Where once the yearly snowmelt flood had carved

A narrow serpentine defile, that poured

Itself onto the plains until there was

No more snow left to melt, now were there walls

And roof, rough hewn and roughly thrown into

A rude, windowless, serviceable hall.

No tapestries hung there, nor trophies high,

But means and implements of war lay stacked

Against the granite walls. Bedrolls and stores

Like houses huddled covered all the floor

Save where a table long enough to seat

A hundred men sat empty and asleep,

Its polished face dull in the little light

The iron braziers on the wall spat forth.

Into the wooden throne upon the head

Klau cast himself. At his right hand and left

On benches long but vacant Shane and Varr

Sat down to listen. “Much that you must know,"

Klau said, “you burn to ask. First hear my tale.

Some answer it may be. There at your back,

Should you hunger or thirst, is journeybread

And small beer. More than these we do not have.

Your pardon beg I for the welcome," Klau

Smiled wearily, “if it does not befit.

These evil days for hostcraft leave scant time."

“These are not days," said Varr, “for any man

To stand upon his honor. Long ago

We learned to hold our tongues and utter not

Our pain at wounds of body. At itches

Of soul, merely, no less we can do." Shane

Pulled off his gloves, laid them on the table

Across eachother, and said but “Tell on."

He warrior boy unclasped his heavy blade

And in its scabbard laid it on the board.

“My homeland, in the places men draw breath,

Was poor and paltry. My folk taciturn

And downcast, and not given much to speech.

No heroes had we, nor no warrior kings,

But bandit lords of whom we lived in fear.

The only weapon I had ever seen

Was an old sword, as long as I was tall,

That all my childhood hung above the hearth

And never left its sheath to taste the air.

My father had no guess at whence it came,

It had always been there, for all his years.

There might it have remained, but for a day

Darksome and dank under descending clouds,

Backlit and broiling with fearful portents,

Huddled and hushed with looming thunderhead,

When tidings came of bandit princes, scarce

An hour before the ravagers themselves.

What could be done but what we did? We sat

Behind the bolted door and prayed for what

We knew we would not get, that they would leave

And we by miracle would be untouched.

In through the shabby walls, like water through

The rotten log fallen across the stream,

Came cut off screams, the tread of heavy boots,

Wailing of children who knew not their fate

Even as its iron jaws around them closed,

The rustling roar of flames, the ring of steel,

All waxing in volume as they drew near.

Then came a blow upon the door, that I

Felt as if it had struck me in the chest.

Ere I could cry 'what?' to it, my body

Had sprung up to the hearth, snatched down the sword,

And charged the weakening wood. The brigand was

Balancing in his foot a second kick,

But I, knowing not what I did, unsheathed

The blade grown black with smoke and long disuse

And in one motion clove the door and him

That down he toppled, bleeding in the mud

With shards and splinters covering his head.

I had just time to see that all around

My faceless gathered foe, with spear and sword,

With hatchet and long knife, then I was in

Among them like a rabid dog. As does

A man missing a step accelerate

And take his next three steps too swiftly, shoved

Forward by his own juggle-balanced weight,

So did the weight of my too-massive sword

And my colossal anger drive me on:

If I had stopped, and let momentum fade,

I could not either have lifted again.

My hands taught me to fight e'en as I fought.

I parried, I struck back, I marveled that

I had done either, even as again

I parried, I struck back. Though they hit me

Time and again, so that with sweat and blood

I was anointed equally, I gave

The pain as little heed as does a bull

In his ferocious charge give to the hedge

He tramples through. The blood flowed in my eyes

And blinking I fought on, my blindness but

Making my rage more deadly and more wild.

When I had blinked my vision clear, the foe

Each one lay slain and slaughtered. Then the rain,

Clear, cool, and stinging on my wounded side,

Broke, came down, washed the bloody scene away.

With it came weariness, frigid and deep.

My eyes slid shut. I felt I fell asleep.

I woke to water splashing on my brow

And wondered for a moment why the sky

Should show so bright a face unto the rain.

Yet as I sat upright, I found that I

Was face-up in an infant brook, and not

Beneath the thatched and dripping eaves. It lay

Within a wooded hollow. From above

A gentle waterfall played cross my cheek

As lightly as a falling leaf would land.

As do the juices in the sun-ripe fruit

Pool in the bowl-shaped bite and gently ooze

Along the concave, to drip off the edge,

So did the waters glide around me to

The bottom of the hollow, under roots

Of oaks ancient and muscular but bare,

Beneath few fallen trunks, between the stones,

Nourishing the few ferns that still showed green,

Before it wandered off behind the trees

And rocks the height of men. Three days I lay

Too weak and too unwilling to move more

Than gathering wild blackberries took. There

Would I yet lie in lazy hermitage

As beasts that perish do, fearing not what

The next day's dawn may bring, and are content,

With nothing but a sword whose onyx blade

I never would recover strength to lift,

But that on the third day the sun burned blue:

The spring that fed the waterfall dried up

So that naught but the barest trickle fell,

And the sweet berries I subsisted on

Turned sour and flavorless, like stricken grass.

That night I slept uneasily. I felt

Again some dire malevolence stalked round

My place of refuge, where I had not strength

To do more than watch it smash in the door

And, grinning like a bonfire, cut my throat.

The morning broke cold, clear, clean, and quiet.

My hand remembered how to grip the hilt

And I could feel my fate approaching. I

Did not have to wait very long at all.

Before the sun stood in the middle sky

A figure blundered over the low rim

And slid its muddy way to where I stood.

It was clothed in decaying rags. It stank

Of long-burned compost. I could see no face

Behind its mask of mud and rusty ash,

Nor hear no breath, instead a sizzling hiss

As when the smelted ore is plunged and cooled.

It scrambled staggeringly to its feet

And crouched as does a runner waiting for

A split-second long signal to be gone

Or like the rabbit that thinks itself heard

But not yet seen, and waits prepared to bolt.

Where it stood, lurking, the ground putrified

That had nourished and nursed me, and I felt

Within me something crumble like a dam.

Ere I had told my limbs to move, I leapt

Across the streambed, naked sword in hand.

The thing raised a notched hatchet, far too late.

Overhead and straight down I slung my sword.

With both my weight and its I smashed its skull.

I split it like firewood, from pate to groin,

And cracked the rock it stood on. As it fell

Already crumbling, I behind me heard

Laughter deep and satisfied. There a man

Armored and armed, venerable but strong

Smiling at me beneath a single eye,

Stood where the waterfall lately had poured.

'Well met, young paladin,' he said, 'You need

No long encouragement, I see, who are

Impatient so for glory that you join

The battle that roars thunderously around

Your ears without waiting for recruitment.

We are both fortunate. I have no more

Time to spare for recruiting. You will here

Find glory that needs no officialdom.

Bring you your sword. I must be on my way,

And that right swiftly, or all will be lost

And this world will not see another day.'

He led me down the streambed, till it joined

A river rushing stonily around

Our knees, so that we left not track or trace.

The current pulled doggedly at my shins,

Worn breeches, and thin shoes, and pushed at my

Center of gravity, as a wrestler

Twists first this way then that, now pressing hard

Now giving way, to topple with surprise 

His foe. My sword I carried on my head

Away from the cold waters that crowded

Against my ankles like an eager dog.

We marched all day, our faces toward the press

Of current, the Old Man in front of me

Who toiled in his wake, and as we went

He told me tales of warriors who had died

Fiercely enough to win an afterworld

Of war. He said I would be counted high

Among them: 'It may be you are the one

Who, in the pages too vast to be read

Wherein we move and live and have our day

Of glory, is written to slay the foe

To save this world and everything it means.'

All night we walked, when I could not have seen

The man before me, save that fireflies

Appeared around him. So we forged upstream

Beneath a live, shifting celestial globe

Forever scribing constellations new

And unforeseeable. Up from the stream

They shone back, rippling like the figures seen

Darkly through wrinkled glass. As does a fort

Upon a moonless midnight, hung with lights

At every door and window from its crown,

Between the crenellations, to the foot,

Athwart the gate pillars on either side,

In the black fathomless moat waters throws

Its own reflection, so seems it to come

Shouldering through the featureless darkness

Toward the wanderer to ride above

Him, as he draws near, on light-doubled height,

So loomed his dark shape ever before me.

At sunrise, he spoke 'Halt,' and drew my eyes

To a divide between two mountain horns.

There in the early shadows, I could see

A grand ruin. I followed him beneath

An arch whose gates rocked hinge-askew ajar,

Across a weed-thronged courtyard. There upon

A stairway of card house toppled flagstones

A faded crone stood, bent upon the sight

Of the sunlight slinking along the slopes.

My guide greeted her, 'Hail, great Grandmother,

Who told me there was no hope. Did you see

How this one crushed the Soot as easily

As men crush flies?" She did not raise her eyes,

But said, 'How long is it since you killed flies?

They are more hardy than your platitudes

Would credit. When I said there was no hope

I meant it. And I speak the truth. You bring

Another mortal martyr, and you dream

That the inevitable is a lock

That only wants for finding the right key.

The first of your defenders fell last night.

And more will join them, ere tomorrow's dawn.

Already, Soot press on to torch your hall.

My people are gathering to this place

To make good our escape. If you have sense,

You will fly with us, else this refuge is

Become a gallows. I have not your taste

For gallows-speeches.' The Old Woman turned

To push her way past us and down the stairs,

When her hand chanced to brush mine, and the hilt

Of the weapon I gripped. Her eyes snapped up

And she stopped in mid-step, and when she spoke

It was not only with her voice. 'This blade

Will deal the final blow that will be dealt

In this war. That will be the end. Past this

I cannot see.' She shuddered, and pulled tight

Around her shoulders her worn shawl, as if

The frayed threads could hold off the portent she

Had uttered and set hovering around.

She spoke no more to us. The Old Man paused,

Then sighed and swallowed his frustration, said,

'Well, it is good to know I have not lost

My eye for a good warrior. I guessed right,

When I guessed which I could afford to lose.

If you are so essential, then we must

Arm you more fittingly.' He led me in—

You would not know this room, it was so ruined—

And from the stores before you he took out

This savage armor, this shirt of wolf-hair,

This fury-drugging warpaint. 'This store was

Laid down in days that were called ancient in

Antiquity. My people have changed much.

Not one of them would recognize the arms

They once went proudly in. They have changed much,

But not enough. We still have not learned hope.'

He knelt, one hand laid past paternally,

Upon my shoulder, like a sacrament

Administered in secret, hastily,

He fixed both my eyes with his steely one.

The sunrise filled the doorway, as if poured

From a well on the sun of liquid light,

Cold, colorless, and clear in the clean dawn.

He spoke, 'Now you must do, and not divine.

Must act and know you will not understand.

Beyond this place, there lies a maze of caves

Delved down below the very mountains' roots

To the foundations of the world, which are

Ideas. All worlds are founded on ideas.

From there I can go forth to any world,

In them will I be safe and stay unfound.

I play chess with the darkness, and myself

Am king. All will be lost if I am lost,

So you must be content to be a pawn.

It may be out there I will find the one

Who is the key the Old Crone mocked you for.

It may be I will be pursued, and you

Will be left to defend against nothing.

It may be that the Soot will break themselves

Upon your stout defense, and win our war

For us. It may be all my fears are vain.

But you, until you see me once again,

Must hold out, must endure, and must await

I know not what.' I feared that he might breathe

Apologies, so for the only time

I spoke to him. 'I will endure, and woe

Befall him who makes test of it. Master,

Go boldly where I do not understand.

When you return, as you will, this place shall

Yet hold firm and unbreeched, and so will I.'

The Old Man almost laughed. He smiled and said,

'You have told not your name, Klau Berserker.

You know not mine. Perhaps there is no need.

Deeds, and not names, are our best weapons now.

But know this, if your name were known across

The multitude of worlds I'll wander through

And honored in each one as it deserves,

They yet could not make up, with all their sum,

The honor in which I shall hold you.' Then

He rose, he turned his back, he vanished in

The dark archway you see behind me. Since

That day I have done much, yet have done naught.

I have repaired the wall. I have mustered

Such forces as survived the Soot so far.

I have kept safe the way out to the worlds

And made the path level. I have opened

My stronghold to the Witchfolk refugees.

I have held out. I have endured. I have

Awaited you, Champion, and the day

You bring upon your heels. Soon will this sword

Again taste battle, and soon comes the day

Of glory and salvation, when I strike

A blow to end all blows. Your eyes shall see

The glory of the toppling of our foes!"

Klau shut his eyes, and smiled as if in bliss.