The Spear

The mighty vampire Cael lay slain. Kirwin had endured its onslaught with the true spirit of Humakt, his splintered shield and bleeding wounds testifying to his courage and to the significance of our victory.

We had stormed the foul Vivamorti en masse, but he had no fear of us. His unnatural lifespan had given him ample time, stolen from the gods themselves, to practice his battle-skills and he was caparisoned in armour of bone, adorned with foul enchantments, perhaps some age-old gift from Delecti himself. He wielded a spear, of darkest ebon, whose edge was so preternaturally fine that it seemed to flow through the very metal of Kirwin’s shield as it sought its mark of living flesh.

I was blind for most of the fight. A huge shade, the second I had fought in five weeks, had smothered me in its icy and dark grip. It held me in its fearful grasp, and I could feel the fear rising in my throat. I could sense the surety of death and felt my will expire, for what use in resisting the inky blackness? The fearful memory of my previous fight with such a creature had bestowed upon me the strength of mind to persevere with my attack: through will and blade I fought myself free of the huge elemental.

When light returned to my eyes, the battle was ongoing. Grant had fought free from a similar creature, and the others were engaged with the vampire lord. I sought to join the fight, for I could see that Kirwin was surely only a matter of seconds away from death, and that he had held the foul creature in combat whilst we others had sought to get into position. He had failed to make any impact against the monster, and had achieved little beyond his own survival, though against such an onslaught this was no mean feat.

But our numbers began to tell, and the vampire, arrogant in his magic and foul abilities failed to see the end before it was too late. Grant, newly joined in the fight, had waited for his moment. With icy resolve he thrust his spear directly into the face of Cael, its blade passing through the eye of the vampire and into its ancient skull. As the vampire hit the floor, its inhuman scream sounding about the enclosed walls of the ruined stead, Kirwin used his sword to sever the undead head and the creature that had endured for many lifetimes of men was gone to his final resting place in the void. Everyone fell about exhausted and unspeaking in the aftermath of such a close run battle.

I am a veteran of such feelings. Battles can turn in moments, and the line between total victory and death can be a terrifyingly fine one. In one instant we were each starting to feel the sense of hopelessness engulf us, and the next we were on our knees, gasping for air and trying to comprehend the unlikeliest realisation of our own triumph. Helms were pulled from heads and huge and rasping breaths were taken. Limbs began to shake, and hot sweat began to turn cold and chill us to the bone.

I was the first to recover my wits, drawing on my military discipline. I walked to the headless corpse and retrieved the spear. I marvelled at the sharpness of the blade, so fine as to be all but invisible. I looked at the gaps it had cleaved in Kirwin’s shield and marvelled at its unnatural wooden temper. Such items are the stuff of fable, gifted by the gods to the greatest of heroes, and the mighty deeds of the wielders of such instruments of death can become footnotes in history subsumed beneath the legend of the artefact itself. I hefted fate itself in my hand and felt the power coursing through my grip. What legendary deeds could I, Cleombrotus of Raibanth, newly ordained devotee of Orlanth, perpetrate in the name of my god? Could such a mighty weapon stand synonymous with my long unfulfilled dreams of waging war against the scions of the Red Moon?

I knew that whilst my goals were as deserving of such a weapon as any of the others, I had not earned this mighty weapon as yet. To relinquish such power of one’s own free will cries out against reason. This was no mere magic spear – it was power and prestige. It was a symbol of warriors that others would follow for the mere privilege of witnessing its wrath in battle and to say after that they stood alongside its wielder.

I was not the only one who knew this. I heard angry mutterings from Grant, and from Kirwin, who had now recovered enough to see that I had taken the great prize that they felt should have been one of theirs by right of their role in battle.

I stood on a cusp. Irked by my comrades’ intemperate reaction I toyed with the idea of maintaining my claim. I had not earned this mighty prize, and had never truly thought to claim it, but their protestation only showed me that they too knew of its value and put their lust for it and their fear that it might be denied them ahead of all of our joint experiences as comrades and brothers. Such was perhaps the true value of our bond of trust. It seemed that a lesson was needed, and I made my decision. I would keep the spear for the remainder of our fight against the vampires, and would then relinquish it to Grant. In the meantime, let them sweat. When I handed the spear to Grant, having used it to slay some foul creation of the undead, I told him that I had never seen its like and that he should wield it with great pride. Once again, I entrusted my destiny to others and to the will and whim of the gods. Now tied in spirit and body to the runes of Air, Movement and Dragon – I found myself wondering if I had not also somehow thrown in my lot with Fate…