A Warrior's Soul

A black tiger in brilliant white armor twitched his tail before rising and walking a few feet from his master. He halted on the edge of a cliff and looked down at the dark and narrow channel. He was a mighty beast of the Netherworld and carried the two majestic Swords of Fervor on either side of his armor. His nose quivered as he smelt death and decay riding on the faint wind and his ears echoed with the thunder of a marching army. The tiger’s roar echoed across the vast and desolate landscape, disturbing the silent dawn.
“I know, Black Blaze,” spoke his tranquil master, “The Dynasty is on the move.”
The tiger returned to the resting warrior’s side and closed his eyes as his master stroked his head. Saber Strike had been sleeping underneath a jagged formation of rocks and had draped his cape around himself for protection against the foul elements found in the Netherworld outskirts.
“Talpa is not content with poisoning our, once great, palace but must spread his corruption to the farthest corners of the Netherworld.”
Saber Strike was surprising for a Dynasty Warlord. He relied on neither trickery nor brute strength, but on his own skills with the blade. Like all who lived within the Netherworld, he was a spirit of great power and ferocity. Whereas most of their armor reflected the demons they were, Saber Strike was almost recognizably human in form. His helmet was light and vertical, avoiding the drag that many of the other helmets would have given him. He had one spare plume that had lost its magnificence during his travels and his face mask was a solid sheet of metal that traveled from his eyes to his chin. His lithe frame and his solidary breastplate often led the other Warlords to underestimate him and his speed made them regret their arrogance. He had once enjoyed making fools out of the likes of Dala and Saranbou, but that was long ago, back when his master had been alive. He continued to stroke the tiger’s head, eternally grateful that his master had gifted Black Blaze to him during his last moments. With the tiger came his famed blades, the Swords of Fervor, the blades that could only be used by someone with the warrior’s soul. Saber Strike shifted as he, too, heard marching. There was only one warlord who commanded an army this far out. He wearily rose to his feet and followed Black Blaze to the edge of the cliff while draping his cape around his shoulders once more. He looked down and his narrow, glowing blue eyes flashed from the depths of his mask. Just as he suspected: Dala.
“Faster, you weaklings, faster. We mustn’t keep Master Talpa waiting,” ordered the bloated and cruel warlord, his nasal voice piercing Saber Strike’s weary head.
It would take hours for Dala to move his men through the narrow channel, something the general had obviously not planned for. Then again, he had never been the smartest of the warlords. Even when he was younger, Dala had relied on his brutal strength more than his brains or his skills with a sword. He had been easily flattered and overawed by military displays, which was why he was the first to bow to Talpa’s madness. Dala had allowed himself to lose his vigor and speed, adopting Talpa’s philosophy that the way of the warrior was dead. Now, Dala relied on his massive army (a gift from the mad demon himself) and whatever power Talpa chose to share with him. To call him a warlord was an insult to the great warriors of the past. Saber Strike glanced at the two swords that Black Blaze carried for him. To wipeout Dala’s bloat form from the Netherworld would be a great service to the Dynasty, but the Soul Swords weren’t meant to settle petty quarrels. Their power was reserved for a nobler cause. He was about to turn when he realized that Dala’s men were marching towards the palace-he was being recalled. Saber Strike hmmed and jumped down until he reached a platform where he knew Dala would notice him, Black Blaze landing in front of him. Protective tiger.
“Greetings, Dala, master of cacophony,” he called, Dala bringing his giant black steed to a halt.
Dala wore thick, dragging armor that slowed him down during a fight. His helmet was wide, with three massive horns sticking out of either side of his head, and his mask covered his entire face, reminding Saber Strike of a bug he had once seen in the mortal world. A pray mantis, he believed the mortals called it. His helmet draped down over his shoulders, Dala believing it would protect his neck. It would also make it hard for him to turn his head.
“Ah, if it isn’t the wandering swordsman. Have you slunk from underneath your rock to see my magnificent army?”
His green armor wearing men steadily marched passed, like a coursing river. Saber Strike intently watched them, realizing this was his entire army. Why would Talpa recall Dala’s forces from the extreme outpost?
“I came to seek the source of the racket. Is this a field exercise, Dala?”
The boisterous warlord’s entire frame shook as he laughed. It was mocking and cruel and made Saber Strike finger’s twitch, wishing his blades were in his hands.
“You don’t know? Lord Saber Strike, master of blades, legendary swordsman of the Dynasty, doesn’t know.”
Dala kept laughing and Saber Strike grunted in impatience.
“Then again, what use would you be? A follower of a dying creed, too proud to acknowledge that he has become obsolete. The future, Saber Strike, is in mass armies and the harnessing of energies, not in your toothpicks.”
Saber Strike took a warrior’s stance and almost reached for his blades when he realized that this was what Dala wanted. He would love to march through the main gate carrying Saber Strike’s head, his massive army in tow.
“At least I have a creed, unlike you, who follows whoever sits in the palace. You who have grown fat and slow.”
“Fat and slow!”
Dala growled, and his horse stepped nervously, channeling his master’s rage.
“I could have you killed where you stand, Saber Strike.”
“Yes, rely on your men to protect you. You wouldn’t dare challenge me to a fight, not after the last time you insulted my honor. If my master had not interceded, I would have taken your left eye, followed by your right.”
Dala wrapped his hand around his sword and Saber Strike tightened, his hands ready to dart forward and grab his blades, Black Blaze growling and trembling with anticipation. They stood there, waiting for the other to move first, neither wanting to be the first one to draw their blade, the heavy footsteps of the Dynasty soldiers echoing in the narrow channel. Dala laughed.
“I see you are as easy to bait as ever, Saber Strike. That could be dangerous, now, that your master is no longer here to protect you.”
Saber Strike scoffed, noticing that Dala’s fingers were still wrapped around the handle of his sword.
“However, you are lucky for today I do not have time to waste. Master Talpa will not wait on me and I do not want to miss the invasion.”
Saber Strike’s eyes flashed, and he gasped.
“Invasion?”
“Yes, Master Talpa has called the most faithful and powerful of us to the palace,” said Dala, “We are to invade the mortal realm.”
Silence followed Dala’s words, the shock so great Saber Strike no longer noticed the army or Dala’s laughter. He wouldn’t dare. Talpa was mad!
“Surely, you jest, Dala,” said Saber Strike, his voice unsteady.
“Not this time, wanderer.”
“But it is madness!”
“Ah, I see, now, the real reason Master Talpa did not call for you. You’re a coward.”
Saber Strike growled and drew his katanas, their magic power singing as they sliced the air. Dala could only gasp, too slow to even draw his sword.
“Now, Saber Strike,” he blubbered.
“I am no coward, Dala,” he commanded, his deep voice bristling, “but I am no fool either. This invasion will be the destruction of us all.”
Saber Strike laughed as Dala finally drew his sword, and he leapt from the platform, flying over the soldiers fumbling with their arrows. Dala shouted commands as his troops fired into the air, each arrow following Saber Strike’s path. There was a sharp clash as Dala barely managed to block Saber Strike’s attack. The two blades were crossed as they pressed against Dala’s blade, the giant general grunting as his muscles tired. Saber Strike kicked off Dala’s chest, knocking him off his horse, and Saber Strike leapt backwards, landing on his feet like an elegant cat. Black Blaze was holding the troop’s back as Dala rolled over, dodging Saber Strike’s second attack.
“Come now, Dala. What will Talpa say when he hears you didn’t even deliver a single blow against me?”
Dala lumbered to his feet and held out his massive blade.
“You insolent dog!”
He shouted as he barreled towards Saber Strike, who nimbly leapt over the general, slashed at his back, cutting through his arm as if it was made out of paper. Dala yelled and tumbled around, Saber Strike bringing the tip of his blade to his chin.
“You are a fool, Saber Strike,” Dala puffed although Saber Strike knew he was scared, “None can withstand Master Talpa’s might, neither here or in the mortal world.”
It would be easy, one step forward and he could jab his blade into Dala’s head, wiping out a deep stain from the Dynasty’s honorable record. He tightened, ready to finish the warlord off, when he heard his blade’s refusal. They had been crafted for a greater foe.
“You are wrong, Dala,” Saber Strike sighed, withdrawing his blade, “Come, Black Blaze, we will waste no more time here.”
He turned and jumped back up to the top of the cliff, Black Blaze following.
“You are a coward and a fool, wanderer!” Dala called after him, “You hear me? A coward and a fool!”

Black Blaze ran ahead, enjoying the rough terrain, as Saber Strike followed at a crawl, lost in thought. The land was barren and cavernous, and each step could be one’s last if one wasn’t careful. One of the greatest battles of the Dynasty had been fought here, back when Saber Strike’s master and Talpa were young. He had traveled to this spot after his master’s death because it was the only place in the Netherworld that wasn’t tainted by Talpa. But now, he could feel the demon’s power in the dirt and he could hear his mad laughter in the wind. He was consuming the Netherworld, bending it to his will, bringing only decay and dishonor. And now he was eying the mortal realm. His master had spoken often about the mortal world in awe and concern. Saber Strike had only visited the mortal realm once, with his master. He had been brought him to the resting place of the Swords of Fervor and had been that only a being with a warrior’s soul could wield them. A warrior’s soul. Would a warrior have allowed Dala to anger him? Would a warrior run from a fight? If the Dynasty was going to invade the mortal realm, why hadn’t he joined their ranks? Was it because he would have to follow Talpa’s commands? Was his pride getting in the way of his duty? If a warrior did not serve a master, who did he serve? Saber Strike gave a start as Black Blaze’s fur rose, his ears went back, and he growled furiously. The wind turned into a tornado and he heard the deep moans of the Netherspirits.
“Careful, Black Blaze,” said Saber Strike, drawing his swords.
The white Netherspirits took the form of imperial scholars with long, eyeless faces, their power battering Saber Strike, threatening to blow him away. He crouched down with a grunt, his cape billowing behind him, as Black Blaze roared. The spirits began to chant, and their icy cold fingers wrapped around his limbs, sapping his strength and will to resist.
“Begone, dogs of Talpa!” he shouted as he rose and slashed the spirits.
They cried and retreated into the swirling winds, their moans and screams growing louder.
“Is that anyway to greet an old friend, Saber Strike?”
Badamon, master of the Netherspirits and powerful advisor to Talpa! He should have known.
“If your intentions are friendly, then stop cowering and face me!”
The winds picked up, pushing Saber Strike back a few feet, before parting, revealing a man wearing a heavy robe hovering above him. His skin was almost a translucent green and his face was long and drawn out, like a horse. His long, black beard swayed in the powerful winds and his merciless black eyes looked down at Saber Strike as if he was irritating insect.
“I mean no harm, Lord Saber Strike, master swordsman. I come bearing a message from our lord and master, the great Talpa.”
“Your lord, your master,” said Saber Strike, pointing towards the spirit with one of his swords.
“Our master,” Badamon ignored, “demands you return to the palace and take part in our glorious invasion of the mortal realm.”
“So, Dala was telling the truth. Talpa has gone mad.”
“Those are the words of a fool, Lord Saber Strike, which I know you are not.”
Saber Strike adjusted his footing and tightened his grip on his blades.
“I know you and Master Talpa have differed in the past, but you belong on the battlefield. How long has it been since your blades have tasted blood? How long have you wandered this wretched wasteland, denying yourself the rewards of a Dynasty warlord? Our master is willing to overlook your many insults, and handsomely reward you, if you stand by his side and assist him in his take over of the mortal world. You are the greatest swordsman we have in the Netherworld and the mortals should learn to fear your blades.”
“You cannot flatter me into submission, Badamon. I know your lies too well to fall for them.”
“The mortal realm is weak and ripe for the taking,” Badamon argued, “Why do you refuse to take part in an assured victory?”
“There is no honor found in slaughter,”
“You have grown soft, Lord Saber Strike. A true Dynasty warlord would gladly lead the unstoppable forces of the Netherworld to conquer a new realm for our great and powerful master Talpa.”
Saber Strike lowered his swords and glanced at Black Blaze who was growling in barely contained anticipation. A true Dynasty warlord…was that who he was? He looked down at his swords as they spoke to him. Yes, but who’s Dynasty? These swords had been wielded by the greatest of the Netherworld’s warriors for a noble cause. If he were to heed Talpa’s command, what would he be fighting for?
“A warrior neither trades his soul nor fights for slaves,” said Saber Strike, drawing his swords in a crossed stance, waiting for Badamon’s attack, “I know why Talpa craves the mortal world. He wishes to feed on their souls and use the remains as slave labor. Tell him, Badamon, I refuse to take part in his insanity.”
“Be careful with that you say, Saber Strike, before you seal your doom,” Badamon frowned.
Saber Strike merely grunted in response and Black Blaze jumped in front of him and roared. The spirits flinched, but Badamon merely raising a thin eyebrow.
“Out of respect for your late master, I will give you a day to reconsider your refusal, Saber Strike.”
“There is nothing to reconsider.”
“One day!”
Badamon and the Netherspirits merged into one and swirled around Saber Strike, sapping him of his power and strength, feeling his head with nightmares, before knocking him to the ground and soaring across the desolation, back to the dark palace that could be seen in the distance. Black Blaze nuzzled Saber Strike’s face and the swordsman gingerly rose, the Netherspirits attacks were the most dangerous in the Netherworld for they did not attack their targets physically, but spiritually. Saber Strike sheathed the Swords of Fervor and looked across the land at the palace that had become shrouded in fog and darkness. There was a rumble of thunder, and black clouds covered the celestial sky before flashing with lightning and erupting in a downpour that reflected Talpa’s rage.
“Come, Black Blaze,” said Saber Strike, the rain dripping down his helmet and mask, “Let us find shelter.”

The teeming rain echoed within the damp cave, Blaze Black pacing the entrance as Saber Strike sat cross legged in the dark, staring at the Swords of Fervor laid out before him. How he wished his master was here. Take the Swords of Fervor. They will faithfully serve you so long as you retain a warrior’s soul. Those were the last words his master said to him before succumbing to his wounds. He had resisted Talpa, before the mad demon’s rise to power. Saber Strike had arrived too late to be of use. In his arrogance, he had skipped his training with his master that day to explore the outskirts with Dala and Saranbou, when they were still and uncorrupted. Now Dala followed every one of Talpa’s whims and Saranbou resentfully bowed before the long, white haired demon. How far they had fallen…when Saber Strike returned, he found his master crumbled on the ground, his chest caved in. He had tumbled to his master’s side, willing to follow him to the beyond, but his master gave him a new charge instead. Follow the way of the warrior, fight with honor, and live in rebellion against Talpa’s madness. But that was before Talpa ruled all the Netherworld. Now, Saber Strike had no other master except the dynasty. But the dynasty was Talpa. His very will shaped the landscape and twisted the inhabitants. Saber Strike could feel him in this very cave and, with the Netherspirits on his side, it would not be long before the Netherworld would forget there had been a time before Talpa’s dark reign. Talpa, the demon that respected neither creed nor honor, the demon that betrayed his own comrades in arms to achieve ultimate power, Talpa who would risk invading the mortal realm after their kind had been banished from that land long ago. They said that an order had been created to defend the world should anyone else try to conquer the mortal realm. Was Talpa willing to risk their wrath? Their last invasion had led to banishment of the entire Netherworld, what would this invasion lead to? Ultimate destruction of the Dynasty? Even if he won and the mortal realm was theirs, would it be worth all that death and destruction? The mortals would rebel, and they would be slaughtered. If the mortal’s order failed, they would have no other weapons to withstand Talpa’s wrath. There would be no honor in their conquest. It would be a massacre and it would taint all who fought by Talpa’s side.

Thunder rolled across the land and flashes of lightning illuminated the cave, causing Black Blaze to roar, and Saber Strike to stiffen. What could a warrior do when the only paths open to him were madness and dishonor? Should he take the Swords of Fervor to conquer another realm? Would he taint their metal with the blood of innocents? As he stared at the blades, he could hear their powerful magic, and knew they would abandon him if he indulged in Talpa’s maniacal need for domination. These were swords crafted for an honorable warrior, not a depraved tyrant. But the others had already answered the call-Badamon, Dala, Saranbou-and with them came armies of unstoppable soldiers and powerful spirits. His absence would be meaningless. The armies would march, Talpa would break through into the other realm, and innocents would be slaughtered while he sat here, in this cave, weathering one final storm until…He studied the long, narrow blades, listening to their command. He could not march with Talpa and he could not remain here while the battle was being waged. Could a warrior turn against the lord of his homeland? Even though Saber Strike disagreed with Talpa and all he stood for, he had never raised a blade against him. He was the master of this world. Could a warrior rebel against his own master?
“Talpa is not my master.”
As soon as he said it, the pointlessness that he had been ignoring since his master’s death, overwhelmed him. He had been without a master the moment Talpa destroyed he only warrior he respected. He had exiled himself to these lands because he was denied the right to die with his master and because Talpa had turned the Dynasty into a dishonorable parody of its former glory. But even that wasn’t enough anymore. Talpa had found a way to dishonor him once more. He could not fight with Talpa’s hordes and Talpa knew he could not stay behind. If Saber Strike marched into the palace and denied Talpa’s request, then he would be killed. He was a master swordsman, but even he could not take on the full might of the Dynasty alone. If he marched into that palace and followed Talpa’s forces into the mortal realm, he would be betraying everything his master had ever taught him.
“Is it my fate to die before the gates of the Dynasty?” he asked the blades, “To stain my homeland with my own blood while another realm is conquered? Master, is that what you spared me for?”
He looked around the dark, damp cave, Black Blaze staring at him intently, and the storm raged on. Lord Saber Strike, last of an abandoned creed, murdered by Talpa’s mad dogs in front of the palace that was once a cause of pride, while a weak and innocent realm burned. Was that truly his fate?
“I deny it!” he shouted as he rose to his feet, “I am Lord Saber Strike, master swordsman of the Netherworld, last true warlord of the Dynasty. I refuse to be slaughtered on the grave of another realm.”
He would fight. He grasped the swords and held them in front of him, and he could feel their cool anger growing beneath his fingertips, their intensity matching his own. Yes, he would fight, but not as a conqueror. No, the only life these blades would claim would be Talpa’s. When a warrior had no master to fight for, he could only fight for his own realm. No, he would fight for two worlds: his own homeland and the mortal world. If he won in his battle against Talpa, he would become the new master of the Netherworld. The realization weighed heavily against his soul. He had never wanted the throne, but what choice did he have? If he defeated Talpa, he could stop the invasion, reclaim this land, and restore the honor of its past. Saber Strike ran outside, into the teeming rain and howling winds, and shouted, “I know you can hear me, Talpa! Listen now, I challenge you for mastery of the Dynasty. I will meet you in the mortal realm and I will defeat you in fair combat.”
The howling winds grew in intensity, threatening to blow Saber Strike away.
“Your madness must be brought to an end, Talpa, for the sake of our own realm!”

The mortal realm was warm and bursted with life. He and Black Blaze strode through the forest that hummed with the passing of insects and the chirping of birds. As they walked, Saber Strike could feel the air change, decay wafted along the gentle breeze, the world grew colder, and he knew Talpa had entered. He trusted the mad demon to honor his challenge and to come alone. Talpa was many things, but he would not want to appear a coward in front of the likes of Dala and Saranbou. Black Blaze roared as they approached a portion of the forest that was dead. The trees were ashen forms of themselves and collapsed at the gentlest touch, the ground was barren, and sharp cliffs had risen on their own. This was Talpa’s work, a taste of the horror he would unleash upon this mortal realm. He hesitated before taking another step and rested a hand on Black Blaze’s head. He wasn’t sure if it was a final farewell or a mere warning to be patient. The dark tiger had been with him since the death of their master and he knew that as long as the tiger stayed by his side, then his master approved of his actions. But this, a warlord rebelling against the ruler of the Netherworld was unheard of. Yet, Black Blaze remained, and the swords continued to listen to his commands. As he stared in the dark and desolate wasteland that had followed Talpa into the mortal world, he knew this would be his last stand. Talpa was powerful, but he was slow, and he relied too much on trickery and the dark forces of the Netherworld. He would not survive in fair combat. Saber Strike glanced down at the Swords of Fervor and could feel his master’s presence.
“Come, Black Blaze, let us face our fate together, one last time.”
He stepped into the darkness, towards his final battle.