The caravan had stopped for rest. They had been moving for two days straight, pressed by hearsay that in the North, the King's army was being pushed back. There was no hard evidence of this – no envoys had come, no messengers to tell them to hurry. But the spirit that hung over them all was that of skepticism. Especially the Commander, the King's right hand himself – Lucas Doren veil app Skelik, by far the youngest and brightest strategist in the history of this dynasty – especially he could not sleep at night and edged the caravan on. This time, however, either they stopped, ate and slept, or he would be delivering the Royal Daughter to King Calvinus alone. And as much as the King loved and trusted him, even Lucas would have to pay with his head for risking the safety of the Heiress Apparent.
Mind you, dear reader, the Royal Princess was not what one normally expects princesses to be like. She was not prim and proper, and she had certainly never heard of being girly or dainty. Better yet, she strutted around with a giant sword across her back! But before you fall out of your chair, esteemed reader, know that, although most girls and women in this world had been reared to fulfill their God-given roles as wives and mothers, the royal blood of the dynasty that had ruled since time immemorial had in it something that not only made them kings over centuries, but something that made them not human. Or more than human, some said. It was also the reason why some members of the family of the female persuasion had been heard of wielding swords in place of ladles.
In the past, the forefathers of Calvinus were bloodthirsty brutes, who spent their days raping and pillaging, and conquering ever more land and gathering ever more treasure to fill their coffers. And amidst all that terror and rampant pursuit of egotistic pleasures, there was a woman, a bastard daughter of the greatest slaughterer in the family: Corrinth the Red. Her name was Mealilah. She was an avid witch. Raised on tales of woe and living with the disgrace of being her father's unholy spawn, Mealilah swore to put an end to the curse that her blood brought to the world.
Legend has it that while trying for the nth time to summon a demon, which she sought to ask to make all those of her blood barren, Mealilah called forth a Throne, and archangel from the Lord of All Things Himself. The magnificent creature had been aware of the plight that this blood was bringing to the world, but it had become so indignant at the means by which Mealilah tried in vain to resort to to put an end to it, that it scolded her greatly and told her that none of her blood would ever be made barren. In fact, they would all be blessed with fruitful offspring.
At this, Mealilah, exhausted and broken clear in half by what she had heard, fell down to the floor and, drawing her last breath, whispered that if this was what God wanted, she was glad to forsake such an unkind Master. But the Throne did not let her die. Instead, he handed her an alloy of metals from all edges of the world, contained in a vial, and said:
"If you have courage enough left in you, you will take this and see to it that a drop of it enters the mouths of all your kin. Thereupon, you will have saved this world from your cursed blood, and given it protectors from greater dangers and greater trials that await it ahead." Having said as much, the magnificent creature left.
Two days and one night did Mealilah lie on the floor of her incantation chamber, deep beneath the surface of the earth. On the third night, she took the vial and willed herself to her feet, and, taking with her only a walking stick and a warm cape, set out to find all of her kin. Legend also has it that when she became very old and had almost emptied the vial, the Throne appeared before her once more to tell her that it was time for her to die. Now the great mystery would be solved. The last of the alloy was for her to drink. The alloy would turn her body and the bodies of all those who drank it into swords – slender, long, chunky, blunt and sharp, each in the shape of their souls.
Sure enough, soon after grave robbers would find swords of all shapes and sizes inside coffins instead of bodies covered with jewelry. Whenever someone who had the cursed blood inside him lay hands on the sword, he became drawn to it and could wield it as if he had been born doing it. But if he used its edge to hurt those that did not deserve it, or wielded it without justice, a great searing pain would start coursing through his veins in place of blood. Many became little more than vegetables, incapable of walking or even holding their excrements.
And the swords changed hands, and again they punished those that used them for ill. Corrinth's successors tried in vain to seal the swords, to remove them as far as possible from themselves, but if it were not them who would be bound to wielding them for justice, they would soon die beheaded by kin, who gave themselves into the sword. It was a time where brothers fought brothers indeed. Over generations, the cursed blood became diluted and less and less young ones were born with an affinity for the strange swords.
By now, only one sword had remained within the kingdom. What happened to the others? No one was sure. Perhaps, having done their work and lost their influence, they fell to rust somewhere and the souls of those sealed inside could finally rest in peace, having cut down the evil they spawned. Perhaps they were again forged, but this time into ploughs or horseshoes. There are many versions. However, the sword that remained in the kingdom was now in the hands of the Royal Princess, Heiress Apparent, Mealilah IV, who had an affinity for it.
Before, when Calvinus was still a baby, a law was passed that no kinsman of the cursed blood was to ever take up a sword for fear that he should discover an affinity to it and continue on the hunt for his brother. Clerics had all agreed that the cursed blood had been thinned sufficiently and that the clan had atoned enough for their sins, and that the time had come for them to become the professed protectors of this world, as the Throne had told the first Mealilah, the Mother of Redemption. The clerics believed this to mean becoming guardians of the kingdom and of the people, forsaking all arms, not even keeping an army.
However, this policy – followed since Calvinus was a boy – finally led to the kingdom being left vulnerable to an attack from the North-East. An old and sickly man, but still with passion burning in his heart, Calvinus sought to mobilize his country to resist, even though it had not known war for generations now. Never in his time had Calvinus expected to regret that he had always ruled his people with a gentle hand, but there was also a reason to rejoice in all this. His eldest daughter, his darling little Mealilah would be able to return to him with her head raised, and as a hero.
As a young girl, Mealilah managed to find one of the catacombs where all the swords that could not be re-forged were left and forgotten. Unaware of the categorical law that forbid her to touch anything that had a blade on it, she reached for the first closest weapon she saw, amazed by the luster it had compared to all the others, consumed almost entirely by rust. The castle pages saw her walking out of the shadows in the long main hallway, thrusting and round housing the slender long sword as if she had been doing just that all her life. They ran to the Chamberlain, a man dead by now and at the time well ahead in years than King Calvinus, and well versed in the symptoms of the strange affinity to a blade. He said that the opalescent glow of the princess's eyes and the ease with which she could carry the blade twice her length and about her weight with just one hand was unmistakable.
Calvinus learned of everything moments before the Chamberlain was about to leave with the child to hide her away in a monastary. He could not say goodbye to her, for fear that she might strike him. Three of the palace guards had to hold His Majesty back, as he watched the still entranced Mealilah, clutching the long sword inside its sheath, being whisked away to the other end of the kingdom. There she had been until this day, when her affinity was no longer a curse – for she had had time to master the sword under the careful eye of the monastery's sisters, and to resist the control it had over her. In the face of the threat to the kingdom, it had stopped being a crime and turned into a blessing that might yet help save it from invaders.
Lucas was busy analyzing maps and making measurements when the princess stepped into his tent.
"Your Highness. Welcome. Take your seat. I shall be with you shortly," he said, glancing over his shoulder and returning immediately to his maps after showing her a cushion. She stood in the entrance for a while, examining his back, then strode forward slowly and plumped down on the cushion. The sword was hanging across her back. It was always with her, even when she slept.
Lucas finished plotting a course, put his instruments away, and went over to pour two glasses of wine. He handed one to Mealilah and sat on a cushion opposite her.
"Glad to have you with us, Your Highness," he started, toasting.
"Pleasure to be here," she answered, raising her cup. They each took a sip. Mealilah looked into his face. She had an intense gaze, as if she was searching for something, expecting something specific. Lucas could not help trying to avoid making eye contact.
"I understand you had been briefed on our situation," he started again, turning his cup in his hands and focusing on it deliberately.
"Yes."
"We should take advantage of the fact that there are valleys located to the north-east. When the first wave comes, we should put all our efforts into keeping the enemy below us. Anything we can hurl, shoot, throw, or pour from on high, we should use. His Majesty has agreed to mobilize archers and pelleteers there. I do not know how long we can hold them there before they start dividing and circling the mountains. However long that takes, I would like to ask you, Your Highness, to train the peasants in the use of a sword. You may have a week, two weeks at most. I know an army cannot be prepared in such a short time, but it is the best we can do. I have already ordered my officers to recruit and train people in villages, to help them build fortifications, so that they might survive the first wave. Can I put my trust in you?"
"Yes."
