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A Legend, Act III

Act III: The Blood Paladin

All of his followers surrounded him. They waited to hear what he had to say. He could feel the tension in the air. He had the support he needed. They were an army now. All of them were loyal and ready to die if they had to. They were all bound by a common goal, a common purpose: peace. He raised his hand to signal that he was ready to speak. His followers leaned forward expectantly.

“The peace that we have all wanted has finally come!” he cried out. Everyone cheered. They had been waiting for this news for a while. When he raised his hand again the crowd quieted immediately. “We can now live in peace! But there are still people out there who do not have the peace that we have. There are still those who would still live by the code of war rather than the one of peace. I grieve for the people who must live under the barbarians’ cruel rule. It is my wish that we try to help these people in any way we can, but as you know barbarians only follow one way: the way of war. Because of my wish to help others who want peace the gods have given me a solution to stop war and bring peace. They told me that to cleanse the world of all evil we must exterminate all of the people of Gerryn, for they are the most wicked and war-like. The gods told me that once of the Gerryns have been purged from the face of the planet. I will be granted more power to cleanse the world of evil. No one will have to suffer any more!”

The crowd cheered wildly. He knew they would follow him, for he knew he was destined to be the savior of these people and bring his vision of a perfect world to reality. Nothing could stop him. Nothing.

***

Strite smelled smoke. He woke up with a start, sword in hand, surveying the area. Asyria signaled for Strite to come over to where she was. They viewed the area. It had once been a town but it was now burnt and charred. There was also blood everywhere. It was just like the other towns that they had seen: practically nothing left.

Over the past few weeks that Strite had been in Gerryn he was beginning to realize how much of a monster the Blood Paladin was. Some times there would be survivors, if they could even be called that. They hung to life by a thread but it would be slowly slipping from their grasp. There was nothing that could be done for them except to put them out of their misery. At other times he and Asyria would find a whole village deserted, only to find that everyone had been taken into the main building, nailed down to the floor and gutted like animals. Their entrails would be everywhere and the floor covered in blood. No one was spared from this. Not even children or the elderly. There was only one case in which some had escaped that. They had locked themselves in a room, but that apparently hadn’t had stopped the Blood Paladin’s troops, for the hinges on the door were ripped off. What had spared them torture was the fact that two of the adults had slit the throats of all the children and elderly folk in the room and then slit their own throats.

When Strite had found that room he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to end their the lives of others as well as theirs. Once he had seen the city hall he understood. Killing others and then yourself quickly was far more merciful than what the others had gone through.

They moved passed the burnt town. They told all the people they met about the port and how to reach it so that they could leave. The people in return gave them a blessing or some small trinket like a flower and moved on.

By midday the two smelt smoke again, but this time they heard screaming and cries of terror. Strite and Asyria rushed toward the small town. They came upon the Blood Paladin and his army slaughtering people as they ran for their lives.

Enraged, Asyria leapt between a soldier and woman he had been about to slay and began fighting him. She grabbed a hold of the briddle and the reigns, jerking the horse sideways. Repeating this while she fought off the soldier the horse finally fell on its side, throwing the rider off as well. Without even a second thought of anything but determination to win, Asyria raised her sword and slashed down with a single swing. Strite couldn’t look. It was the look in her eyes that made him a little quesy. He watched as she pushed her way into the ranks toward the paladin, slaying every soldier that got in her way. She was like a messenger of death for all of the soldiers of the Blood Paladin’s army. She was also a messenger of hope for the people she was trying to help. Strite followed her. He helped people escape as he held soldiers at bay, watching Asyria near her target that was the Blood Paladin. The tides of the soldiers and the people kept shifting. He could barely see Asyria and the Blood Paladin. Panic seized him. What if Asyria was dead? He thought when he could no longer see her. Strite fought on, his legendary quick reflexes slaying enemies left and right.

Nearly all of the troops had left, seeing that even though they outnumbered their enemy they were no match for him and Asyria.

Asyria had made her way to the Blood Paladin and was fighting him both magically and physically. Flashes of light were seen, the ground trembled, and the clash of steel against steel could be heard. Then suddenly it stopped.

Strite rushed to Asyria’s side and stood before the Blood Paladin.

The paladin laughed. He had been watching Strite the whole time he was fighting with Asyria. “Finally!” he cried. “A true warrior! This is a treat!” He turned toward Asyria. “I know you are a princess, warrior maiden, and I will stop killing your people if you can bring me a Champion that is also of royal blood as my sacrifice.” The Blood Paladin’s horse reared onto its hind legs. “I will wait by the ruins near the marsh for you.” The paladin turned his horse about and galloped off to the south.

There was a moment of silence as both Strite and Asyria stood, staring after the Blood Paladin.

“Is it just me, or did that whole battle seem like a dream?” Asyria asked quietly.

“It seemed like a dream,” Strite answered. He looked down and saw blood on his hands and clothes. “I know it wasn’t, though.”

“A Champion of royal blood,” Asyria quoted. “Do you think he knows about me?”

Strite shook his head. “There’s no way, Asyria. He probably just made it up because he thought there was no such thing.”

“But what if he does know, Strite?”

“Asyria, there’s no way he would know! You told me yourself that no one outside of your parents knew that you are the Champion of Gerryn!”

Silence. Then Asyria spoke. “You’re right. There’s no way he could know,” Asyria agreed. “Come on. Let’s go find a place to camp.”

***

The Blood Paladin stared up at the sky. He thought back to his encounter with the princess and the warrior. He had been surprised to see her again and how well she had learned how to fight; but then, all of the Gerryns knew how to fight. That was why they all had to be killed. They were a threat to the New World.

He thought for a moment. There was the other fighter, too. Now there was a warrior. His full potential came from anger. That and his lack of fear. It was truly a twist of fate that he appeared when he did. A twist of fate...or luck.

The demand he had made of Asyria had been far fetched, but a wild hope had been at the back of his mind. If Asyria could somehow really find a Champion of royal blood his dreams of a new world of his making where no one suffered could be made real. That dream could only be fulfilled if he could rid the world of the Gerryns. They did not fit in with his dream of a perfect world, unfortunately.

The Blood Paladin thought of Asyria. She had grown stronger since the first time. She was an incredible woman. It was a shame that Asyria was a Gerryn. It seemed almost a waste to kill her.

At least, he thought, she isn’t the Champion of royal blood that I need. That would be the greatest shame of all.

***

Strite and Asyria sat around a fire. Neither said anything. They both knew what was going through each others minds.

“Reincarnation,” Asyria said abruptly.

“Hmm?”

“Reincarnation,” Asyria repeated. “Among my people reincarnation is possible. It’s when the soul is reborn as somebody else. Sometimes the reincarnated soul’s new body looks just like the soul’s previous body.”

“Meaning?”

“If I die, I can be reborn, or reincarnated,” Asyria explained. “Possibly even have a new body that looks similar to the body I have now.”

“Asyria, your not going to die,” Strite insisted. “I promise.”

“No. Don’t promise me anything, Strite,” Asyria cautioned the Symterran Champion. “There’s a good chance that one or both of us could die.”

Strite was silent for a moment. “Even so, the chances of us dying-”

“-are very high,” Asyria finished. She stood up and started pacing. “The Blood Paladin is very strong, Strite. I could care less about his army. You saw for yourself how they fled before us.”

“That was because they weren’t prepared for us,” Strite pointed out.

“Even so,” the princess countered, “we still could’ve defeated them, whether they were prepared or not.”

“I’m not so sure, your Highness.”

Asyria winced slightly. Whenever Strite said ‘your Highness’ to her it was his way of letting her know that he did not agree with her in any way. She continued pacing, her mind turning over possibilities and then throwing them out one by one. The only solution she could come up with was giving herself up to the Blood Paladin.

Strite, anticipating her line of thinking, flatly and firmly said, “No.”

“Strite-” Asyria began.

“No!” Strite repeated. “You are the Princess of Gerryn! You have to stay alive for your people!”

“What if I told you I was doing this to save my people?” Asyria argued.

Strite shook his firmly. “There’s more than one way to stop a mad man, and I happen to know plenty of ways.”

Asyria stopped pacing and sat down next to Strite. “I suppose your right,” she said after a while. “I just want my people to be safe. That’s why I thought that if I gave myself up I could save all of them.” She picked up a stick and fed it to the fire. She sighed. “I wish all of this fighting was over. I just want to live a quiet life somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. I could escape all this blood shed. Just a tiny village to live in, a cottage of sorts, and a peaceful life. No major worries except whether or not the harvest will be good this year and if the weather will hold out.” She smiled to herself and lapsed into a silence.

Strite thought back over everything that had been said and suddenly asked, “How do you know if you’re the Champion?”

Asyria lifted up the sleeve of her shirt. On her upper left arm near her shoulder was an ugly scar that looked as if it never healed properly. It was big and jagged. Then Strite realized that the scar reached past her shoulder and near her collar bone.

“This scar is given to every Champion,” Asyria explained. “Call it barbaric if you like but it’s much easier than calling upon my soul weapon, the Rocan.”

“Rocan?” Strite echoed.

“It’s,” Asyria cast about for the right words, “It’s energy from my soul. I shape that energy into any weapon that I want, but it must have some sort of blade.”

“So you could make an ax from your soul?” Strite asked.

“From my soul’s energy,” Asyria corrected. “The Rocan is merely a portion of my soul.” She rummaged around in her pack and brought out a small pot, a bag of herbs, and two cups.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

Strite peered in the herb bag. “What is it?”

“It’s tea,” Asyria answered. “I drink some whenever I’m nervous or upset. It has a calming effect.”

Strite raised and eyebrow. “You’re nervous?”

Asyria shrugged. “Not really. Just a combination of nervousness and being upset,” she confessed.

“Sure, I’ll have some tea.” The Champion smiled at her. This was probably her first war and she needed all the support he could give her.

As Asyria made tea Strite pulled out his recorder and began to play. He played the only Gerryn song he knew. Then he heard Asyria singing with him. When the song finished Asyria was still humming the tune.

“It’s my favorite song,” the princess explained. “I always called it the Nameless Lullaby. It’s about a faery that befriended a dragon, and how they saved a knight from falling into a trap, a trap laid by a witch that had been turned into a tree a hundred years ago. The Champion goes on to become the King of Gerryn and, in thanks, ordered that all dragons and faeries roam free and unharmed.”

Asyria unwound the sash about her waist. She held it out for Strite to see. “My brother gave this to me before he died. He made this especially for me.” Asyria smiled at the memory of her brother.

“You can see the scenes form the story,” Strite said, peering closer at the sash. He could see pictures of a green dragon and a faery with long blonde hair. Then he saw the Champion and the old, gnarled tree that was the witch. “How did your brother die?”

Asyria handed Strite a cup of hot tea. “Drink,” she said. “It’ll relax your nerves.” She sighed. “He died in battle. He was Captain of the Knights, or general if you will. He was one of the greatest. He-” she swallowed back a lump in her throat “-he called upon all of the energy in his soul and unleashed it without-without any focus point. For example, a focus point would be creating a sword. When you don’t create a focus point all of the stored energy explodes from your body. Literally. The effect is devastating. He saved the kingdom with that act, though.” She lapsed back into silence.

Strite took a gulp of the tea. He could feel his muscles loosening. He took another gulp. His entire body began to relax. He felt his eyes droop and realized that Asyria had drugged him. He was angry with her but he could see why she did it. It was just like something he would have done. He would have done this to protect her. He cared a lot for her but he wasn’t sure how much that caring went. He enjoyed being with her. She understood him and his wayward spirit. He valued her opinion and thoughts on subjects. Asyria was perhaps the closet friend he had ever had.

“I’m sorry, Strite,” he heard Asyria whisper. Strite’s hand spasmed around her sash. He wanted something of her to remember her by. There was a good chance that he would never see her again. Strite cursed Asyria and then himself. If only they didn’t feel as if it was their duty to protect each other!

“Please forgive me,” Asyria was saying.

Strite felt something on his forehead, then soft words spoken in a foreign language. The last thing he remembered before blacking out were the words, “I love you.”

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