by Cora Buhlert
in Issue 130, November 2022
”Careful, Grandfather,” Gael said, “Don’t try to get up. You’re too weak…”
Grandfather was old, frail, and – time to face the truth – dying, but nonetheless he shook off Gael with surprising strength.
“No, boy, this is important. You have to listen…”
A coughing fit cut off the old man’s words. Gael patted his back until the coughs subsided.
“Lie down, Grandfather. Whatever it is, you can tell me later, once you’ve rested.”
“Later will be too late. I’m dying, boy. Now don’t look so shocked. Did you think I didn’t know? But that’s all right. I’ve had a good long life. And you’ll have a good long life, too. If you listen to me now…”
Gael did not want to listen. The cow needed milking, the pigs and the chickens needed feeding, the garden needed tending and Grandfather needed to rest.
When he was still well, Grandfather had always been the hardworking, silent type. But illness and old age had made him talkative. Those twin plagues had also taken Grandfather’s memories and left him confused regarding what was real and what was not. And so Grandfather sometimes talked of battles he’d fought and enemies he’d slain by the dozens. Even though back when he was still well and Gael had asked Grandfather about the war, he’d always said that he’d only cooked for the soldiers and shooed the horses of the cavalry. “Best way to survive a war,” he’d said with a wink.
But suddenly Grandfather had been the greatest warrior of them all and apparently won the war singlehandedly, at least if you believed his stories. No, Grandfather’s memories and his mind were truly gone, so he filled the void with tales of improbable heroism.
Normally, Gael did not mind indulging him. After all, the stories were entertaining and Grandfather not long for this world. But the farm didn’t take care of itself. And ever since the fever took his parents, his sister Anora got married and Grandfather fell ill, Gael was the only one left to do the work.
“I have to milk the cow, Grandfather,” Gael said and gently tried to pry the old man’s finger off his wrist, “You can tell me all about your adventures during the war later.”
“No.” Grandfather’s grip on Gael’s wrist was like iron. “It needs to be now, for I don’t know how much longer I have. The cow can wait.”
Prying Grandfather loose without hurting him was impossible, so Gael sat down again. “All right. But don’t blame me, if the cow gets sick, ’cause she hasn’t been milked.”
“Cows can go two or three days without milking,” Grandfather said, “And I don’t have that long. Now listen, boy. Under my bed, there is a box. Get it for me.”
Now, Grandfather finally did let go of Gael, who bent down to look under the bed. And indeed, there was a box. A fine box of polished wood. Gael had never seen it before, in all the eighteen years he’d been living in this house.
He pulled out the box. It was surprisingly heavy. Gael showed it to Grandfather. “Is this the one?”
Grandfather nodded. “Aye, it is. And now open it.”
So Gael opened the box. Inside was a sword, resting on a bed of velvet. Not one of the plain dull swords that farm boys turned common soldiers used, but a shining blade with a jeweled hilt like those that noblemen and kings used. Or at least, Gael imagined that noblemen and kings used swords like this one since he’d never seen either up close.
How had Grandfather come by such a fine blade and why had he never shown it to anyone before?
“Oh, she is a beauty, is she not?” Grandfather let his bony fingers run along the blade. “She still sings to me, too. Sometimes I think that if I could still draw her, I’d be young and strong again. But my time is over.”
He shook his head. Then he pushed himself up in bed and looked Gael straight in the eye.
“Listen, boy, I want you to have my blade. Keep her safe and never ever sell her or give her away.”
Gael looked down at the beautiful sword and imagined how much gold he’d get if he sold it. He could buy a pig, more chickens, maybe even a second cow.
“But I don’t know how to wield a sword.”
“Do you think I knew how to wield one? I was a cook and blacksmith during the war, not a warrior. But with a blade like this, you don’t need to know anything. The blade does all the work.”
Grandfather gripped Gael’s hand again.
“She served me well all those years ago, when I found her on the battlefield, and she’ll serve you well, too. Just promise me that you’ll never ever give her away or sell her. Promise me, boy. ‘Cause when the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”
So Gael promised. He promised that he’d keep the sword and would never give it away. And once Gael had made that promise, Grandfather relaxed. He closed his eyes and began to snore, so Gael took the opportunity to quickly go outside and see to the cow and the pigs and the chickens.
But first, he closed the box with the sword. It wouldn’t do for it to get stolen.
Grandfather died that night, peacefully in his sleep. And after Gael had buried him and came home to his now empty house, his gaze fell on the box that still stood on the table.
He opened the box and looked at the sword. It was truly beautiful, of excellent craftsmanship, a blade worthy of a king. And selling it would solve so many of Gael’s problems.
But he’d given Grandfather his word he wouldn’t sell it. And you didn’t break a word you’d given a dying man. Besides, this sword had clearly meant a lot to Grandfather and it was all that Gael had left of him, all he’d left of his family.
Therefore, he’d keep his word to Grandfather and he’d keep the sword, too. Though he wouldn’t leave it in a box under the bed. It was much too beautiful for that.
So Gael looked around the little cabin and grabbed the sword. A jolt shot up his arm – like the sensation when you walked through the wet grass carrying a metal bucket – as he touched the hilt. For the space of a heartbeat, he thought he heard a whisper in his mind, singing a song of war and blood and glory. Then Gael hung the sword on a peg above the fireplace and the whisper ceased.
He shook his head. Being alone made him imagine things.
Gael did not stay alone for long. Barely a year after Grandfather had passed, he married Carys, a girl from the village. And soon two children were playing in the cabin and the garden, a boy and a little girl.
Years passed. And through it all, Grandfather’s sword always hung in its place of honour above the fireplace. People often asked about the sword and once in a while, a travelling merchant wanted to buy it. But Gael always refused.
“My Grandfather brought it back from the war,” Gael said whenever someone asked about the sword, “I don’t know how he came by it. He never talked much about the war. But when he died, he said that he wanted me to have it.”
Once in a while, Gael took the sword down from its place of honour above the fireplace to polish it. And whenever he did, he felt the same jolt he’d felt on that first day. It was almost as if the blade were whispering to him, singing songs of war and blood and glory.
The last great war had ended before Gael was even born. Throughout his life, all twenty-six years of it, he’d only ever known peace and quiet. He thought that he’d die knowing nothing else and so would his children.
But then the war returned to the land. It came in the form of travellers bearing news of fighting at the border, in the form of the King’s soldiers marching through the village on their way to the front and in the form of caravans full of refugees fleeing the fighting and talking of death and massacres and villages burned to the ground.
Once, when he’d been younger, Gael would have joined the soldiers and gone off to fight. But that was past now. He was a farmer, a husband, a father, a family man. War was for other men, younger men who were single and had neither family nor other responsibilities.
So Gael tended his fields and the garden and milked the cow and fed the pigs and chickens and reaped the harvest in the fall.
Meanwhile, the war drew steadily closer. Where the caravans of refugees had once come from towns far away in the borderlands, they now came from places that were only one or two days away. And the news that the refugees brought was ever more desperate. The King’s forces were losing, driven back by the black-armoured legions of an enemy that knew no mercy.
One day, while Gael was out in the field, he heard the thumping of catapults in the distance and saw the smoke of burning villages on the horizon. The war was coming.
That night, Gael and Carys debated whether they, too, should flee. After all, they’d heard stories of what the enemy did to the people in the towns and villages they conquered, terrible stories of people slaughtered and whole towns burned to the ground.\
“You go,” Gael said, “At first light tomorrow, take the children and go to your aunt in the capital. You’ll be safe there.”
“But what about you?” Carys wanted to know. Her hand was resting on her belly, where their third child was growing.
“The barley is almost ripe. I’ll only stay until the harvest, then I’ll follow.” Gael kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. And if all else fails…”
He threw a glance at the sword that was hanging above the fireplace, its blade gleaming in the firelight.
“…I’ve still got Grandfather’s sword.”
“But you don’t even know how to use it,” Carys pointed out.
Gael flashed her a reassuring smile. “Neither did Grandfather.”
The next morning, Gael saw Carys and the children off in their only cart. Then he went to milk the cow, feed the pigs and the chickens, and see if the barley was ready yet. He’d follow Carys soon, just as he’d promised. Once the barley was ripe.
But in the end, the war came to the village before the barley was ripe.
Gael was in the shed, milking the cow, when he heard the screams. He ran out, just in time to see a soldier on horseback cut down his neighbour Morag in the street. The old woman collapsed, bloody entrails pouring out of her split belly. They’d killed Morag, a harmless gossip who’d never harmed a fly in his life.
The soldier spotted Gael. In his black armour and with his horned helmet, he looked like a member of the legions of hell itself. And who knew, maybe he was?
The dark soldier spurred his horse and galloped towards Gael, sword raised high above his head.
Gael turned and ran, knocking over the half-full bucket of milk. He ran for the cabin, closed the door, and slammed home the bar. Not that it would keep the enemy out for long. His gaze fell on the sword in his place of honour above the fireplace.
He heard Grandfather’s voice, as clear as if he were here in the room and not dead and buried for eight years now.
“When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”
Gael grabbed the sword. True, he might not know how to wield it, but at least he wouldn’t go down without a fight like poor old Morag. Once more, he felt that strange jolt shooting up his arm all the way to the back of his neck.
Then the black-armoured soldier kicked down the door and Gael turned to face him, sword in hand.
The man charged, his own blade raised, a battle cry on his lips. Gael’s sword lunged to meet him, seemingly of its own accord. Again and again, the soldier attacked and again and again, Gael’s blade parried the blow, though he knew not how.
At one point, the enemy sword swept towards him in a wide arc. “That’s it,” Gael thought, “I’m dead.” He thought of Carys and the children and resigned himself to his fate.
But then, Gael’s own blade shot up, parrying what would have been a lethal strike. Furiously, the blade danced in his hand, pressing back the enemy. In his mind, Gael heard the blade sing, rejoicing at finally being called into service again.
And then, without knowing how or why, Gael swung his sword in a wide arc and cut the enemy soldier’s head clean off.
For the space of a heartbeat, he stood there and looked down in horror at the headless dead man bleeding onto the floor of his cabin, while the severed head with its horned helmet stared at him from under the table, where it had rolled, a look of anger and shock frozen onto its face.
Outside he heard screaming, the thunder of hoofs and the cries of battle. More enemy soldiers had arrived.
The blade in his hand quivered in anticipation.
Sword in hand, Gael went out to meet the enemy. The blade sang with joy.
The man’s name was Captain Marvan, an officer of the King’s guard. He’d been following Gael around all day, as he cleaned up after the battle, calmed down the cow, the pigs and the chickens, wiped the blood and entrails off the cabin floor, and hauled away the bodies of the soldiers that lay strewn all over the farm, many of them chopped into pieces.
Gael hadn’t wanted to chop up the enemy soldiers so badly – after all, it was messy and disgusting and he was the one who had to clean up afterwards. The sword, however, had other ideas. Or maybe it simply never had to deal with the bloody aftermath of a battle.
“And you truly never had any sword fighting lessons?” Captain Marvan asked for what had to be the fifth time.
“No, sir, I’m just a humble farmer,” Gael replied, “And I really need to milk the cow now.”
Captain Marvan, however, did not give up so easily. “But how could a humble farmer like yourself singlehandedly slaughter a whole squad of Jenghai shock troops.”
Gael smiled. “You could say that’s a family secret.” He winked. “I got it from my Grandfather.”
© November 2022, Cora Buhlert
Cora Buhlert is a writer, teacher, and translator from Germany. She is the winner of the 2022 Hugo for Best Fan Writer. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in Whetstone, Simultaneous Times, newleaf magazine, Wyngraf, and several anthologies. This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.