The old man with a beard like thick ashes sits back within in his chair and holds a pipe carved from stone. He smokes from the pipe and the faintest of winds carries the gray rings to the heavens to join them. And he sits, and he watches, and his eyes are upon me, blue and gray, shaped as almonds, and cold as a hunter. Get up, he tells me. Get up and smell the dirt. His voice is like jagged rocks. His words are sharp scratches, rasp whispers and deep croaks. I push my hands against the earth and force my weary body to its feet, drained from thirst and weak from hunger. I need water, I tell him. You will have water, he says. And he stands, dressed in a long leather coat suited for riding; he goes to leave and I see briefly by the mark of the sun the flash of many knives within his coat. And he goes and I wait.
 
I look down at the chains about my hands and feet and I look up at the sun and I curse the sky and all its denizens. I curse my hunger and I curse the man for keeping me and I curse the earth for bearing me until I remember that it is no use, and I wait, baking in the sun, until the old man returns with a bucket of water. He emerges from a vista in the trees which loom around us both and sets down the bucket and I drink. And I drink. And I feel a semblance of vigor reborn. The bucket quivers and the water which is life splashes in droplets upon the hungry soil.  
 
That’s all you get, he says. If the bucket spills I will not bring more. I look up at him and I wipe my chin upon my bare wrist caked in dirt. Why do you keep me here, I ask him. Why do I live? He looks at me with his hard and weary eyes and he is serious when he asks me if I know the value of a life. I stare at him and ask him what it is he means to tell me. He tells me that nothing and no one can measure the value of a life, that no virtue or faith or philosophy will come close to saying what it is, that they will only reveal their own limits and misunderstandings. I continue to stare and he can tell that I am unchanged but he goes on anyway about this. Finally I ask, well then, if that’s the way it is, then who knows the value of life? Only a murderer, he says. Only a murderer knows the value of life? Only a murderer can know. Is that so? Yes.  
 

Dark and still are the woods in which I wait for release, or death, or both. Days and weeks pass and I can no longer tell. By the flickering shadows of the campfire I see men and women come and go like ghosts. They talk and stand and sit and walk and sometimes sing, and sometimes quarrel, and sometimes cut wood or fire arrows from bows upon targets that are round and slathered in nicks and notches. The old man is often among them. And sometimes he is here alone and often he is not here at all so I wait. So I wait.
 
When he returns next he is greeted by a heavyset man who tells him that a patrol of those who are enemies had passed by the landmark to the south, and that this means the camp is no longer safe and hidden and that we must move it. So move it, says the old man. But what will we do with the prisoner?
Unbind his feet and we will take him with us. What if he tries to escape? He won’t try. But what if he does? He won’t get away. Then a younger man asks why do you even keep him here? It is nothing but trouble to keep him fed and watched and you are often afar when it is you who brought him here. Trust me.
 
A woman with a bow on her back unbinds my feet and I walk with her out of the forest. Her eyes upon me are calm and they do not have pity, nor do they have hate, and they simply are. I follow the group and we march across plains and hills and many leagues until at last the old man says this place will do.
But we should camp by a river. No, we should not, says the old man. They will look for us by rivers and lakes. We have carried water with us and we will seek and carry more and keep water at the camp, far away from rivers and lakes, and we will endure so that they do not find us. And what if they find us? Then, says the old man, we will stand and we will fight.

(I wrote this one before reading Blackcat's most recent post about finishing the blade. I like his post, and if it'll help the flow we can pretend that it comes chronologically after this one so that they both make sense.)
 
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If I say her name again I will die painfully. This is what the younger man tells me. I tell him that I had nothing to do with his lover's disappearance; I don't know where she is or what happened to her. You are a liar, a killer and a scoundrel, he says. I do not dispute this. What you say to me makes no difference, he says. Well then, I reply, what if I say that I have killed her? I awaken later with blood spread across my face.
 
When the old man returns he looks at the sword I have made and says that it is no good. The heavyset man and the woman with the bow both bring before me a new bundle of wood, and I am told that I must start again. They go back to their tents but the old man stays and I look fiercely upon him. I don't understand, I say. I don't understand how being a wood worker is going to get us anywhere. He replies that I must learn the workings of a blade such that one may be born from own hand. The blade is the soul, he recites. The blade is the soul, the deceiver, and it is stronger than evil.
 
Listen to me, old man! These warriors, these campers, these people of yours, they don't want me alive. They don't need me alive. Enough of your protests, he says. This blade is your final chance; it is your final chance to salvage yourself. It is the beginning of all you will come to know. If you fail then you are finished. So focus on the task at hand. Focus or die.  

I slumber in exhaustion while the soil holds me ancient and still. In the penumbra between dreams and consciousness I see the old man sitting by the campfire, smoking from his pipe, stretching his arms and talking in that rough voice of his. He asks me if I remember the day we did battle. Yes, I mumble. How can I forget? We fought and you cut me down and now I am here. Yes, but do you remember the way you fought that day? I have seen few men fight with such blazing spirit, he says. And yet you defeated me, old man. Yes, says the old man, but do you know how it is that you lost? I am a withered specter in the twilight of my years, while you are young and strong. How is it that I defeated you? It is because you have seen more battles, I reply. No, he says, and there is disappointment in his voice. No. That is not it at all.
 
I drift in and out of being and I can no longer see the old man but I can still hear him. I hear him say remember always that humankind is an animal. But this is no insult to humankind or animals. There is splendor in the flight of a bird; there is dignity in the roar of a lion. So it is that a warrior who knows that oblivion has come for him will fight with the strength and bravery of ten who hope to live so that they might see their families. I don’t understand. It’s like this, he says. If you want to see the best in humankind all you have to do is to give them no choice but to stand and face annihilation. They must have no illusions. They must not be able to imagine an escape. They must know that this is It, or they will be merely how we imagine men to be, and lack the burning magnificence of beasts. When a man’s back is to the wall he will be as a hell-bent hound and his vengeance will be terrible, and then it does not matter whether he is a swordsman or a carpenter or a tale spinner. Because cornered men fight like heroes. Then I am nearly gone from this waking realm and I think I hear him say that a mind without purpose will wander in dark places, but the words are quiet and distant and I am asleep now.

The old man lumbers slowly up the hill toward me. The descent of the moon lights his visage. He carries the sword and holds it over his shoulder while I lift my head from its draped position and peer through the murky space between us. The old man stops. I stare at him. He stares back so we stand there staring at one another for a time when nothing is said. In his hands he is clutching the handle of a straight-bladed sword, three and a half feet and double-edged. Thought you might run, the old man says. Glad to see you’ve decided to go down on your feet instead of your knees, he says. He brushes one hand against his face and pulls the hat up and away from his eyes. My voice vacillates sharply and I tell him that I will stand. I will stand and I will fight. For those who deserve to be fought for.
 
When he approaches his eyes glaze over and his face is like a trance. I put one leg forward and seize the initiative, swinging sideways for his head. The old man’s body does not move while his weapon shifts only slightly and pushes my sword away. I bring my blade around his and lunge and thrust and the old man steps back, once. I strike high and low and often, and the old man blocks and steps and it is not until after many fruitless blows that I notice we are traversing in a circle. I shout with primordial vigor with a gaze to set the skies ablaze. He does not cry or shout and his face does not twist in satisfaction or anger and I am a desperate hellion while he is cold as a hunter and watching me. Watching. When he attacks at last it is like a thunderbolt and potent in its simplicity. I back away but not swiftly enough to avoid it. A sanguine sirocco. I do not have time to reflect upon the nature of my injury.
 
He steps to the side and I turn sharply, suddenly, cutting for his leg; he turns only his wrist and now the blade has shifted, stopping my own from tasting flesh. I see him release one hand from his weapon and now he holds the sword one-handed. He advances. I step back. I raise my weapon. The tip of my blade ascends and I will tear deep into his arm. But his arm soars forward and the vambrace upon his wrist meets the blade and deflects it and now I realize the old man is upon me, breathing down on me, and in his hand is a knife. And the knife is through my ribs and I am down, down upon the hungry earth, and blood is running down my stomach. And blood is running down my stomach. The blade is the soul, he whispers. The blade is the soul, the deceiver, and it is stronger than evil. I groan and grasp for my sword which the old man kicks aside. My vision is a red haze and in my final fleeting moment of cursed consciousness I see him holding his sword by its blade. I see him turn the weapon upside down and I see the hilt bearing toward my face.

If this had been a true blade, barks the old man, you would have lost your head a dozen times now! I snort, running a hand along a neck that is red and purple.
The spirit is steel, stronger than steel, he says. Focus the pain into steel. What's the matter, old man? Have you had enough? I raise my weapon and then swiftly comes his, and there is a flash of red and white and the protest of flesh and bone and I am out, sent speedily to oblivion. I see nothing and I feel nothing. You have nearly killed him, says the younger man. Yes, says the old man. He will be out for some time. He will learn or else perish.

He tries to get under my skin even now, the younger man says, but I am learning to let it go. Then let it go, replies the old man. Then the heavyset man folds his arms over his chest and mentions now that you are training him he spends much time free from his binds. Are you so sure that he can be trusted? The old man asks if he doubts his judgment. They look over to the old man and one of them asks has he agreed, then, to your vision of the future? You assume I know my own vision, the old man answers. Well, the younger man says, looking over to my unconscious form; I'm sure it must be brighter than his. The woman laughs, asking if any of us have ever known the old man to be cheerful. Then she says that I am calm, until I see the old man; then there is something like quiet rage awoken in me. We shall see if he has changed, says the younger man, if he does not try to kill me the moment he is free.

The day is warm and simple and never has the dusk held such majesty. I am carving sticks into spears and arrows while the old man sits and throws knives upon a round and wooden board. After much time he takes a lute and plays songs from it, songs which are calm and songs which are furious, and sometimes others in the camp sing, and sometimes they dance around the flickering fire. Since my binds are released I am free to walk about. And I do. I walk upon the soil and I breathe the air of the forest and look upon the clouds before turning back to the camp.
 
I hear the wind snap and a man falls. I look around quickly and the wind snaps thrice more and three bodies join the earth. Sticking from their backs I see wood with feathers adorned. Cover! Now! A hurricane could not with such vigor and urgency lift the camp from its rested state. The old man he is up clutching the lute by its neck. He rises and he runs and he holds the lute up high so that it stops the flight of an arrow. I scramble, trying to catch up with him and trying most of all to keep my head low. I look around wildly and there are forms of men all about, firing from the trees around us. An arrow whirs past my shoulder. I unleash a torrent of expletives.
 
The woman grabs her bow and sets herself upon a steed which rides separate from the tents, leaping over logs and trampling the undergrowth. She knocks and arrow and her eyes they focus through the turbulent storm. When she releases the arrow it is to the expense of one man, now shot, now bloodied, now soon to die. I reach the old man and we each put our backs against a tree. What happened, old man? Where are our scouts? If they have attacked us so, he says, then it means that our scouts are dead. Grab a shield. I look, expecting a shield like an iron diamond but there is no such thing. Make do. I check my surroundings, then make a dash for the wooden board slathered in the nicks from many knives. I grab a hatchet and rejoin the old man.
 
An arrow flies from our camp and I see that the younger man is firing upon our enemies. He is firing while the woman on her horse is circling around them. Soon I am rushing through the trees and so close to the bowman before me that I can see easily the color of his eyes. He shoots an arrow and I raise my board as a shield; the arrow sticks into it and goes right through so that the tip nearly pricks my skin. Useless. I shout and hurl the board at him; he ducks and it crashes into a tree. Then he rushes me and beats his skull into my chest and sends us both to the ground. I lift up my hatchet. He pushes his head forward and sinks his teeth into my wrist. I drop the hatchet and snarl. I see him crawling and grasping for the weapon. I grab his chin, push his head up, curl my other hand into a claw, and drive my fingers and their nails through his eyes. While he is screaming I force him back to the earth beneath me. I seize the hatchet without looking toward it, for my eyes are locked with this man's bloody sockets. I bury my hatchet into his face.

We ride.
 
Remember always that the gods are laughing at us, the old man says. We who fight and kill and invoke the mandates of justice and righteousness forget that the gods are laughing at us. We who have long sought to win their favor with sacrifices of dust and blood hear only laughter which we mistake for guidance. No matter which side prevails in the battles before us, it is murderers who will judge murderers, and that's all there is to it. So remember. Remember that no one and no thing will be saved, that the gods cannot find time to favor any of us because they are too busy laughing. The victor will offer the vanquished to an indifferent sky and its answer will be silence and laughter.
 
I don't understand the reason for this talk now, old man. We are fleeing for our lives when you have said that we would fight. This is no retreat, the old man says. Look behind us; do you not see the enemies upon their horses chasing us? They will pursue us and they will fight us but it is we who will choose the battlefield. There, he says. There is a village up ahead where we will make our stand. We will stand and we will vanquish them, or else we will die to a man, and either way the sun will set upon this conflict.