The Swordsman

 Though only three in number, the approaching figures carried themselves with such confidence that they may as well have been an army. Two wore sorcerer's robes so black they might have been spun from the same matter as the stark peaks. Those garments, blacker than any shadow, enfolded pallid men whose faces were grim and remote and devoid of all mercy. They watched their quarry with cold contempt yet did not chant a spell nor raise their hands to attack. All the while they stayed one step behind the man between them, a man as different in his aspect as the sun breaking through a bank of thunderheads. He carried an executioner's sword with a silver blade upon which was inscribed a series of runes in a tongue long dead. In defiance of the bone-chilling climate of those heights he wore only sandals, breeches, strings of talismans and amulets that jingled softly as he walked, and a mask to match the sword. This false face was not quite human, its features oddly attenuated and minutely detailed as though it had for its cast the living flesh of its referent. It was a kurgan mask, typically only worn by the dead, and the muscular vitality of its wearer made a mockery of its intended purpose. He halted to regard the fugitives through narrow eye slits.

“Just as you thought,” one of his companions said tentatively, looking at Tex. “An outsider.”

“Is that how you make a guy feel welcome? Introduce yourselves, at least.”

“Welcome? What right have you to feel welcome in our world, trespasser? No, though here by no fault of your own, the best you can do is leave,” said the masked man. “Now step aside and trouble us no more.”

“What kind of trouble do you think I've been causing? I've been keeping these two alive this whole time,” Tex said.

“It's all right,” said Asphodel, stepping forward. “I'll go with you, but let them go.”

The man laughed incredulously, an oddly tentative sound for such an imposing figure. He had the demeanor of one trying, with little success, to remember how to be delicate.

“Let them go? Did you think I failed to recognize that Ersetene dog? He will accompany us, witch, as a gift for my father. Ah, that look of disappointment ill suits you. I will give you due credit for this deed.”

“I'm not interested in his favor and I won't let the king have him.”

“The king?” asked Neteth.

“His father, the king of Nar. I assume he dispatched some well-intentioned but misguided men to rescue me.” She returned her attention to the masked man. “One of them already tried to kill my companions. I won't go anywhere without a guarantee of their safety.”

It was clear from a subtle shift in the man's stance that the conversation had begun to grow tiresome for him. This was a man of action, swift and decisive and devoid of such qualities as would cause a lesser man to forego his goal for some such lesser consideration as chivalry. This was the oldest child and only son of the king, Menepatros, a terrifying presence on the battlefield and a leader cast from the mold of the old emperors. He gazed upon Asphodel, who wished she could see what expression he wore beneath the mask.

“And for what purpose have they delivered you here? I was led to believe you had been captured and sentenced to death by that boy's own father. Have I been misled?”

“He commuted my sentence.”

“How generous of him. The prince forgives his sworn foe, defies his father, and journeys into the jaws of her homeland for sake of mercy alone, does he?” Menepatros scoffed. “Tell me, son of my enemy, why have you come?”

“He hasn't-”

“Enough. I want to hear it from him.”

“To prove myself,” answered Neteth. “I've lived a sheltered life so far, never accomplishing anything of note. How can I do great things if I hardly do anything at all? And what sort of leader would I be for my people if I were content the way I am?”

“Your sentiment would be more admirable were your ambition equal to your ability. Now surrender your weapons. If you have more to say, you may do so in my custody.”

“I'll not be your captive.”

The assessment being made in the Narian prince's head was an essentially predatory one, a mode of thought born in the distant, shadowy reaches of prehistory and in its most basic form constituted the question: can I kill what I see? For him it was a more complex calculation, subject to certain variables of which he could only be sure in general terms. But his instincts told him to act, and so he did.

The great, square-tipped sword flashed, batted aside Neteth's spear as he tried to bring it to bear, and in the same movement Menepatros shoved him aside and swung at Tex, who got his sword free and deflected the blow. Despite its unwieldy appearance, he wielded the executioner's sword with the deftness of fencer, striking repeatedly with blinding speed.

Tex gave ground, waited for an opening, saw it in the form of a careless swing – too broad, he thought, too slow, and far too imprecise. All he had to do was turn it aside and he'd have a clear line on Menepatros's chest. But in the moment before their swords met the other blade flashed and seemed to vanish for the slightest fraction of a second. It slipped past his guard and only quick reflexes saved him from death as the executioner's sword passed by his ear rather than through his neck. He backed away again, trying to parse what had happened, but his opponent wouldn't give him the chance. Tex was pressed back again and this time his attention was focused on the sword, no longer searching for an opportunity to strike but intent on not falling prey to the same trick again, whatever it may be. Again Menepatros committed to an attack that in different circumstances would have been laughably sloppy. This time, anticipating that his guard wouldn't work, Tex stepped aside, pivoting so that he could thrust his blade into the other man's leg, a quick, short stroke that would buy him time if it didn't end the fight right away.

It was exactly what the Narian swordsman had been waiting for. His off hand darted out, caught Tex's throat in an iron grip, and lifted him off the ground.

“Mediocre.” With no further gloating or fanfare, he threw Tex over the steep, rocky edge of the massif where it had been carved away by meltwater streams.

He slid, skidded, and tumbled, hands clawing desperately for purchase. Rocks clattered past him and when at last he caught the trunk of a scrawny tree growing near-horizontal from the mountainside the echo of stones below him carried on like grim laughter at his defeat. He caught his breath, looked at the terrible height separating him from where he'd stood but a moment ago, and sighed.

“All right,” he said in a laconic drawl. “This could be a problem.”

That was as much self-pity as he could allow himself. Then he began to spot places where he could climb, where rock was anchored solidly or where the slope was a little shallower. He mapped the route he would take and braced his feet on the escarpment. Taken as a whole, it promised to be a daunting climb at best. Finally, as though pierced by Zeno's arrow, the horizon of his imagination narrowed to the increment of one footstep after another.

“Let's get crackin.”