Swords & Heroes Story #10

Two Swords Waiting by Mike Chinn

Oct 01, 2024

Last year when I published the anthology Swords & Heroes (which inspired this zine), Mike sent me a fantastic story…that didn’t fit my vision for the project! Reluctantly, I rejected it but proposed an alternative venue which he was gracious enough to accept. His cosmic fantasy, “The Airs of Eden” (a story from his Infinite Tiers of the Internection), was the lead-off tale of my relaunched speculative fiction zine, ResAliens Issue #6. A second story in that multi-verse, “Where the Sun Has Never Shown”, headlined ResAliens Issue #7. Excited that Tule Fog Press via S&H Story #10 can again feature Mike Chinn, but this time in a surreal and sorcerous tale about two sisters and their swords. I can’t *wait* for you to read it! + Ed.

Two Swords Waiting by Mike Chinn

“Pick it up, Guin!”

Brandguin crouched, never taking her eyes off Brindglais, a couple of paces distant, the blunted point of her wooden practice sword hovering perilously close to Brandguin’s face. Her sister was grinning, a wide smile stamped across her bronze features. She had Brandguin at her mercy – or so she imagined. A moment’s inattention while fingers groped for the dropped sword and a feigned thrust directly through Brandguin’s eye would see the fight over.

Brandguin considered, slowly, carefully. Brindglais would not strike while her sister was unarmed – such a move would be far too unchivalrous and lacking in flair – but the moment Brandguin’s finger’s so much as caressed her sword’s hilt…

Brandguin locked eyes on her sister’s deep brown, laughing gaze – eyes the very image of her own – and waited. Patience was not one of Glais’ virtues. Eventually she would allow her concentration to slip, snatch a glance at the dropped sword or her sister’s flexed fingers. A moment was all Brandguin needed—

A blare of trumpets broke through the moment. The sisters turned away from each other, looking instead at the ill-repaired circular walls of Castle Valgard. Lookouts were already signalling urgently, more trumpet alarms amplifying their warning.

Brandguin picked up her fallen sword. Glais was no longer interested: already sprinting away, awkwardly unbuckling her light sparring armour as she ran, yelling for a squire. Brandguin waited until she’d doffed her own armour before heading for the ramparts, leaving it and the wooden sword where they fell. They would be of no use to her in a real fight.

She scaled crumbling stone steps towards the battlements. Brindglais was already there, being assisted into a steel breastplate by two young squires. Brandguin was acknowledged by several of the lookouts.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“To the east, my lady.” A guard gestured to the landscape spread out before them. Valgard was sited above a jutting sea cliff, its circular walls growing from near vertical rock faces which protected over two thirds of the ramparts. What remained rested on an ancient, artificial mound rearing above a wide flat plain which spread to the east.

All looked peaceful and serene, except for the dark clouds gradually turning an otherwise clear blue sky the colour of old slate, shot through with bruised colours Brandguin had no name for. It looked like a creeping infection, spreading a deadly contagion through the air. Lightning flickered at its edges, harsh and unnatural.

“Heaven or Hell?” Brandguin wondered. Her own squires approached, armour piled in their arms. They began to dress her, quickly, quietly and efficiently. She barely noticed their ministrations.

“These days, who can be sure, my lady,” the guard was saying. He turned away, frowning, watching the rapidly closing darkness. “Whichever they are…”

He left the words hanging. Brandguin understood him only too well. A company of immortals, regardless of whether they owed allegiance to gods or demons, was crossing Lyrnesse – specifically Valgard’s estates. There was little mere humans could do to stop them, other than hope they bypassed the castle. If their aim was to confront another celestial company, best they did so as far away as possible and fight each other to a standstill while inflicting as little damage as they might on the surroundings. The castle was too lowly to be noticed by either side: it would be swept away like sand if trapped in the conflict.

Once, Brandguin thought, she would have prayed for delivery. Now, who could she pray to? Any god she might name was either destroyed, or somewhere in the world fighting demons. Or other gods. Under such circumstances being heard might be worse than being ignored. Who knew what might be listening?

The last pieces of Brandguin’s armour were buckled neatly into place. She took up her sword – a finely-balanced two-hander – while a squire retained her visored helm, ready for her use should battle be joined. Brindglais stood with her at the ramparts. There was a wild grin upon her own bare face.

“Well, sister. All those years of ignoring father’s wishes and learning the art of the sword may bear fruit yet. He will be so disappointed to have missed it.”

Brandguin answered with a pale smile of her own. Their father was abroad, as ever, this time in Navarine for one reason or another. Probably attempting to once more broker a marriage for herself or Brindglais, to a minor noble with some prospect of a reasonable inheritance. And Lord Felinor of Valgard would certainly not miss the prospect of battle. Especially one against celestials. But perhaps it was their destiny to face the horde together. Neither was enamoured with the prospect of marriage. For good or bad, their fate lay elsewhere. Brandguin was sure of it.

“If it comes to hand-to-hand combat with such creatures as make up the ranks of the immortals, I fear all our martial guile will be as nought,” she remarked.

“Immortal!” Brindglais spat over the stone parapet, although her eyes never left the approaching storm. “They die as readily as you or I, Guin – or so I am led to believe.”

Brandguin didn’t respond at first. She had heard the same tales, although she doubted the truth of them. How could immortals die? And how would any human soul who had been close enough to see a god or demon slain still be alive to tell of it?

“We’ll know the truth soon enough,” she said quietly.

Brindglais’ answer was to hoist her own two-handed sword and wave it defiantly at the approaching lightning, daring it to strike.

“Where are the damned mages?” Brandguin muttered. She looked around and was about to yell at the nearest soldier to go and find the wretched pair of spell-singers when they appeared on the curved walkway, hurrying towards her. Dressed in ragged motley, with faces that didn’t look as though they’d ever required a razor’s touch, they resembled no mage Brandguin had ever imagined. But Lord Felinor barely had enough money to keep the castle maintained and staffed. Sorcerers were expensive, and their father had made it clear he considered them a luxury.

Brandguin wished he was here so that she might have time to ask if he still thought so.

“My lady!” gasped the nearest mage. He was clutching sheafs of aged parchment that had been intensively gnawed around the edges by vermin. He bowed awkwardly, then glanced out at the blackening sky. Brandguin was not encouraged by his expression.

“Are the wards in place?” she snapped, in no mood for niceties.

The mage bobbed another bow. “They are awakened, my lady. It will be just a moment…” He sneaked another glance at the lightning-shot sky – no doubt hoping Brandguin wouldn’t notice – then peered down at the wall’s outer face. He muttered something Brandguin didn’t catch, then sighed – a little too loudly. He turned to her and smiled.

“The wards are active, my lady.”

She looked down and along the old stonework. There was a faint glow building in intensity: a warm orange in colour, swirling like phantom flames, dancing along the crenelations. Whatever the magic behind the castle’s wards, Brandguin thought it looked far too insubstantial to withstand any kind of assault, never mind a celestial one.

She shrugged. In the end it was all they had.

“Keep a close watch,” she said to the young mage, raising her voice to include his colleague. “If the castle is attacked and those wards falter, it will be all our necks.”

Both mages bowed, but their expressions, inexpertly hidden, were no comfort. Brandguin pushed such thoughts from her mind. Let them do their job; we have our own to concern us.

The sky was gradually vanishing under a leaden blanket which churned and boiled with a rainbow of unearthly colours. Lightning split the gloom ever more frequently, but no thunder followed. A dim, unholy light enveloped the landscape and castle. Brandguin felt as though she had sunk to the bottom of a stagnant pool. The light distracted her, fooled her eyes, made her see things in the gloomy shadows that could not exist. Or she sincerely hoped that was the case.

A shrill whine filled the air, just loud enough to be heard. It was equally as distracting. Brandguin could not tell from whence it came, but it scraped at her nerves. It made her want to scream, to vent her fury on anyone standing too close.

Her gauntleted hands squeezed her sword hilt, trying to crush either it or her unprovoked rage. Impatiently she gestured for her helm, slamming it over her head, for the moment not bothering to secure it in place. It dampened the whine, but not enough.

She set her teeth and briefly closed her eyes. She would ignore the unnerving shriek, see past the horrible light. When she opened her eyes again the gloom had intensified. It was a darkness from the deepest pit of hell, and the shapes now clearly approaching across the distant plain were clearly at home.

Things squirmed and wriggled in the drowned light, thrashing bloated, multiple limbs – or were they lumpen heads on serpentine necks? Brandguin was glad she could only see them poorly. Vast shapes trod on elephantine legs, slow and unstoppable. Vaguely human shapes rode steeds that could never have been mistaken for horses, even at this distance. Orbs which appeared to be composed of nothing but intersecting hoops covered in eyes drifted about the host. And underscoring everything was that irritating whine.

“Perhaps Valgard will survive!” Brindglais’ hair was whipped by a growing breeze. Her eyes flashed with reckless delight. She pointed towards the plain, now congested with countless inhuman shapes. “And then what a tale we’ll be able to tell in Lyrnesse’s alehouses!”

The whine grew more intense, more grating. The immortal host drew nearer. Brandguin was able to see more clearly what sort of things made up its ranks.

A group of figures broke away from the forefront of the host. The air around them shimmered like heat haze as they slowly made their way towards the castle walls. Behind them the army drew to a halt.

“What’s this?” said Brandguin.

“Perhaps they wish to surrender,” laughed her sister.

Brandguin turned to one of the armed men who lined the battlements. Like so many he was clad in dented armour, the entwined twin green serpent insignia of Lord Felinor across his faded surcoat. “Summon archers,” she called. “Be ready to fire upon my order.”

He snapped a salute and hurried away.

“And what good will they do?” Brindglais was hanging over the parapet, angling her body precipitously from the wall.

“Most likely nothing,” Brandguin muttered. “But we must be ready.”

“Better with boiling water,” said her sister, staring at the approaching group as though they were contestants in a local tourney about to ask for her favour. “Or better still, pitch.”

“I suspect they’d enjoy the warmth.”

Archers deployed along the battlements. The riders came closer, becoming clearer. They sat astride strange creatures resembling long horned cattle, but with dozens of insectile legs rippling along each flank. The riders had a human shape, but their grotesque armour – far too elaborate to be practical – could be hiding anything. It might not even have been armour. The horned mounts halted fifty paces or so from the castle wall, at the base of the old mound. An indescribable stench rose up from them and Brandguin had to fight hard not to gag on it.

The riders stared silently up at the curved parapet for a while, either weighing up what sort of threat the archers might present, or simply wondering what they were looking at. Eventually one spoke, its voice deep and inhuman, carrying easily above the constant whine. Brandguin could almost feel it in her gut.

“Mortal creatures. Our concern is not with thee.”

“And yet here you are,” Brandguin replied. “Invading our land and threatening our castle.”

“If, as you say, we are not your concern,” added Brindglais, “kindly begone and we’ll say no more about it!”

“We cannot retreat. We go only where we are led.”

“By whom?” Brindglais made a point of staring across the plain, to the stationary horde and back to the riders. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke to someone in authority.”

The rider drew a sword. As long as the sister’s two-handers, its single-edged blade was forged into an elegant curve. Its basket hilt was as complex and impractical as the rider’s armour. The sword began to glow with a clear blue light that was dazzling in the gloom.

“I am Thraix, Champion of Appollynne, and this is all the authority I need. And thou?”

Brandguin drew her own sword and rested its point on the walkway. “I am the Lady Brandguin of Valgard and this is the Lady Brindglais. We are—” she shared a wry glance with her sister “—both Champions of Lyrnesse, the land you are so casually trampling.”

Brindglais waved her own sword in a mock salute. “And as you see, we are not without our own authority.”

“So, we ask you again: withdraw.” Brandguin raised her voice. “Archers!”

Each man nocked an arrow to his bow and took up a firing position.

Another rider drew its sword. Similar to the one borne by Thraix of Appollynne, this burned with a white light that was even more blinding than the blue sword. “I am Gaitch of Faloon. We follow the Swords, and they have yet to mislead us.” His voice was no less penetrating than Thraix’.

“There is always a first time. I say one final time: withdraw. If you do not, we shall open fire.”

Gaitch of Faloon glanced towards Thraix. It occurred to Brandguin that the two figures were laughing at her.

“As you wish.” Brindglais swept her great blade down in a signal. “Fire!”

Arrows flew into the group of riders. At such close range they should have power enough to blast through a tree, never mind flesh – no matter how unnatural. Even so, Brandguin could see the volley had no real effect. The mounts flicked their great horned heads and pawed the ground with multi-jointed legs, no more concerned than if they were being assailed by flies. The riders never flinched as shafts ricocheted harmlessly off their outrageous armour.

Brandguin swore. “Keep firing. Use flame arrows.” See if that gets their attention.

As the archers rained down more arrows, a bucket of pitch and two brands were hurried to the parapet. Wrapping scraps of rag around fresh arrows, each was dipped in the pitch and set alight. Eager archers sent burning volleys at the indifferent riders. It had no more effect than plain arrows. The two with drawn blades continued to stare insolently up at the battlements. The one named Gaitch leaned closer to Thraix and said something. This time they most definitely laughed.

A tremor ran along the walkway. Stones cracked. Dust and grit trickled from shifting gaps. Brandguin grabbed for support as the volley of arrows faltered, the archers uncertain.

“They’re undermining the walls!” she snapped.

Brindglais hung out over the wall even further. Her sister was convinced she must fall as more vibrations ran up through the stonework. The slope below the walls rippled. Waves of grass and earth dashed themselves against the foot of the wall. Beyond, the riders’ strange mounts baulked, more unnerved than they had been by the arrows. Brindglais’ right hand slipped from the crenelations, and for a moment she seemed to hang, unanchored, in space. Then she threw herself back onto the walkway, safe. Her grin was ragged.

“Remind me to never do that again,” she muttered, just audible above the shrieking. Brandguin detected the faintest tremor in her sister’s voice.

The wall shook violently. Cracks appeared in the parapet and under their feet. Ancient stones shifted, threatening to dislodge. Yet the glowing wards held. That was something to be thankful for.

The entire rampart shook as though it was no more than wet mud. An archer fell screaming to the quivering ground. Brandguin yelled for a retreat.

She held back as the archers and pale-faced mages made their way down to the ground, all clinging to the walls as the steps themselves threatened to crumble. Ragged scraps of parchment were scattered in the panic. Brindglais also waited. Once the battlements were clear Brandguin ordered her sister down, emphasising with a gestured sword. Brindglais’ expression was rebellious, but after a moment she complied.

Brandguin was about to follow, one foot already on the top step, when the walls shuddered again. There was a thunderous crack which momentarily drowned out the annoying whine. Under Brandguin’s feet the stonework crumbled like dry sand. She fell backwards, tumbling into a nothingness where the wall should be. Her unsecured helm slipped free.

She hit a slope and began to roll, barely able to breathe from the impact. When she felt her body come to a stop she was tempted to lie still, decide if she still lived. And if so, how broken she was.

Then she remembered the mounted figures and hurriedly pulled herself to her knees. The riders sat, immobile, not a dozen paces away. Thraix was gazing down at her, head tilted to one side, his glowing blue sword resting across his saddle.

Brandguin came unsteadily to her feet. Her nose poured blood. Even though her helm was gone, somehow her two-handed sword was still clutched in her right hand. Around her were scattered broken chunks of stone. Fallen from the ramparts and tumbled down the mound alongside her. There was a jagged rent in the castle wall, still crumbling as the ground below it rippled like a moody sea. Through it she could see the castle’s panicked inhabitants running haphazardly across the bailey. The old keep tower remained standing, although its ancient stonework looked more crazed than ever.

The wards had finally failed: there was no sign of orange fire dancing along the battlements or rippling across the breached ramparts. Brandguin wondered if that meant the mages were dead, their magic with them. Of Brindglais there was no sign.

Brandguin turned to face the mounted figures, raising a sword that seemed to weigh as much as the sky. Beyond them the celestial horde had moved no more than the riders, crouched below the lightning-shot sky as though awaiting a signal. She felt as though she was some last defender from an epic poem, facing down a horde in a noble but doomed final battle. The whining itched in her brain.

“I trust you weren’t thinking of keeping the fun all to yourself?”

Brindglais was at her side, somehow. Her armour was dented and scored, coated in dust. Her face bled from several cuts, none deep as far as Brandguin could tell. Her hair blew free and wild, dark eyes burning with the fire of battle.

“I thought I’d lost you!”

Brindglais laughed: a harsh, half-mad sound. “Takes more than a wall falling on me, Guin. You’ll never lose me that easily.” She raised her own long sword. Side by side the sisters faced the riders, and the onslaught they knew was coming.

“Mortal creatures,” said Thraix. “I repeat, this battle is none of thy concern. Retreat and thou may yet live to see the next dawn.”

Brandguin hefted her sword. “You made it our concern when our walls were breached!”

The riders exchanged looks. Brandguin sensed a rumbling through her feet. Were they talking in tones so deep she could only feel them?

“The destruction to thy redoubt is none of our doing. We have no desire to hurt thee,” said Thraix, facing them again.

“And yet you do.” Brindglais spat blood onto the ground. “Immortals fight, but we are the ones who die.”

Thraix may have shrugged. “It is to be regretted—”

“And I’ll regret killing you – if you can die.” She pointed her great sword at the four riders. “But not for long.”

The rider cocked its head. “As you wish…Champions of Valgard.” He turned to the other riders. “Kill them swiftly. Better deaths await elsewhere.”

Two of the horned mounts lunged forward, moving in a peculiar undulating motion on their multiple legs. Their riders drew strange, semi-circular weapons of a type unfamiliar to Brandguin. She held her nerve, standing directly in the path of one of the creatures. As its vaguely bovine head reared above her, she leapt to one side, swinging her sword at the row of legs. The impact numbed her arm; it felt as though she had struck a steel post. For an instant she almost lost her grip on the sword.

Then the mount was stumbling, collapsing to the side where some of its legs were partly hewn through. Its rider half fell, thrown by the impact. As the armoured figure tried to regain its equilibrium, Brandguin stepped closer, swinging her two-handed sword. She caught the rider in the throat, between the plates of grotesque armour. Thick, colourless liquid splashed from the wound and the rider folded, collapsing to the ground in a tangle of riding tack. The mount tried to reach its feet but fell again, heavily, half crushing its rider under thrashing legs.

Brandguin stepped back, watching as her sister – who had somehow vaulted up behind the second rider – drew a thin dagger and drove it again and again through any gap in the armour she could find. As the dying figure drooped in the saddle, its armour drenched in clear fluid, Brindglais sprang clear. She landed lightly on her feet and faced the remaining two riders.

“Is this the best sport you can provide, Thraix of Appollynne? Come – champion to champion!”

Thraix laughed: a deep bass rumble that shook the ground. With a fluid movement he slipped from his horned mount and advanced on Brindglais, swinging his glowing blue sword so swiftly it left a gleaming tracery in the air.

“This is Ezuras,” he boomed. “A sword fit only for those who deserve it.”

“And you think that includes you.”

“The evidence is before thee!”

Thraix lunged, the sword almost moving faster than an eye could follow. Brindglais parried, catching the blue blade on her sword’s quillons. Glowing splinters of steel flew free, chipped off by the blue sword.

She twisted and pushed, disengaging Thraix, forcing him to step back. He was taller than her by at least an arm’s length, and moved with a dancer’s grace, but his body looked gaunt, lacking in strength.

He thrust again and she parried him easily, although strips of her two-hander were sliced away. He was overconfident, no doubt assured that the woman before him was no match. His attacks were lazy, indifferent, as though he was not even trying.

Movement caught Brandguin’s eye. Gaitch had dismounted and was advancing on her silently. As tall and thin as Thraix, his armour was no less gaudy and impractical. His white sword glowed brighter with each moment.

“I suppose you also bear some fancy-named blade?” called Brandguin.

“This is Gwincellor.” He hefted the bright white sword. “Try to take it from me, mortal thing.”

Brandguin watched the white sword leaving ghostly imprints of itself on the dim light. It hadn’t occurred to her to claim the weapon as booty, but now it seemed obvious. “My thanks for the suggestion, Gaitch of Faloon. I shall do just that.”

Gaitch lunged at her. She deflected the blow easily, although the other sword chipped at her blade as though it were cheap iron. She riposted with a swinging cut of her own. The other stepped out of reach, not even trying to parry. After a moment he thrust again, and again Brandguin parried and riposted. It felt too easy. Gaitch was as careless and lazy as Thraix. Was his white sword ensorcelled? Did he expect it to abruptly come to life and kill her with some subtle manoeuvre?

When he thrust a third time Brandguin ducked aside, half-crouched, ready to close with the bizarrely armoured figure and finish him.

The ground quaked violently once again. Brandguin stumbled, falling to one knee. Gaitch also staggered, barely keeping his balance. To her side, she was aware of Brindglais and Thraix also breaking off their duel and looking about in uncertainty.

Brandguin risked a glance towards Valgard.

The castle was disintegrating. The mound upon which it stood shook and heaved. The keep shivered into a thousand pieces and collapsed into rubble. Those still within the walls fled as the ground under their feet split and gaped. Some tripped into chasms and vanished.

The slope below the crumbling ramparts burst apart. Three huge creatures, like giant moles crossed with scorpions, emerged from the dirt, flinging sod and stones aside with articulated claws. Upon each one hunched a rider, woodlice as tall as Brandguin, guiding the tunnelling things with their many-jointed legs.

Thraix and Gaitch stepped towards the things as they lumbered down what remained of the mound’s side. For a moment Brandguin thought they were about to greet their allies, but when she saw the tension in their stances and their raised swords she knew these were friends to neither the immortals nor themselves.

“The Swords were true,” Gaitch was saying. “Here is our enemy.”

“Aside, mortals,” Thraix added. “Thou hast delayed us too long.”

The ground split and more of the burrowing things poured through the fissures, like huge, disturbed cockroaches. Thraix and Gaitch stood in their way, glowing swords raised. Brandguin could not see how they hoped to survive the onslaught.

“I think a tactical retreat is called for,” Brindglais called. She gestured with her own sword and Brandguin turned to see where she was indicating. The great horde from which Thraix and Gaitch had come was in motion, charging at the increasing number of mole-scorpion beasts erupting from the ground.

“To where?” Brandguin yelled back. It was becoming difficult to stand on the unstable ground. She fully expected to be crushed by one of the monstrosities as it smashed through the earth where she stood.

“Anywhere!” Brindglais began to run, a staggering, barely balanced flight over land that thrashed like an angry sea. After a moment, Brandguin followed.

There was an abrupt rumble. The cliff face below Valgard cracked and shed hunks of stone. Within moments the entire promontory crumbled and crashed into the sea. Valgard with it. Brandguin retreated, as well as she was able, expecting the ground below her to fall away at any time, dropping her to her death.

She stumbled, falling headlong to the ground. She awaited her final moments with whatever dignity she had left. The ground held. Eventually she rolled over and sat up.

A new cliff face stood above the waves not a dozen paces away. To left and right the coastline had been altered where the sea had swallowed the castle and several acres of Lyrnesse.

And across what remained two immortal companies clashed. Mole-scorpion things snapped at mounted figures and clawed at hovering, multi-eyed spheres. It was a chaos of writhing, stabbing shapes with no sense of tactics or order.

Brandguin stood. Brindglais joined her and together they watched the random destruction. Brandguin belatedly realised that the irritating whine had been silenced.

“Is there any point to this?” she wondered.

Brindglais shrugged. “Death, I think. It seems to be all any of them seek.”

Brandguin scrubbed at the blood drying on her face, remembering Thraix’ words: Better deaths await elsewhere. Certainly a form of collective madness had seized them all. She could even feel it gnawing at her own better nature. Was there any point in resisting?

She sighed. “Well then, let’s help them reach their goal.”

The sisters headed back into the melee, swords at the ready. Brandguin hacked about her with no finesse. Her sword connected with bodies and limbs, she felt the blade digging deep into strange flesh, but she had no way of telling how mortal the wounds inflicted were.

At her side, Brindglais also carved deep into the maelstrom of battle, her two-handed sword a scythe cutting a path through warring bodies.

Brandguin knew neither of them could survive the day. Even if their foes had been merely mortal, they were still vastly outnumbered. They would fall with Valgard, a tale that might one day be told in alehouses after all – although neither of them would be there to tell or hear it.

There was a gap in the press of bodies. She saw Gaitch, swinging his glowing white sword with greater effect than her own. Flesh and armour parted at its touch, like butter under a hot knife. A swath of mutilated bodies marked his progress. At sight of him a madness seemed to possess Brandguin and she strode forward, eager to cut away some of his arrogance. To avenge the destruction of her castle home.

He spotted her approach and a laugh so deep Brandguin could feel it in her guts boomed from his ornate helm. “Thou dost seek death with the same enthusiasm as a celestial, Champion of Valgard. I salute thee for it!”

“If death is all that I may expect I embrace it, demon! But you’ll fall with me!”

“Mayhap.” He turned to face her, raising his sword. Gwincellor, he had called it. She stepped within sword reach. Around them the battle surged: a chaos which somehow left them untouched.

Their duel was short. Gaitch’s attacks were still lazy and ill-considered. Brandguin dodged each lunge and slash easily – although she was careful not to use her sword to parry too often. The white blade could easily shear through steel; she had been lucky in their first exchange of blows. She danced about him, evading his every sluggish thrust, content to strike him with her own sword as a riposte for every missed attack. His grotesque armour caught every blow, rather than deflecting it, and he staggered each time. He was tiring, Brandguin thought. She imagined it was a sensation he had rarely experienced; if ever. He had grown too reliant on his sword’s magic.

He stepped back as she cut at his legs, almost stumbling. He fell against one of the chitinous legs of a mole-scorpion and it reared, swiping at him with a huge, gnarled claw. Gaitch fell, and Gwincellor tumbled from his hand – although for a moment Brandguin imagined it had twisted itself free.

She dived forward, dropping her two-handed sword, closing her hands around Gwincellor’s ornate basket hilt and swinging the sword in a flat arc that ended close to Gaitch’s strange helm.

“It seems I have taken your sword after all, Gaitch of Faloon.”

His only response was laughter. “And thou art welcome to it, Champion of Lyrnesse!”

He fumbled at his waist, pulling free what looked like a tiny crossbow. As he raised it Brandguin reacted without thought, swinging the white sword. It sheered through armour like parchment, removing half of Gaitch’s arm with one blow. No blood flowed.

Brandguin swung again, cleaving the other’s torso. Gaitch’s armoured form fell apart, dry and lifeless. Brandguin kicked at his almost bisected body. It appeared hollow, like a long dead insect.

She straightened and looked about. Gwincellor sat in her hand as though created for it. They were one. She cut at anyone, or thing, coming within reach, taking a deep satisfaction in the ease with which the white sword killed.

There was another eddy in the battle. Brandguin was not surprised to see Brindglais in the eye of the storm, Thraix at her feet, his grotesque form as desiccated at Gaitch’s. Her two-handed sword was thrust into the ground, and in her hand she held blue-glowing Ezuras. From the state of Thraix’ armour, Brandguin could guess which blade had finished him.

Brindglais was laughing softly, consumed by her own battle-madness. She stood straight and tall, no longer limping, no longer bruised and bloody. Her battered armour seemed freshly polished and free of damage. A sharp blue radiance bathed it.

Brandguin wouldn’t look to herself, but she imagined her own armour now glowed with a clear white light. She realised her own pains had gone, faded at some point while she fought.

Without sharing a word, the sisters faced the surrounding battle. Brandguin’s long, pure white sword nestled in her gauntleted fist like a pet seeking reassurance. Its single-edged, slightly curved blade momentarily flared.

“We will most likely die,” she said.

Brindglais laughed. “Not today, Guin!”

The battle closed around them once more. Brandguin raised Gwincellor. The white sword seemed to tug at her wrist: eager, irrepressible. At her side, Brandguin came on guard with a blue-glowing Ezuras.

No, Brandguin thought, not today.

The sisters strode forward.

Two Swords Waiting © 2024 by Mike Chinn (5400 words) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and sword illustrations by Gilead, used by permission.

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