A Legacy of Blades - An Epic Tower Fantasy

Anilith raced through the fens surrounding her village, dark hair streaming behind her, each step carefully chosen lest she tumble through the mire. Her armor stuck to her uncomfortably, clinging in the way only sweat-soaked leather does. Her woven underclothes had long since passed their usefulness, chafing as much as anything. She was late, for the first time in a long time. Today of all days, she couldn't afford to be late. She didn't often lose track of time while training, but something felt different as she went through the practiced motions, dispatching minor threats to the borderlands as she did. Her curved sheaths slapped against her legs as she ran, each blade firmly secured; she was lightly armed today, with only the two blades. At the edge of her senses, her perception buzzed at her surroundings, a fuzziness that made her feel she was so close to...something. Gods, it was infuriating!

As she ran, she took stock of the scene around her and reflected on the changes of recent months. The cool air held a crisp, sharp edge at the passing of the harvest season. There was always an air of danger that time of year, when foraged food was scarce. Prey animals stuck close to their nests and dens, while predators ranged outside their normal territories, hunting for their last meals before the big sleep.

That year had felt different than any she remembered. To say prey was scarce would be an understatement. Predators, starving in their domains, were not just ranging further afield but abandoning their territories entirely. Scouts reported finding creatures normally only seen in the deep bogs straying into the marshes and fens, drawing closer to settled lands. Long-limbed fen-striders, colossal serpents the legends called naga, and swarms of agile bog-lurkers encroached more on civilized land each passing day.

Where once heroes of yore were called upon to drive these beasts and their ilk away, now common guardsmen found their job more dangerous than ever. No sane person ventured outside of well-patrolled lands, where darker, forgotten things likely stirred: things only named in nightmares, for to give some monstrosities a name was to light a beacon and draw their ire.

Racing past the village's outer pens, small bodies of water where they held their livestock, she saw so many obvious differences from the home she'd always known.

Ranchers moved their charges to more secure pens so that they might better protect them from increasingly unpredictable predatory incursions. The local militia, while capable, was simply ill-equipped to manage widespread assaults from powerful swamp-dwelling terrors. Lands held in families for generations lay fallow, abandoned for more defensible pastures. Even outside their normal territories, where their strength and ambush tactics made fighting them untenable, battling such creatures taxed the defenders' numbers unsustainably. Casualties, although rarely fatal, had become an everyday result of skirmishes with beasts displaced by deep-dwellers.

Memories of recent patrols flooded her mind. Combat was once a rare occurrence, and the patrols had served more as diligence than any true protection, but not in those dangerous times. One particular memory stood out: a body she'd found half reclaimed by the swamps, slain by some creature whose corpse was suspiciously absent. The scales on the corpse, coupled with its size, told her what she'd stumbled across, far too close to the village for comfort. An involuntary shiver crept up her spine at the thought of anything powerful enough to kill such a being.

Wandering Iskaal warriors, like the one she had found, passed through the Moorish villages increasingly often. These hulking juggernauts, unsettling enough in their own right, were rarely seen in peaceful months, but they were now a common sight in that tumultuous season. Most often, they brought news of impending danger from the deepest wetlands. Town leaders had always paid the nomads for their efforts with a quick resupply before happily sending them on their way. Even as allies, it would be irresponsible to overlook the threat these brutes posed to the townspeople.

The settlers of the Moors would never have survived if they hadn't learned to respect the power of the land, and the Iskaal embodied that strength. Hard-earned wisdom made them cautious allies at the best of times, which these were assuredly not. Still, their contribution was felt: their respect was well earned. No one would begrudge the Iskaal a room when asked, even if history noted their stays among the people as rare.

In those days, the warriors lingered as they never had and even helped drive off the assaulting beasts. While few admitted it openly, only the presence of the Iskaal kept the number of casualties low. The ignorant few feared them for their differences, but imposing as they were, they were not merely brutes. These warriors honored ancient treaties between the two peoples. Only a select few Moorish knew the truth, something Anilith's Master had deigned to share with her, that the Iskaal made up an elite group of their people and had a code of honor that would put most men to shame.

Life in the swamplands was brutal, and the Moors would never have evolved past their tribal roots without collaborating with the Iskaal. Sometimes, differences were the remedy needed to overcome great adversity. This unspoken truth had never been more apparent than amidst such a surge in monstrous activity.

Anilith pressed on, her feet pounding away the miles. The day's session with Master would be promising, she could feel it.

A figure watched from a distance, observing a village of the Moorish people, for not the first time.

The red light of dawn crept over the horizon, its glow racing across marshes and moors before alighting upon a quaint settlement. An unusual level of commotion disturbed the vista at such an early hour. Far from the gentle wakefulness attributed to these twilit hours, shouts rang in the streets with the clarity of alarm bells.

Men, most still carrying lanterns, raced up and down the hard-packed dirt with unsettling urgency, their business as much of a mystery as the reason for their haste. The cries of babes punctuated the bustle, tempered only by the gentle firmness of their mothers' voices.

Slowly, for all its haste, the makings of a militia formed ranks on the outskirts of town. Beyond the modest walls, the glint of metal shone brightly as spearheads caught the morning light. Rare chain links clattered over padded leather, augmenting the half light with the clamor of war.

Market stalls stood barren, their wares packed into carts and wagons. Merchants in faded clothing, at least one season past its prime, as evidenced by the fraying of their sleeves, barked orders to assistants. Beasts of burden brayed and chittered as assistants yoked and hitched them to carts. Even an untrained eye could pick out, with but a glance, the signs of evacuation, the signs of a people under hard times.

Families gathered in the dawn-lit shadows of their homes, gazing towards the soldiers' assemblage with apparent apprehension. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, and siblings ushered children along with promises of reward and safety. Adventure always awaits the juvenile mind, needing only the barest encouragement. The promise of safety means little to the young, but everything to their elders.

Strangest of all, where an observer might expect to find signs of fear, anxiety, or unease, the uncertain shape of joy peaked out eagerly from the eyes of the people. Whatever its cause, careful observation hinted that this was not merely a solemn sojourn. A syncopated beat of anticipation wove through the scene, belying appearances.

Despite the anxious energy that had been building for months, this was to be a day of celebration, and an undercurrent of excitement threaded the malediction of the people's morale. Today marked the departure for the opening festival of the Tower. It was a day that legends would be born: a day when sorely needed help might descend upon the people. For those chosen few who would survive the Trials of Empowerment, their stories were only beginning.

The figure watched, seeing their preparations, knowing his brothers mirrored his actions at settlements across the Moors. They had preparations of their own to make, plans to hinder the progress of their enemies. After countless years, the Moorish people would remember proper fear for their homeland. They would again beware the darkness and the unspeakable things that lurked within. They would suffer, just as the watcher's people had suffered.

"Enough."

The simple utterance spelled the end for another bout of training. Sweat-drenched clothing clung tightly to the trainees' bodies. Practiced in the routine, they assumed a kneeling position with both hands folded across their laps. As was tradition, their armaments were carefully placed at a respectful distance, too far for any subtle maneuvers but near enough at hand to be available in an emergency.

Anilith glanced sidelong at Temperance. He stood resolute, his hair short and burnt in places where he'd gotten to close to his forge, his imposing size dwarfing their Master While not an official disciple of the Blade Weaver, a man considered ancient to their people with his six decades of experience, he received some degree of training from the venerated elder to maintain his usefulness as a sparring partner for the true disciple. Perhaps there was a name once for his role, but now it was best called a friend.

The ghost of a frown graced Anilith's lips, not wanting to outwardly show her displeasure at her lack of progress, but unable to ward off all signs of its presence. This would be her last training session before the exodus to the ancient Holy Grounds of the people, her people, an exodus of far greater scale and significance than the history of the keepers of memory. The memory of the Ekreeti was long, covering more years than leaves float down the mangrove rivers, but even they had no knowledge of a time of such great disturbance.

In a rare quorum of the tribal leaders, they came to an consensus that this should be the greatest gathering for the ritual of empowerment in history. Never before had all the tribes come together as a whole, typically sending delegations with their chosen candidates. No, this cycle would be different. The soothsayers were doubtful of sending the tribe's most gifted warriors away in such a tumultuous time. They said the only future not laced with destruction was one where all tribes came together at the unification grounds while the chosen underwent the Trial of Empowerment, a trial Anilith had no intention of failing.

Her lack of progress pissed her off.

"What are you lacking?" The Blade Weaver's voice brought her back into focus more surely than the snap of a switch.

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It was a simple question with a simple answer.

"I don't know, master. I'm trying everything I can think of, but nothing seems to work."

Without a shift or a sigh, the Blade Weaver continued in an even tone.

"Tell me about the Blade Weavers of old, tell me about your forebears."

"Legend says that they could read the flow of battle, weaving between blades like raindrops. That they worked together to create a tapestry of Gift and Blade to blanket the battlefield in their Will. That…"

"I did not ask what the legends say."

Taken aback for a moment, Anilith gathered herself.

"Master, if you aren't asking about the stories, what are you asking?"

"Tell me about the Blade Weavers of old."

"But, master, all I know of them is stories. All anyone knows of them comes from the stories!"

Through their exchange, Temperance sat in practiced silence.

"I know of the Blade Weavers, whether I have met them or not. I know the stories are an illusion, as is so much of their legacy. I know this because I feel it to be true. Perhaps you need another lesson with the Relic."

A shiver ran down her spine at the mention of the Relic. It was a curious device, capable of identifying those descended from the Blade Weavers, and yet so much more. It was their Legacy, their curriculum, and their wordless history. It conveyed meaning in a way lost to words and was only accessible by those with the right blood. It was a blessing and a curse, but more than anything, it was frightening: frightening and unnerving.

"Temperance, if you would," the old man beckoned him away from the training grounds, inviting him to stand. "Anilith, place your hand on the plinth. Activate the first sequence."

Commands held no place in their training; a Blade Weaver was forged by choice, not directives, after all. Anilith did as her master asked.

"Activate sequence five."

Anilith hesitated far less at her Master's request than her rebellious body. That was not her first time undergoing this training; nor was it merely her tenth time, either, but no matter how many times she experienced it, the unique training of the Relic posed a test of Will as much as any tangible measure.

Her body showed no signs of the marks from the four rounds she'd already endured, but her mind remembered. Dismembered fingers and limbs from moments she'd been too slow. Cuts beyond measure from when she'd been nearly fast enough. Those memories, felt with agonizing detail in the moment, were enough to make anyone's body wish to betray them.

Still, she mustered the strength to lay her hand upon the cold stone again. Drawing both blades from her hip sheaths, Anilith moved to the ready position her training had ingrained in her muscles.

As always, the sounds and sights of battle crept up like a tsunami, a threat on the horizon cascading into a deafening swell, and battle was upon her. A small part of her mind found it oddly musical. Before she knew it, the phantom blades returned, approaching from all directions. They always started slowly, her parries, dodges, and counterstrikes keeping her safe from the biting edges, lulling her into a false sense of achievement. That's when the exercise started in earnest.

The blades began to come in at increasingly unpredictable angles, approaching in a way that meant blocking with the wrong hand would leave her vulnerable to debilitating retribution. Already, not thirty seconds into the exercise, blood leaked from her body where small mistakes had cost her dearly.

Still, she felt pride in her skill. The speed and grace with which she moved were not something even a promising warrior could typically match. Her strength might not measure up to most men, but each strike was born of honed precision. Each movement was purposeful, ingrained in her through countless hours of tutelage under her master and training with the Relic, yet something was missing.

As seconds passed, wounds accumulated and frustration built within her, threatening to overrun the dam of her control. Despite her best efforts, she felt herself standing on the precipice of failure. Again.

She could not afford to fail, not this time. Her people needed her to be better, greater than her limits. Her family needed her to succeed, and she would not fail them, not like mother and father. She could not allow herself to be beaten by illusions.

Anilith felt renewed determination to overcome this challenge, pushing past her limits so she would learn the required lessons and not die a pointless death for her weakness.

Frustration gave way to rage, which gave way to a reluctant peace within her. Phantom blades came at her faster than ever before, but for a moment, she saw the rhythm. For a moment, she felt everything before it all faded around her.

"Good."

Her master let the word hang in the air, a palpable weight in the moment felt by all in attendance. She let the weight linger as she sat in reflection.

Was that what it felt like to Blade Weave?

She'd pushed herself her whole life, but never before felt this overwhelming sense of calm. Always, she focused on her surroundings and her place in them, her focus on where she could step safely, where her arms needed to stand ready to neutralize incoming threats; ever had those been her dominating thoughts in battle. Positioning and repositioning purposefully and practically.

This had not felt the same.

As her body shrugged off the illusory wounds, too many to count and yet none as detrimental as she would have expected, she found her voice.

"What…what was that, master?"

"That, my dear pupil, was a step. One step along a million-mile journey."

Thinking of the implications of what she felt, how all her training had led her to this experience, one question demanded to be asked. "The Blade Weavers…what were they? How were they?"

Pausing just a breath, the old man replied, "Tell me what you think they were. Tell me what you feel they were."

Anilith took a moment to recall and process how she had felt.

"It felt like…it felt like the battle focused around me. Like I didn't need to think about where to move, how to react. I have always focused so hard on my surroundings, but I have never felt...connected like that. I wish it had been more than just a moment."

"Tell me, what exercise did you just finish?"

"The fifth exercise, master. You know that."

"I just witnessed you completing the seventh."

"Tha…that's impossible, master. I may have lost myself momentarily, but that can't be true! I never even touched the plinth to start the next round."

The Blade Weaver raised one eyebrow. "Oh? You are so versed in the secrets of this ancient Relic, secrets that reveal themselves as they so choose, that you are certain of this? You would say that I lie?"

"No, master! Of course, I would never doubt your teachings. Thank you for this lesson," she said with a bow.

"There is a healthy place for doubt," the Blade Weaver said with a rare smile, "but in this, I would never lie to you."

"Stand now, and walk proudly down your path, fledgling Blade Weaver. You are ready for what must come."

"I don't feel ready," Anilith mumbled.

"Ready is not a state of being. Ready is a state of mind, one we can rarely find before the time is right."

Suddenly, she found herself aware of Temperance's presence at her side.

"Now, help this young woman to her home, my student. The Relic takes a toll, despite leaving no mark upon its victim."

"Yes, master," Temperance replied, speaking the words for the first time.

"Lolly, let's go! Let's go! C'moooooon," called out Olina, "we're gonna miss it!"

Anilith never was quite sure where her youngest sister had created 'Lolly,' but had long accepted the endearing nickname. The little ball of energy had been raring to go long before the sun's light touched down on their typically sleepy village.

"Lini," Anilith said, for not the first time today, "we can't go anywhere until the militia clears the way."

"But Looooolly," Olina whined, drawing out her sister's name, "I want to see the Tower! No one's ever seen the Tower before!"

While this wasn't strictly true, the elders still living in the village were present the last time the Tower had opened. Anilith wasn't fool enough to try explaining the intricacies of time to her youngest sister.

"Lini, weren't you going to bring Wiggums," their brother Willett interjected in an effort to distract Olina, "he'll be lonely if you leave him here."

Her siblings, both obvious relations at a glance, lived with her in a small one-room house, quartered off with threadbare sheets to give each of them their own space. A common area with a table, a cook pot, and what sparse vegetation they could keep alive occupied the area nearest the doorway. It was modest, but it was home. The young girl raced to her quarters, tossing her belongings about as only young children can, looking for her precious Wiggums.

"Ani," Willett sighed, "I'm sorry you're stuck with us instead of going with the militia. I wish I…"

"None of that, Will. It's a small price to pay for getting you two there safely. The whole village is going. Who would I even have watch over you, huh? Missus Preiss next door? She's got her hands full enough with the kids she already has. And Temperance has his work cut out for him just getting enough of the forge along for it to be of use when we reach the Holy Grounds."

"I know," laughed Willet, "it's just not fair. You work harder than anyone, but ever since mom and dad…"

"Stop," Anilith said curtly, the pain of that loss still a little too raw. It might always be. "Just look at it this way! You get your very own professionally trained private guard, and this little trip isn't without its dangers. Now hush, Lini is coming back now."

Coming around the corner from their shared bedroom, Olina barged into the room already mid-sentence, "…and Jam-jam said his mamaw told him the tower is ten-umpteen feets tall and filled with all sortsa treasures. Can we please go now, Lolly?"

"You have everything you need, there, Will?"

"Yeah, I'm all set, Ani," Will replied while throwing a small, although bulging, bag over his shoulder.

His readiness to help lighten her workload struck Anilith, and she could not help but smile. "Alright, Lini. Let's go see if they've given the okay for the villagers to head out."