perfect time. It had to; with the sun anchored in the sky, she and all her tribe were unable to rely on the dials that were so useful down south. As she slumped in the reigns, Sylvia thought back to the lessons of her father and the hourly then quarterly lashings she and her brothers endured until the pain was memorized. They were cruel and unfair but they had worked and even with drugs or fever, she would always know the hour and never sleep more or less.


In time, she reached a small opening in the woods where the bedrock was too thick for the arch trees to root. Sylvia straightened her back and sighed, taking in for a moment the dry, frigid air of the welcome expanse. From the edge of the arch trees she stared out towards the center of the clearing and saw an old outpost made of rock. It was small and pale-worn. The stones themselves were unworked; none were the same size or shape and each side of the tower bore large gaps where crude mortar should have been but was never placed. When the breeze quickened and the tree tops swayed, the outpost whined with a thin whistle. Evenly spread out around the base of the tower were large, perfectly round stones covered in lichen.

In an instant, all of Sylvia’s sluggishness disappeared. She had always had great affinity for maps; while the other children memorized the ballads and epics she had learned years before, Sylvia stowed away in the town hall and poured over the old cartographer’s journals. There were no creeks or wolf trails in the Northern kingdoms she did not know of. Yet here, in this inkless expanse on every map, was an outpost no single man could build in a lifetime.

She glanced back and forth between the outpost and the tree line. The base was more round than the other outposts she’d seen and the parapets atop were more jagged, but the design did not feel foreign. But there was no footpath through the lichen to the door. Sylvia cursed beneath her breath; she swore the outpost must have been abandoned for ages but she also knew she was no master in such things. But if it had been here, dead and isolate, for so long, why had it not appeared in any of her journals? With a soft click of her tongue she steered Malon in a great, slow arc around the tower.

The door on the front of the outpost hung loose and ajar and the planks beneath the hinges were splintered. Sylvia squinted through her visor to guess at the age of the tears but couldn’t. After two passes she stopped and held Malon at the tree line. Even if the tower were long dead, any man in a thousand leagues who stumbled upon it would find her if she tried to take shelter. She looked back up at the ridge. I’ve already taken so many risks, she thought. They won’t last forever. But the wind was fierce and the storms fickle and the flesh does much persuading. Sylvia pulled her cloak high about her shoulders and looked up at the skies. An hour, she thought. If they don’t come in an hour they won’t come tonight. She guided Malon back into the trees and dismounted far enough in to see yet not be seen. She unstrapped her bags from the saddle and dropped them between the roots of an arch tree. She had brought little other than her armor; the bag had a few handfuls of cut grain and jerked meat, two flasks, blankets, a small lantern of oil, and nothing more. A few days ago she had convinced herself that her supplies would be more than enough, but now she had doubts. As she took her seat against the tree, Malon followed her to the ground and tried to nestle into her breastplate. Sylvia took off one gauntlet and raked her hand through his mane. The touch and the motion soothed her and brought back great pains for home. But as she sat, leaning against the warmth of her horse, quietly chewing her rations, her mind remained on the outpost.

An hour passed before she moved to brush the frost from her visor. She had grown so used to the stillness it seemed irreverent to break it. One more hour, she thought, just to be safe. At her side, Malon grew restless. She whispered in his ear to calm him, patting his neck and tracing patterns through his hair. It was thick and coarse and unkept, but even through steel gauntlets she would always know its touch. The gentle repetitions lulled both horse and woman to sleep. As Malon closed his eyes and stirred, Sylvia, finally looked down from the outpost, wrapped her arm about his neck and whispered that two can never be lost.

Another hour passed. She woke and looked around; only the clouds had moved. No one would find her tonight. Sylvia stood, shield still on her arm, and let the warm blood burn through her fingertips. She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet and twisted hips. Her leather straps groaned in the cold while Malon’s ears twitched. As Sylvia turned she stared at the gray trunk of the arch tree she had been resting against; carved into the bark, level with her eyes, was a name –hers- written in the old letters.

She pressed her back against the tree and tried to draw her sword. She had not taken the blade out of its sheath since she had run away and a thick frost had welded the blade to the hilt. The iron plates and leathers on her breast and hips rattled and twisted as she pried the sword free and held the tip out towards no one. Malon jumped, the whites of his eyes clear, and took a short stride before slowing. He paid no mind as his master gasped through the slits of her helm. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the tree line. Nothing moved. In the stillness she reached down and pulled her brother’s great shield up from between the roots. When held by men like her father, the great iron tree covered only their chest and lower torso and for only as long as their shoulders could bear the weight. But with Sylvia the bulwark covered all of her save her toes if she were to crouch, and, already so close to the ground, it could be planted instead of carried.

Her mind raced. A stranger that close was sure to wake her or Malon, no matter how fatigued and senseless they were. But how could it be a stranger? They knew her name in a wilderness that neither she nor any one she’d known had traveled before. But of all the tribesmen tracking her, none would choose to waste his time and health playing games with her. There was no doubt some of the men who had joined the tracking party truly loathed her and would have paid good coin to know how much she suffered now, but they were brutes and not clever enough to know suffering could come from anything other than their hands.

Perhaps she imagined it. Maybe the adrenaline that kept her body strong had made her mind weak. There were a thousand reasons why this couldn’t be, but despite each one she could still feel the grooves of her name there beneath her fingers. She looked closer at the carvings and pulled out some of the frozen sap; the cuts were old. At that depth, she knew the sapwood should stay pale for a few days. But the letters here were as dark as the old knots that peppered the trees. She must not have seen it when she first sat down. An unease churned within her far separate from fear or pain. She turned; no matter how hard she tried to watch the tree line, her eyes slowly pulled back to the outpost.

***

Her breath turned the edges of her visor white. She knew she could not outlast this feeling. Even if she sat until the Morning months, her heart would still beat like a hummingbird’s. No, she thought; she had stolen her brother’s armor and shield to welcome danger like this. If all she wanted was to do was survive she’d have stayed at home, traded her field work for children, and watched as other brave warriors willingly stood and fought and died for her. Instead, she yearned for something more rewarding if more foolish than survival. But with each churn of her stomach, that fantasy of honor earned with the sword, still as true today as it was ten years ago, became overshadowed. Perhaps, she conceded, the reality was too fierce for the dream.

The saddle and ration bags had not come loose once through the mountains and the timberlands, but she still checked and tightened each strap three times over. If the lightest whisper didn’t carry so far over the bedrock she’d have taken out the whetstone and whittled her brother’s sword down to a skewer. Anything to keep her mind busy and to delay how hasty and foolish her choice was until she could not turn back. Malon watched as his master tied and untied his reigns about the thinnest branch she could find; if she did not return, she did not want to hold him back for long. Her unease had no effect on him and as she bustled around him and the arch tree, his lips nibbled at her hands as if they might hold a carrot. For the first time since she was a child, Sylvia found herself wishing that he were human. She prayed that he could understand what choice she had made and that he would comfort her and plead with her to go home. Instead, he stared vacantly at the tower, unable to discern anything but the extremes of fear and hunger. She patted the star between his eyes and whispered gently as she kissed him.

***

The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open. Bits of stone and dust crumbled beneath the hinges and rolled across the floor like smoke. The space was dry and empty. From inside she could see the thousands of holes and cracks that covered the walls like constellations. In the center of the room, directly in front of the door, was a small table covered in red silk. Around the edges of the table were a set of chairs, mostly broken, and all scattered across the floor save one, which remained untouched beneath the nearest side. On top of the silk was a basket filled with round fruit covered in dark green swirls she had never seen before. The skin of one had been bitten off and the juicy, orange flesh still seemed ripe. As she walked towards the table, the air grew thick and sweet. The size of the fruit reminded Sylvia of pumpkins. She touched the half-eaten fruit with her sword and watched it wobble across the table.

Pressed against the far wall was a wooden ladder. Her eyes followed it up to the opening in the roof. Once the ceiling could have supported her. But now there was more air than wood and the rafters bowed desperately under their own rotten mass. She walked around the room carefully, prodding the fallen beams and tapestries with the point of her sword. She didn’t recognize any of the family colors or sigils. Only after searching the room twice over did Sylvia notice the ladder also went down through a hatch in the floorboards. She squatted next to the latch and, resting her shield against the wall, pulled the door open and watched the flecks of gold dust drift down into the pitch. With her sword tucked beneath her arm she pried off her gauntlet finger by finger and unhooked the small wicker lamp hanging from her waist. The ridges on the old flint knob had no grip beneath her sweat and only after she rubbed her fingertips through her cloak could she turn it properly. After a few clicks, a chance spark hit the wick and the lantern burned a fierce yellow. Suddenly the tower was alive; the little flame cackled behind its glass and shadows scattered across the floor. Sylvia looked up and saw the currents of air swirl in and out the hatch in deep breaths. Thin rays of light pressed through the cracks and holes in the walls like the spines of an urchin. She hooked the lantern to her belt and slid her hand back into the leathers of her gauntlet. Like the chairs, the ladder was sturdy and had been crafted well. The beams were all smooth and parallel and the joints, though old and worn, were cut and joined so precisely there was no need for nails. She put a foot out onto the nearest rung of the ladder and pushed left and right, testing her weight. The comfort of those menial tasks -dressing, testing and fixing her tools, all work she had done mindlessly a thousand times at home- thinned as she looked past her feet and into the darkness of the hatch. With a prayer in her throat she grabbed her shield and began to climb down. From outside, Malon watched as the outpost relaxed and slowly retracted its quills.

Beneath the floor, the room widened with each step and the glow of Sylvia’s lantern no longer reached the walls around her. The temperature grew as the air became dense and humid. Water seeped between the layers of her undershirt and her leathers began to creak as they slid over each other. She rested often, clutching the bars in her forearms until her shaking stopped. She did not know how far she had climbed but she knew the time and, after half an hour, she finally felt the setness of the ground. It was not bedrock, though, nor granite; it was ash and it sank beneath her boots like fresh snow. Even with her lantern, she could see nothing but the base of the ladder and the pale island of ground she centered. Directly in front of her, leading out from the ladder and into the darkness, was a thin trail of overlapping footprints. She squatted best she could beside them; they were all heavy, flat marks that packed the soil, no two the same size or shape. She stood, drew her sword, and waited. As truly scared as she was, Sylvia could not help but savor the moment. Something was changing. With her shield open and useless at her side, she walked forward and followed the path of the other brave men before her.

As she journeyed farther and farther into the nothingness, flecks of light came and went before her, mirroring her steps. She paused and watched them. They remained unblinking, eerie but lifeless. As Sylvia approached one head on, she finally made out what they were. Armor. Shattered greaves and helms with red stains turned black, chain mail burnt and jagged, breastplates and aegides pulled inside out. With each step they grew in number and their metals grew more precious; bronze gave way to iron then chrome and King’s steel. On the shields she could make out the sigils of all the great Northern families; the Twin Wolves of the founding brothers, the Mad King of Red Lions, the Raven of his usurper. The Crescent Moon. The She-Bear. The White and Gold Hands. And, littered among them, the Reaper of the Dead, the sigil her chieftain still wears.

Out on the horizon, nestled between the shores of armor, a single flame appeared. It was small yet brilliant, not unlike the one about her waist, and burned with a life that the armor did not. With a quick thrust of her shoulder, Sylvia threw her shield before her and planted it deep into the powdered ash. From above its rim she watched the distant flame. It looked like no one held it, but she was not sure.

‘Come!’

The voice called from far beyond the farthest piles of armor. Its echo was deep and feminine, some years older than her own, and though it said just one word there was a tantalizing warmth within it. To the great heroes before Sylvia it had called like an old love from across the sea. The scent of youth returned to them; memories of joy, selfishness, and regret grew pleasant in their minds. They closed their eyes and pained for home, for those handful of invincible years that made them. They could hear beneath the deep woman’s voice the voice of the girl they ran away with. A confident and overwhelmed girl who had hurt them as much as they cut her. And Sylvia could see in the ash where they had dropped their swords and shields and walked forward to embrace her once more. To hold her tight against their chest. To smell the old earth in her hair. And to ask and to give forgiveness. The memories called to all the old heroes, but not to Sylvia; she was too young to have fought those battles and gained those scars and at the sound of the woman’s voice she did not loosen her grip but tightened it.

‘Come!’

As she walked towards the flame, the walls of the room jumped forward from the darkness and funneled her through a small gap in the bedrock. She tried to keep her shield high in front of her, but her shoulder was already buckling beneath the weight. Instead, she would throw the tip of the shield out in front of her, then quickly shuffle behind it and throw it again. It was not glamorous, but it was effective; if someone approached her from the front there would be no room to swing a club or axe. Even if they had a halberd or a sickle-spear, they couldn’t hope to touch her. Even the King’s Blade would only find her shield. Her back, though, was bare and there was no room to turn at even the widest gaps.

Without any hesitation she continued forward. There was no other choice; a numbness had spread to her thoughts and the anxiety of death had grown old. If it were to come, it would come, no matter her worry. The walls narrowed one last time and sparks rained down on her when her shield clipped the edges of the bedrock. At the end she was forced to turn sideways and shuffle through the last few feet before the path opened into a large, rectangular room.

As she crossed the threshold, ash gave way to wood panels and the pelts of beasts she’d never seen. To her right, at the base of the wall, was a large, marble fireplace. The fire inside burned bright and mad and made the shadows tremble around the room. High on each wall, velvet tapestries filled the empty space between viewless windows and bookshelves that bulged like casks. In the center of the room, beneath the guiding flame, was a large bed with red and white silken sheets and a dark, oaken frame. A woman with black hair as long and curled as summer vines sat in profile along its edge. With her back upright the two were the same height.

‘I have waited a long time for you, Sylvia.’

‘…How do you know my name?’

There were no callouses on the woman’s fingers, no veins on the back of her hands. The muscles in her thighs drove hard against her skin as she stood and turned. Sylvia could see a great strength in each step the woman took and wondered what she’d done to earn it. On the corners of the woman’s hips was a dark red skirt with a slit up to her thigh. Beyond this she wore no clothing save two thin, golden chains; one tight about her neck and the other loose about her waist. Her torso was slender and forceful and her shoulders were as wide and pale as any man’s. But for her great stature, her breasts were small, more skin than fat, and they did not sway like her hips when she stepped forward.

‘I am Can, last of the witches of Izalith.’ She stood unnatural with her arms stiff and rigid at her sides. ‘You have come to slay me, brave warrior. I know this well.’

There was something so comforting about the witch’s voice. Though it had not swayed her like the others, Sylvia knew at once how extraordinarily beautiful it was. And now, without the echoes and distortion of the cave around her, she listened to the witch and could not help but close her eyes. Even having seen the dead and ravaged soldiers piled at her heels, a strange desire kindled inside of her. Each of the witch’s words brought a warmth she could not explain. Her heart quickened as if she were a child again, watching the chieftain’s sons wrestle in the fields. Jealousy and lust swelled within her breast. Her breathing began to falter. If something deep within her mind screamed in fear, she did not hear it. The rush came so fast and powerful and pure that for just a moment she grew disoriented. As she stumbled against her shield, her eyes flashed open. She could feel the chieftain’s sons wrap their hands around her hips and taste their sweat in the air.

But now she couldn’t see them. Now she saw only the witch before her; thin and hairless, stiff, devoid of scars. And the more she stared at her the more that strange desire faded to curiosity, ambivalence, and then disgust. There was nothing for her here. She leaned against her shield like a drunkard and shook the stupor that filled her head. Her eyes grew wide and white and with the flick of her wrist she rested her sword on the edge of her shield and pointed it at the witch. The woman raised her palm.

‘Stop, sister. First, let us talk. You need to know why you do not adorn the walls like the other heroes before you. Why even this respite is gifted.’

The witch drew her finger slowly across her chest and to her right eye.

‘This eye; it gazes, always, into the past. With this eye I watched your brother inherit his father’s armor and I watched as the *****’s disease crippled him. I watched you, next eldest, beg to complete his right of passage. I watched you steal his armor and slip into the night. I watched you ride into the forests, searching for your demon to slay.’

The witch lowered one hand and raised the other.

‘And with this eye I have seen who leaves here. Seen who limps through the arch trees.’

The fireplace cast an orange hue across the room but even so Sylvia could see the rich, jade circles in the witch’s eyes. When she closed them, an eerie lifelessness overcame the witch, as if the last opening of a furnace had been shut. With great deliberation the witch inhaled and her stomach grew round and taught and Sylvia could not help but sense some conflict still lingered within the woman.

‘I let you slay me. I could butcher you, sunder you like all the naïve men who sought my head and my pleasure. But I do not. I let you -woman, Sister, the first I have seen don the armor since Our fall- cut me down. And I see in my death your rise. I see more Sisters and Daughters come to follow you, to forego the servitude of dress and child. I see through the haze, perhaps, Our might reclaim its place in the fearful heart of Men. I see Us born anew through my blood on your sword. But…’

The witch stepped forward with a new assertiveness.

‘If I just kneel before you and bow my head….’

She took another step, her palms open at her side.

‘The men will ask “Where are your scars? What lies do you weave?” ‘

From the moment Sylvia had entered her room, the witch’s face had betrayed no emotion. Perhaps she couldn’t. It had been carved from and for the hearts of men but there were no creases from laughter or sorrow. Despite the power of her voice, when she spoke her jaw was stone and her lips strained to move. But as the tip of her shadow rested on Sylvia’s shield, her eyes closed in euphoria and a smile cracked through the marble of her skin.

‘Be strong, Sister. You will earn the stories they sing.’

Sylvia crouched behind her shield and readied her sword. For all her eagerness she had only watched and sparred, never fought. Behind the narrow slits of her helm, Sylvia’s eyes remained fixed upon the witch as they darted from wall and to wall and to ceiling. And for the first time in days she was not afraid.

***

She collapsed in the corner. She could not see out of her right eye so threw off her helm and it did not change. Her sword was broken; she clutched what remained of the hilt in her hand and the witch the blade in her neck. On the far side of the bed her family’s shield darkened in the fire. She looked down at where her left forearm once was and saw only black. Mixed in with the terrible pain was great pride; she had have never lost her grip, even as the witch tore the shield from her and flicked it across the room. Whenever she regained her strength she would drag it from the fire and take it with her before searching for Malon. Take it and the witch’s head. Damn all the gems and the gilded armor and the King’s steel; all she wanted was her shield and her proof. But first came rest. Finding her wounds and dressing them. As the minutes passed the pain slowly began to fade, leaving only the steady loss of blood and heat.

When she closed her eyes, she saw the witch before her. She saw the grace and power of her strikes and the swiftness of her movements. She saw the witch’s fingers drive through the armor on her belly and watched as the iron cracked and splayed like wax. She saw the witch’s hand melt away like fog as it pressed into her abdomen and she felt again the nausea that festered inside her as she pulled. She saw the dark, knotted flesh beneath the witch’s skin when a desperate strike landed. She saw the look in the witch’s eyes as she knelt and pulled the hair off the nape of her own neck, and she saw how she staggered when the first swing did not go through, nor the second. She watched the witch’s body fall to the floor like cattle and she wondered what had forced the strongest being she’d ever known to this pitiful life. And at last she saw her brothers and she saw her father, with his great arms outstretched, his ire turned to joy. And she dreamt of what songs they would sing.