Bueralan watched Xrie dismount with a practised ease, while behind him, his soldiers came up the road. The closer they drew, the easier it was for the saboteur to hear the excitement in their voices. He could understand it: the Soldier, the immortal who had been known as the Blade Prince of the Saan before he came to the Floating Cities of Yeflam, would soon fight the Innocent. Neither man had been defeated in battle and the soldiers behind Xrie were confident in their champion.
In his visits to Yeflam, Bueralan had heard soldiers and mercenaries speak of Xrie. They said that he was a fair man, and a man of skill and talent. No one could claim to have heard him raise his voice or lose his temper. As they formed up behind him now, on a road in Leera, that knowledge was contrasted with the man Xrie faced. Aela Ren was said to be filled with rage, was reported to have torn apart his opponents with his hands, feasted on the flesh and drunk the blood. The same soldiers who said that they had never heard Xrie raise his voice were the same men and women who insisted that the Innocent’s soldiers feared him more than anything else. It was why they did what they did in Sooia.
‘I met a man by the name of Jae’le recently,’ Xrie said, while he waited for his soldiers to assemble. ‘I am told you were once a friend of his.’
‘He did not say that to you.’ Along the road behind Aela Ren, his god-touched soldiers began to emerge. ‘But I know him,’ the Innocent continued, as Bueralan turned to join them. ‘What did he tell you about me?’
‘He said that you cannot die.’
‘Did Samuel not tell you the same thing?’
‘He did.’
Ren spread his scarred hands out, the palms empty. ‘Both are correct.’
‘All things die,’ Xrie said, his tone polite and respectful. ‘But Jae’le told me that if I wanted to defeat you, I should lie to you.’
‘Jae’le.’ The name was said with a real disappointment. ‘Is he with you? Bring him forth and let him tell his own lies.’
‘He is not here.’
The Innocent did not appear to be surprised. ‘He was once a man to be feared and respected,’ he said, instead. ‘It is sad to hear how he has fallen.’
‘I will not lie to you. It is not who I am.’
‘A wise choice. Lies create a false reality and you can be certain of nothing within it. I have always been surprised by the people who insist on lies. I cannot understand why they wrap their lives in the falseness that they create. They allow it to shape the reality that they share with their children and their friends and they let it breed real consequences that they call just.’
Xrie did not reply and, for a moment, the two stood before each other in silence.
‘Will you draw your sword?’ Xrie asked, finally.
‘In time,’ Aela Ren replied.
The Soldier took a step to his left, as if he had begun a dance, and began to walk around the Innocent.
He did so confidently, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The dyed red tips of his hair blended into the morning’s light and, as he circled the Innocent, he briefly appeared to wear a crown of fire.
Bueralan had heard the stories of the Blade Prince. It was one of the stories the Saan allowed to be told and retold beyond the borders of their land. In truth, warriors who travelled outside rarely spoke of what happened on the flat, dusty land where they lived. Theirs was an insular culture, built upon the concept of pure bloodlines, and for hundreds of years, the most that countries around the world heard of was an exile, maimed in a ritualistic fashion. The loss of a hand, mostly. Xrie Dvir changed that. He left the Saan because he wished to and, in the years that followed, the Saan left with him. Sketches of a tribal society emerged, one that caged its women in oral and written histories, and let their men roam free without the ability to write their name. When asked about their home, they had one story that they would tell, and only one.
It was the story of how the Blade Prince of the Saan fought to unite the tribes. It persisted long after he had arrived in Yeflam and become known as the Soldier. Yet, not one of them contained details of his family. No version of the story said that he had been a first son, a third, or even a fifth. He was simply a loyal son in a family who had never ruled. A son who changed that. At the age of fourteen, he went to a meeting of the Saan tribes and there he had presented himself and declared war on the other tribes. He was tested, it was said, with sixteen duels, one for each tribe. After he had defeated them all, he returned home, his declaration of war accepted.
The length of the war was never described, but its defining moment was. It was a battle in a village named Jajjar. For most people outside the Saan, it was the only name that they heard. It was spoken so freely that even Saan in positions of power – like the war scout Usa Dvir, who would not name a lake or a piece of land to outsiders – would say the village’s name without hesitation. It was in Jajjar that the Blade Prince of the Saan was trapped with one hundred enemy soldiers. He fought them for over a week and he fought them alone. He fought them after his swords had broken and he fought them with broken swords. He fought them until he was the last warrior to stand in the village.
It was the story every warrior from the Saan told to anyone who asked of their home.
It was the story that the soldiers of the Yeflam Guard repeated to anyone who asked about their captain.
In front of the Innocent, Xrie came to a stop. He was an arm’s length away. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
He waited.
He waited.
He waited.
His fingers shifted around the hilt of his sword and—
He fell, his chest ripped open, as if the armour and flesh had been no more than paper. He fell sideways, his hand slipping from his hilt, hinting at life, until it was clear that it was unable to break his fall.
‘Now,’ Aela Ren said, lowering his bloodstained sword. ‘You will all die.’