So powerful were the families that their hatred bled to the surrounding lands drawing legions of supporters intent on winning the favor of a Lord or to reap the harvest of the spoils of war. Slanderous gossip was exchanged in markets and ale houses, circulating through the land like a poisonous wind, growing bolder in each telling. Bards grew fat upon tales of the heroism or infamy of the families, changing their repertoire to suit their audience.

It was late summer after nearly a century of conflict and strife when the maelstrom reached a bloody crescendo. So grim was the harvest of lives in Spring and Summer wars that there were precious few souls remaining to take in the harvest. The coffers of both families were exhausted and their credit with their allies stretched perilously thin. If some miracle would not appear, there would be no food for the harsh winter to come... thousands would suffer.

Even in the face of such a dire reality, the feuding Lords would not turn aside their hatred. Instead, they mounted an enormous campaign. Armies were marshaled that blackened entire fields with their numbers. The smithies burned day and night, black smoke from the forges filling the air with a cloud of impending bloodshed. Women and children were recruited, mercenaries from foreign lands flocked like hungry wolves to one banner or the other. Even the dreaded BlackWolf band had arrived to fed on the meat and bone of bloody war. It mattered little that there was no gold for their purse; the conflict would end with this battle and the carcass of the loser would be picked clean.

A crisp Autumn morning saw the two armies within striking distance of each other. The sun was bright and the breeze bore the scent of ripe wheat and apples through stench of sweaty bodies and wood smoke. Meadowlarks and sang sweetly and perched on tent poles and supply wagons. It was a perfect morning for a market, a stroll through a rich field, or watching clouds roll by under a spreading oak tree. The Heavens mocked the blood that would soon flow with the beauty and serenity of the day.

Then he appeared.

In the middle ground between the gathered legions strode a single man, heedless of the marshaled fury around him. His passage was heralded by gay music from a flute he played as he walked. His golden hair flowed freely behind him, bound only by a plain circlet across his brow. He was lean, dressed in a simple vested tunic, with a dusty cloak playing at the breeze as he walked. The easy rhythm of his stride was echoed by the sword that swayed from his hip in a battered sheath

After the shock of his arrival had passed, the generals of both armies shouted for the man to leave the field. Their cries went unheeded and eventually the stranger reached the middle of the staging grounds. He pulled the flute from his lips reluctantly and tucked it neatly into his vest. Then he turned and smiled to the gathered armies.

The Kalbrin Grand Marshal - an eager and impatient soul named Demos - ordered his aides to go forth and remove the lunatic from their battlefield. Four armored warriors approached and words were exchanged. The conversation was brief, and the gentle smile never left the stranger's face as he politely shook his head at the lieutenant's demands. A harsh order was given and one of the soldiers moved to seize the stranger. A brief sadness passed in the wanderer's eyes. Then the soldier was on the ground a full three paces from where the man had stood, floundering like an upturned hedgehog.

The lieutenant drew his sword and his men followed suit, menacing the stranger and barking threats. The man shook his head once more, his honest smile still quiet at his lips. The lieutenant ordered his men to advance. With a flash of bright steel, the stranger drew and disarmed the two men. Another flash, their tabards hung from their waist belts like the tattered skirts of a serving maid. The lieutenant roared and charged the man, only to have his sword plucked from his hand like a rose. They charged him then, all four of the pride-tweaked fools. When they collided with a crash of mail and plate, their gauntleted hands only closed upon each other. The stranger stood a few paces by, smiling.

The Reginthar soldiers were laughing now, delighting in the humiliation of their foes. Dremos fumed and ordered a company of footmen to dispatch the villian. The men advanced quickly and the stranger's smile dimmed but did not fade. He stood easily, sword poised and awaited the charge. The melee was brief and inevitable. Beyond all belief, the wanderer stood his ground and the footmen fell around him, minor wounds bleeding freely from scalp or arm or knee. Their cries were a harsh counterpoint to the birdsong that persisted in the air.

When the skirmish was done and the footmen stood befuddled and confused, the Reginthar general - Thranik by name - urged his mount forward, still chuckling at the sight. "Stranger!" he called from atop his broad-chested roan, "We thank you for this entertainment. But we have business to attend to this day. Will it please you, leave the field that we may be about it?"

"Do not laugh so, Lord Thranik," spoke the stranger gently and evenly, "for I would deal your soldiers a similar hand would they approach me. I thank you for your courtesy, but I will not leave this place."

Thranik's face darkened. Then he gestured and a corps of archers strode to the fore. "If you will not leave, you will be carried," he intoned. The man simply shook his head. Thranik paused only a moment, then brought down his hand sharply. The bow strings sang and the air hissed with the harsh passage of a hundred arrows. The stranger stood watching the deadly iron rain approach him. Then, with a flashing blur, his sword sang its own brief song. Each arrow that menaced him was struck from the air, rendered to kindling by his swift sword.

The soldiers were stunned at the display. But neither Demos nor Thranik would be cheated from their war. Demos was the first to bellow the order to attack, echoed by his heart-foe across the field and soon the air was filled with thunderous cries of bloodlust. The two armies raced towards each other, legs pumping, banners snapping brightly, swords raised, spears lowered, and hearts bent to the ruin of their foes.

Between them, the stranger's eyes grew sad and he gripped his sword tightly.

There was crash when the two armies met that echoed up and down the valley. It is said that the sound echoes still in the clefts of that shadowed stone. The battle waged for hours, a scarlet dance that left the ground churned and ruddy, the air filled with sharp steel and the sharper cries of the dying.

Then there was a shift in the pulse of the war. The beating rhythm faltered and the soldiers slowed their hacking work, trying to understand what had changed. Soon the only sounds that rose above the confused muttering was the ringing of steel at the center of the battlefield. Heads turned and necks craned to see what was happening.

Amid a wide ring of groaning and writhing bodies, the stranger danced a wild dance. A band of BlackWolf mercenaries had closed upon him, intent on taking his sword and heart as a trophy for the day. Fully half their number lay in ruin about the man. His hair was matted with sweat and blood and his tunic torn in a hundred places though none could say for sure how much of the crimson wash that soaked his clothes was actually his. The BlackWolf reavers were the most feared and ruthless band of sell-swords in three kingdoms and to see them dealt so crushing a blow had upset the battle like a pebble tossed into a still pond.

In a matter of moments even the BloodShield of the reavers - the most vicious slayer of their lot - had fallen to the stranger's sword. Fallen, but not slain. Word spread quickly through the ranks that, though a hundred men had been felled by the wanderer's amazing hand, none had died. Wounded, even crippled in some rare cases, but all his opponents yet drew breath. In the hours of carnage, the man had not claimed a single life.

Silence now fell upon the field. The stranger's breath came hard and even as he looked across the sea of now quiet soldiers. He walked a circle, his stride careful as he picked his way among the fallen, leveling his now somber gaze on each man, woman, and child in his path. He stopped before a young girl, his face blank and unreadable. He crouched then and beckoned to her, and she approached fearfully, the certainty of her doom etched in her mouth and eyes.

"What is your name?" the man asked when she stood trembling before him, her eyes cast to the ground.

"N-N-Nina of Clan R-R-Reginthar," she stammered.

"And how old are you, Nina?"

"Thirteen this winter... s-sir."

"Where are your parents?" asked the stranger.

"My mother d-d-died bearing me. My father and brothers are here... I think."

The man stood then and raised his head to the armies around him. "Where is the father of Nina of Clan Reginthar?" he called to the mass of faces.

"Dead," came a distant call from the East.

The man then called, "And her brothers?"

"All dead, save one," came a nearer voice and another added, "but he will not see another dawn."

The stranger nodded then bent down to pick up the girl. She went rigid in his arms but did not struggle. He raised her high in his arms and displayed the terrified girl to the soldiers like a trophy. He turned three times and then his gaze fell to a Kalbrin soldier backed away from the stranger's stare. The man moved towards him, holding the girl like an offering.

"You are a Kalbrin warrior, yes?" The man could only nod. "Good," said the stranger. "This girl, it seems, is the last of her line, yes?" Again, the Kalbrin soldier nodded, keenly aware of the attention that had fallen upon the exchange.

"Then kill her."

"W-What?" stammered the soldier.

"Kill her. Here, I'll hold her still for you. That will make it easier." He twisted the girl's arms behind her back and pulled her hair sharply to expose her neck. The girl whimpered and struggled, but the stranger held her fast.

As the soldier stood in confusion, the bloodied stranger bellowed, "Come on, man! It's your duty! This is a Reginthar enemy, threat to your family, to your very soul. If you let her live, your own families will be taken and eaten by the Reginthar dogs. Isn't that so?"

His gazed snapped to a Reginthar spearman. "That's true, isn't it? You take Kalbrin prisoners and chop them up and feed them to your warhounds to give them a taste for the enemy's blood, yes?"

"N-No," exclaimed the Reginthar soldier. "No, would never do such a thing."

"Oh," said the stranger. He threw the girl down, shouting "Then I will kill her!" In the blink of an eye, his sword was up, catching the afternoon sun, poised to end the girl's life. A great cry went up on both sides of the battlefield. Even those who could not see clearly gasped in fear at what was to happen.

But the sword never fell. It hung there in the silence that followed the cry, like a bell tone from a church that stretches across a misty morning. The stranger waited, letting the truth of that mutual cry sink in to the hardened corners of each family's hearts. Then he lowered the sword and gently raised the girl from the ground. He whispered something to her and her eyes grew wide. Then she ran to the safety of the crowd.

"Is there any here who has not lost a loved one to this war?" the stranger called in a clear voice. None could answer - to a man, each had known the bitter sorrow of commending a soul to the shadows of death. The man spoke again into the silence.

"Then why - in the name of Love and Life - do you stand here today? What coin do you hope to gain here that will buy away the pain you have known. For a hundred years you have nurtured pain and sought comfort only in the cold shadows of vengeance.

"The authors of this misery have long passed, claimed by the tide they invoked with their first rage. The names of Mathril Kalbrin and Derendis Reginthar are your history and heritage, a legacy of war and blood that has seeped into the land. Those names - your names - are spoken in the same breath with war and death and fury as far as the distant coast. You are all living legends to people who have never known you, and they tell grim tales of the horror you visit upon each other to frighten children.

"Is this the heritage you choose? Is this the legacy you would bestow upon your children? You have driven yourselves to the brink of destruction and STILL you work your bloody ways. You have a choice, each of you... right here. Right now. Choose your future. Choose your path, your destiny in this very moment. Not in the name of clan or country. Your clan and country do not hold that sword or that bloody spear. You do. You are the author of this day and each of you alone will decide how your part of the legend will be told.

"Will you be the avatars of madness that others paint you? Will you serve a petty rage that died a hundred years ago? Will you sign your name - YOUR name - to the death scrolls for the next person whose life you end?

"Or will you choose to live? Will you choose to end the madness here? Make no mistake... this is not a matter of blood or state and faith. This is a matter of the heart that beats in your beast and the hands - your hands - that can clutch at steel or open to receive the embrace of a new future. Your heart. Your hands. Your choice."

And with that, the stranger walked away, dragging his sword in the red muddied earth behind him. The armies parted for him as he made his way along the same path he had walked when he arrived... the path between two worlds that were in truth the same.

The next sound was the clatter of steel, the noise so jarring the soldiers jumped and clutched their weapons. All eyes turned to behold a footman, torn and bloodied with a hideous wound that blinded his right eye. His hand was extended and empty and at his feet was his sword lying across a fallen shield. The empty-handed man did not look left or right but seemed intent upon something a great distance away. Then he turned and walked away.

Soon the air was filled with a cacophony of falling steel. All around, people - for they were soldiers no more - discarded the bloody tools they had been given and walked away. Some embraced and wept to find a friend or kinsman still alive. Others walked numbly, some fearfully, but all walked away, leaving the scavenging mercenaries and carrion feeders to pluck at the dead.

In the end, it is said, the clan heads were left upon the field. Pentor Reginthar and Regina Kalbrin stood their ground alone upon the quiet field. Pentor was old and bent with years of fighting and sorrow. Regina stood tall and resplendent in shimmering mail - an ornament really, only for she was a statesman and inclined to wield quieter weapons. There was a sigh - from which leader it is not known - but the two turned and also walked away.

It is said that - while Pentor added his axe to the heap of discarded weapons - Regina kept hers in its silk and gold sheath, bearing it from the field.

And that is how the Master of Swords came to the Valley of Tears.

© copyright 2000 David Robison
All Rights Reserved