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Swords of a Master, Chapter 3

Vern was the one pacing the atrium now.  He knew that if he left the palace he would just be called back in an hour at the most.  Whatever Yllicus had to discuss with the emperor, it must be of military importance, and Captain Vern would need to know.  

His pacing was interrupted by the door opening, but instead of Yllicus or Caelus, a woman walked out.  She was shorter than he, and was dressed in fine clothes with her hair in a careful ornamental style.  She was, he knew, the emperor’s wife.  Vern approached her and greeted her in an undertone, with a respectful bow of the head.

“Lady Minera.  I take it Caelus has taken Yllicus into his chambers alone?”

“Yes,” she answered shortly, “Come with me.”  

Vern was struck by her severe manner.  Though the two were familiar, and on good terms, he had never known her to be friendly, but this was still a marked departure from the norm.  He thought it best to obey for the moment, and followed her through the great door.  The palace guards were nowhere to be seen as they made their way down the hallway, but this didn’t surprise Vern.  He had suspected, after all, that Caelus and Yllicus would meet quite alone.

Minera stopped at the door to one of Caelus’s private chambers.  She looked up and down the hall furtively before opening the door and quickly ushering Vern in.  He heard the door close behind him, but could not bring himself to look back at the Lady.  His eyes were locked on the floor, where Emperor Caelus lay in a pool of his own blood, a sword discarded nearby, stained a darkening red.  

“Stay quiet,” Minera advised unnecessarily, Vern was speechless.  Was this her doing?  It couldn’t be.  Her marriage to Caelus was, he knew quite well, vital to Lady Minera’s political position.  More likely, she had discovered the regicide, and sought to turn its discovery to her own advantage.  She was cold, Vern knew.  Colder still in this moment.

“Answer yes or no.  Does that sword belong to Yllicus?”

Vern looked at it for only a moment before remembering it at the Admiral’s hip not very long ago.  He opened his mouth and croaked, “Yes.”

Minera nodded, and waited a moment to say, “I am pregnant”  Vern looked at her, but could say nothing to the ill timed announcement.  She continued, taking his stunned silence as acceptance of the news.  “And you have known for two weeks.”  

Vern shook his head, processing this falsehood.  “Yes,” he answered finally, “Whatever my Lady says is true.”

“It will need to become true,” she said, “Immediately.”

“You,” he swallowed and started again, “You intend to avoid a power vacuum.”  It made sense.  With Caelus dead, and no heir in place, the future of the Tharan Empire was too uncertain.  There were many who would seek to seize control, whether through political or military means.  

Minera nodded, “It is essential.  It won’t be easy, but the people loved Caelus more than the aristocracy did.  The peace he and his fathers created can only last as long as his bloodline.”

“It’s already broken, the campaign in the mountain…”

“Is in its infancy,” she cut him off.  “Our military can merely stay away, guarding against a counter-attack.  The barbarians won’t leave the mountain, we need merely to leave them be.”

“We can’t know that,” Vern said, pacing around the emperor’s body.  He looked down at it every once in a while, but couldn’t keep his eyes on it.  “But it is the best assumption to make.”

“The steward is hungry for the war, he will try to connect Yllicus’ time in the mountains with the assassination.  There are no answers to be had until Yllicus is brought back to give them, and until then we need to paint my husband’s murder with a new motive.”

“Your child, then,” Vern answered, thinking quickly and making up as many falsehoods as he needed to connect the truths together satisfactorily.  “There are already rumors that Yllicus and Caelus were lovers.  Those rumors were true, and when Caelus announced your pregnancy to Yllicus, he grew jealous.  It was a crime of passion, not a political assassination.”

Minera took a breath.  “Yes, that’s a good story.  And your previous knowledge can back it up.  The biggest hole is a lack of a child.  We can’t bring anyone else into this conspiracy.  You must impregnate me.”  

Vern nodded miserably.  “It is the best option.”  This was both a statement of fact, and a lamentation.  “For the good of the empire.”

“Yes.  We were never here, let someone else discover it.  We must go.”  

The two left the room.  

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Swords of a Master, Chapter 2

The base camp was abuzz and lively. The airshipmen of the Mountaintaker were reloading ballast to account for the lighter weight that the ship would have, while the wounded soldiers were being attended to by physicians. Those who had stayed behind, and those still strong enough to fight, were forming a perimeter to keep the barbarians away. They had come in high spirits, but they were taking no chances now. They were leaderless, the ranking officers were in a tent somewhere, determining their next move. Should they press on with the campaign? A smaller ship had been dispatched to inform the Emperor, but they couldn't wait for word back to make a decision.

But then, all at once, the men at the perimeter gave cries, some of alarm, some of fright, and a few of joy.  Vern rushed forward to see what the commotion was. He was met with a crowd of almost every single soldier and sailor, gathered around to see something. They parted, and let through a battered, exhausted Yllicus. His helmet was missing, his cloak was torn and his armor battered, and he had a rag tied tightly around his right thigh. But he was alive, and he still held Seer in its scabbard.

The only words he spoke were to the Captain, "Pack up, we leave now," before he disappeared into his personal cabin.

~~~

The Witchblade's magic interfered with his very thoughts. Every action he thought to make was instantaneously checked against the Witch's orders. Yllicus paced the room, frantic now. Every possible plan was disallowed by the Witch's cunning words. She had thought of everything... Or had she?

He still had Seer. Not only had she allowed him to keep it, but she had given no orders regarding it whatsoever. She knew its power, she should have known it would be a boon to him against her.  Could it be a lapse in her judgment? Or perhaps she didn't care for it. Maybe she saw its weaknesses more clearly than he had.

How could he use this to his advantage? No matter what Seer let him see, his actions were limited by the curse.

He took the swords from their scabbard, and gazed first into the past.  He had to see how he had failed.  He looked onto the base camp as they prepared to leave, seeing himself as he looked into a future that never happened.  When he saw himself announcing his visions to Vern, he looked wider, seeking out whoever could have heard him to destroy the thread of prophecy.  In the woods, near one of the mooring lines, was Orun.  When the Yllicus of the past finished giving his prediction, Orun turned and ran through the woods.  Yllicus followed him with the vision, watching.  He ran with untiring haste to the King’s Rest, and Yllicus thought he would report to the Rhee, but he did not.  At the Rest, he went instead to another tent, occupied only by the woman with the Witchblade.  Yllicus watched as she assembled an army of her wretched servants, and brought them to a place that would intersect the Tharan army’s chosen path.  

That was that.  By speaking the prophecy aloud, Yllicus had allowed it to slip into the hands of a spy, and destroyed it.  He could blame only himself for his denied victory.  He put the bare sword down on a table and resumed his pacing.  The past was unchangeable, but the future was malleable, as he knew very well.  He drew his second sword and looked into the future now, seeking a way out.

At the current course, he saw his own success in the task that the Witch had given him. He could not weaken the prophecy by telling someone, the Witch had bid him to secrecy. He needed to change events, something needed to happen or all was lost. But the only avenue that was free, was his use of Seer.

Or, the thought struck him, his disuse of Seer. He looked into the blade yet again, closer this time. Very close indeed. He saw Mountaintaker soaring through the air. The airshipmen were hard at work, concentrating on their own tasks. But outside, a smaller ship flew. He saw it, and he watched a possibility unfold. It wasn't much of an option, but it was a change to the game.

Yllicus did three things, then. He sheathed Seer. Walked out onto the deck. And then dropped the sword off the edge.  Though he couldn’t see now, he knew that it landed on the deck of the smaller ship.  To throw away such power was a desperate move, but blinding himself so was his only chance at failure.  He needed so desperately to fail.   ~~~ One of the greatest sights in the Tharan capitol of Lan was the colossus that hovered over the market.  A great stone statue of Lithis was suspended over the heads of people doing their shopping.  She was held in her impossible place by the skystone arms of her husband, Lanus.  He held her gently about the waist, the rest of  his body hanging out in midair.  His hair was long and wild, and stretched out in all directions, where it formed the shapes of constellations.  The shadow Lanus cast on the market when the sun was out looked like a map of the heavens, but could only be seen and appreciated properly from above.  On slow market days, children would chalk out the figures of the heroes depicted in the constellations, using the shadow of Lanus as a guide.  There were games that used these drawings.  Skipping from Octavius Tharas to the spider seer, Atchetho, or casting stones to see who could hit Xanboro in its serpentine maw.

   The market of Lan was livelier than usual that morning, high off the the powerful stimulant known as gossip.  A ship had come in the middle of the night, bearing news from the much anticipated campaign in the mountains.  According to most of the airshipmen, who would know such things, the Mountaintaker should have reached Hurmding sometime the previous morning . It may be a great distance on foot, but the ships were swift and could make the trip in short enough order.  The rumor mill was working hard now, theories being bandied left and right about what the message might have entailed.They wouldn't have to wait long for more excitement, however. A few hours after noon, someone spotted the ship coming in from the North.  After much ado and excitement, it was confirmed to be the Mountaintaker, already on it's way back to the capitol.  

Business in the markets was poor after that, as everyone rushed to the shipyards to see it come in.  They wanted to get glimpses of the soldiers, or else to maybe overhear some juicy news.The ship came in on a friendly wind, and was quickly moored. The ropes were strained immediately as the ship started unloading its human cargo, and the unencumbered hull pulled upward against the moorings.  The airshipmen were going about chores, adjusting ballast, restocking and unloading. The soldiers, meanwhile, filed out of the ship en masse, looking unusually grim. The gathered crowds backed away to let them through, those close enough to speak to the soldiers asked questions that went unanswered.After the soldiers, came the officers.  The rabble knew better than to try to press these men for information.  Captain Vern walked with Admiral Yllicus and a few hangers on.  They had business at the palace.  The crowd followed behind them as far as the gates to the imperial palace’s courtyard, but they could go no further, and only a few were lucky enough to watch as Yllicus and Vern entered the main gates of the palace alone

.~~~

The men hung around in the Atrium.  Yllicus was looking more like himself, though with a pronounced limp.  He had a plain short sword in place of Seer on his hip.  He hadn't said much, even to Captain Vern, who looked worried as the Admiral paced back and forth, apparently quite agitated.“You're quite sure, Yll?”“Yes,” he kept pacing.“You've a feverish way about you, I don't like it. His Blessed Highness would understand if you wanted to rest and recover before briefing him.”“But it can't wait.”“What can't wait?” Vern was letting his own irritation show now.  Yllicus had been very tight lipped.  Whatever he had seen up on the mountain, he felt that he could repeat it to no one short of the Emperor himself.  Likely, though, Emperor Caelus would convene a strategy meeting afterward, which Vern and his entourage would be a part of.  Anything this important would find its way to the Mountaintaker's captain soon enough.Yllicus waved a hand for silence as the doors at the end of the hall opened. A guard in shining silver armor stepped out and beckoned, “His Blessed Highness asks for an audience with Admiral Yllicus, and no one else.”  Yllicus nodded at Vern, and walked past the Imperial Guard and into yet another grand hallway.  The guard took no objection to Yllicus' taciturn attitude, and the two walked in utter silence until the guard opened a door on the side. The guard was about to step in first, but Yllicus brushed past him and took hold of the door.“No one else,” he repeated the man's words back at him, and closed the door in his face.

Emperor Caelus beamed at his old friend when he walked in, and jumped up from the cushions he had been lounging on. 

“Yll! But Lanus has guided you back to me!” The most powerful man in the empire spoke quickly and excitedly, looking over his well built friend with a gleam in his eye, “I heard you were injured, is it terrible?”  He rushed forward to embrace Yllicus.

“No,” Yllicus said into the silence as the Emperor's face turned blank and lost all color.  He pulled the blade out of Caelus' ribcage and dropped it with a clatter to the floor. “It is the least of my griefs. I am so sorry Cae...” tears streamed down his face to join his Emperor and lover on the floor.

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Swords of a Master, Chapter 1

Long ago there was a Master, in whose hands no sword was adequate.  They traveled the world, learning the swordplay and smithing techniques from every country and village they visited.  Their skill with a hammer and forge was every bit the equal to their skill with a blade, and when they finished their journey, they produced swords of such perfection that even the gods recognized the skill.  Each sword was blessed with a unique ability the likes of which had never been seen before.  Over time, the Master’s name and identity were lost.  The only thing left was the legacy left with the Swords, whose power and mystique shaped the world into what it is today.

~~~

An impossibly large construction of wood floated easily across the sky, soaring above the sparsely wooded plains in the early morning.  It was a ship, the masts on the sides, and the deck largely flat.  Though the size of a palace, the entire assembly weighed little more than a few pounds.  The ship’s buoyancy in the dry air was thanks to a large quantity of “skystone,” a baffling metal that, as far as anyone has ever been able to determine, has a negative weight.  The skystone borne airship, Mountaintaker flew in much the same way as a kite, with hundreds of yards of canvas sails catching the wind to keep it aloft. The sails came off of masts, three on each side of the hull, and supported by ropes and rings of skystone.  Each mast had a narrow walkway, allowing a crew of airshipmen to walk along the length and pull, slacken, or tie down ropes that manipulated the sails.  It featured a wooden figurehead that was carved into the image of the mother goddess Lithis, with her pregnant belly a globe of the earth.  She was wrapped in the arms of her husband, the god Lanus wrought in shining skystone.

The airshipmen were the only ones awake through much of the night, taking it in shifts to man the masts, it was their job to keep the ship from crashing to the ground.  As light as the skystone made the ship, a rough touchdown could still be catastrophic.  Even worse still, though, would be for the ship’s weight to drop too far.  An airship not heavy enough to return to the ground could easily become stranded in the sky.  The only solution would be to release the skystone, but as it was far and away the most valuable substance in the Tharan Empire, most captains would do this only as a last resort.

As the sun rose over the improbable contraption, men stepped up to the deck from its belly.  Some were airshipmen come to take their shifts, but most were the soldiers who were the Mountaintaker’s cargo.  They had been allowed to sleep through the night in anticipation of landing at their destination this morning.  Sure enough, as the soldiers gathered at the bow they could see the mountain that the ship was meant to take, close enough to make out individual trees now.  Most of these soldiers were young, new recruits, or those only tested by drills or peacekeeping duties.  The Empire’s peace had shrunk its military until only very recently, when campaigns started pushing toward the mountains in the north.  The natives called themselves Dan Hurmding or, so the Tharans understood, “Children of the Mountain.”  They had previously left the mountain range quite seldom, and their interactions with the rest of the world were rare for centuries.  Even the Tharan colonies in the foothills provoked no reaction.  It was when an ambitious company in the area tried to garrison one of the Dan Hurmding’s villages while exploring the mountain that the entire political situation broke in a way no one had predicted.  Now the mountain was safe for few outsiders, a situation that the imperial Tharans found unacceptable.  

And so it was this company’s mission to storm the top of the mountain, the place that the Dan called King’s Rest.  The Tharans understood it to be their capital.  Or, at the very least, it was where their “Rhee,” a leader chosen and succeeded by violent and deadly fights, lived in some barbaric sort of wealth.  By the Dan’s own laws, whoever killed the Rhee took his place, and it was Emperor Caelus Tharas’ intention to test this law by having one of their own kill him.  The man for the job was Admiral Yllicus, who stepped out onto the deck already dressed as if for combat.  His bronze chestplate shined, visible through the part in his bright yellow cloak.  He wore his helm tipped upward on his head, in a more cavalier and comfortable position.  When pulled down over his head it would cover his face, with a T shaped slit for his eyes and mouth, and slots on the sides to leave his ears free.  The front extended all the way down past the chin, to protect his face.  It was decorated with yellow dyed horse hairs in a crest on top.  

The Admiral surveyed his troops.  They were, by and large excited at the prospect of the upcoming battle.  That was good in Yllicus’ book.  He liked spirited soldiers.  The young men around him were mostly the olive skinned, coarse haired Tharans, but he spotted a few Osmads.  Their dark brown skin and tall stature made them stick out.  It also, Yllicus lamented, made a phalanx difficult when a short Tharan stood next to a tall Osmad in formation.  Also dotting the growing crowd at the bow, though more difficult to pick out, were the Illuim, who were pale of skin but jet black of hair.  Most of the troops were still half naked, and as they saw that their commanding officer was in full regalia it seemed to strike home what they were about to face.  A wave of sobriety swept through them, but it did not temper their confidence.  

Yllicus stood at the bow with his men and watched the mountain approach.  

As the ship advanced, it turned to the east, flying along the mountain range rather than directly towards it.  Airshipmen on harnesses dropped off of the masts and hung as the ship descended until their feet could touch the ground.  They touched down hard, and walked under the slowing vessel with their ropes.  In the wilderness, the best way to moor an airship was to sturdy old trees, and so they had aimed their course to a clearing near the forest, and the airshipmen in charge of mooring carried extra ropes to start tying several lines with. The weight of just the six of them leaving the ship was enough to tip ship’s overall weight to less than nothing, and it hung in the air, pulling gently on the ropes now holding it to the ground.  The trees creaked and groaned as the mooring lines were reeled back into the ship, lowering it to the ground.   The ship was unable to lay flat on the slope so it rested bizarrely on its bow, the rest of the vessel’s length hanging into space off the side of the mountain.  It wasn’t an ideal landing location, but it was strategically important.  The mountainside here wouldn’t be visible from the King’s Rest, allowing the troops to sneak up on their target, but only if they struck soon.

A stairway unfolded from the side, near the bow, but the company could not disembark at once, as the loss of weight would cause the ship to rise, ripping the trees right out of the ground.  Instead, the mooring mates, aided by a small group of other airshipmen, began collecting stones to use as ballast.  They handed the stones up the stairs, where their mates distributed them carefully across the deck to keep the ship balanced where it lay.  When the weight was great enough, a handful of soldiers came down, Yllicus among them, as well as the ship’s captain, Vern.  

Most of the soldiers went about helping the airshipmen, so that their brothers in arms could disembark as well, but Yllicus, Vern and an Osmad sailor called Orun stayed to set up the tactical camp.  Vern and Orun carried between them a table, which they placed on the most level stretch of ground they could, meanwhile Yllicus stood to the side, staring intently at the naked blade of his sword.  Vern produced a map that he unrolled onto the table, holding it unfolded with a stone at each corner.  He checked a compass and placed a small model ship on the map, about where he supposed they were.  Next came a miniature castle, which he placed some distance from the ship.  He had a small handful of other carved models that he placed onto the map to represent troops or known villages.  Yllicus spared him a glance as he worked and smiled at the captain’s eccentricities.

Vern turned when he was finally done and asked, in a tone as if Yllicus had walked in on him, “Well what do you see, then?”

Yllicus looked into the reflection of his sword a moment longer.  He had not one, but two curved scimitars that shared a scabbard.  They were among the number of swords blessed by the gods.  In the left hand blade, the wielder could see the past.  In the right, the future, as much as it could be seen.  Yllicus held these swords by the grace of the Emperor, who was meant to entrust them to the greatest of his military commanders.  There were some, when Yllicus was first presented with the swords known collectively as Seer, who cried nepotism.  It was well known that Yllicus and Caelus Tharas were long time friends, and quite close.  These rumors persisted, spurred on by Yllicus’ rivals among the military elite, and by Caelus’ among the aristocrats of Lan.  Today would prove them wrong, and he saw as much in the reflection of the sword now.  

“Victory, by and large,” he said, sheathing his blades, “By sundown the host under their Rhee will have come back to their hovels and drunk themselves into a stupor.  We will come upon them then, and slaughter them in droves.”

“Dirty,” Vern said, not disapprovingly, “But handy.”

“It’s hard to see much more,” Yllicus continued, “Knowing the future makes it unstable.  I’ll take my company, and leave the rest of the soldiers under your command.  We’ll need to leave soon to make the prophecy.  Where’s your man Orun gone?  Is the ship clear to be disembarked?”

Vern looked about for the Osmad.  “Not sure, working I suppose, he knows what needs to be done.  I guess telling you to be patient won’t do me any good now we’ve got a ‘prophecy’ to meet,” he punctuated the word by raising his hands in a mocking gesture.  “But if my sailors are half as good as your soldiers - and they’re at least twice that - they should have the ship nice and balanced.  We’ll keep loading ballast, but for now the ropes should hold us to the ground well enough.  Order your men off.”

Yllicus looked up to the bow, where some of his men, now fully armed and armored as well, were looking down.  He gave a grand hand gesture and one of the men shouted back across the ship.  The shout was met with a roar from the crowd of soldiers, and they began disembarking down the stairs, two by two.  The soldiers formed automatically into ranks five across and five deep.  Each was cloaked in yellow wool, and had a sword on their hip and a shield and spear in either hand.  Their helms were down over their faces and they marched as if at the ready.  Yllicus took a place at the head of the first formation, and began marching immediately.  He didn’t look back to bid the captain farewell, or to check as his troops formed.  Each new rank followed on and soon they were marching in a great line up the slope.  The thunder of their marching feet filled the air, as the great wave of yellow cloaked men ascended the mountain. Not one man looked back toward the ship as it slowly shrank smaller and smaller behind them.  

The first indication that something was wrong was a stirring of dust  around them, and by then it was already too late. Men and women bearing swords, axes and spears, rose from the loose earth at either side of them, and struck. The outer side of the first three formations fell before the men on the inside were aware that they were under attack. Yllicus pulled his helmet down over his face, drawing his swords out to defend himself. He looked into their reflections as he fought, and saw each attack seconds before it came, parrying and dodging without fail. But he was already cut off from his men, as the ambushers surrounded him. There were piles of dead already, but the soldiers behind him had raised their shields in a much practiced phalanx to keep the attackers at bay.

"Retreat! Back down the mountain," Yllicus called to his men over the din, "Regroup at the ship!" He did not know why, but the prophecy had broken already. He knew it wouldn't be perfect, but this much change was outside of his experience with the swords. He didn't understand it, and would not tempt fate by persisting.

The phalanxes started moving down the mountain, harassed on all sides by the barbarians, but Yllicus couldn't move. Every inch of ground he moved back was taken instantly away from him. He was locked in combat with a vast hoard, only surviving because every move he made was guided by prophecy. Before long, he couldn't even see his men in the distance, and his limbs grew tired from the never ending melee.  Countless lay dead at his feet, and he knew he would collapse soon, but was determined to kill as many as possible.

"Stop!" a voice called out from above. It was a woman's voice, strong and confident. The second she spoke, the hoard around Yllicus froze, as if they were statues. Could the gods have come to his rescue? he wondered.  Was this the very voice of Lithis?  No, he saw.  Up the mountain, there was a woman of black hair and austere beauty.  She was draped in furs to fight off the cold, and Yllicus could see a sword at her hip. He fell to the ground, looking up, wondering if this was a rescuer or another fiend.

As she drew a wicked, curved blade, he knew which.  “Kneel,” the woman commanded, “And throw aside your swords.”

“I will not,” Yllicus spat back at her.  He held both hilts tightly, glad of even these few seconds to rest his limbs.  

“Stupid Tharan pride.  Don’t you see that I have you already?  You can’t harm me, and you can’t harm my soldiers.”

“What would you call what I’ve done to half of them?” he quipped, not letting her have the satisfaction of seeing him beaten,  “Gentle prodding?”

“I see no corpses.”  

Yllicus chanced a look to the ground, where there should be dozens cut down.  But every one he had hacked and stabbed still stood.  Wounds gaped, limbs hung and entrails fell to the ground, but not a man or woman had stayed where they lay.

Yllicus recoiled, and in that moment hands wrapped around him from behind, and the horde enclosed and pinned his arms to his sides.  

“I know this horror,” he said to the woman.  

“Good,” she said simply.  “Now kneel.”  

The hands that held him forced his body down, relentless despite his struggling, until he was on his knees.  Some tried to grab his swords by their blades, but he would not release his grasp, even now.  He looked up at the woman as she advanced.  She was short, and had the olive skin and dark hair of his people.  What she was doing among the fair Dan Hurmding he could only guess.  

As she stood in front of him, she looked down at her sword instead, refusing to gaze upon him.  It was a short blade, curved outward more like an axe.  Something meant for hacking rather than slicing or stabbing.  Yllicus knew its shape, and he knew it’s perverted power. It was a sister to his own swords, and the fourth blessed blade he had seen in his life. But he had only heard of this one through old inked illustrations.  As far as he knew no one had known where it was for almost as long as it had existed.  Those who fell to it rose again, forced to do the bidding of whoever held it.

“The Rhee, I think,” she spoke now, still not looking at him, “Would like to take your swords.  Sisters, as they are to the ones both he and I wield.  But,” she continued, finally gracing him with her cruel eyes.  “I don’t think anyone can use it so well as yourself.  I think I’ll let you keep it.”  

“And I suppose you think I’ll tell you prophecies in exchange for my life?”

“No,” she said, dropping to her knees and thrusting her blade into the inside of Yllicus’ thigh. He began to feel weak as his life’s blood drained from the severed artery.  Vision narrowed, darkness enclosing in from the edges of his eyes.  Would he see Osmados, the very face of death, before coming back to serve the Witch?  No, he saw as the light returned to his vision.  The chance to curse the god of death for bestowing this wretched sword on the world was taken from him, and the only face he saw was that of this Witch.  

“Don’t move.” she said, and he found that he couldn’t.