“Now, sit down in the sand…”

            “I don’t want to sit in the sand.”

            Sorael blinked at Somnira, “Why not?”

            “I’ll get wet.”

            Sorael chuckled. Yes, the sand was damp, he hadn’t even thought about it. Ah well, his charge could stand to learn a little about tolerance, “Well, what’s wrong with being wet?”

            “It makes me cold. I’m already cold.”

            Sorael’s brow furrowed, “Are you sick?”

            “I don’t know,” said Somnira, plopping down in the damp riverbank sand. Sorael looked hard at her for a moment, and then went back to preparing the lines for the fishing.

            “So, what do we do?” asked Somnira, picking up her pole.

            “We cast the lines into the water,” said Sorael as he threw the bait, hook, and line into the middle of the stream. “And then we wait.” Somnira copied his movements and leaned back, resting.

            A gull downstream called to its partner, who returned the call. A squirrel behind them scampered up the tree, chattering noisily. A few leaves fell. A small bird took off from the branch it was perched on, making drops of last night’s rain fall with noisy splashing into the undergrowth beneath. The stream flowed sluggishly by the bank, and around the bend the brook’s tune changed as it was disturbed over rocks.

            Finally, after what seemed like hours, Somnira felt a gentle tapping on her line. Unsure of how to proceed, she glanced at Sorael.

            “Pull on it gently,” he said in a whisper. He continued to whisper instructions for the greater part of the next two minutes. Suddenly, the line went slack. Somnira starred at it for a while.

            “He must have gotten away,” said Sorael. He turned back to his own pole. “Bring the line in and put new bait on it, since he probably took the old bait.”

            Somnira pulled her line in, and, sure enough, the bait was gone. Not only was the bait gone, though, but the carved wooden hook had also snapped. In anger, Somnira threw her pole into the sand. “This is stupid!” she cried. Her yell startled a flock of small blackbirds, and they took to the air with an undignified amount of squawking. Sorael gazed up at her calmly from his seat in the sand. Somnira was on her feet in rage. “That stupid fish took my bait and broke my hook!”

            Sorael smiled up at her, “Maybe he isn’t such a stupid fish then, do you think?”

            Somnira glared down at him, “What do you mean by that?”

            “Well, he took your bait and ate it. Then he snapped the wooden hook and slipped away. Now you have lost your bait, he has been fed, and you will be able to catch no more fish today. He seems like a very intelligent fish to me, he has saved another fish from dying on your wooden hook.”

            “You mean he’s a lucky fish.”

            “No, Somnira,” said Sorael, becoming grave. “No luck, just skill and intelligence.”

            “So when you catch a fish, that isn’t luck?”

            “No, it isn’t.”

            “What is it then?”

            “It is my skill and my intelligence being greater than the fish’s.”

            “You mean the fish was more intelligent than me?”

            Sorael chuckled, “No. He has had more experience. So he has more skill.” Somnira stormed away into the woods. Sorael managed to catch a very small fish, and so he packed up his things, picked up Somnira’s pole, and strode back to the camp.

            Dusk began to settle as Sorael roasted the fish and a rabbit over the fire. The rabbit he had found in one of his snares on his way back to camp. He’d been teaching Somnira how to make snares for a few weeks now, and she’d become very good at it.

            Thinking of Somnira, he glanced around, hoping to see her coming towards him. But then he realized he would have heard her before he would see her. In the gathering darkness, the flicker of firelight tricked his mind to think he saw her stumbling towards him. But it was only a shadow. Nervously, he pulled the fish and rabbit off the spit they were on and placed them on a flat rock. He glanced over his shoulder again, towards the sunset, hoping to see Somnira coming over the ridge. She wasn’t there.

            A few crickets and katydids were singing in the grasses nearby. Sorael’s brow furrowed, wondering what had happened to Somnira. She had been angry, but not at him. He had thought that she would return to camp immediately, but when he had arrived she hadn’t been here. She hadn’t come during the evening either, and he had delayed cooking dinner until now. Anxiously, he peered into the gathering darkness. He should have gone looking for her hours ago. Did he dare risk calling for her?

            Sorael’s imagination took over. Even as an adult he sometimes had trouble controlling it. If he hadn’t been trained as a sword master, he might have decided to be a storyteller. He could see Somnira, lying in a bed of ferns coughing, sick with fever. He could also see her dragged away by foreign tribesmen, or perhaps in a pool of her own blood from an animal attack. The darkness enhanced his imagination. Maybe she was lost and looking for him desperately, crying from fear.

            No, that image didn’t fit. Somnira knew the paths around here, and even in fear she wouldn’t cry. The crickets grew louder. A few bats fluttered overhead, steering away from the light of his fire. Sorael looked up at them quickly, as if hoping they would tell him where his apprentice was. It didn’t seem wise to search for her in the dark. Yet, it would be foolhardy to leave her alone in the night.

            But what if she came back and did not find him here? What if she went looking for him? No, Somnira would have more sense than that! Or would she? She was a child, after all.

            A far away rustle made him jump. He pulled his sword quickly. Perhaps tribesmen had gotten Somnira! Now they had seen his fire and were coming for him. The moonlight illuminated the ridge. Standing on top of it, holding something in her hand, was the shape of Somnira. She came rushing towards him along the little path, holding her hand above her head triumphantly.

            “Master Sorael! Master Sorael! I caught a fish!” she cried when she reached him. She delivered to him a fish, about eight inches long, with a stab wound in its side. “I stood in the creek with my sword drawn until I saw it. Then I speared it!”

            Sorael studied the fish carefully, and then smiled, “I…see. Well, I suppose I’ll save this for tomorrow, then. Go put it in the cellar.”

            Somnira delivered the fish to a little rock hallow underneath a small waterfall in the stream nearby. This was where Sorael kept things until they were ready to eat them. When she came and sat down to eat her dinner, he saw that she was shaking. “Do you feel alright?” She nodded and sank her teeth into the rabbit.

            That night, as the moon was a little past its zenith, Sorael awoke suddenly. The silver moonlight made the waving grasses shine white as they swayed in the breeze. To his left, on the other side of the fire, he heard ragged breathing. Looking past the faintly glowing coals, he could distinguish the form of Somnira, sprawled on the ground unnaturally. She was shaking and breathing heavily, every once in a while having long spasms of coughing. He crawled over to her. Her face was shinning in the faint light with sweat and her eyes were squeezed shut tightly. “Somnira?”

            Somnira made no response. She continued to breathe heavily, but her coughing had subsided for the moment. Sorael put a hand to her forehead and his brow furrowed in concern. Her temperature was too high. It took him a few moments to puzzle this out. He wasn’t sure he should risk heading for the nearest town in the middle of the night. But, he didn’t want Somnira to suffer from fever for any longer than she had too.

            His apprentice suddenly lurched wildly, her hand falling into the burning coals. Alarmed by her sudden stillness, Sorael tore her hand from the fire pit and scooped her up gently. She had begun to mutter something, apparently not feeling the burn. Abandoning all caution, Sorael only paused to pick up their swords and then began a fleet-footed run towards the town, about 15 miles in the distance.

 

            “Give her this every time she starts to show signs of fever or coughing,” said the nurse in a dull voice, handing Sorael a paper packet.

            “Okay,” said Sorael. He was considerably ruffled and strained.

            “Any time you need more, take that packet to an apothecary. The doctor wrote on it what needs to be mixed, so you won’t have to remember anything.”

            Sorael nodded, “And for now?”

            “She’s resting. I suggest leaving her here with us for a few days and then you can take her home. If you want to leave an address, we’ll send a message to you when she’s ready to go home. Or,” the nurse looked down now, “if you would rather we just sent her somewhere as soon as possible…”

            “That won’t be necessary. I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Sorael, disbelieving it even as he said it. He needed to be in there now. He needed to be standing beside her when Somnira opened her eyes in confusion. He needed to explain everything…

            But he should just leave it up to the nurse…

            No. Sorael turned around and went back through the door. “I’d like to see her.”

            The nurse looked up from her work, startled. Around here, children were plenty in number and rarely this important. “She’s asleep right now.”

            “I need to be here when she wakes up. To…explain to her what’s happened.”

            “Oh,” said the nurse, nodding. She led him into the back room where Somnira was lying on a cushion, deathly pale but much healthier than most of the people around her.

            Sorael spent several agonizing hours watching the unmoving, lifeless Somnira asleep on her cushion. She finally opened her eyes, seeming dazed. When she spotted him she relaxed, smiled, and fell back asleep immediately.

            She had, however, entered normal sleep again. She twitched a little once in a while, her breathing was slow and shallow and her eyes moved in her dreams. It wasn’t until late in the night, as Sorael was dozing where he sat, that she re-awoke.

            “Sorael,” she whispered, tapping him on the shoulder, “Master Sorael! Where are we?”

            Sorael woke up and it took him a moment to focus. He was exhausted from his breakneck speed race down to the village, and the stress on him the past few hours had made him weary. “We’re in a hospital in the village near our camp,” he said. Somnira didn’t seem to need much more explaining than that. She crawled from her cushion into his lap, laid her head on his shoulder, and fell back asleep, mumbling in her dreams every once in a while. Sorael rocked back and forth, holding her gently and smiling, glad she was all right. The candle in the corner sputtered as, towards morning, the wick ran out and the flame died.

 

            “You’re sure she’s ready for travel?” asked Sorael again. The nurse gave him an exasperated nod. Sorael had first struck her as a kind and loving father, but now he was downright annoying and over-protective!

            “Master, I’m fine! Fine except that I’m bored and want to go outside!” cried Somnira. She ushered him out the door into the sunlight, where she danced around in the streets, happy to smell fresh air again.

            Sorael watched her closely. He must never let her stand in the stream again. She shouldn’t be out in the rain much either. He frowned. That was going to be hard, with the rainy season approaching.

 

 

            The grass moved. It made a swishing sound, the sound of thousands of blades rubbing against each other in the wind. Across the meadow, a small bird sang a single, piercing note. Not a mating call. Not an alarm. It rang of neither of these. It was a song that was sung simply for the joy of singing.

            In the late afternoon sun, Sorael smiled. Such was the joy of life. A stirring in the grass beside him. The rustle of blades bending, breaking, beneath a foot. A small foot.

            “Master Sorael,” it was uttered as a statement, but Sorael knew it was also a question. It was asking him if he would choose to be roused from his thoughtful silence, or continue in his meditation.

            He chose to abandon the lark across the meadow. “Somnira.”

            “Master Sorael, what does death feel like?”

            Sorael snapped back to reality. He peered at the ten-year-old girl standing next to him. Her delicate face was drawn in rapt attention, and her narrow eyes gazed at him with a burning curiosity. “Death?”

            “Yes, what does it feel like?” Her voice revealed a trace of impatience. Patience must be learned, he thought. I will make her wait.

            “Death. It is a mysterious subject,” he said.

            “You said nothing was a mystery if you knew what questions to ask.”

            “That is true; but you must also know who to ask.”

            “Why is death a mystery?”

            “Why, because no one who is dead has been able to tell us what if feels like to be dead.”

            “Miss Ardis says she can speak to the dead.”

            “And do you believe her?”

            “Why should I not?”

            “Trust no one, Somnira, unless trust itself seeks them.”

            Somnira’s brow wrinkled. Another confusing statement. “Master Sorael, I do not wish to know what being dead feels like.”

            Sorael glared at her momentarily, “Yet you asked. Why ask a question that you do not wish to know the answer to?”

            “I did not phrase my question correctly,” there was an icy edge to her voice, like steel. The steel of the sword she carried on her back. “I wish to know what dying feels like.”

            “That is different than death, is it not?”

            “Yes, Master, it is. That is why I have restated my question.”

            “Very well, I will answer it then, I suppose.” Sorael paused to think for a moment. Somnira stared up at him patiently. Ever since she had come to the temple at age five, he had watched her. Her parents had sold her for four pieces of gold. It had saddened Sorael to see someone throw away their child like this. But as he had watched Somnira, he saw great promise in her. When it came time for the sorting two years later, he chose her as his student. She was a fast learner, and already far beyond her age and wisdom. He gazed at her thoughtfully for a long time before saying, “It feels like floating away. Even after the heart dies, the brain lives on for a moment.”

            “How do we know?”

            “When you break a chickens neck, does it not still move for a few minutes?”

            “Ahk, Master Sorael, you are wise.” Somnira bowed gracefully. Somnira did not know that a chicken moved in death because of its nerve endings, neither did Sorael. But for this time and place, the answer sufficed.

            “Thank you, Somnira. Now, sit down. Listen to the bird across the meadow. Listen with your ears, let us see what you hear.”

            Somnira sat down to tolerate this exercise.

 

 

            “Again, Somnira. You must watch your enemy’s strength. See where his flaws are.”

            “You strike towards the left.”

            “Yes, very good.” Sorael thrust his sword at Somnira again. She deflected the blow and followed with one of her own, which he narrowly dodged. They were fighting lightly, and both were well padded, but the object was still not to get touched with the sword.

            Suddenly, Sorael thrust the tip of his sword into the ground. Somnira froze instantly. They waited.

            Sorael had heard something. The sound of a twig as it was brushed aside. Yet no other sound followed. He was just about to dismiss it when he saw Somnira’s eyes narrow slightly, her fingers turned red as they increased their grip on her sword. She had seen something. They waited still longer.

            There was a sudden onrush of footsteps. Sorael whirled around, his sword ready. Somnira covered his back, looking in all directions, her senses fully engaged to analyze the air. Sorael saw them first, emerging from the woods at a dead run.

            A man and a young boy, a little older than Somnira. The child wore the clothes of an apprentice; Sorael relaxed. The man stopped suddenly, and his pupil also came to a halt behind him.

            “Greetings! I am Mesareth. This is my pupil, Des,” said the man.

            “And greetings to you, my friend,” said Sorael, sheathing his sword. He looked cautiously at Mesareth, whose sword still hung at his side in his hand. “I am Sorael.”

            “Is this your daughter?” Mesareth’s accent was staccato like.

            Sorael forced a smile. This man was after something. It was obvious that he and Somnira were not related. He had rugged features and a large, muscular frame, even before that fool tore a chunk from his nose, and before he lost part of his right ear. Somnira possessed a delicate face and small frame. She had narrow eyes and his were more almond shaped. Mesareth still had not sheathed his sword.

            Mesareth looked down at Des, who was appraising Somnira appreciatively. She would make a worthy opponent. “My apprentice needs practice with his fighting skills. Dare we pit them against each other?” It was a challenge issued as a friendly suggestion. Sorael met it with slight anger.

            “That is Somnira’s choice.”

            “Miss Somnira?”

            Somnira looked at him coldly. She too, had seen the challenge. “I accept.”

Mesareth grinned maliciously, “Excellent!”

            Des stepped toward Somnira. He readied his sword, and she followed suit. “Begin!” shouted Mesareth. The two youngsters began their dance of swordplay. Sorael watched with quiet satisfaction. Somnira was observing her enemy well, and she was winning.

            Mesareth continued to shout commands at his young charge. Sorael could see that this added distraction was only retracting from the lad’s fighting abilities. “Time,” he finally called.

            Somnira stuck her sword point in the ground. Des lunged for her. With a small cry, Somnira dodged his blow. Her instincts took over and she struck him squarely in the face with her fist. Poor Des was already off balance from his ill-prepared lunge and he lost his footing and tumbled to the ground.

            “I called time,” said Sorael, scowling somewhat.

            Mesareth turned on him. “Time? There is no time in a fight! You must win however you can! Des! Get out of the dirt, fool! Get up and fight her!”

            Sorael’s frown deepened, “Your pupil is tired. Let him rest. They may resume the fight later.”

            “In real fights, you do not stop to rest and resume the fight later!”

            “The children are too young to be in real fights. They have many years before they can be sent into the world, unprotected, and be expected to defend themselves and what they know is right,” said Sorael with a glare. “Talk with your charge and I will speak with mine. They will return to the fight when we are finished.” Sorael stalked away from a fuming Mesareth.

            Somnira came to him, “You said nothing the entire match.”

            “It would have taken your concentration from your sword.”

            “Yet, Mesareth shouted at Des the entire time?”

            “Yes, and see how Des has been fighting? He fights desperately, and without calculating his next moves.”

            “He also loses his balance when he strikes to the left. I can use that.”

            “Yes, you can. How do you feel?”

            “The afternoon sun saps my strength, but I am ready to fight him at any time of day.”

            “Do not be hasty Somnira, know your strengths, weaknesses, and when it is time for you to cease.”

            “Yes, Master Sorael.”

            “Also, watch him closely. There is something suspicious about this Mesareth.”

            Somnira looked up wonderingly, “What is it?”

            Sorael shook his head, “I’m not sure.” Somnira peered at him closely for a few seconds. She rarely saw her Master unsure. He was usually decisive and confident about everything. “Time to resume the fight,” he said at last.

            Mesareth and Sorael stood together, watching the children in their fight. Both were tired now, they had been dueling far longer than Sorael normally would have put up with, and it bothered him that Des was older than Somnira. Somnira was only in her twelfth year, and Des was already 14. Their swords clashed with the ringing sound of metal against metal. Somnira was quicker, more balanced, and more clear-headed, but Des had the obvious advantage of strength and experience. Sorael watched critically, his apprentice could use work on her awareness of the opponent’s strength.

"Fight her, Des! Fight! Win!" yelled Mesareth.

            Sorael turned to him, “You ruin his concentration with comments like that.” Mesareth glared at him. Neither of them were watching when Somnira tapped Des with her sword in the stomach.

            “I win,” she pronounced, stabbing the ground with the tip of her blade. Sweat streamed from Des’s forehead and into his eyes, making them sting. He was glad to cease fighting. Somnira turned to Sorael to see if he approved.

            Sorael and Mesareth had their swords drawn in battle. Blow, parry, parry, strike, Sorael lost himself in the natural rhythm of the fight. Mesareth was a good fighter, and it took all of Sorael’s concentration to keep him whole. The ground beneath him was sandy; he must stay upwind to avoid getting any of it in his eyes. Somnira and Des both sheathed their weapons and stood, transfixed, watching their masters in the deadly dance.

            At false twilight, almost three hours after beginning, Sorael finally made a quick jerk and apprehended Mesareth’s sword. He lightly tossed it to the ground after a slight pause. “There, take your student and go your own way. I have no quarrel with you,” said Sorael.

            Mesareth starred at his sword for a moment before glaring at Sorael. “That was some sort of trick.”

            “No trick. Something I learned.”

            Mesareth stood glaring for a moment. Without taking his eyes from Sorael he called gruffly, “Let’s go, Des.” Des made his way quickly into the woods and vanished into the dark. The sound of a few shifting twigs were all that told of his retreat.

Sorael turned back towards Somnira, “We best get back to our camp. It’s time for bed.”

            Somnira saw what Sorael could not. From his sleeve, Mesareth withdrew a small throwing dagger. “Sorael, you should never turn your back on a loser you haven’t killed,” he said cruelly.

            Somnira screamed and Sorael turned quickly. But his movement only made his cost greater. The blade drove with uncanny accuracy into his stomach, and he sprawled to the ground. Blood spread from the wound, soaking his robes.

            Somnira fell to her knees beside him, “Master Sorael? Master Sorael!” She looked up, and found that Mesareth, too, had vanished.

            Sorael’s head turned to her. His eyes had a glazed, filmy look, and they gazed, unseeing, at the darkening sky. “Somnira,” he rasped. There was blood in his mouth.

            “I’m here,” cried Somnira. She cradled his head in her lap and took his hand. “I’m here.”

            “Trust no one,” said Sorael, speaking his last.

            Somnira blinked in understanding. A tear slid down her cheek, leaving a clear streak through the dusty grime that covered her face and finally landing on the face of Sorael. “Yes, Master.” Sorael coughed raspingly, and the life left his muscles. “Master Sorael?”

            Sorael offered no response. Somnira said quickly, “You said the brain lives a little while after the heart dies. You said the newly dead could still hear. So hear me, I promise to find your killer. I promise to defeat him. I promise. I love you. You know I love you…”

            Somnira had no idea how long the brain lived after the death of the heart. Most likely it’s only about three minutes, but to Somnira time seemed frozen anyway. The stars glared down at her as she spoke. She was surprised when the sun climbed over the distant hills, proclaiming that the world was still turning and time did, in fact, continue.

            Most of the morning Somnira spent gathering stones. She piled them over top of Sorael’s body, leaving his sword in his hand. She thought that that was where it belonged. Before covering his face, Somnira memorized the pattern of it. The missing chunk from his nose, the sliced right ear, the lines around his eyes and mouth from sun and smiles, dark hair with strands of grey that shone like silver in the early morning sunlight. Only then did she realize she was crying.

             

            Somnira sat for what seemed to her a lifetime by the pile of stones. Her sword was held loosely in her hand, and she watched her reflection glare off the steel. Her features were skewd where the molten blade had been folded over.

            “You are a treacherous serpent,” she told the sword. “You slither your way into our hands under smooth words claiming to protect, but all you really do is kill.” She thrust the keen edge into the dirt and faced away from it, towards the rock grave.

            “From now on, I will eliminate you and your kind everywhere I find them,” she told the discarded sword. Slowly, mournfully, she turned and picked up the handle, “But I will need you to accomplish this cause.”

 

            Somnira was in the process of burying a sword. She was kneeling on a rise, covering the last glint of steel with handfuls of dirt. A scraping noise in the morning mist made her reach for her own weapon. A mouse scurried nearby; she could hear it’s tiny paws clawing their way through the underbrush. It was a beautiful morning. The sun had risen but not yet chased away the foggy mist that shrouded the lower hills. Trees swayed in the light breeze in the distance, singing a great chorus. Town life was beginning to pick up pace far below her, near the stream. People were bustling to and fro like ants on their little mounds.

            Another scraping noise met Somnira’s ears. She quickly shoved dirt over the sword and stood up, her hand on her own hilt. Waiting.

            Through the mist something small and dark came wandering. It was moving very slowly, as if impaired somehow. When it finally came into view, Somnira saw that it was a child. A child dragging a sword.

            The peasant girl was wearing a faded brown material, her face was unwashed and her hair tangled and matted with sweat that streamed freely down her face with the effort of carrying the sword. She looked at Somnira, startled, and then began the slow and painful process of descending the hill.

            Somnira stepped into her path, asking, “Where is a child, a girl child in fact, going with such a large sword?”

            “I’m taking it to the next village over the pass to sell to a swordsman there,” answered the child, trying to edge her way around Somnira, who firmly planted a foot in her way.

            “How much do you want for it?”

            “Oh…I don’t know. Papa and the merchant had already agreed on a price…”

            “I’ll give you three gold pieces.” The girl’s eyes widened and Somnira knew that that had been too much. But she had gotten so much money from her last raid of the dead men that it didn’t matter to her. Money was nothing anyway.

            “I-I have to ask Papa…”

            “I’ll go with you.” So the girl turned around and began dragging the sword back down the hill she’d just come up. “Would you like me to carry that?” The child look suspiciously at Somnira, as if worried she would steal it. Then she shook her head and continued dragging the steel down the hill.

            Somnira finally got tired of the scraping noise and took the sword. She easily carried it over her shoulder and they made much better time. Why Somnira didn’t take off with the sword then, she didn’t know. She somehow felt compelled to go as far as the girl’s house and then break for it.

            They did reach a dumpy little village at the bottom of the hill. Somnira had observed it briefly, finding it of no interest. The girl disappeared in a narrow, dark doorway at a hut on the outskirts shouting, “Papa! A lady is here to buy the sword for three gold pieces!”

            This was Somnira’s cue. She began a hasty ascent of the hill and soon lost the village in the thinning mist. So much for having to spend money. She quickly buried the sword next to the other one and continued on her way.

 

 

             There was ringing in the forest. Somnira could hear it’s distant echoes from the ridge she was camped on. The ringing of swords. A pack of scavenger birds flew up suddenly and went to pick through the bodies of the dead and dying. She followed them.

            It had been raining lightly all morning, and the rain enhanced the forest smells. Water splashed on her from the treetops as they moved in the wind, but the actual rain had trickled to barely a drizzle. She came to a few dead bodies in the woods. Evidently a deserter or two, and someone who mistook them for a threat. She took their swords and buried them nearby, then went through their pockets for any gold they might have. Then she advanced into the battlefield, strewn with blood and bodies and mud that had been created by the rain.

            Men still stood in small clusters, fighting each other rather desperately.  Somnira killed several easily, for they were tired and underfed and hardly worthy of being called opponents. Horses lay wounded and dying, whinnying in pain and breathing heavily.

            She came across a man lying in a heap of his comrade’s bodies. He looked up at her and asked, “Water. Please, water!”

            “Drink your own blood.” Somnira stabbed him three times and he was dead. As she was turning, she caught sight of something strange. A boy, about her age, standing alone in the field. He was clutching something in his hand and his sword hung loosely at his side.

            He was soaked with blood and sweat and rain. Somnira looked down at herself and saw that she too was soaked in sweat and rain, and the blood of others. She advanced towards him slowly. When he saw her, his sword snapped up and he cried, “Who are you for?”

            “I am for no one,” answered Somnira. “And you will be left for no one.”

            The boy seemed uncomprehending. He rushed towards her in a dizzying rage, slashing with his sword. She deflected his blows neatly, but the uneven terrain of bodies and mud impaired her. The boy, however, tired quickly because of his rash and hasty charging. His fighting became less furious and even less calculated. Somnira pinned him to the ground with ease.

            Somnira reached down and pried his sword from his fingers. He didn’t resist much. He flung it away into the mud. She took a moment to look around him and saw a glitter of something shiny. Somnira pulled the golden locket out of the mud and dangled it in front of his face. “I think you dropped this.” She grasped it in her fingers and peered at it carefully. “I didn’t know soldiers wore lockets.”

            “I don’t!” he yelled. His pride seemingly wounded. He was already in a humble position in the mud.

            “Then whose is it?”

            “It was…” the boy gulped. “It was my sister’s.”

            “Did she give it to you? Or did you take it?”

            “They took her and it…” his voice broke and he stopped talking.

            “Who took her?”

            “We killed them.”

            “So where do you think she is?” said Somnira, pointing her sword blade at his neck.

            “Are you blind, fool? She’s dead!”

            Somnira grinned, “Yes. But I am not so much of a fool as you think.”

            After a moment of listening to the drizzle of the rain and a few moans from the nearly dead, the boy looked up at her and said, “Are you going to kill me?”

            Somnira withdrew her sword a bit, “No. I’m not going to kill you because you remind me of myself. Standing at the edge of death, looking at the demise of others. Why is it that you are the last one? Why are you still standing on your own feet, while the others are lying in pools of their own blood, and their friend’s blood? Why is it that you are not laying on the ground begging for water, crying, screaming for your mother or your wife? Why did you survive?”

            The boy just looked at her sullenly. Somnira sheathed her sword and turned away, walking towards the nearest pile of bodies. The boy, she realized she didn’t even know his name, stared thoughtfully at her prone back.

            He searched through the muck beneath him and found a broken spear, with the head still attached to the splintered shaft. He hurled to towards her with incredible accuracy.

            Seeing the flash out of the corner of her eye, Somnira threw herself to the ground from instinct. She sank into the mud and the spear whizzed over her. Glaring in the direction of the boy, she slowly got to her feet. She walked over to him.

            “Who is the fool now? You would have been better to run away,” she said maliciously. Withdrawing a dagger from her sleeve, she gave him a cruel, hungry look before driving the blade into his throat. Even in death, he didn’t cry.

            Somnira plucked the dagger from his throat and watched in satisfaction as the life flowed out of him. Then he turned her attention back to the battlefield. She ravaged the pockets of dead and dying men, and buried their swords in a pit in the muck. Across the meadow, a loon let out a low, mourning cry. And once again, she realized she hadn’t known his name.

 

            The wind brought the smell of smoke and ash to Somnira. She camped on a ridge once again, over looking a peaceful valley. But she could distinctly smell smoke somewhere down the valley, where it broadened and joined with another. To her left a flock of birds flew from the trees and headed down wind. Somnira peered at them, what did they know that she didn’t?

            She packed up her food and tied it in a tree, then set off in the direction the birds had gone. When she neared the deserted site of a large camp, Somnira slowed. She studied the ashes of the fires, which had been banked only a few hours before. The camp still bore the impression of being a war zone. Even the wild life was quiet and cautious. Somnira proceeded along a trail made by armor-clad feet. They had trod rather heavily and were easy to follow.

Above her, a squirrel shouted its indignities at her as she passed. This was his land and she couldn’t walk along it nonchalantly without paying a price! Somnira continued on her course, not bothering to look at the squirrel that eventually went off to store more nuts.

About two miles away Somnira found a war site. The raiders had begun their charge on the village in the place where the valleys merged. They had burned the wooden gates and were in hand-to-hand combat with the village men. Somnira picked her way through the strewn bodies of the dead. She came upon a man who was dressed as a raider and slashed him through the heart without a thought. The villager he had been near killing stared at her. Somnira kept walking, leaving the young villager pinned to the ground underneath the raider.

            She killed about 15 men that day. One particularly memorable one, her last one, had been near defeat when he jabbed out his eyes and left him to bleed to death, weak and crying from his bloody sockets. The villagers gathered their dead and wounded and brought them back inside the little walls and burnt, hanging gate. Somnira was invited for free food and lodging.

            As soon as Somnira had entered the inn and had a drink, the bartender started asking her questions.

            “So where do you come from?”

            “Elsewhere.”

            “Oh, one of those mysterious folks, eh? That’s fine. Where’d you learn to fight like that? It’s unusual, especially for a woman.”

            “A great swordsman taught me. He saw the promise in training a woman.”

            “Oh, now, I meant no offense. I hear tell you killed more men than our five best fighters did. Is that true?”

            “Your fighters must be sorry indeed, for me to beat five of them,” said Somnira with contempt.

            The bartender ignored her, “They’ll be singing about you around here, you know. The bards will come through here and hear the tale and take if far and wide. A maid, saving an entire village with her sword! Truly amazing…” The bartender began washing the mug Somnira had placed on the bar. She ascended to her room without paying any heed to the fact that she’d heard what he said.

            That night, under the cloak of a new moon, Somnira crept down to the bartender’s apartment. Above the door hung a rusted sword. A useless thing, probably, she thought, but a sword nonetheless. Somnira grabbed the sword, stabbed the bartender through the throat, and made a quick escape outside.

            By light of starlight, Somnira made her way to the nearest hut. She killed men silently in their beds, taking their swords as she went along and laying them in the roads. Finally, after she had finished her methodical slaughter, she gathered up swords and cached them in the woods where she would burry them later.

            A bat flew overhead, emitting a faint cry. Somnira gazed at the horizon where the sun’s first tenacious rays were alighting the sky. So many people had died tonight and yet the world kept moving. Somnira felt a slight pang of regret. How many men had she killed in the past day? And none of them had a fair chance. How many lives had she stolen? How many children would go hungry? How many widows would weep over their dead husband? Mourn over their fallen sons?

            Stop it. She told herself, don’t think about those things. They deserved it.

            The first shriek told her than a villager woman had awoken. Just before dawn, to prepare breakfast, presumably. She ran out into the street crying, “My husband! My husband’s dead! He’s dead!” She hammered on a neighbor’s door and soon half the town was out. Weeping, wailing, mourning their losses. Somnira stood in the square, starring at them.

            I’m the grim reaper. I’m the face of death. I have killed so many, and I don’t even remember why I started killing. It wasn’t because of Sorael. Sorael never would have killed a person in their sleep. I could have just taken their swords. Why do I thirst for blood? Have I grown accustomed to its taste and now I crave it?

            The people had begun to see her now. They stared at her in disbelief. Small children hugging their mother’s skirts peered at her with accusatory eyes. Somnira fled the village, feeling traitorous and broken.

            What sort of monster am I?

 

 

Somnira sat, chewing a roast chicken slowly. The meat was good; she had taken a young, fat one from the pen. The farmer hadn’t even noticed until later. In the woods, she heard the crunch of leaves underfoot. But these feet moved with unusual rhythm.

            Her chicken forgotten, Somnira rose and faced towards the oncoming sound, which increased its speed, her sword readily in her hand. From the woods emerged a small brown and white pup. It wagged its long tail at her and continued moving it’s little legs in her direction. Somnira’s eyes narrowed. Here was something she hadn’t been faced with, kill an animal or not?

            It didn’t have a sword, and it was posing no real threat. But if it was someone’s hunting dog, it was leading the hunting party straight towards her. Somnira poised, undecided. The dog, however, made no indication of being a hunting dog, for it released no quivering cry into the air, neither did it attack her chicken. Instead, it came to sit by her feet and look at her with large, pleading brown eyes.

            Somnira starred down at it briefly. She moved her sword tip to the back of its neck and made a small incision. The dog yelped and backed away, but then it returned.

            “You are brave, little mutt.” Somnira pulled a piece of her meat from the splint she’d been roasting it on and tossed it to the dog, who devoured it eagerly. “Or maybe just desperate.” Somnira finished her meal and fed the scraps to the dog, which ate them all with hunger equal to his first piece.

            For the next few days, the dog appeared sometime during the evening and Somnira would feed it the leftovers of her food. She had no real reason to do this, but it did not waste food and she saw no harm in it.

            Then one day, as she was finishing her meal, she realized she had no scraps for the pup tonight. She looked forlornly around her for something to feed it. After a few moments of searching, she found a piece of cold bread and a little cheese. These she elected fit for the dog and set them aside.

            As she was feeding these crumbs to him that night, Somnira came to the conclusion that she had grown too attached to the dog. “A warrior must never be attached to anything,” she told him. He looked at her briefly, seemingly saddened, and went back to eating the cheese. “So I’m going to leave, and you’re not to follow. Understand?” The dog looked up at her again, cocked his head, and gulped down the last of the scraps. “Good.”

            The next morning Somnira packed up her few items and set off across the hills towards the distant mountains. On her way down one rise, the dog came leaping from the grasses beside her. He wriggled with joy and bounced along the path with her to the top of the next ridge. There, it paused, seemed to contemplate the reason for Somnira’s load and her quiet, resolute starring straight ahead, paying no attention to his antics. He gave a small yip and Somnira turned around.

            “You can’t come with me,” she said. The little dog began padding down the slope towards her. “No!” she yelled. He stopped. “Get away!” she yelled again. Seeming confused, the pup went to stand on the ridge again. “Good, stay!” ordered Somnira. The dog danced in place and barked. Somnira turned around and continued walking.

            The mutt yipped again and came running after her. Somnira whirled and yelled, “No! Go back!” The dog stopped and cocked his head sadly. “Go!” He disappeared into the bushes, leaving Somnira to continue alone on her journey. Twice, she looked back to make sure he wasn’t following her. Towards dusk, she heard a distant yelp and turned around. On a far hill, standing quietly was the little dog. His head was cocked and his mouth was slightly open as if to call after her. Somnira felt a twinge of sadness for her tiny friend. “Mongrel,” she said, assuring herself that he would be just fine.

 

            Somnira padded over soft, damp smelling moss towards the trickle of water that was flowing down from a spring two miles away. From her pocket, she pulled a battered white envelope with writing scrawled across the front. She sat down on a rock and took some of the powder from the envelope in her hand, put it in her mouth, and then drank from the stream to wash the bitter taste away. Her mission accomplished, she replaced the paper envelope and knelt to wash her hands in the stream.

            She stayed there, looking into the water, for a long time. She absorbed the sounds and smells around her. A bird flew overhead, the beating of its wings a merry hum in the afternoon air. It was warm out and Somnira found that she was sleepy. She sat with her back against the rock and dozed.

            Somnira opened her eyes, having heard something in the distance. It was a sound out of synch with the forest, and she noticed that the birds were not singing above her. Someone else was in the woods, too. Cautiously, she drew her sword and crept in the direction of the unusual noise. It sounded like a horse, perhaps a run away animal, fleeing from battle? Somnira licked her lips; she hadn’t expected another raid this soon.

            Hiding in some shrubs, Somnira lay on her stomach and looked out underneath the bushes. She could see four hooves, and a little further down stream, two boots. Alarmed, Somnira pushed herself up to get a better look at the person. As she did so, the wind shifted. The nervous horse caught her scent and whinnied. Silently, Somnira cursed the beast for giving her away. It didn’t matter much though, she could see now that the man had pulled out a sword.

            Carefully, quietly, Somnira edged back to her place. She scampered over the creek and circled around the man and his horse. Finally, she was only a few feet from him, hidden among the soft fronds of some ferns. In a mad rush, Somnira pulled her sword and dived for the back of her quarry. Something had given her away, some extra sense had warned the man of her presence. He turned, sword drawn, and Somnira barely managed to dodge his blow by twisting her foot sharply and losing her balance.

            He stood staring at her for a long time, his blonde hair shinning in the sun and casting shadows over his face. Likewise, Somnira also stood transfixed. A breeze picked up and ruffled the leaves of a nearby tree. With identical cries the two swordsmen launched themselves at each other.

 

            The fight, Somnira realized, was going to be won when the other collapsed from sheer exhaustion. She was determined not to be that one. Above them, the stars glared down cruelly, seeming to laugh at the private battle ensuing below them. It was a cool night, the breeze blowing gently and whispering quietly in the grasses. The treetops shifted, blocking out the cold light of the stars and casting doubtful shadows on the rippling grass.

Thrice, Somnira had seen an opportunity to win the fight. But all three times she had been too slow or not aware enough to catch it in time. She could feel the weight of her limbs and the burning in her eyes from a fight gone on too long. Numerous times she had realized that she had led her guard slip. It was amazing she had not made a fatal mistake already.

            Her opponent was weary too. He had misjudged several times and lost his balance. This provided Somnira with a precious second to check her own footing but not enough time to strike. She knew that she had made the same mistake just as often. Still, if he hadn’t killed her yet, he must be as tired as she was.

Somnira was glad for the breeze; she was drenched in sweat. Each movement sent pain tingling through her limbs. Her feet seemed to be made of lead, her arms stiff and unmovable. Her breath came in ragged, aching gasps and filled her lungs with fire. But Somnira’s pain made her angry, and her anger kept her moving forward.

            The treetops parted again and Somnira saw his face in the starlight. With startling recognition she saw clearly before her the boy she had fought the day Sorael died. Her brain exploded in images from a past she had erased from her mind. Sorael falling, Sorael’s blood on the ground, Sorael buried in a mound of rocks. Stunning, Somnira floundered and plunged forward unexpectedly. Des stepped out of her path, missing her narrowly. But he recovered himself quickly and saw his chance.

            Taking a stronger grip on his sword and planting his feet, Des let his sword tip sink into Somnira’s unprotected back. Her wrapped a strong, tanned arm around her neck to hold her in place. Somnira stood in shocked silence; the pain having overloaded her nerves, she didn’t even cry out. Crimson blood poured over herself and Des, making a puddle beneath her like a lake at sunset. The trees rustled their leaves, seemingly excited that the fight had been won and bent closer to inspect the scene where Somnira and Des stood transfixed.

            Des gently whispered in her ear, “You finally recognized me. I knew you the moment I saw you launch yourself out of those bushes.”

            Somnira listened in fascinated horror. She’d lost; of course she knew she always would eventually. Every swordsman must see a fight in which he loses. But what made this unbearable was that she had lost to one of Sorael’s killers.

            “Don’t worry,” Des continued to whispers, and the trees rippled above them, trying to hear what he was saying. “I killed Mesareth too. He was too controlling, and you were too bold.”

            Somnira tightened her grip on her sword, steeling herself with determination – and hate.

            “I just couldn’t put up with his nagging and scolding any longer. So one night I snuck up on him in his sleep. He slept like a baby, curled up and whimpering. I took his own dagger and stabbed him the throat, and left him there that night and went into town. It was my first human kill, and it was glorious.”

            With a sudden, jerky, and desperate movement Somnira plunged her sword through herself and into Des. She heard it collide with his spinal column. “This was your last kill, and it is glorious too,” she said, feeling the blood in her mouth as she did so. She spit, withdrew her sword, and tumbled forward.

            Somewhere in the dark, cloudiness of her mind in it’s death throes, Somnira thought she heard a bark and a warm, wet tongue licking her face.

I’m sorry, mutt.