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New Fiction - A Good Use for an Old Sword
Calvin Crowner
06 Aug 2010


Dawn loved rain.

Unfortunately there had not been any for several weeks. Nothing to be concerned about,
she kept telling herself. There had been no natural or political fires during this time either.
For that she was truly thankful.

So she decided to make some time to play.

With Avery taken up to the life of drinking and fishing, and telling war tales most of his days,
Dawn was reduced to sparring with several of her elite guard during the afternoons.

Each came at her with the zeal of a mongbat. Their form was true enough, and they
hefted their blades with enough skill, but there seemed no true art or experience behind
their movement. Their stance and attacks were measured, methodical, and wholly and excruciatingly predictable.

“I really ought to find a way to get these dullards better trained,” Dawn thought to herself
as she swung and stepped into the gut of one of her opponents. She withheld a killing blow
offering a sharp strike to his gut with the butt of her blade instead. The man fell in a gasping
pale heap at her feet … for the fifth time. Shrugging as the other two approached, Dawn raised
a gloved hand … “Hold. Go bring friends,” she spoke aloud.

The two shuffled off.

She needed more than this. With no actual invasions or roaming gargantuan minions of
evil she was at a loss among all the paperwork and sorting residential disputes for merchants
encroaching on other merchants. Why couldn’t folks find any harmony in peace?

More importantly … why couldn’t she herself just enjoy what it meant to walk in the gardens
of the castle proper? Why did she feel more at peace when she had a straight up battle to
fight fighting through ash and the smell of charred flesh in her nostrils?

Why did she want to break every soft sounding instrument she heard throughout the castle
and ask them to play a thrilling march instead?

Her blade found its way securely to its sheath. It sank with a comforting song of leather and metal.

One of her haphazard throng of advisors stepped into view … eyeing her weapon warily …
“Your Grace … we have news on some skirmishes with the Meer and the Chosen.”

“Continue.” Dawn tried to suppress the smile to her lips. She was certain she was successful.
Even if she was a warrior in her mind … she was by all accounts a woman with all attributes and
wiles associated therewith.

The man continued, an attempt to adjust his stature in the presence of the warrior matriarch.
“Well, Your Grace … we have taken note of demon scouts appearing in various areas of Britannia.
Currently we cannot connect them to the Chosen, but we have noticed that with every
appearance of the demons, the Chosen are soon to follow. Also, might I comment that
your form in the arena this afternoon was mesmerizingly graceful?”

Dawn felt herself cringe under the compliment, allowing herself a bit of fun she responded,
“You might comment on it, if this were an actual arena, and also if you thought you might not feel
the end of this blade yourself. “ She lowered her gaze a bit, her voice cool in the torrid heat of the
afternoon …”So I’ll let it pass as if nothing occurred.”

She paused, watching her words find a perch in his mind. “What other news do you have beyond
speculation and skirmish reports?”

The advisor recovered from a stammer, “Nothing more of note, Your Grace. The crystal is still
secure in Castle Britannia. We’ve had to change out the guard more frequently, though.”

“Why?,” inquired Dawn with a bit of interest.

“Well it seems that the lapse of actual battle has made our guards a bit … stir crazy?
The longer they are asked to guard the artifact the more unstable they become.
It’s the only way I can explain the onset of madness with which they’ve been stricken.”

Dawn felt an unsettling tremor in her chest, “Madness?”

“Yes, Your Grace, “he continued “and they all speak of some strange dreams they are
troubled with … yet they cannot wait to return to slumber in hopes of feeling the thrill of said nightmare over and again.”

Dawn was familiar with the thrill. She felt her hand slip to the pommel of her broadsword
again, its familiarity welcoming as always. “I’ll visit the Meer encampments myself. “

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Demons. Madness. Heat. All related or just events that seem related?

As she turned toward the stables a familiar voice greeted her from her flank, her blade rose
in response to the surprise …

Dasha smiled as she stood in the path to the stables, “My goodness, is that the way to greet the
most decorated officer of a besieged people? Not to mention a good friend …”

For Dawn, the day suddenly became much brighter.
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