The Swordsman

Honor and loyalty…”, he carefully etched these words into a disintegrating parchment booklet. Dipping his quill into a bowl-shaped rock that acted as a makeshift ink cartridge, he continued, “…do they form the foundation of a virtuous life, or are they the steel from which prison bars are forged?” A distant hawk’s cry pulled him from his thoughts. His eyes scanned the sky, which, despite its thick blanket of clouds, was beginning to show signs of the sunrise. In front of him, the rising fog gave way to rugged hills dotted by thorny shrubs and the occasional tree. He closed the deerskin and stared at the cover: Seek, and you shall find. “I am. I am seeking”. He pulled back his hood, and his face was met by the wet brisk air. He tightened his belt, sheathed his freshly sharpened sword, and continued on his way.

“A journey requires a destination and a path leading thereto. But what if the destination is unknown? Can the path still be traveled? Which wanderer would be so foolish as to expose himself to the dangers of the road without pressing matters awaiting his arrival at the destination?”

A steady wind had picked up from the north, pelting rain into his face. His thoughts wandered to his hometown. The cobblestone roads caked with mud, the houses that groaned through the long winters, his sister who spent her evenings knitting by the small fire in their one-room hut. A short chuckle crossed his lips. It had been those comforts, those familiarities, and safeties that had driven him away. Not that he would never return. He loved his family dearly, but he could not return as the boy that he had left. There was nothing wrong with that boy; he was studious, brave, and honest. But he was still a boy. And fate does not tread softer on the weak, wounded, or those who refuse to grow up; and fate would not give him a wide berth. Of this, he was certain. When he had announced his departure, his childhood friend had begged for permission to accompany him on the journey, but he had refused the kindhearted offer. His only companions could be his pen and sword, and he would have to make do with them.

The sun had just reached its zenith when the first roar could be heard from the valley to the right of the ridge he was treading along. It was distant and faint. A chill flew up his spine, and his hand clenched the hilt of his sword. A short moment of silence covered the hills before the birds returned to singing their cheerful song. He ventured on.

“Glory. The key that unlocks the gates to eternity. To hear one’s name still echoing, even from within the halls of Hades. Yet, glory seems to lie on the same side of the scale as selfishness and pride, balanced only by humility.”

It was not until nightfall had lain its dark blanket over the hills that he heard another roar; it was almost more of a growl. Deep and slow. Much nearer this time. His knuckles turned white, and his jaw clamped shut. His heartbeat seemed to sync with the shaking of the ground. Or was that just his mind running wild? Minutes passed. Then, an unfamiliar smell crept into his nose. An awful stench that seemed nearly otherworldly. A snort. As he snuck behind the bare skeleton of a nearby bush, he squinted across the dark landscape, trying to detect any danger. The moon glinted off the upper half of his blade, which he had freed from its sheath, the sharp edge begging for flesh. Movement. A shadow moved westward, blotting out the horizon stars. Four legs the size of thick tree branches and a jaw lined with the teeth of a carnivore became visible. It had the body of a giant wild boar, while its head was more akin to that of a wolf, save for the two short ivory tusks extending beyond its snout. Light as a necromancer, it strode through the night. Was this his chance? Returning home with the skull of such a beast in tow would undoubtedly hoist him upon the shoulders of immortality. It was now or never. He pulled the sword from his sheath. This is why he had come so far. Twelve days of traveling, for this moment in which he would learn who he was, for this moment in which he would prove who he could be. But he froze. Just as a raindrop sinks into the hot desert, all his thirst for greatness dried up and became engulfed in the sands of fear. The beast walked on and slowly disappeared into the night. He trembled and wept in disbelief at his failing.

“Courage despises cowardice, yet it walks hand in hand with fear. The two are bound and can exist only in relation to one another; just as light and darkness, good and evil, humility and pride. Striving for good does not mean evil no longer exists and no longer exerts its forces, it simply means it is not permitted within the walls of the heart. Courage is not the absence of fear but the taming of it.”

He jotted down these final lines on his parchment pages. Shame had replaced hope. Doubt had crept in and built a stronghold in his mind. The small fire he had started from a few dry twigs offered little comfort as he longed for home. A long return journey awaited him, and he was now doomed to arrive back just as he had left. No glory, no skull, no change, just a boy. Not only did he not have a destination, he also no longer had a path to venture down. The fire turned to glowing coals. A distant owl sang him into a fitful slumber.

A roar. He awoke startled. Again, another roar followed by a second higher sound. A scream. It was a human scream he was hearing. Bloodcurdling. Desperate. He jumped to his feet and listened intently, trying to determine which direction the sounds were coming from. Branches snapped as the screaming continued. Eastward, they were coming from the forest. His knees were weak, and he felt the cold grip of fear upon his throat again. He ran toward the commotion. The now familiar stink warned him that he was closing in on the beast. The icy night air burned in his lungs as he sprinted on. Distant flames lit up the trees around him, and he stumbled to a halt. A cloaked man with long black hair, rough facial features, and a cut across his right ear sat with his back pressed up against a tree. Staring him down, only inches away, was the monster. The firelight offered a more detailed view of the beast. The fur was thick and partially crusted in blood. Saliva streamed from its mouth. This was no time for hesitation. With a whisking metallic sound, he pulled his sword. The proud blade measured over 4o inches in length. The beast slowly turned its head to see the man holding the weapon. The flickering light revealed that one of its eyes had been gouged out. It almost had a look of disbelief on its face, as if it were surprised that a second meal would show up before it had even started enjoying the first. With quick, powerful strides, it closed the gap between itself and its prey, anticipating an easy kill. The swordsman steadied his breathing, laid a firm grip upon his sword with both hands and readied himself for battle.

“Humility,…” the quill glided across the parchment. “…humility is serving those in need. It does not ask one to think less of oneself but to think of oneself less. To, instead of searching for what one needs, give what is needed – selflessly. Sacrifice is perhaps humility's purest form. To give up something one loves so another may have it. This is a most noble cause.”

The feather was lifted off the page as the man in the cloak, still covered in the monster’s saliva, leaned back to read the few words he had added to the swordsman’s booklet. The letters gleamed in scarlet red. Brushing back a few strains of hair, he again dipped the utensil into the blood of the slain beast one last time and added his final touch.

“This is surely as courageous of a man as I have ever met.”

He then carefully closed the deerskin and placed it into the chest pocket of the bloodied and lifeless swordsman.