Chapters:

Chapter 1 - A Song of Death

Chapter 1

A Song of Death

The sword sung the song of A Thousand Deaths. Aelyth rejoiced in the beauty of that song. To her it was as if she were conducting a brilliant symphony, each note as masterful as it was violent. Surrounded by her sisters, each a skilled warrior, honed to a razor sharp edge much like the weapons they carried; Aelyth marveled at the sight. But what truly inspired her, what pushed her forward in to the thickest of the fighting was the sound. Two hundred Daughters of the Sword, each wielding a blade with the same function, but each slightly different in design.

Her’s had passed from her mother, who had died giving birth to Aelyth twenty years ago, before that it had belonged to her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother, and before that it did not exist as part of their song. Forged to produce a specific pitch, the notches, fuller, holes, and grooves in the blade made it sing a note, pure and true. Each of Aelyth’s sister carried with them a weapon with the same purpose, to make music. It was a beautiful song, but a song of death all the same.

Aelyth had lived her twenty years in relative peace. Like all Daughters, she grew in to womanhood with a blade in her hand. She had tried many times to become a mother, but as of yet, her ancestors had not seen it wise to bless her. So, here she was, defending her home against this foreign invader, and enemy not seen in her lands in nearly three generations. They were tall, broad shouldered men and woman, with thick grey and sometimes black skin, with not a single hair on their bodies. Heavily muscled things, that snorted, grunted, and made other such rude noises as they fought. Their disrespect to the Song of a Thousand Deaths was as unforgivable to Aelyth as their attempted pillaging. The smell of dirt, iron, fungus, and blood, traveled with them, the sisters would need to bury them deep to avoid attracting wretched carrion beasts.

Where these ferocious and foul things from the mountains, with their blood shot yellow eyes and oafish nature, fought with savagery and power, the Daughters were silent. Completely. Their movements airy, and graceful, only the slightest sound of their feet shuffling from one stance into another could barely be heard over the melee. The Daughters moved in a well-timed, almost choreographed routine, where the brutish mountain things just bullied head long in to their path; wave after wave of them. She had never even heard of so many of these things coming from out of their mountain holes and caves, not in her life time or any of the songs they sang of the mothers and daughters before her.

A shove from her left brought her back to the present. It wasn’t so much that she had been day dreaming, but her mind was not fully on her task, and Maelyn had noticed. Aelyth’s sword had gone slightly out of tune and her trained ear caught it, even over the raucous noise of the fighting. Aelyth gave a slight tilt of the head, looking sheepish, but she did not speak, to do so would bring dishonor to the song; her composure regained just in time.

Aelyth ducked, as a crude looking instrument of death tore ungraceful, through the air, aiming to collapse the side of her skull. The beast’s foul, hot breath, roared in anger trying to regain its footing. Aelyth, though, was quicker. She ducked, sliding her right foot out beyond the shoulder of the beast, and drug the other foot, the tips of her toes just barely brushed against the ground, drawing a crescent in the dirt. Her right arm, her preferred sword arm, held close to her body, to make herself as small and compact as possible. Once her left foot had completed its arc and came together with her right, she brought her left hand to the hilt of her weapon. From this half crouch position she sprung, like a coiled snake.

Her sword sang through the air, first in an arc out and then high above her head, and then down through the space where the brute’s arms held his axe. The end of the note was cut off along with both arms of the creature. Its blood, dark and rank, flowed freely from where the lower half of its arms used to be. In shock, it looked down at its feet were his hands still gripped the axe hilt. Aelyth wasted no time in ending the things misery, while she abhorred the monstrosity of it, she did not wish it to suffer needlessly. Still flanking the beast she drove her sword, point first through the side of its neck and slashed out, severing its spine. The grey skinned oaf dropped to the ground like a stone.

The skill and precision of the Daughters of the Sword had been too much for the mountain things; Ungier, the Daughters called them. The unclean. The barbarian. The poisoned. Ungier meant all these things, and perhaps many more. But to the Daughters of the Sword, they simply were a threat that must be stopped. And so they did. Two hundred Daughters set out that day from their homes to find and engage the marauding horde of these beasts that had come from out of their mountains weeks ago, and began to pick off livestock. Dressed in the sacraments of the blade, the Daughters were set loose on them.

Clad in greens, reds, and blue silks and linens, with their bronze skin and dark rich black and red hair, the Daughters set upon them in a fury, wasting no time devastating their ranks. The Ungier, though dangerous and massive, fought without skill, preferring to use brute force and sheer size to overwhelm their opponents. And though the Daughters were much smaller, each maybe half the size and weight of a single Ungier, it was a massacre.

The Ungier, all of them, lay across the open savannah. Their bodies already attracting large buzzards, their shadows looming across the ground. Among the dead Ungier moved men, each of them similar in build, skin, and hair to the Daughters that had once been here. These were the Mother’s men, and to a much lesser degree they were the Daughter’s men as well. They drug behind them roughly made carts, or tarps, anything that could hold the bodies and pieces of the Ungier. Over the next few hours, the men would gather up what they could, and carry or drag it away to be burned. The buzzards were one thing, but should the site of battle attract the Sha’Laer, the men, livestock, and the tribe could once again be at risk.

Diligent in their tasks, the men worked, while the Daughters relaxed nearby in the shade of a few sparse trees, near a tiny watering hole. Their linens and silks had been removed, the garments were only worn in to battle, or for ritual occasions. Each of them took turns near the edge of the small pool, washing the Ungier blood from their skin and hair. “Aelyth,” Maelyn spoke from among those waiting to wash, her tone sharp. “Daughter of Shaen, your inattention nearly cost you your life.”

Aelyth stood, her skin still covered in sweat, dirt, and gore from the battle, the eldest of the Daughters were afforded the first chances to wash, and Aelyth while not the youngest, was certainly not the oldest. The rest of the women nearby turned their heads to gaze at her. She lowered her head toward Maelyn, and spoke firmly, but did not raise her voice. “Maelyn, Daughter of Roewan, is right. A lapse in my concentration brought dishonor to our song. Forgive me my sisters, for this slight.” Aelyth’s dirt and blood covered bronze skin turned the color of the setting sun as she blushed in embarrassment.

“I take no pleasure in your mistake, my sister,” Maelyn said. “But it must be recognized so that you may learn from it.”

“Of course.” Aelyth responded.

From the water’s edge Naevine gathered her things and approached the small circle of women who watched the shaming of Aelyth, their heads turning to follow her path. “Maelyn, Daughter of Roewan, speaks truth to you, Aelyth, Daughter of Shaen,” spoke the elder Daughter. Aelyth kept her head bowed in deference toward the elder woman, but held her tongue. “Go from here, return to the field of battle, and help the men clear it of refuse. Only once this task is done may you once again join with us.” Naevine’s voice was soft, unwavering in its cadence, she did not speak in anger. Aelyth lowered her dipped head into a near bow, gathered her sword, turned and walked away.

Aelyth’s approach drew the attention of every man on the blood soaked field where the battle had been. Her body still uncovered, streaks of sweat drew clear paths through the dirt and blood that coated most of her skin. The men were stunned but drew away their attention from her as she fixed them with a hardened stare. Her body was lean and hard from a life time of rigorous training, and she was completely comfortable in her own flesh, as were all of their kind, Mother’s, Daughter’s, or men. It wasn’t sexual desire that drew the attention of the men to her, it was the sheer surprise of a Daughter of the Sword helping them with their duties.

She began collecting up a body that had been felled by one of her sister’s and before she knew it there was a man standing by her side. “Forgive me, Daughter of the Sword, Aelyth. Allow me.” It was not a condescending statement, but there was a tinge of trepidation in his voice. Aelyth stood to her full height, her dark brown eyes meeting his own. “Who are you that you approach a Daughter so easily, and that you should know my name, when I know not yours?” Aelyth asked.

“I am called Calm-Wind,” he said.

“Your offer is kind, Calm-Wind, but I cannot allow it. I…” She faltered slightly, the embarrassment of it all sinking in once again. “I have been punished for my actions.” She turned her head from him, lowering herself once again to collect a severed leg. Aelyth expected him to leave well enough alone and return to his own tasks, but from her peripheral vision, she did not see his retreating shadow. Then, his own form crouched beside her, his arms scooping up the desiccated corpse flesh, and with a grunt hulling the mass into a cart he had been pulling. “Share my cart then, Daughter Aelyth, it will be the least I can offer you.” Aelyth let out a small sigh, unsure if this was wise, but pleased by his offer none the less, and so without saying another word, she stood and pitched the leg in to the cart.

The men had worked quickly, clearing the dead and starting a pyre, the light from the burning corpses could be seen from Aelyth’s home. Night had descended on her as she and Calm-Wind had walked quietly back to their village. She had departed from him without a word of thanks, slipping in to a small portion of the adobe like home that was hers. Her arms and legs ached, she reeked from the battle, and the events afterwards. Her clothes had yet to be cleaned, or her body washed. The battle high had long since worn off and it left her totally drained.

She set her sword in the small altar to her family, in the corner of the single room, and lit a few small pieces of incense that remained. It was a clay idol, a woman with a distended belly, pregnant by the looks of her. It may have been her mother, or her mother’s mother, Aelyth was not sure, and it did not really matter. It had been consecrated to her mother after her death, and daily Aelyth would pray to it for guidance and strength. Tonight however, she prayed to it for something else, she prayed to it for a child.

Aelyth collapsed into her fur lined pallet on the floor without cleaning herself, she would worry about that in the morning. Now, all she wanted was sleep. Her belly grumbled as she lay in the cold dark room. The sun had set some time ago and with its disappearing light, it took the heat of the day as well. As her lids grew heavier and heavier, Aelyth chastised herself for having prayed for such a thing. She had been with the men on a number of occasions, and though such coupling had been exciting, it had not been truly pleasurable, and none of them had yet made her a mother.

Aelyth went to sleep that night, with thoughts of what her child might be, should her ancestors deem her worthy. A daughter she hoped, strong and fierce, proud and clever, and full of life.