The Sword Saints

Interlude II. - The Army of Death

(Angnorr)

"Take heed and stand your ground against evil. The Vices only take hold in the hearts of weak souls."

- The Book of Bravery: Ch. 2: verse 3.

Angnor the Black stood firm before a field of grey grass and grey skies. Fragile black trees bordered the banks of a fickle little stream to his left. Black mountains rose up in the distance, their monarch spewing a cloud of smoke and ash. It had been centuries since Mount Zaryne was last active and Angnor knew it was a bad sign.

Perhaps the Vices were growing stronger.

The ashy fields of Kandar crunched beneath his feet. Next to him, his fellow Sword Saint, Raegyn Redwater, sat on a boulder and ate an apple, though he didn't at all seem bothered by the fact that a thin layer of soot covered it. Raegyn had always liked fire, so maybe he was immune to it.

"You ever fight one of them before?" Raegyn asked with his mouth full. Apple juice spilled from his lips and soaked his bright red beard.

Angnor pulled out his blade and drove it into the grass at his feet, his hands on the hilt. "I haven't had the misfortune. I've fought many terrible things in my years, but never a demon. They are a rare beast indeed, only summoned by some unholy ritual or by the actions of an atrocity."

He rubbed the leather of the hilt. He was known as the Black because his sword made his skin burn a purplish black of invulnerability when he was struck, but some called him the Executioner in hushed whispers. It had been his profession in years long past before he dawned the mantle of Sword Saint. Alavar continued his work, as the sword was an executioner's blade; long, wide and a curved head perfect for rending head from shoulder. It was also sufficient in cutting any and all flesh.

Across the field, two towering black figures stood, muscles brimming and shifting, red eyes visible even from such a distance. The air, hot, humid, and sticky, became cold when one let out a terrifying bellow. Behind the demons, a legion's worth of corpses shambled and shuffled about, mindlessly awaiting a chance to charge.

It was clear who was responsible for this and for who was responsible for all that was befalling the realms. Angnor hadn't wanted to believe it, didn't want to think that his old friend and student could do such things, but they were true.

"Judar has sent us quite a present," he said. A sneer came to his face.

Raegyn was almost finished with the apple. "I'm not worried. I've fought demons before. They're susceptible to fire, and to magic artifacts. A good stab to the heart from your sword should do the trick."

Angnor gave him a look. "That is certainly helpful knowledge." And it really was. He had not expected such information from Raegyn.

Raegyn burped and tossed the apple core behind him. He stood and unsheathed his sword, Akanarru. The red steel blade was a short sword, a large glorified dagger, but it was double edged and sharp. In Raegyn's hands, it was a sword to be truly feared. All of our swords are.

The fiery haired Sword Saint stretched out his arms and cracked his neck and back. "You ready, old man?"

Angnor didn't look at him. He stood stoically and looked on at the mass of evil before them. He didn't crack his bones or stretch his muscles, because he would likely hurt himself. His skin was old and wrinkled, and he shook a lot. His sword had grown heavy in his recent years, but he was still able to wield it. When he did, nothing could hurt him.