“GLORY BE,” the Holy Warrior whispered. There was dirt in Eniba’s mouth and he could taste its bitter grit as he spat out blood. He had, he knew, lost the fight. The Light had run out of time, the Story Catchers would have to be the hope now that the soldiers stampeded toward extinction. All his violence was only ever a crude surgery carried out on the wounds of his world. He hoped, in the end, it was not all wasted blood and time.

Moroch, the Silent Blade, the death dealer who only looked and did not say, stood above him and nearly seemed to smile. It was a beckoning glance. Eniba had neither encouraged nor believed the rumblings the country folk had continually spread regarding his own legend; they said he could not be bested in combat, that the great Eniba Toge had flesh that could not be pierced and a heart that did not tire. He lay flat on his back on the cliff side, his flesh pierced, his heart tired. He was, by nature, a practical man, and had always known that if he continued to fight, one day he would lose. It was combat’s only law. He wished dearly it had not been this day, however, because his men had died by the hundreds and what men were left were watching. His victories, where they had come, meant nothing now, a song is the joy of the one who sings it, not the dead man it is sung about. The Witch had fouled him by spell, a poison song of her own, and it caused his left leg to ache and drag and cramp, and Moroch, the Silent Blade of Camen, had eventually landed a single stabbing blow that shattered and splintered the ribs protecting Eniba’s heart. Moroch, impassive as a mute child, had stomped on Eniba’s left leg several times when he fell, breaking bones. Eniba tried to crawl toward the cliff and the quick death of the fall, but the Witch’s Lieutenants had darted forward and seized him, turning him over to face Moroch.

“Glory be,” Eniba chuckled in wonder, staring up at the strange legend above. The two most famed dealers of death in all their harsh and bloody land met in battle and the damn Witch meddled with gnarled hands and smoking words. She was moving toward him, stepping over the bodies with her stuttering gait.

“Vat? Vat does it say, the Sorrow?” In some parts, Eniba was called the Sorrow of the Dying. For years, the people believed him to have an avenging spirit within, but he knew he didn’t fight for the dead. The dead didn’t care. The Sorrow of the Dying was a flower that grew near where Eniba was born. It was a favorite of his mother, said to remind the living that the “sorrow of the dying is ever work undone”. As a child, Eniba liked the riddle, and the small blue flowers. He wore one around his neck in his first battle. He reached up and pulled the strange blue plant from the string that held it pressed to his neck. He gripped it in a fist and lay on his back in the dirt of the cliffside.

He coughed and purple blood rose from his mouth to run down his cheek. “Glory,” he heard the witch gasp with delight, “be,” he finished. He had no idea why he always said it. He suspected it was simple amazement after each battle at finding himself alive. It was a mantra, a prayer whispered on the swaying red fields of death. It was legend, the “Glory Be” of Eniba Toge.

There were then cruel muttering instructions from the Witch, and she danced and Moroch the Silent Blade seemed angry and disappointed and finally, howling and thirsty in the afternoon sun, they cut off Eniba’s hands. He did not think he made a sound as they did it, but when they took his right, he saw the sorrowful flower fall from its grip. They gave his hands, which had held sword and spear and vanquished all opponents up until that day to the witch, and she used the blood for, she used it for, for… for something? What did she use the blood for? Had she told him? She had said something. She was dancing and it was wrong, the dancing, no rhythm. And she had leaned down and told him why. Hadn’t she?

*******

Tumble down the rest of this bizarre rabbit hole in Sheriff Nottingham 15: Black Friday – coming out November 23rd!

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