Cole

Cole dropped against a pillar. His chest was stained with blood that wasn’t his. His left arm was red from shoulder to fingertip. That blood was his. Behind him dust was being kicked up, weapons were clashing, and lizardfolk were hissing.

There were thirteen of them when they set out. Six from the Order of Suffering, the four of Cole’s group, and three sellswords from Ramuf. The travel to the lizardfolk was not far, and the sky was merciful enough to be overcast with yellow clouds. Cole took the time to interview the Order of Suffering. They sounded like a noble group. Cole particularly liked the man from Shish, Rodd Shawa. Cole always had a fondness for Shish. His mother took him there after the death of her father.

The lizardfolk lived in a sinkhole amongst the remnants of another structure gutted by time. Only fractals of rubble and some stone pillars remained. The leader of this mission was an imperial coatlmade named Zam. He seemed young for his position, but the other members of the Order deferred to him. When Cole asked if the ruin was of Teotl origin Zam was like lightning in pointing out that it was actually of the Coatlmade Empire. He had fire in his eyes saying that, claimed that the lizards were “defiling” this heritage site.

A direct charge on the encampment was ordered. Someone, one of the sell-swords, asked why they didn’t give warning first. The lizardfolk had once traded freely with Ramuf. It was safer to offer them an ultimatum than engage in combat. Zam asked if any of them spoke lizard. None responded, and so they charged into crater.

The phyrn, that was the local name for the lizardfolk, used the ruins as tent poles for low-hanging tarps that gave shelter from the sun. They were dozing in their encampment, waiting for the clouds to break, when the thirteen warriors descended upon them. They barked alarm and roused their sleeping members. From the dirt they retrieved buried weapons. They flexed and flashed their yellow spines to scare away the attackers.

It didn't work. The thirteen, vanguarded by Zam and an enthusiastic Frost, met their prey with undeterred vigor. The promise of fighting for a higher cause, or good pay, will do that. Cole had done his part, managing to hit three targets deliberately. One of the lizardfolk struck back in a way Cole had not anticipated. From the corner of its obsidian eye a jet of blood had fired voluntarily. That was the source of the blood on Cole’s chest. It stung like citrus on a wound and stunk of spoiled meat. The effect was dizzying, and in his daze Cole neglected to protect himself when a curved dagger sank into his shoulder.

He had escaped from his attacker and soon took refuge behind one of the eroded pillars. Now his throwing arm was shot. The pain was surprisingly the least of his concerns. It was the sight of so much of his own blood that disturbed him most. That coupled with the rank phyrn blood clinging to him made his knees weak. He was less concerned with finding shelter from the battle, and more with making sure he didn’t vomit where others could see him. That was how he had chosen the pillar.

He couldn’t see the battle, but it sounded like they were winning. Unless the lizardfolk gave death cries when victorious. It occurred to Cole that in the span of less than a week he had run afoul of two atavist races of Athshin. The lizardfolk were less alien that the barbatus, but they were still frightening. He understood Azeroth’s apprehension when it came to fighting them with his bare hands. Strike unarmored and you’d be skewered by the barbs on the seams of their bodies.

Cole shoveled handfuls of dirt onto his chest, hoping it would suppress the smell of the phyrn blood. A scream snapped his attention to his left. One of the Order members was tossed to the ground. She had been young and pretty, but now her face was unrecognizable from anything other than bloody meat. The sight made the bile rise in Cole’s throat, more so when he realized she was no longer moving. The phyrn responsible pounced on the dead body to tear into it further with its double-ended daggers. Cole shifted himself, trying to conjure life into his legs. The phyrn’s snout jerked skyward. After a trio of deep sniffs it turned its attention towards Cole.

It is not valorous to do, but Cole did not care: He screamed for help.

His call was answered by the swordsman from Shish. Rodd placed himself between the phyrn and Cole. He raised his sword, a thin sabre made of a porcelain metal. The phyrn scrambled towards Rodd on all fours. When it reached him the beast lunged with its daggers. Rodd was collected and calm. He kept his free hand behind his back as if it were a brace. He gouged the creature with a single thrust. This was not enough to kill the hissing beast. Rodd redirected the creature’s momentum so that it coursed away from Cole. Ignoring the wound in its chest, the phyrn charged again. The result was much the same. A third clash was not needed for the second was enough to kill it.

Rodd squinted at the battlefield. It seemed that the fight was ended. The lizards were either in retreat, or dead.

Rodd sheathed his blade. He stooped to examine Cole. “A deep wound, but not lethal. You’ll recover, my friend.”

“Thank you,” Cole nodded at the dead phyrn. “For that. You killed it in two strikes.”

Rodd laughed. “I am good, but not that good. The creature was already wounded from earlier in the battle. A javelin, I think.”

The man punctuated his statement with a wink.

Cole wished his smile didn’t look as dazzled as it felt. Rodd produced a waterskin and let Cole not only drink from it, but to use the remainder to wash himself of blood.

“You are not used to combat like this, correct?” Rodd sat next to Cole. He was not wounded himself, but he was tired.

“No, sir. Not like this. Not with...life and death.” Cole’s eyes gravitated to the dead woman just a stone’s throw from them. “It’s exciting though.”

“It can be. The ‘life and death’ aspect is not one I take pleasure in. But there’s still the strategy of combat. The dance of steps and blades. There is romance in it.”

“You talk like my fencing teacher.”

“So you are a student of the dueling sword. What style?”

“Faer by Midday. I already completed Faer by Dusk. I study at the Academy Oran in Fae’Riam.”

“The Elden style. I approve. I have dueled many who devoted themselves to the Midday Stance. It’s adaptable, but perhaps does not translate so well to javelin tossing.”

Cole laughed. More than Bréag, Rodd reminded Cole the most of the world outside of Athshin. He had a soft smile that told you he meant no harm.

“I’m...trying new things” Cole replied. He wanted to impress Rodd with a cool attitude.

“Fair enough, though I would like to see your Midday Stance. I took my lessons from the Zephyr College of the Sword on the sheer cliffs of Akean. If you’re familiar with Shish, then you must recognize my blade.” Rodd shifted his sword to his lap. It was the starkest white, but had a peculiar pink shine when the sunlight caught it just right.

“Pearl iron” Cole confirmed.

“Yes, a specialty of my country. And you know what a pearl iron sword signifies?” Rodd held his head high. The sunlight became lost if his curly hair and gave him an odd halo.

“That you are a Swift Blade of Shish. One of only one-hundred expert swordsmen.” Cole said breathlessly.

Rodd laughed again, this time at Cole’s enthusiasm. “One-hundred and one. You forget the king is always an honorary Swift Blade. Yes, I am of that rank, or at least I was.”

He let Cole take the sword to examine it closer, like a grandparent passing an heirloom to a child, though Rodd couldn’t be more than ten years older than Cole. His story was paused by the arrival of Frost. The amarok was relieved to find Cole alive.

“Did you give and take scars?” Frost asked.

“In equal measure.” Cole grinned. He had become oblivious to the wound on his arm, or the dead woman nearby.

“Then our party is glorious in combat once more!” Frost declared with his arms open wide. “Shame that Azeroth couldn’t share in this.”

Frost seized the body of the phyrn Rodd had killed. He dragged it back to the center of the crater, out of Cole’s view.

“They’ll be burning the bodies. Order of Suffering ritual.” Rodd waited until Frost was gone. “You get along well with that wecher.”

“He seems to get along with most, but I think he prefers those he sheds blood with.”

“I have never seen his kind before. There are no wechers in Shish, not even the Mercin Ptesan, and here in Athshin they take the form of cats that hide in jungles. I question how well one built from the wilds is suited to a world built for the civilized.”

Cole nodded, but he wasn’t confirming with Rodd’s statement. It was just idle prattle after all.

“You said that you are no longer a Swift Blade?”

“I did. Thank you for returning to where we left off. I was a Swift Blade for three years. I would’ve gone on for as long as I could defend my title (for a Swift Blade’s rank is earned by claiming it from a bested Swift Blade). A love of mine was killed by pirates. Diablan reavers that came from Athshin to take from my city’s treasury. In their pillaging they passed by the bakery my husband worked at. Perhaps they needed bread for the voyage home, or maybe they were hateful enough to do it without cause, but I came home to find his heart pierced. Daniel was a gentle sort. He wouldn’t have challenged them. After seeing to his burial, I swore vengeance. I chased the pirates across the wide sea to Athshin. When I arrived, I found they had already been dealt justice by the Order of Suffering. For that justice, I pledged my blade to their cause. Until the vision of Ghetsis Reballo is realized, and the sun rises on an Athshin without chaos, I am a Swift Blade no longer.”

It was a touching story, and Cole allowed Rodd to speak it without pause. Cole wanted to explain his own reason for coming to Athshin, for it was born out of great love as well, but Rodd continued in a slower, more thoughtful tone.

“Some causes represent more than simple change. They can represent natural justice coming to the fore and righting wrongs that have persisted for too long.” Rodd took back his sword and returned it to its sheath. He looked at Cole very seriously. “Such causes cannot be ignored. Do you agree this is a noble cause?”

Cole nodded.

“And you have seen the effectiveness of our action. Ramuf will no longer fear lizardfolk as a threat to their commerce.”

Cole nodded again.

“Is this a cause you would pledge your...heh, javelins to? As I did my pearl sword?”

Cole almost nodded a third time, but stopped. “I think I could, but I’m not ready for something that...big.”

Rodd’s eyes turned downward. Cole’s heart clenched as he realized he had genuinely disappointed the man.

“-I still need to finish school.” Cole explained. “I’ll be of more use to such causes when I do”

“That is a point I should not argue with.” Rodd turned his eyes skyward once more. He tugged on the short hairs of his mustache. “When you do finish your schooling, when you can use your blade in all hours of the Faer, then I hope you will return to Athshin and find us.”

To this, Cole nodded eagerly.

The fire was started for the bodies of the defeated. Rodd stood. He was about to walk away until he realized Cole was still sitting. He held out his hand to help Cole stand and flashed the same soft smile. “Before you return to the College Oran, I still wish to cross swords with you. That way I can measure how far you’ve come when you return.”

His own smile returning, Cole accepted the hand and nodded a final time.