Sword of Destiny

This was his favourite book. He stared at the volume resting in his grubby little hands with nothing less than wonder. There was a ripe bruise across his lower arm, a gift from the last beating, but it was just about fading. Just.

He focussed back on the book; the fine article that it was. It was plainer than the copies, barely more than a chord bound collection of yellow and crumbly papers. There were two coarse pieces of card sandwiching the papers, but there was no spine, and so the pages had a habit of muddling themselves up. And indeed, any sort of indexing was completely absent from the volume, meaning that there was a very real risk of it being rendered useless.

But that didn’t matter. He could recite the entire thing word for word.

They were Queen Delfin’s words, by her own hand, and he was in awe of her. What she had done meant that anything was possible. He had to cling to that. And these were the original documents, by her own pen, and the experience of reading the volume was all the more powerful for it. There were smudge marks where she’d cried; sharp deviations where she’d hurried away; crossings out and annotations. The very basis of Delfinia’s foundation was in these pages, and he was in awe of being able to touch them at all. Such a glorious privilege.

He walked towards the clerk’s desk but couldn’t resist. Not with this volume. He opened the front board and started reading. He didn’t even focus on the page, and still he whispered the words with a practised rhythm. The first page, a preface, may even be his favourite.

I am the enigma. Even to myself, I am the enigma. Who am I?

To half the near-world, I am the traitorous bitch who has unravelled the Empire and sent the continent into chaos. To the other half, I am the saviour; the one who freed the world of tyranny. But which persona do I think fits best? That is not an easy question.

They say that history is written by the victors, but that is not true. History is written by those with a quill, and more importantly, those that can write. Many great deeds have gone unwritten, and they now fade into myth as a consequence. There are, similarly, many examples of sore losers and their well-documented excuses making it into our core learning. So, what should we believe?

Well here’s an idea. Let’s listen to the first-hand account. If I achieve anything revolutionary, then it will be this idea. Unfortunately, I fear that this is myth already.

As you may have already gleaned, my life will be painted by two people: those who worship my shadow, and those who hate my existence. If you are reading this, then hopefully you have already concluded thus, but I say to you now: pay no attention to either party. History is not written in absolutes – it exists in shades. The concepts of right and wrong are meaningless, and there is only the terrible toil of the journey. What’s right for one is wrong for another, and so it is that the world exists in balance. All that we can do is strike a fair path through that equilibrium, and I look back upon my life and see that this is what I’ve tried to do.

Did I do it perfectly? I do not believe there is such an outcome. Did I do it well? Better than some; worse than others. I am not exceptional. I am merely average. It was only my circumstance that was exceptional, and I say this here: I would have given that up in a blink.

I am old now, and I have a favourable number of years behind me. I don’t believe that wisdom can be measured in years, but I do believe that wisdom is perpetually accumulating. Until death that is. One hopes then that wisdom is not lost with the end of life, but that it is enshrined in text and passed through generations. But history is not necessarily written by the wise. Look a man in the face and you can see his idiocy. See the same words in text, and it is harder to tell. Well, this is me unloading my wisdom. Make of it what you will.

So, what is it that drove me to my actions? To the terrible or the magnificent, depending on your view. Was it a lust for power? Or was it a virile yearning to see the bloated Empire on a different path? Perhaps it was a devious side to me, a desire to cause chaos and watch the consequences. Or maybe I had genuine intentions on making the world a better place. What do you think?

Because I tell you now – this is all wrong. What drove me to greatness? That is easy. It was the sadness of my childhood, and it was the potency of a curious streak I harboured to hide the hurt. All I wanted was to forget, but the harder I tried, the more my past caught up with me. That history still stares me in the face, and I now know that only death will relieve me. At least, I hope that death will relieve me. The Order of the Veil are not generous with their understanding.

But I digress – something I frequently do in my sunset years. The point is that my only virtue is my curiosity, though it is an unfortunate circumstance that this is also my curse. But curiosity led me to great things, of that I am sure, and so I offer this advice: keep hold of the child in you.

Because curiosity in a child builds the foundation for a great adult.

And curiosity in an adult has no bounds. At least, it didn’t for me.

With it, I solved the mystery of my family’s sad past; but in doing so, I also brought down an Empire. Through curiosity, I have managed to forgive without the bounds of my moral comfort, but in doing so, I have torn my heart to shreds. I have trampled societies, tumbled practices that have stood for hundreds of years, but in doing so, I have embedded a more balanced community and outlawed some truly terrible acts. I have conquered almost all before me, leaving a realm as strong as any in the near-world, and yet I see only failure. Why that is, I don’t know. This inadequacy plagues my nights and infects my waking moments. It curses me.

But that is enough of my pondering. It is time for you to see for yourself. This is my life, in my words. Make of them what you will. But promise me as my reader and my judge that you will ask yourself this question: would you have done differently?

His fascination was only broken when he reached the front desk. The clerk looked at him over those spectacles and offered the usual scorn. He gulped and held up the volume.

“I would like to borrow—”

Rage was not a sufficient expression of the clerk’s reaction. The pencil-thin man drew himself around the desk and grabbed at the precious volume. When things were about to get dangerous, Bulge intervened.

“What is going on here?”

“This … this vagabond is trying to steal Delfin’s journal.”

“Borrow!”

“You’ve seen what happens when he takes books from this place. They come back ruined. This is a national treasure.” And it was undervalued at that, though he didn’t say it.

Bulge leaned over his belly and peered into him. “Why, Jossie? We have lots of copies of that text.”

He gulped, but retained his composure. “I cannot escape without it. I need to worship the page.”

Bulge stood back to his full height, and the man’s face betrayed what could only be described as sadness. Then Bulge turned to the clerk.

“Let him go. I will take full responsibility.”

He left to the chaotic sounds of the clerk’s incredulous objection. He would have to thank Bulge for this. Either that or apologise. He clutched the volume tightly.

Fortunately, the wait was not a long one. The Farmyard Friends descended on him.

“Oi, Jossie.”

He fingered the incredibly valuable collection of papers, conscious of the sweat dripping from his nose. But it wasn’t because of the heat. Beef was before him, and the rest of the Friends were coming up behind. This was soon, even for them, but that was nice in a way. He was still warmed by the drama of extracting the precious book.

The Friends rounded on him, and the anger bloomed. He may be scum, but this book was the very definition of value. The ignorance of these beasts must not be allowed to soil such artistry, and so he was the guardian. He was the guardian.

He walked to the side of the alley and placed the literature delicately on the floor. Then he faced the bastards. They peered at him, brows furrowed.

“Now I’ve grown some balls, and you’re not having them.”

Beef sniggered. “It’s not your balls I’m after.” The bully pulled at his sleeves and stepped slowly forward. It was time.

Was two years enough? It didn’t matter when he had that book to protect. The anger coursed through him, and he balled his fists.

“Are you going to resist, Princess? Come now; pull those trousers down―”

A red veil dropped, his right hand went plank straight, and he jabbed with such ferocity at Beef’s apple that the man recoiled with a spasm. Hot breath was ejected, but he was not distracted. His fury focussed and his guardianship was gratifying. Beef wriggled on the ground, and that was funny in a satisfying way. It was a new sensation for him, the product of the anger that lay within. An anger that was usually cloaked. It was his passion and his fury, and it drove him on.

“You git!” Chick came at him, but he was prepared. Chick’s threw a punch with his right arm, but he shifted subtly and Chick followed his own momentum until he crashed into the third thug coming up behind. Their skulls cracked satisfyingly, but they soon had their senses back. For what that was worth.

Chick was the first to taste real punishment. A swift kick to the balls doubled him over, and there was real savagery in the strike, such was his hatred of those genitals. The thug bent over double and he thrust a well pointed knee at the bully’s nose. Blood exploded, and Chick spilled to the ground, movement entirely absent. He may have killed the git, but he didn’t care. The fury still coursed.

The third thug – who he noted he’d never known the name of – was motionless on the ground, but the twitch of an eye gave the game away. He ducked, and Beef’s fist flew over his head. He then grabbed the passing forearm and hit at the elbow with as much as he could muster. It turned out that it was a lot, and the arm sheared exquisitely. Beef fell to the floor, wailing. It was the point of victory, the apex of success, and so he screamed. His fury was broken, but when the third member of the Farmyard Friends scrambled to his feet and ran, so were his enemies. Only Brin remained. Rooted.

“I am not Jossie!” His brother ran, and he smiled again. “From now on I am only Kantal.” He spoke only to himself, but he didn’t whisper the words. Beef still had his sense of hearing, after all. “I am only Kantal.” He smiled again. He was Kantal: the Smith.

The chief bully lay whining on the floor, but he ignored the pleas, picked up his book and dusted it down. He was the guardian, and Delfin’s words would now offer him a purpose. That was warming.

He stopped. And stared. What did he just conclude? That he had a purpose. “Purpose.” He rolled the word round his mouth over and over. He liked it.

It was something he’d never thought about before because he’d never considered that he had it. But it turned out that he did. His purpose was to fight back, but now that he had succeeded, he had to aim higher. He had to find a new purpose. It would not do to lose his purpose now.

He opened the first page, to Delfin’s preliminary, and there, scrawled at the bottom, were five words that had somehow passed him by. And they were not by Delfin’s hand. It took a moment to decipher them, but once he’d identified the faint leaded letters, he spoke the words absently.

“Even you couldn’t beat a mandahoi.”

He didn’t really know what it meant, but it was certainly an attack on Delfin, and so it was also an attack on him. He was her guardian, and he walked to the smithy with a tangible purpose flourishing in his mind. He would beat the mandahoi, whoever they were.