They attacked in the night. Fulfilling the roles of midwife and lookout was not an easy task for Sigeas, but even as he monitored his mother’s labor, he observed their surroundings from the corners of his eyes. There was neither sound nor shadow for the first hour of her intermittent contractions, save for her occasional cries and groans. He imagined packs of hunting wolves fleeing upon hearing the agonized screams of, as far as they could tell, some crazed shaman or demon wandering the land. Small military caravans might hear her and make for the nearest civilization, believing that a wailing specter haunted the dunes. But as these protective fantasies circled Sigeas’s mind, he felt a sharp wind slice by his ear; then he heard two stony surfaces grind together. He averted his attention from his mother and watched an arrow glance off the boulder that served as a wall for their shelter. Someone was firing upon them. His eyes burned as the memory of Faseton’s fall assaulted his mind. The bloodied earth, the severed limbs, the rain of arrows, the flaming homes, the shrieks of the murdered. Not now. Not again. He would not allow that dreadful event to repeat itself. He did not know who came for them now, but if they sought to dissolve a family, they were no better than the imperialists who had devastated his hometown. He stood, brandished his sword, and turned around. On top of a hill to the east, beneath the dawning sky, were three men dressed in the red leather armor of Thalnon.
“Sigeas, what’s happening?” asked his mother.
“A Thalnon caravan.”
“No.” Her voice trembled as she began to weep. “No, not now. Sigeas, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to slaughter every one of them,” he replied, his voice unwavering. “I love you, Mother.” He marched across the grass, surveying the difficult battlefield his enemies had prepared for him. A steady uphill charge led to his three opponents, and there were perhaps more members of the caravan concealed behind the fold of the hill. He roared, “For Faseton!” and tore across the earth with such unexpected speed, the men above took a step back to provide extra space to ground themselves. The desire to protect his mother and exact vengeance on these harbingers of death drove him across the slope as if it were level earth. Two arrows whistled through the air from bowmen hidden behind bushes on either side of the group of swordsmen ahead. One arrow plunged into the grass beside him, while the other darted past his shoulder. He increased his pace and made directly for the marauder on the left; when he reached the man, blade met blade with such momentum, he knocked the marauder flat onto his back. In the same swing, the tip of his sword cleaved the side of his center opponent’s leg. He raised his weapon immediately, catching the steel from the same man’s weapon. Then he launched his foot upon the area he had carved, causing the man to shriek and his leg to buckle. Sigeas dodged a blow from his third opponent and finished his second with a deep swipe across the torso.
One of the bowmen surfaced from the left with a saber drawn, and the other a moment later wielding an elegant broadsword. After dodging the blow from his third opponent, Sigeas propelled his blade toward the sky and smashed against his sword with tremendous force. The bludgeon staggered the man, presenting Sigeas with an opportunity to parry a frenzied strike from the first enemy he had floored. He spun to his right as the man’s blade was deflected, and swept his weapon through his legs with the energy from his spin. Now painted in blood, his sword rose up just in time to halt the downward slash of his third enemy’s blade toward his head; at this moment, the saber from one of the bowmen lanced down his back, cutting from his shoulder to his hip. Fortunately, the attack had been inaccurate due to the fact that he was nearing the end of his spin when it was made. He kicked his third enemy in the stomach, launching him against the shoulder of the bowman with a broadsword. Then he whipped around, smashed the first bowman’s blade aside, and removed his hands from his arms.
The third swordsman and second bowman charged toward him, declaring the name of Pavius. They only succeeded in enraging Sigeas, who returned the charge with an unintelligible, bloodthirsty cry. He forced his blade against that of his third enemy when the bowman’s broadsword pounded into it and hurled him to the grass. Before they could strike at him, he hurried to his feet and shook off a pain that had risen from his left wrist. The broadsword tumbled toward him, and he managed to block it, though the strike shook his bones. The third swordsman’s weapon sliced horizontally toward Sigeas’s neck; he ducked beneath it, disengaged his sword from the bowman’s, and drove his left fist into the swordsman’s jaw. His knee then rose into the left side of the man’s abdomen, and his blade glided through the right. A swift hop to the side separated him from the severance of his arm by the bowman’s broadsword. He raised his sword to block the subsequent flurry of attacks, but one of them tore his weapon from his hands.
The bowman roared and struck toward his left shoulder. Sigeas, not expecting such speed, moved aside but was grazed by the wide blade. He sent one foot into the man’s hands and grinned when he saw that the power of the kick released his hold on his weapon. He then lunged forward, the full weight of his body slamming his adversary to the moist turf. The man had not expected such a move; in the moment it took him to recover, Sigeas’s fist crashed into his cheek, into his teeth, and into the bridge of his nose. Knuckles and facial features were draped with blood before the Thalnion marauder found the strength to fling the young man from his body and stand. This was no mere toss; Sigeas soared onto his heels, then collapsed to his bottom, and finally slid across the hilltop and toppled over. A pointed stone pierced the wound on his back and brought his sliding to an end. The bowman disregarded the numerous blades sprinkling the battlefield and clamped his hands around Sigeas’s neck, wrenching his life away with every obstructed breath. Unable to break free of the firm grip, the young man thrashed his arms in desperation and managed to land a solid punch in the center of his enemy’s throat. The man’s hands hesitated. Sigeas grabbed the stone beneath him. Before the marauder could reinforce his hold, his young enemy pummeled him with the pointed end of the rock and wrecked him to the side. Sigeas turned over and reached into the grass. His opponent stood, swayed, and lurched toward him. Sigeas spun with his sword in hand and finished the Thalnion with a lacerating slash across the stomach.
They were gone. Five men, elite soldiers who had served beneath the famed King Pavius, had fallen beneath Sigeas’s blade. He surveyed the site with a sense of pride, but the pride was soon replaced by nausea, the nausea by repulsion, and the repulsion by numbness as the gore-drenched battlefield became a blur in his vision. He looked at his blade, which seemed to be crafted of blood rather than steel. He looked at his clothes, sponges for the blood the earth and his sword had failed to find. Then he turned away. His feat bestowed on him no joy, but he had to kill them. There had been no other choice but death. He could not have surrendered and allowed them to add to the number of innocent lives they had already taken. He had to do it. With a sigh, he began to walk down the hill and gazed toward the camp. And there rested an image that stayed with him for the remainder of his days. His mother, his sole family, still ripe with child, lay against the boulder behind their camp, an arrow lodged in her chest.
He hurried to her side and watched in awe as she wept, one hand seizing the area of her new wound, and the other beneath her round belly. Her eyes found him, but never remained there for long; she seemed to see something beyond his ability to see, something that granted her one last scrap of strength before her life fled from her. He shook his head, threw his sword onto the grass, and embraced her. Tears burst from his eyes as he said, “Mother, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that arrow! I tried to save you! I tried to protect you from them. I’m so sorry.” He released her and dropped into a kneeling position, examining the arrow. “There has to be something….Mother, I have to save you! There must be a way.”
“Sigeas.” Her voice was weak, but firm. “I’m dying. You—you did what you could. But I’m dying. I will give birth to this—child with my last breath.”
“No, Mother, you can’t,” Sigeas insisted. “You can’t leave.”
“Sigeas, the—” She winced, and her fingernails made indentations in her surcoat as her hand closed tighter around the arrow. “The blood of your enemies covers you. You—you got your revenge. You can become a new man. Begin a new life. But—the choice is yours.”
Her son bowed his head, and his tears dotted the blanket. He said nothing.
“And the choice—Sigeas, the choice is yours to take or leave the baby. If you take the baby, remember what I taught you last night. Remember—” Her teeth ground together as they had earlier, and a short whine left her throat. “There’s no time. Be—prepared. Now, Sigeas.”
His chest heaved, and his eyes skipped across the camp. “What? Mother, you can’t—I can’t—You don’t have the strength to do this.”
She released her hands from her wound and stomach, and placed them on either side of his head. “I love you, my son. You are a great man, and will become greater.” Then she closed her eyes, returned her hands to their position, and said, “Now help me one last time. Will you do that for me?”
He nodded and moved to his designated spot, hardly able to see beyond the wall of his tears. His mother pushed, and pushed, while he prepared to accept the new child from her. With each surge of energy that she brought forth, he knew that she was one moment nearer to death. She pushed, and pushed. Although she had specified his duty well the previous night, he could only focus on her face, for he realized that there would soon be no animation in it. The thought of losing her pained him far more than his thoughts of his lost home, and of Pavius’s abuse of his mother, and of the many lives lost during Faseton’s fall. She pushed, and pushed. If only his father had urged him less in the practice with a sword, and educated him in the mending of wounds. Then he could give medical attention to her chest while she focused on her labor. She pushed, and pushed. He turned his attention to his duty and saw a head surface. Then, with a final, victorious cry and push, she released a new life into Sigeas’s hands. Her head rolled back against the boulder, and there was no more tension in her hands. A warm smile spread over her face, and she breathed no longer.
Sigeas observed her passing in horror. How she managed to seem so at peace as she departed, he did not understand; indeed, she appeared to be more welcoming toward her end than he was. He continued to look at her for some time, now weeping, now stunned. He believed he might awaken and find himself in his bed at Faseton, refreshed by a long sleep, and recalling the events of the past nine months only as one recalls a dream. His mother would be awake, also, and lively as ever, busying herself with the household chores of the day. But she was still dead, and he still mourned, and this new baby wriggled in his arms, groaning and crying. He took his clean dagger and cut the cord that connected the child to its deceased mother; he forced a pained laugh as he remembered thinking his mom was joking the previous night when she mentioned a fleshy cord reaching from her to the baby. Sitting down, he looked carefully at the child and noticed that it was a girl. The blood of birth marked her skin. He looked at his bloodied clothing and hands and then back at the baby, and grinned. “We’re not so different, really,” he said to her.
After spending more time mourning, thanking his mother for all that she had taught him, and praying for her safe passage into the heavens, he used one of the shelter’s stakes to dig a grave for her beside the boulders. It was still early morning when he finished. He kissed her forehead, placed her in the soft earth, and turned his attention to the baby, whom he had wrapped in a clean cloth and placed on a corner of the camp blanket. He stared down into the grave and muttered between tears, “I will protect her, mother. I swear to you, I will look after her. You said I’m a great man. She will be a great woman, just as you were. I love you.” He shoveled the earth into the pit, lifted additional prayers to the Gods, and disassembled the camp. After leaving behind what could not be borne on the way ahead, he scooped the baby into one arm, shouldered his pack, took his sword from the grass, and made for the stream he had used to sanitize his dagger. The watercourse ran from the southeast to the hazy western land, and in this region it curved around the base of a hill that dwarfed the knolls around it. He rounded the hill and found that the stream pooled at its southern slope, so he set the baby down and submerged himself in the pond to wash the blood from his body. Then he cleansed the baby by moistening her cloth and rubbing the blood off her skin.
Sigeas climbed to the crown of the hill and turned toward the northwest, his heart heavy. The boulders where he and his mother had camped rose from the earth ahead, marking her grave. A tear rolled down his cheek as his mind lapsed into the replaying of her death, but something on the horizon shattered his daze. The Eternal Flame of Harvidol leapt up again, small but visible, growing to eventually become the blazing fire that had burned the night before. A warm smile spread over his face, and his eyes fell to the baby in his arms. “The day is young, my sister,” he said to her. “Let’s go.” Then he turned and began his journey toward Ai-Tizuj as the sun climbed the eastern sky.
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