Hard Vacuum: Short Episodes In The Future

The Sword

Free from the mountains, the black fur clad figure trod solitary tracks across the white snow covered fields.

As Belize marched, she could taste the ice on the air. A storm was coming.

Ahead, she could see the old shaman. He never seemed to walk anywhere. He just appeared when he came. He stood in his furs, holding his staff, capped with the sharp, curved horn of the sickle-ram. His face was scarred, and though old, his trunk was solid. He was likely a warrior in his youth.

"You'll have my payment, old man, or we will see if you can still fight," she stopped beyond striking range between her spear and his staff.

"The gods are not yet done with you."

Belith spat on the ground, "To hell with the gods. I serve not even them."

Suddenly, like a trap spring that was triggered by its prey, she launched from her spot. Her cloak left behind, she was on the shaman before it could fall to the ground.

The shaman too was nimble and ready to parry. He stepped to her weak side and knocked the spear's point into the snow.

White powder sprayed at her landing. Corded muscles moved like a snake. Her pale flesh rippled with savage strength and the agility of a tiger. She recovered swiftly enough to catch the over-extended strike of the old man, and he was soon laid out on his back.

"My payment," she now loomed over him with a scowl, the stone tip of her spear in his face. He noticed her muscled body was fully tattooed with the blue stripes of the demipanther, a large and fearsome predator that hunted humans in the Black Wood. It was not luck that she survived his last task.

"Aye, your payment," he produced the weapon from under his robes, and Belith snatched it up from his hands.

She tossed the spear aside and unwrapped the blade from its leather package. It was a sword, the blade made from a green stone that showed orange like fire where it's edge had been honed. It was colder and harder than any stone she had ever seen.

"It's copper," the shaman sat himself up on his elbows, "the rare metal of the Ubaidian people. It makes them unbeatable in battle against the stones of other tribes."

Belith tested it, cutting at the air.

"You must continue west," the old man stood, gathering his breath, "The gods will curse your blade if you do not continue to the Witchtower to face the golem and its master."

"Send your gods. We will see if they bleed."

"You have nowhere else to go. The Ubaidians are numerous, and you cannot defeat them all. You will go if you want to topple Hurimbaba from his temple. You will need the gods if you want your revenge, though you respect them not."

Belith slashed at the air again, "I'll take that fool's head just as I took..."

She turned, but the shaman was gone, no prints and no trace. Only the sword she held was left as evidence.