Eleventh Cycle (Mistland, #1)

by Kian N. Ardalan

The reserved patience and silence of this individual unnerved me. Recognizing the pivotal shift, he must have lunged into battle to save their momentum. I had to stop him.

His movements were refined. I was at awe how deliberate his attacks were. Each strike had a beautiful savagery to it; dictating the flow of exchange. Even the way he wielded the Black Conduit spoke of a certain creativity. Two of my men charged from the side. His circular shield caught the brunt of one on his right, while the cudgel absorbed a blow from his left. He gyrated, sending the men stumbling through their momentum and bringing the weight of the cudgel down onto the right-attacker. Two more soldiers charged from the front. The akar knocked aside the first blow with his cudgel and swung it with both hands into the attacker.

“You fight with strength and honour. It is only right that I face you with the respect you deserve.” I was impressed at the akar’s mastery of the Bayrish language, despite the crude and guttural accent attached to it.

“Retreat, and we can stop with all this bloodshed.” “I could say the same thing,” their leader said, though we both knew that neither was going to relent. “Tell me the name of the man I will kill.” “Erefiel Numyana.” The akar nodded. “I am Sun’Ra, son of Muktow. Warlord of all akar.” And with that, he got into a low stance, his shield at the ready and cudgel in hand. I had heard of the name before; Muktow. But at that moment, my mind was too muddled with war to ponder more on it. I leered at his umbral weapon and discerned its properties. It was the complete opposite of mine.

We stood there in the aurora of a burning forest, the cries of our men surrounding us as we heard the last bit of life slip through their lips. Sweat, blood and the scent of burning enveloped our world. The dancing fire formed beautiful contours about us. I poised myself, shield and sword at the ready as the remaining fighters spread out, leaving a small island unto ourselves. I pounced.

Not all legendary artefacts stem from the hands of Blacksmith. There are the fabled Seven weapons, made from primordial colour and with their whereabouts unknown. Yet there are some even more divine and mysterious. The Cragged Staff is such one weapon. It is made from twisted wood and appears warped. It is said that trapped within is the first lightning strike to have ever been created. Since it was never thrown, the surrounding of the lightning calcified and became encased. One can only shudder at what immense power would be unleashed if freed. —Primordial weapons – The Flight.

I swung my blade up high before Sun’Ra’s shield could react, causing him to duck under my strike. Quickly, I pressed the momentum. My blade redirected course and slashed the akar on his right shoulder. I pushed my momentum. Sun’Ra did not retreat at my advance. Instead, he brashly stepped in. His cudgel swung at my side. My shield caught its weight and I realised too late my error. His next strike made my ears ring, though my own blade did not lose its momentum. Sun’Ra’s shield rose to bat my swing over his head. The Black Conduit came again from the same side. I felt its metaphysical weight rise and, instead of retreating, I allowed the path of my blade to dictate my currents. I followed through with my attack, knowing full

Still, I had to persist. I attempted an overhead swing; the dust formed eddies on either side from where I cut downwards. From my flank came the hidden strike. I was only able to lift my shield at the last moment. I went back in time to when Nora’s punch flung me through the air. The world spun about me. I gasped, my vision unclear as I tried to orient myself. The rising flames of the forest were the growing curtains of this hellish performance, a spotlight to reveal our battle. I could see the ribbons of fire dancing like spectators until Sun’Ra’s approach blocked out the starkness. The akar stood there, cudgel tapping with immaculate control against his shield.

I rose to my feet, looking at my own shield that was now ruined, and the face of my father formed into a contorted dent. I realized then that the shield was a liability. It only made Sun’Ra’s strikes heavier. I allowed the shield to slip from my off-hand and clatter to the ground, its bottom point stabbing into the earth before toppling completely. Sun’Ra’s shield made things harder. Any attempt at hindering my momentum made me lose advantage, while his weapon became only more dangerous. The shield wasn’t enough. Stabbing my sword into the ground, I began to steadily remove my armour.

I stepped forward. Dancing embers brushed past and the scent of burnt flesh and wood filled my nostrils. “Be ready,” I said. I raised my weapon with both hands and prepared myself. It must have seemed like a single step to Sun’Ra when I closed the gap in an instant. If it weren’t for his wild instincts, his head would have already belonged to me. Sun’Ra barely managed to dodge my sword, and that was at a breath’s length as he collapsed to the ground. I was behind him, skidding to a stop and running back. My blade switched between the grip of my left and right hand like a dance partner tossed between two leads. The roar of battle encased me, surrounded me on all sides.

I could feel the heartbeat of war as if it were my own.

Without the encumbering joints, weight, and all else to hold me back, I could insert all my focus into offence and allow my blade to guide my course. I gave myself to the flow of battle; my thoughts going silent as the song of clashing steel and the dance of war were all that mattered. Again and again, Sun’Ra swung his cudgel all about me, the flow of my body weaving and dodging only to move back in when he was stuck in his movements.

Sun’Ra’s reflexes were terrifying; there was an almost prophetic instinct to this man. Eventually, with his weapon starved of momentum, I started to parry his swings. A slight angle of my blade gave him zero weight while simultaneously redirecting his attacks. All my attacks were surgical and precise, only skin deep so as to never lose momentum.

I thought of Nora, all the things I wished for her, of all the things she could be. I thought of Chroma, wishing that he’d become the man I believed he could be. I thought of Dalila, praying that she could find happiness in spite of everything.

War suddenly seemed so trivial; the concepts of honour and prestige so hollow and empty.

Would the wrinkles of time show themselves as tender lines or erosion?

But from where I stood, their cries were but silent screams to my deaf ears.

“You know not what happens beyond the safety of your domain, of what horrors lurk in the dying realm of Minethria. You know naught of the malaise which chokes this land and chews on its roots.”

“You misunderstand. I have learnt a great many things from Dalila, from Nora, from all of my aspects. Dalila is compassionate despite her grief and sadness. Nora emits rage, but she stands as hope not for herself, but for all others. Chroma is rage, but if Will fights so desperately to conserve Chroma’s rage, then it must be for a reason.” As Ievarus spoke, their arms began to stretch out again with long and lithe fingers towards Brother Clemence.

“The mortals are strange. They act in so many ways that contradict themselves. I found that people with compassion sought the pain of another. I found that those with the strongest wills still died. Ones who are given a second chance risk wasting it on fruitless vengeance whilst those who are shunned and despised continue to fight for those who shun and despise them. I know of hate the same way a demon may know of love: they understand the concept, but do not relate to it.”

“Mortals intrigue me: their rules, their way of life. I wish for them to live on, to see how their story concludes. I have grown fond of watching their exchanges, to see how relationships unfold, what wars are won and what is lost. I wish to see the shape of their progress. Beings of such vibrancy deserve to find the end of their want.” Ievarus lowered their gaze. Perhaps there was even a tug of sadness within. “My only regret would be that I would not be able to witness this.”

“I care not for the end, only for the path taken.”