Origins

By Angelo Tsanatelis

The legend said that the weapon-bearers used them to defeat the Gods. That when these great warriors vanished and the memory of their actions was forgotten, their weapons were lost also. Not all of them though. Some were kept, preserved by men of knowledge. It is said that there will be a time when the people will try and use the living swords again, but when that time finally comes, one of them will disagree and steal its freedom from the hands of man.

Philip, a young orphan, accepts the proposal of a mysterious wandering Asian warrior to assist him in his quests, after he promises him fame, wealth and titles. But in a world full of dangers and secrets, everyone has his own agenda and the young orphan soon realizes, that if he wants to stay alive, he must learn to wield a Living Sword.

Unrated 3rd edition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelo Tsanatelis
• Release date: Apr 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458002600

Angelo Tsanatelis

Angelo (Aggelos) Tsanatelis was born in Athens, Greece on October 24th 1979. He lived for seven years in Bulgaria, where he studied Law at the University of Sofia. During his studies he traveled in Europe and Africa, undertaking 'daring expeditions that no one ever heard about, visited mysterious locations or simply searched for hidden treasures in the most unlikely of places' as he quoted himself in a interview in 2012. After he finished his studies he worked in the private sector for several years before he realized his childhood dream and became an author. His first novel already many years in the making was Origins, the 1st episode in the Living Sword Chronicles series and it was published in April of 2011. It was followed by the novelette, the Rootless set in the same universe and the sequel to Origins, the Lodge & the Tribe.

Book preview

Prologue

.

You should help him.

A hissing scary voice. Annoying, to say the least. Like having a continuous buzzing in your head that refuses to go away. Didn’t like it, much less needed it but he couldn’t for the life of him find a way to rid himself of its constant nagging.

He is important.

Now that was plain stupid. There were like thousands of men around him dying, dead, or well in their way to reach that fascinating state of the human body. Why should I even bother myself to save this one? If there was some hidden importance he couldn’t see, well then that wasn’t really his fault, no?

Watching him fighting desperately against that rather fresh member of the Tribe’ and failing miserably was reason enough, to earn his contempt. A slow and pathetic excuse of a man that should have stopped fighting hours ago and returned to the safety of his camp, before his strength abandoned him helpless and an easy prey. Still the voice persisted.

We’ve promised to protect his kin.

He remembered nothing of the kind and he had more important things to do like figuring out exactly what the hell he was doing in this land in the first place.

You’ve followed the Christian army.

Okay, that was perhaps an easy one. And I did it because…?

He had nothing there.

So the voice lend him a hand.

You think you’ve made a horrible mistake.

But he didn’t remember any of this, so the voice added sounding a little sad.

That’s exactly as it was supposed to happen.

Yet another riddle pretending to be an answer. His gleaming eyes returned on the unfolding scene. The man had been wounded. He watched him falling down and then the child of the Tribe screamed in his head in ecstasy, preparing for the kill.

He decided to act.

.

.

Europe 965-1000 AD

-

CHAPTER ONE

-

Part I

.

(The Promise)

.

(My memories are all over this place…

.

They damp its walls, soil its floors and laugh naughtily when the night comes. They come in my sleep. Wretched voices of despair and fear... familiar voices, an unknown, strange... fear. My memories live around me; and die a thousand deaths. From sharpened blades that slash through slipshod armors, tearing soft human flesh, spilling hot red blood on an alien soil. The flesh cooled many times... people have perished in abundance.

That… I remember.

.

My memories have built me a castle.

They invited friends inside to keep me company. The friends brought endless hours of conversation. They’ve brought arguments, because every man remembers the past differently. They’ve brought me random sweet thoughts and the beautiful image of a kindred soul. A woman. Regal and beautiful, named after the moon. They told me her story, how she lived and the way she died. This memory had brought me nothing but sorrow.

Things I don’t wish to remember.

.

So I banned her away. Unmade her.

.

My memories can fill up a world. I watch them as they gather around sturdy tables for another round of cards. They have faces and bodies. Flesh and blood. They speak and they listen to me retelling the same story over and over again. The cards drop on the table, the Weapon-Bearer flips them one after the other. An eight-of-coins, the three-of-cups and the Queen-of-swords. A terrible haul.

Then I remember. Not real faces, nothing but dead bodies. Hollow flesh and fake blood. Nothing is real.

.

My memories have a will of their own. They hate and they cry for vengeance. They lie. They pretend they want everything returned to the way it was. Before Mah-Asti and the Master-Maker, before the Living Blades and the war of the Realms. They say blackness was better than an eternity of servitude.

Sometimes they fool me.

Sometimes I fool myself.

Then I remember…

Nothing is real.)

.

July, 962 AD,

(Thirty miles from the Channel.)

.

The sun managed to caress the wide blade of the Falchion as it came down with impetus to the chest of the first man of the patrol. The blade flashed for a brief moment and caught the attention of the youth almost twenty meters away. No more than eleven, though tall for his age, he was too thin, almost skinny. He had a tanned face and long blondish hair, tied back with a leather strap at the nape, eyes the deep-green of the forest.

Then a man jumped out the foliage, long beard, long wild hair, eyes the color of the sea. Another one followed right after and another. Next thing he knew, they were everywhere. Armed to the teeth and speaking a strange language. One word he recognized, the blond god’s name. What was it? Thor. He may have heard Odin’s name too but the boy wasn’t sure. A heartrending cry belonging to a man he knew, a man that had traveled with him from their village snapped him out of his shock-induced state. But instead of the present it’d send him to the land of visions.

-

The quiet and the emptiness reached for him. The world around became an unknown valley, where sculptures of warriors stared at him, their frozen eyes calling without speaking; the soil was like dust, everything was burned, spent, long dead. The figure of a giant man, wearing coal-black armor was towering his vision. He turned towards him, his black hollow eyes two beacons of darkness and spoke in an unknown tongue.

But it was a soundless cry;

The quiet and the emptiness…

he had stopped breathing, like he was already dead.

-

Then the sounds had returned, coming from all places and he was back with the caravan, in his world again, breathing, he realized relieved, still alive.

The son of the blacksmith Zosen, implored him to run away in Gaelic.

COURIR Philip!

Go where? He puzzled. There’s nowhere to go.

Around him heavy feet were hitting the ground; swords were coming out of their scabbards and he heard arrows shredding the air. These were hissing terrible sounds that chilled his blood and urged him to give up. If death has a voice, he thought, it would sound like that. Maybe his time had come.

Panic.

And a repulsive ugly thought.

Philip didn’t want to die today. He probably would have objected as strongly if it was morrow or the day after. Whatever the case, his heart wasn’t in it. So he panicked, a small almost effeminate cry escaping his rosy lips. Then he panicked some more. Finally with the killing and dismembering around him growing and coming ever closer he cracked.

His retreating foot caught something and he lost his footing. Philip screamed but it was too late. Still screaming he stumbled backwards and threw himself on his back with bated breath. He landed with his arse on the hard soil, made one clumsy tumble using feet and hands and finally -and remarkably- managed to stand on his own two feet three meters away. It was impressive but totally unintentional. He looked up again with panicked eyes and a little ashamed.

The Vikings had increased their numbers in those brief moments; still pouring out of the foliage, they seemed more and more with every passing minute. Like paranoid bloodthirsty demons, dirty with long beards and blue eyes, most of them wearing metal armor next to their skin, carrying big swords and sharpened axes. In the few moments that’d passed since his vision and the ensuing shameful tumble they had offset most of the able-men guarding their small group. Those who were still alive were allowed to gather around the women and children, with despair masking their faces.

Things didn’t look good odds wise. Actually strike that. Things didn’t look good period. Not far, from where he was standing, a small pocket of resistance had drawn his attention and his mind finally started working again.

RUN PHILIP!

It wasn’t a difficult notion to grasp. He knew what Zosen meant. The young man who was like a brother to him was in a group of men that were still fighting, completely surrounded by Northmen. He was trying desperately to ward off, a series of ferocious blows, coming from at least two furious-looking Viking warriors that had their red hair caught in a braid. Alas the battle was lost, he knew it; they were just too many for them.

Most will die, he thought a shiver running down his spine. The rest will become slaves, either to the Danes or if they’re lucky they’ll be sold to become fucktoys for the Saracens.

That did it. The fear reached in his very soul and grabbed him with its icy fingers. Philip lost all sense. Just like that he was running, his feet barely touching the ground, pushing or jumping over badly crippled bodies, trying to get away. A woman grabbed his right arm. Turning he saw her face for just a moment, her eyes haunted him, asking a silent question; but Philip had no answer other than that he was running out of time. He fought to free himself from her tight grip.

When he finally managed it, panic gave wings to his feet. With a zigzag move he barely slipped by a disappointed follower of Odin and heard him, almost on his back, shouting and threatening that he would send him to Valhalla or something to that extent. Philip didn’t need a translator to tell him he had to keep running. Thankfully, the big ogre was too slow for him.

Ogres are like that else they would have ruled the world by now.

So he kept on. At full sprint now, his lungs burning; he run without thinking of anything, a testament of will. He just wanted to survive this; just wanted to get away.

On and on. Everything around him blurring, the voices and the cries dying away. The only constant, his rhythmic breathing as he run. In and out. Soon it was the only thing he could hear.

Where had the sounds gone?

What had happened to the others?

Had he finally escaped?

Questions were coming one after the other, but he dare not slow down or even glance back for that matter. On and on he kept running pushing himself to his limit.

When totally exhausted he finally stopped running, the sun had hidden from the sky. His legs just died under him and he collapsed on the cool grass weary, breathing and hurting. Hurting because he was breathing. Philip left the tears he was holding back from the beginning of the skirmish flow down his cheeks freely. He cried for his mother he’d never get to know, for his Realm that had disappeared the moment the sorcerer had sent him through the opening. For Zosen who was like a brother to him these past nine years, for Tom the blacksmith that had become his father; and for Philip the Hunter that had saved him from the wolf. All of them have perished and he was left alone again.

It attacked him suddenly and with no warning.

Stinging agonizing pain; ripped him apart and he shivered violently, trying to fight off the coming blankness. You have the name of a hero, he thought, fight through it!

NO… the scream escaped through his grinding teeth, a muffled alien sound. He was shaking now, the pain turned into a beast with a scarred face and great teeth that twisted and gnawed at his organs from the inside, pushing him to give up, to let go. Unable to speak, he just laid there lost in despair, sweat damping his blond hair and his sharp moans the only sounds around him for miles.

.

The dark veil of night had well covered the world before his overall posture changed; the muscles on his neck tensed up but where previously pain had reigned, anger had taken its place. He much preferred it; and suddenly he wanted to go back and avenge them, all of them. It was a liberating need. Not weak, Philip thought clenching his cleft jaw, never again a will-less creature. His heart was thundering in his chest and his cheeks were now dry from tears; tightened fists, so much so that his knuckles were turning white. Once again the voice of the blacksmith’s son came to his mind. A clear honest voice;

Philip, Zosen had yelled to him although that wasn’t his real name, Run!

Behind the voice, the fear was still lurking and again tried to follow. But this time the boy was ready, blocked everything out and slowly gathered himself up.

Never again...’ the young boy muttered. ‘Never again! He repeated even stronger this time in what was almost a man’s voice; a promise to himself. A promise Philip would keep, blinded to the cost, until the end of his life.

.

Part II

.

(The Asian)

-

-

Three years later.

(October 965 AD, the region of Castilla today.)

.

The girl screamed and fell on the ground, the huge body of the Nubian covering her completely a moment later. Azis pulled hard at the reins of his horse making the animal stop and jumped nattily off the saddle. With large confident strides he approached the couple and upon reaching them put a hand on Nizam’s massive shoulder.

Leave her to me Nizam. He ordered him and the man got up on his feet pulling savagely the girl with him by the hair. She cried and tried desperately to free herself but it was a battle lost from the very beginning. Azis allowed himself a small smile.

Infidel wench,’ he spat in her native tongue, his Moorish accent coloring his words distinctively. ‘why didn’t you stop when I explicitly ordered you to do it?

The girl, probably of Spanish origins, with curly black hair and clouded hazel eyes, was too scared to speak intelligently. She stuttered a number of incoherent words and Nizam’s large hands, one still pulling her long hair and the other cupping her left breast, probably didn’t help her a lot.

Stop your driveling! Azis snapped at her. Do you see him?’ he pointed at the Nubian towering over her, the girl’s head reaching only mid-chest to him. ‘he hasn’t being with a woman for more than a month. When he is so deprived of cunt it is almost impossible for me to restrain him. Seeing that you are not even a Muslim, tell me, why should I even bother to try?

I can lead you to the village. The girl said then screamed terrified when Nizam ripped the top of her dress exposing her rather lush breasts. She kicked him and then tried to run but another huge Nubian appeared and stopped her with a hard smack on the face that send her crashing on the ground.

Ilan!’ He yelled at him and the second Nubian moved away from the fallen girl. She was twenty years of age, but looked younger and pretty enough to fetch him a good price at the slave-markets of Cordoba; but only if she wasn’t too badly damaged. ‘not the face. Let me see her.

He kneeled over the sobbing girl to examine her more closely.

What’s your name?

Tejra. She replied between sobs.

Listen to me Tejra and I promise that I will arrange for you a very lenient master. Are there any more pretty girls or boys in your village? Perhaps friends you hang out with—

Just a girl but a little older than me…

Nizam grunted on his back already impatient to get his hands on her, but Azis’s instincts told him the girl had something more to disclose.

What else Tejra? He asked her keeping his voice appeasing.

There is a boy, but he is too young.

Azis grinned at her words.

A Spaniard? he asked thinking that a young boy could fetch him an even better sum of money from the Caliph…

No. A blond boy, I think he is a Norman. Tejra said and his grin grew a bit more.

…and a rare blond boy closer to a fortune.

-

Two days later.

-

The animal, a wretched old mule, groaned like a wounded man, showing its discomfort. It had appeared out of nowhere and it startled the life out of him. Soon the voice of a man, subtle, with a distinctive foreign accent, forced the young boy to recover and with his heart racing in his chest, he turned his attention to that location. But the newcomer was not one of the men Philip was tracking for two straight days now. The newcomer was standing unmoving at the edge of the clearing. It seemed unreal how he had managed to come so close, without alerting him, even a bit;

Let the plans you devise, be as dark and unclear as the night, but when you decide to act, do so shining and swiftly, like the lightning that falls from the sky.

The stranger said addressing him.

Had he really seen him? Was it possible for the strange man to distinguish him amidst the thick branches of the bush, where he had squeezed himself? The boy had no answers and the man was facing him directly, like he somehow knew exactly where he was.

Face calm, with no rush showing;

The distant roar of the men of Azis al Qatil coming their way could be heard clearly and anguish shook his heart. The boy was running out of time. He reluctantly went out of his hiding place and waved his weapon -a makeshift and rather long wooden spear- in a threatening manner to the man who had his face wrapped in a dusted cloth; leaving only his slanted-eyes visible, restless and full of wit, the eyes of an Asian.

Move aside! the youth said in his grown up voice, still trying to figure out with whom he was dealing with. The stranger, who had appeared out of nowhere, beckoned for him to follow. A weird unexpected gesture.

His first instinct was to refuge, but hearing the men of the Saracen lord fast approaching and with his -already few- options dwindling, Philip decided that perhaps it was for the better to find out what exactly the man wanted of him.

So he followed the newcomer not completely convinced he was doing the right thing, as he led his mule through paths un-trodden by human foot in a deeper part of the small forest. The dense trees there could hide them from the mounted group of men fast approaching their previous position, so in a way the man proved he knew what he was doing.

The Asian, Philip had decided he could be of no other origin, because he vaguely remembered a family of them visiting the blacksmith’s hovel some seasons ago, jumped from his saddle and pulled a strange very long sword from a scabbard. It looked like a longsword, but it’s blade was milky white -which was the strangest color for steel if he’d ever seen one- and with a straight ruby-colored line running its length. The grip of the sword was made of an unusual also white wood that looked a lot like marble and was wrapped around with a thin piece of leather. Holding the said weapon in his left hand, the Asian pointed to the spot where he had decided to wait for Azis not so long ago.

Bravery is not consistent always, with intelligence. He said to him with that odd foreign accent in Gaelic. It was a language the boy hadn’t heard for many years. Not since his caravan had perished and he had wandered in the Saracen lands.

How do you know, I’m not from these lands? the boy asked. Not an unfair question in his mind. I mean he was dirty, his skin extremely tanned/burned and his once blond hair, looked… well anything but blond. The man chose not to respond immediately. Kneeling he placed on the ground a well-made leather bag and produced from its insides what looked like a small metal container. Without hesitation he secured the small container in a broad pocket on the side of his coat and closed the bag up again. The man worked swiftly and his moves were measured and well-rehearsed.

From somewhere afar the horsemen were heard passing them by and the boy sighed half-relieved.

But then again that meant no trap or any other confrontation were to happen and I’ll have to find another opportunity, he thought, a grimace of frustration marring his young face. Philip glared at the Asian, who appeared to listen to the sounds of the woods, not paying him any attention whatsoever.

That is until he’d talked without turning his way.

Difficult...

For a moment he pouted his lips unsure whether the man was even talking to him. But seeing they were only the two of them…

What do you mean?

The Asian put the odd sword back on the animal ignoring him. Almost a full minute later and with the boy ready to repeat the question fearing the old man had missed it, he’d answered him.

Six or seven men, the man explained what could possibly make you think you’d manage such a task by yourself?

Which was creepy and strange on so many levels.

How do you know I was going to attack them? Philip wondered not trying to hide his amazement.

The quietness... the Asian said earnestly and gestured him to listen in turn, to the sounds of the forest. He did but couldn’t hear anything. The man was right, whatever animal sheltered in these woods had scared away from them. He smiled realizing what the older man meant.

You’re some kind of a warrior then? Philip blurted out more than a little impressed. For the first time the Asian let an emotion appear on his -now uncovered- face. At first he appeared amused. Then his face relaxed a little more and the hint of a smile parked on his lips.

The careful man is stronger than any warrior, whilst the careless man is prey to the youngest hunter. The man replied enigmatically, his accent making it difficult for him to concentrate on his words anyway that small grin still on