SABRA'S RETURN
by
Samuel Z Jones

Copyright Samuel Z Jones 2001


North of the ruins of the old city of Silveneir, where only now years after the wars had people started to return and rebuild, the forest stretched impenetrable from the highlands of Utryce to the black wall of the Psarrion mountains. Long ago the forest had been the pride and wealth of Silveneir, the source of the ships that had made the Silvan people a great nation. During the wars, the forest had been refuge to the outlaws and rebels who had fought so grimly against the founding of the Empire of Kaesa Saban, the witchqueen who had forged a pact with the enemies of the whole world. 
Deep in that forest, built by magic and long lost to memory, stood the Savistri Mansion, home of the wizard and former adventurer Montesinos DeSilva. He was the son of the greatest swordsman their world had ever known, and had himself fought and earned renown in the decades of war that had been the one constant in his life. He lived now in the house built by his great ancestor, the sorcerer Noth Morden, father of a line of wizards and warriors.
With DeSilva dwelt his concubine Sorcha Kavnor, sister to another great hero of the wars, the legendary Sabra Daishen, the woman who had united the rebel factions with the remnants of the knights of Kellia, and so defeated the armies of the Empress Kaesa in the final battle at the citadel of Akharudrak. 
But all that had been years ago, and the wars had not ended then; Sabra had gone north, to the distant lands of the enemy with a promise of vengeance. No one, least of all DeSilva and Sorcha, ever thought to see Sabra again; she had sworn never to return, but to follow her quest until the end.
Sorcha mourned for her sister, wishing that the rift between them could have been healed long ago, grieving for her guilt in the events that had turned Sabra from an innocent young woman into the grim paladin sworn to live and die by the sword.
Around the Savistri Mansion, an orchard grew. The walls around it had been long ago swallowed by the forest, and few now living knew the path that led to the wizard DeSilva's door. Here, in the terraced gardens of the Mansion and the orchard filling its grounds, Sorcha and Desilva lived, thinking that the world would forever pass them by. They had few servants; an old Darian warrior who had been DeSilva's guardian when the wizard was a boy, and remained his faithful retainer even now; an aged couple who had been charcoal-burners until they stumbled by chance upon the Mansion and accepted its master's offer to stay; a one-eyed horse that DeSilva had raised from the dead when its mortal span had passed, and a collection of ghosts and spirits most of whom were DeSilva's relatives. The revenants of his grandfather and great-grandfather, and a spirit that claimed to be the ghost of his father's childhood, the shades of his mother and his aunt, all of whom had perished in the wars, haunted the Mansion's grounds. 
Among the trees of the orchard stood a stone monolith, the grave of a knight who had died in single combat and been buried, according to Kellion tradition, on the spot where he fell. This warrior had been the Old Daishen, Sabra's predecessor, the First Knight of Kellia and champion of knighthood.
It was here that Sorcha came when she missed her sister, to lay flowers on the grave and think of all the things she had never told Sabra, all the apologies and confessions unmade.
DeSilva, who kept his own sorrows in his own way, said nothing of how Sorcha chose to process her grief, and none of the servants disturbed her when she visited the grave.
She was surprised, therefore, and frightened, to find one day the blood-red helm and armour of the Daishen, piled neatly at the foot of the grave. A chill went through her, though the summer air was warm. Drawing back from the grave, she looked about and saw, at the edge of the trees, someone watching her. At first, Sorcha did not know who it was; a woman taller and more muscular than most men, dressed in boots, dark breeches and an off-white shirt. Her red hair was cut roughly as if with a knife and her green eyes shone even across the width of the lawn.
“Sabra!” Sorcha ran towards her, laughing and crying, but pulled up short a few feet from her sister.
Though they shared the red hair and green eyes of their Silvan ancestry, two more different women could not be linked by blood. Sabra had worn armour day and night for many years, developing her body into a powerhouse of muscle. She had also been blessed, in the hidden sacred valley of Avellar, with beauty and stature beyond mortal birth. Meanwhile, Sorcha had earned no honour in the wars; captured by the enemy, she had been enslaved and taught obedience that she might be used in the evil magic of the Naril, a sect of warlocks now extirpated from the world. They had tattooed Sorcha from head to foot, marking her with the sigils that permitted them to summon up their dark powers without harm to themselves. Sorcha had escaped, and eventually made her way home, but she had been forever changed.
She stood before her sister now, staring up into the shining emerald eyes that had seen things beyond mortal comprehension. At last, bereft of any other speech, Sorcha said, “Your armour...?”
“I took it off,” Sabra smiled. “Months ago. I have only worn it a few times since.”
This alone was a stunning change; Sabra had lived in her armour as if it were her own skin, not even removing it to bathe. The stench of blood and battlefields that had clung to her for years was gone now; she smelt of woods and wilderness, a sweet, clean smell compared to the dark aroma that had followed her so long. There was a change in her face too, the stern lines around her mouth and eyes softened as if she had at last found whatever inner peace she had so long sought.
“Where have you been?” Sorcha asked, still staring up at her sister.
“Everywhere.” Sabra laughed happily and took her sister by the arm. “Come, let us go inside.”
“What about your armour?”
Sabra glanced back at the gravestone. “It is not unattended.”
“But you've not put it off forever?” Sorcha could not keep the slight lift of hope out of her voice, but Sabra shook her head; briefly, a shadow of the old intensity flickered across her face.
“No. I will have need of it again. But I have been granted a holiday.”
Sorcha looked again at the armour, shivering at the eyeless stare of the blood-red helm. The corselet was, she knew, haunted by an ancient spirit, the Old Daishen, the gestalt consciousness of every warrior to have ever worn the armour. Last time Sorcha had seen Sabra, there had been no telling where the woman ended and the armour began, as if she had already become one with her predecessors.
It was only as they walked back towards the Mansion that Sorcha noticed her sister's sword, wrapped in a bundle and slung over one shoulder. Besides the blade, Sabra carried no baggage.
“How did you get here?” Sorcha asked. “Don't you have a horse?”
“I walked.” Sabra glanced down at Sorcha, still smiling. “I spent a few months in a little village south of here. At first no one knew who I was; I just worked in the fields.”
“But then...?”
Again the darkness shadowed Sabra's gaze. “The Old Daishen informed me that it was time to leave.” Then she smiled again. “I would have come here eventually.”
For the first time, Sorcha's happiness at seeing her sister again faltered. “Was it the Old Daishen who told you to come here?”
Sabra was unperturbed by her sister's change in tone. “No. I wanted to come. I am very glad to see you again, Sorcha.”
They had reached the threshold of the Mansion; here Sorcha paused.
“Monte will be pleased to see you.”
“And I him.” Sabra agreed. “I am happy for you both.”
“Are you?”
“There was a time when I dreamed of killing you both,” Sabra confessed lightly, as if it were a normal thing to say. “But that was years ago. I told you I forgave you last time I was here.”
“I didn't believe you.”
Sabra laughed as they stepped into the Mansion. “There are very few who enjoy the privilege of thinking the Daishen to be a liar.”
Sorcha chuckled, knowing it to be true, and at that moment the master of the house appeared in the hall; Montesinos DeSilva, black-haired and still as handsome as in his youth, dressed in a blue cloak over dark Kellion clothes, a book open in one hand and his eyes upon the page.
“Monte!” Sorcha yelped. “Look who it is!”
DeSilva almost dropped the book in surprise. “Bloody hell! Sabra!”
He turned quickly, passing the book back to some unseen other still within the room behind him. A moment later he had his arms around Sabra and Sorcha, grinning hugely.
“Yes, I know,” Sabra said, before he could speak. “You never thought to see me again, nor I you; I swore a vow and so on and so forth. It was a foolish oath; I thought myself the perfected knight, even as I rode here in arrogance to show off what I had become.”
“You said some harsh things,” DeSsilva reminded her, and she nodded.
“Yes, I did. But I said kind things too, and some things that were wise.”
“True. Come on; into the study. Tell us all your adventures.”
Sabra and DeSilva took up armchairs beside the fireplace while Sorcha went to the drinks cabinet beside the wizard's desk. The whole room was lined in bookshelves, countless ancient tomes gathering dust in the warmly lit, lived-in room. The book DeSilva had been reading when he stepped into the hall was now open on the desk.
“To whom did you pass the book?” Sabra asked, accepting a glass of sherry from her sister.
“Hm?” DeSilva feigned incomprehension, but Sabra repeated her question and the wizard was left with no option but to respond; “Oh, just, one of my retainers; what we call in magical circles 'an agency of despatch'.”
“You have a Monad to tidy your study,” Sabra translated, and DeSilva hung his head.
“Yes.” A Monad was a minor demon representing the essence of an abstract concept given form.
“A Tidyad?” Sabra suggested, and DeSilva laughed. 
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“They are dangerous creatures,” Sabra observed, steepling her fingers and cradling the sherry-glass dexterously. They were strong hands, rough with calluses from long swordplay, the hands of a warrior.
“You know about Monads?” DeSilva was surprised. Sorcha perched on the arm of his chair to listen as Sabra began to explain:
“Far away, across the eastern sea, live the Foliots in their walled city; they do everything with the aid of Monads, from lighting the streets to opening doors and powering great machines.”
“You really have travelled far,” DeSilva remarked, inspiring a strange smile on Sabra's lips.
“You have no idea.”
Slowly at first, the stories began to come out; the long journey on wyvern-back over the mountains, the crossing of the great chasm wide and deep as the sea, the strange beasts and peoples of the distant land beyond the sunset. Sorcha and DeSilva listened in wonder, doubting not one word, for all three of them had travelled together in their youth and seen things that defied belief. Sabra told them of her companions, and gradually the stories turned darker; battles and bloodshed, of deaths both noble and tragic, of victories and defeats. At length, Sorcha asked the question that had been growing in her heart. 
“What became of Menalowen?”
Sabra's eyes closed and she bowed her head. Sorcha bit her lip, and for a moment the family-resemblance showed unmistakeably clear. 
“He is dead, then,” Sorcha said at last, and Sabra nodded.
“He died as he lived; the Bravest of the Brave. He chose to face the demon of the Foliots, the great Monad that ruled them all.”
“And what happened to the Foliot city?” DeSilva asked wryly, having no grief at all for the death of Sorcha's former lover, the beastman Menalowen.
“Razed to the ground,” Sabra said, with a grim smile. “Your father was there, Monte.”
DeSilva choked in surprise, almost dropping his sherry-glass. “Really?! How the hell did he get there?”
Sabra shrugged. “I have bumped into him in the most unlikely places.”
“So; you razed the Foliot city to the ground. How many razings is that now?”
Sabra put her empty glass aside and began to count off cities on her fingers. “Akharudrak, Karak Nam Psarrion, Foliot, and Kharmesh Toum. But I burned Akharudrak twice.”
“You razed Kharmesh Toum?” DeSilva attempted to gape, grimace and raise an eyebrow at the same time. Then he snapped his fingers and summoned a book from the shelves on the far side of the room. 
“Is that Quin's magic diary?” Sabra asked, innocently.
DeSilva narrowed his eyes. “No, it's a copy.”
Then he opened the one true book of prophecy, turned to the current date, and read aloud:
“On this day, Sabra Daishen blew the mind of the wizard Noth Morden.”
He showed the page to Sabra.
“It is in your handwriting,” she observed.
“Yes, I noticed.”
“Then you did not write it?”
“No, but obviously I will. It won't say that tomorrow morning and if I don't write it in, then it won't have said it yesterday. In which case I wouldn't be prepared for the shock tonight. Excuse me.”
DeSilva closed the book, sat back in his chair, and produced a filled pipe from thin air with a flick of his hand. “You expect me to believe that you have only razed a mere four cities?”
“That is not a copy, is it?” Sabra demanded. DeSilva fixed her with a steady gaze until she added, “Alright, it might be more than four.”
“You burned Narrillion, Monte,” Sorcha reminded him.
“I did not! That was all my father's work!”
“Oh you liar!” Sorcha slapped him playfully. “You were right there with him, setting buildings on fire.”
“Saved you, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did.” Sorcha conceded. “And that wasn't the only time.”
DeSilva chucked Sorcha beneath the chin; she was in the very act of leaning forward to kiss him when they both remembered Sabra. To their joint surprise, her face was serene, her gaze distant and unfocussed as if she did not see them at all, but looked on some inward panorama. 
“Sabra?” Sorcha asked, hesitantly, and Sabra blinked as if suddenly awoken from a trance.
“Sorry,” she said, “what were we talking about?”
“War stories,” DeSilva said. “But I think we've had enough of that. Did I ever show you around the house, Sabra?”
“No. I have seen some of it, but it was very long ago.”
“Come with me.”
“You're going down to the nursery, aren't you?” Sorcha asked. “I'll stay here, if it's all the same to you, Sabra; I don't like the nursery, it's haunted.”
“The whole house is haunted, Sorcha,” DeSilva reminded her, on what was evidently a sore point.
“Not like the nursery,” Sorcha insisted, folding her arms.
“Why...?” Sabra began, but DeSilva only smiled as he led the way from the study.
“You'll see.”
The passages of the Mansion were dimly lit, wood panelled walls punctuated frequently by doors and side-turnings. Sabra rapidly developed the feeling that the corridors formed a labyrinth far larger than the physical space occupied by the Mansion. Soon, the footsteps of Sabra and DeSilva were supplemented by a third, dragging tread that seemed to approach them from the shadows ahead. 
A dread chill emanated towards them from the dark; Sabra stopped, instinctively reaching for the sword she still wore at her back. The cold intensified, and then the figure of a tall, lean man appeared, approaching with a stiff gait. He wore armour, Sabra saw now, and carried a sword at his hip. His mail was black, of a style unseen for centuries; the armour of a Kellion knight from the first generation of the ancient wars.
“Ah, here's Pops,” DeSilva remarked, and stood aside respectfully from the shambling warrior's path; the old knight completely ignored Sabra and her host.
“Pops?” Sabra echoed, in baffled disbelief.
“My grandfather,” DeSilva grinned. “He's dead of course... no don't look at me like that! I didn't raise him; Grandpops found him wandering in the woods a few miles away.”
“Grandpops?!”
“My great-great-grandfather; he's dead too. Spends most of his time in the nursery with the boy.”
“I shudder to imagine what you are talking about,” Sabra replied. Then she glanced back up the passage in the direction the undead knight had gone. “Are you telling me that was Noth Dansac himself?”
“Yes.”
“Who used to be buried at the gates of Silveneir?”
“The same.”
“And grandpops would be...?”
“Kal Dansac.”
“An awfully large proportion of your family seem to wind up as the living dead,” Sabra observed, neutrally.
“Hah, yes! You think this is bad, we used to have a dozen dead nuns haunting the parlour. I had to kick 'em out; they scared the hell out of Sorcha. She was glad when we got rid of the dog, too.”
“The dog?”
“It was an evil monster from the abyss.”
“Ah.” As they began walking again, Sabra opined; “You do realise, Monte, that you've become an evil necromancer and demonologist?”
“Yes. And you're an omnicidal maniac with a messiah complex. Funny how life turns out.”
“I am not homicidal,” Sabra protested.
“Omnicidal. Means you'll kill anything.”
Sabra pursed her lips, but a good few minutes elapsed before she said, “Horses.”
“What about them?”
“I have never killed a horse. Pretty much everything else, yes, but never a horse.”
Pausing outside a closed and heavily bolted door, DeSilva gave Sabra a long look. “You have absolutely no concept of irony, Sabra, you know that?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Exactly. Now, be ready, in case I have to slam the door shut in a hurry. There's no telling what mood the boy will be in.”
Sabra restrained any questions; the whole visit was turning out much more surreal than she had expected, and she was beginning to wonder why she had travelled to the far side of the world when there was so much strangeness within the borders of her native land.
DeSilva eased back the bolt and opened the door a crack, glancing warily into the room before signing for Sabra to step inside. She found herself in a nursery of Kellion design, with a large playpen sunk into the middle of the floor. A fireplace in one wall was safely out of reach of the playpen, and turned towards it was a large armchair.  There was only one child in the room; a small boy, uncannily like DeSilva in appearance, with unkempt black hair and mischief in his dark eyes. He had been sitting among the wooden toys scattered in the playpen, but stood up when Sabra and DeSilva came in.
“Hello,” the little boy said. “I'm Montesinos DeKellia.”
“No,” Sabra said. “You cannot be; DeKellia is much older than you.”
“I'm the ghost of his childhood,” the boy replied, brightly. 
“Monte,” Sabra said, addressing DeSilva without taking her eyes off the impish spirit before her. “If you conjure up the ghost of my childhood...”
“You'll hack my head off with extreme prejudice. Yes. I know. I'd never even think of doing something so stupid.”
“I met myself once,” the little boy said. “The grown-up me, I mean. He was funny. How did he get that black scar on his cheek?”
“Fighting a giant snake,” Sabra said, automatically, then checked herself; of all the things she had seen and done, she had never been in the habit of talking with ghosts. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and glanced at DeSilva again. “This spirit is dangerous, is it not?”
“Oh yes,” DeSilva confirmed. “We're lucky he's in a quiet mood. I don't suggest we stay; if he gets really happy, we'd have to run for it.”
“I think not.”
“No of course not; none shall come against a knight in arms and so on and so forth, right?”
“Even the undead can die.”
“And what would happen to my father, alive as he is in the world, if you killed his childhood?”
Sabra considered this. “We should go back to the study,” she said. “I feel the need of another drink.”
DeSilva laughed, took a moment to bid farewell to the ghostly child, and led the way back to the study. When they arrived, they found Sorcha talking casually to a walking corpse dressed all in black.
“Grandpops?” Sabra guessed, even as she advanced upon the liquor cabinet. 
“Sabra,” DeSilva said, “allow me to introduce the Lord Kal Dansac, my great-great-grandfather. Kal; you have the pleasure of meeting...”
“The Order of One,” the dead man said, rising from his chair to meet Sabra. “You are the Daishen.”
Sabra bowed, ever so slightly, then went on pouring a round of drinks.
“Let me do that,” Sorcha started to say, but Sabra ignored the suggestion and brought the tray of drinks over to the table beside the fireplace. To the undead Kellion lord she said, “How do you know me without my armour?”
“How could I not?” the dead lord's voice was cracked and dry; his face was a blackened skull, the eyes pits of unholy green fire, but his manner was oddly relaxed. “The spirit of the Old Daishen is with you; I see him in your eyes.”
“And are you not shocked, that the Order of One should be carried by a woman?”
Kal Dansac laughed, a rattling sound. “Even the first Daishen was a woman. But I suppose you know that.”
“I had thought that very few did.”
The dead lips smiled. “If I am surprised by anything, it is that you are not wearing your armour now. Why have you come?”
“To see my sister and my old friend,” Sabra replied, but the undead lord shook his head.
“No, the Daishen does nothing without a purpose. You should tell your host the real reason for your visit, whatever it is.”
Sabra nodded, accepting the light rebuke. To DeSilva she said, “Monte, did you ever happen to meet Sir Denebar?”
“I knew him well. You know he built a fortress not far from here, in Dor Adathen pass?”
“I did not. But you said you knew him, Monte.”
“Yes. He died.”
Kal Dansac coughed significantly; the undead lord clearing his throat sounded like dry twigs breaking. DeSilva rolled his eyes but yielded to the hint.
“Oh alright, Denebar didn't die, exactly; he was mortally wounded in his last battle and rode off into the sunset, never to be seen again. Happy?”
Sabra contemplated the contents of her sherry-glass, evidently not happy at all.
“You could visit New Adathen,” Sorcha suggested. “The knights are still there, and Denebar's wife; I'm sure they'd love to see you.”
“Yes,” DeSilva drawled sarcastically, “their messiah dropping in to see how they're getting along; I'm sure they'd love that.”
Sorcha glared at him and wriggled her nose, at which DeSilva laughed. Kal Dansac uttered a single snort of amusement and sat down again in his chair to begin packing a long Kellion pipe.
“Go on, girl,” he said, “ask the wizard what it is you want.”
“You are a perceptive man, Lord Dansac,” Sabra replied.
“I'm three hundred years old,” Kal Dansac grunted, lighting his pipe. “Expect me to be as gormless as this witless youth?” Here he cast a look of fatherly disdain at DeSilva.
“I'll have you know that I treat with demons older than time itself,” DeSilva replied in an irritated tone, at which the undead ancient cackled in scorn. 
“Pay them no mind, Sabra,” Sorcha said. “They're always bickering.”
“I can imagine. You have three men of DeKellia's line under one roof; I am surprised the entire continent has not been laid waste. Again.”
“So what is it you want, Sabra?” DeSilva asked. “Something only a wizard can do, and I'm the only wizard who'd not run screaming for the hills if he even saw you in his crystal ball. So tell me; what is it?”
“If I could have anything,” Sabra said, “it would be to see Sir Denebar again, just one more time.”
“I'm sure it can be arranged.” DeSilva smiled, and led her up through the levels of the Savistri Mansion to the lone chamber on the highest floor. Here stood the Bed of Swords, source of the magic that maintained the Mansion and all its denizens; the bed of the sorcerer Noth Morden, that could make both dreams and nightmares reality. It was built of swords, welded and hammered into a four-poster frame draped in curtains.
“You know how it works?” DeSilva enquired. “You must lie awake until the first light of dawn; then your dreams will come. If you sleep, your nightmares will carry you away.”
“I have already slain my demons,” Sabra replied. “Nothing holds any fear for me now.”
“Goodnight then,” DeSilva said. “And goodbye. You won't be here in the morning; I doubt I'll see you again.”
Sabra's stern face softened and tears pricked her eyes, as much a surprise to herself as to DeSilva. Suddenly, on an impulse, she kissed him, once on the lips. “Goodbye, Monte. I did love you, long ago, and I have mourned what might have been.”
“I loved you too; I still do, but now in the way my father loved. His great fear was always the need to kill the people he cared about. He loved Rathe Saban, you know.”
“The Empress' mother? I had no idea. I knew they were friends, but...” Sabra frowned as a new thought occurred. “Do you mean to imply...?”
“No, the Empress was no kin of mine. She was half Jaro, remember? Rathe was briefly captured during the war, my father rescued her. But he loved her. She was the only person who ever really challenged him. He could beat anyone, but he never wanted to beat her. She forced his hand in the end, and that was always his fear. I'm very happy, Sabra, that we never came to that.”
“Let us not even consider it.” Sabra hugged him, crushing him to her with the strength of a bear. “Farewell,” she said. “I know you will take care of Sorcha.”
When she released him, DeSilva could not speak; the breath had been squeezed from him and the unexpected pang of this final parting left him overcome. 
Sabra stood beside the Bed of Swords long after Desilva had departed, leaving her alone. Eventually she sat on the edge of the bed, unsheathed her sword, and took out a whetstone. It was a habit of such long observance that the scrape of the whetstone on steel carried her swiftly into a meditative trance, with no thoughts and no awareness save the movement of the stone and the shimmer of the blade. 
She did not know how long she sat there before a cold wind blew as if through an open window. But the windows in the room had been closed, and she was no longer in the Savistri mansion; she sat now on a boulder atop a hill. She knew at once, from the terrain and the tang of the air, that she was in eastern Kellia. The winter snow had melted and here, near the ruins of the Winter Palace, the moors of Kellia were dark with gorse wild heather. 
Sabra was only mildly surprised to find herself back in her armour, which she had left in DeSilva's house; the weight of the blood-red platemail was as familiar as her own skin, and she accepted its reappearance as part of the magic of the Bed of Swords. 

She realised then that she was not alone; beside her stood a man. At first she thought it was DeSilva; a tall Kellion with unkempt black hair, wrapped in a midnight cloak and leaning on a long obsidian staff. Then she saw that he was clean-shaven; the resemblance to DeSilva was striking, but this man was older than her lost first love, his face more lined with care but his eyes alight with wry humour. 
“You are the sorcerer,” Sabra said, rising to her feet.
“I am.” Noth Morden bowed. “And we have met before, though you do not yet remember, and we shall meet again.”
“I go to rest in Dor Avellar,” Sabra told him. “My Quest is at an end.”
“The journey is unending, for the goal lies within,” the sorcerer reminded her with a smile. “your own words. You go to rest, but not to death. The day will come when the Ancient Enemy return, and the Daishen will be summoned again.”
Sabra bowed her head, accepting what he told her.
“But not yet,” Morden added, still smiling. “Come; I am the last of the line of Noth Dansac, and you will someday know me as you knew the sons of that lineage. But today you come to say farewells, and our friendship is for other times.”
He turned and led her across the brow of the hill until they stood overlooking a wide valley. There, two armies stood arrayed for battle. On the left, Sabra saw a great host of knights, far more than had ever ridden with her during the great war against the Empress. Red banners fluttered in the wind and the dawn light gleamed on silver armour. Most of the knights were on horseback, but there were also men who rode wyverns and griffons, and other flying beasts besides. 
At the head of the army rode a man upon a dragon. It was not the largest Sabra had ever seen, but it was a dragon nonetheless; winged and four-clawed, armoured in granite-grey scales. The man who rode upon it was old, his beard grown long and white. In one hand, he carried a broad-headed lance that Sabra knew well; the ancient boar-spear of the Daishen, the weapon she herself had used to slay the Firebird and earn the name of Dragonslayer.
Standing in the saddle, the old knight Sir Denebar, Lord Protector of the realm, addressed his warriors. Sabra could not hear what he said; they were too far away and the wind stole his final speech. Then he turned, and raised his hand in the signal to make ready for the charge.
Across the valley, Sabra beheld an army of darkness. She did not know who they were; warriors in black armour riding nightmare steeds out of distant Uria; footmen and archers, wizards and priestesses of some unknown evil god. 
he knights, now advancing at the trot with lances ready, were many times outnumbered; the enemy seemed to fill the northern end of the valley. Like an unholy tide, they advanced to meet the knights led by her old friend Sir Denebar.
Sabra stood in silence, watching, thinking she had no part to play.
The steeds of the knights accelerated, gaining the canter and then the gallop. Overhead, wyverns and griffons soared in formation. At the head of the army, the very spearhead of the charge, flew the dragon and the Lord Protector. The enemy rushed to meet them, their formation breaking into a ravening tide in their eagerness for the fight. The clash of armies resounded, reaching Sabra's ears like a roll of thunder. At the first collision, the onset of the knights broke deep into the enemy lines. The wyverns and griffons stooped, plucking black-armoured warriors up only to dash them down again to earth; Denebar's dragon belched fire, incinerating the enemy even as the great beast and its rider swooped and struck time and again amid the foe. But the knights were outnumbered; the black arrows of the enemy darkened the sky, striking down knights and their winged steeds. On the ground, the horsemen were completely surrounded, a bright island of silver mail amid a sea of black-clad foemen.
Sabra, seeing it all in one vast panorama, suddenly fixated on a single arrow; for a split-second it flew, distinct from all the rest. The shaft was black lignum wood, inscribed with baleful silver runes. Sabra recognised the arrow and felt she ought to know it well, but could not at then moment recall where she seen it before. She had only a split-second before the shaft struck Sir Denebar's mount in the joint of the wing. The dragon roared and stumbled in the air, landing clumsily in the thick of the fighting. Wounded, it did not give up but went berserk, thrashing and clawing a swathe through the enemy until they drew back, swords and spears making a ring of steel. 
Agile as a man of half his years, Denebar leaped from the saddle and set his sword on guard. The dragon stood at his back, defending him like an old comrade, but the sight of the Lord Protector on foot gave new courage to the enemy; they surged forward, and for a moment both man and dragon vanished beneath the onrushing mob. Sabra felt her heart leap into her throat, fear for her old friend outstripping any terror she had ever felt for herself. Then the black tide parted, revealing Denebar and the dragon still on their feet, bestriding a growing pile of enemy corpses. But Sabra knew there was no hope; the Lord Protector and his steed were alone, cut off from the rest of their army and surrounded by countless hundreds of foes.
“I must go to him,” Sabra said, without taking her eyes off the battle. “I must look him in the eyes and hear his voice again.”
“It was to see him in life that you came,” Morden said. “And it was to see you in battle again that I came here. Here is your steed.” From his hand appeared a ball of flame the size of an egg. It grew swiftly, sprouting wings and talons until it became a huge golden bird wreathed in fire. 
“The Firebird,” Sabra said, recognizing a beast of the same species as the one she had slain long ago. It was already saddled and bridled; Sabra mounted and cast a final glance at the sorcerer.
“Will you fight also?”
“No. The outcome of this battle is already known. I am here only as a witness, and as your guide. Go, Sabra; the Daishen is needed now.”
Sabra slammed down the visor of her helm and felt the power of the Old Daishen envelop her. Grim certainty born of centuries told her what she must do. Spurring the firebird into flight, she charged straight into the heart of the battle.
Her arrival in the fight was a bolt of fire that turned every head upon the field. For a moment there was utter silence, then a great moan went up from the enemy and a resounding cheer rose from the embattled knights, the mere light of Sabra's passage overhead bringing new strength and courage.
The firebird struck the melee where Denebar and his draconic mount still fought; in a blast of fire, the enemy were thrown back and the firebird dissolved. 
Sabra stood in the centre of the enemy, Denebar at her side and the dragon behind them. There was no time for greetings; before the foe could recover, Sabra and Denebar rushed in amongst them; with a roar, the dragon followed. Then came the nightmare of the melee, a savage press of swords and daggers, men roaring and screaming as they struck and were in turn struck down. Blows rang off Sabra's mail and her sword hewed flesh in turn. Always at her side was Sir Denebar, fighting like a man possessed, while behind them the dragon roared and flamed and slew. How long it went on, Sabra could not tell; as the sun breaking through the clouds, the enemy suddenly gave way. They had fought their way through, back to the ranks of the knights who still held the field despite enormous losses. United with their leader, with their messiah returned in person to aid them in the battle, the knights became revivified and joined arms again as if the battle had barely begun. The  enemy fell back, retreating at first, then turning tail in utter route. Overhead, the sun had climbed to noon; half the day had passed in the mad fury of melee.
Sabra paused at last and leant upon her sword, her red armour bloody from head to foot and the men around her no less smeared with mud and gore. One by one, they fell on their knees and offered up their swords to the grim figure of the Daishen. Sabra had eyes for only one, however; on his knees like all the rest, Sir Denebar stared up at her with shining eyes. 
His face was very pale, and Sabra saw with dismay that not all the blood on his armour was that of the enemy; a from a great rip in his hauberk, beneath his left arm, flowed a crimson river.
Then another knight came forward, pushing through the ranks of the others, and knelt at Denebar's side. The knight was a woman; she took off her helm and red hair tinged with grey spilled out. By her face and the green of her eyes, Sabra recognised a woman of her own blood, a Silvan highlander. It was then that she saw too the Wayknife at Denebar's belt, the Kellion symbol of marriage, and she guessed that this woman could only be his wife.
“Tethys...” Denebar whispered, and the woman looked up as if beholding Sabra for the first time. A strange mix of emotions crossed her face in quick succession; grief, anger, disbelief, and then the look that filled the eyes of all true knights who beheld the Daishen's gaze; all-surpassing awe.
Around them, the gathered knights had bowed their heads; a murmuring arose, many voices speaking all at once, some whispering, others sobbing, some laughing and some doing all three. From the sussuration of words, Sabra could pick out only fragments of what was said: “Holy Daishen... she is with us... faith rewarded... forgive us our doubts... grant us courage... goddess of victory..”
Only Tethys, Denebar's wife, did not speak. While the survivors of the battle knelt in prayer, she rose and stood before the Daishen. Hesitantly, as if any warrior of her line could admit to fear, she reached out to touch the breastplate of the Order of One.
“I never believed,” she said, so softly that only Sabra and Denebar heard. “Forgive me.”
“A warrior's faith is in swords and courage,” Sabra replied, in the voice of the Old Daishen. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“She's real,” Tethys spoke to her husband, her eyes childlike in wonder. But then she too saw the wound in his side and fear for him eclipsed all else; she knelt beside him again with a broken sob.
Only then did Sabra detect the presence of Noth Morden again; he stood off to one side, among the kneeling knights, his cloak fluttering in the wind and his staff seeming to consume the noon sunlight.
“Come,” he said. “Time is short. You have a long journey ahead of you.”
Sabra took off her helm to face him. “Where?” she demanded, angry that even he dared intrude upon the last moments of Sir Denebar's life.
“To Avellar,” the sorcerer replied. “You will not go to your rest alone.”
Sudden understanding turned Sabra's eyes again to Sir Denebar. As if it had been explained in full, he too seemed to understand; leaning on his wife's arm, he rose to his feet.
“I am ready,” he said, and then spoke to the dragon that had waited in silence all this time. “Will you bear me again, Gargouille, as you did once from a battle long ago?”
“With honour,” the beast replied.
Sabra was amazed to hear the dragon speak; none that she had encountered had ever done so.
Denebar straightened and stepped away from his wife's support, turned to face her. They looked into each other's eyes, no words needing to be spoken. Tethys wept, but she did not sob or moan; the tears rolled from her eyes while she gazed at Sir Denebar, imprinting his face one last time in her memory. Denebar smiled and kissed her, then turned to Sabra and accepted her aid in mounting the dragon. When he was in the saddle, Sabra swung up behind him. The eyes of the surviving knights were all on her, their prayers stilled now and a reverent silence in the air.
“I had thought the Quest completed,” she told them, “as I have thought at times before. But always a new journey is revealed, for the goal lies within, not to be seized but rather striven for. The Quest is all there is and all there ever can be, in this life and the next. Farewell.”
The dragon inhaled, drawing air into itself and inflating as it lifted off the ground. The great wings beat and the ground fell away below the beast and its riders, the knights below dwindling until even the battlefield where they stood was lost to sight amid the wide land of Kellia. Turning south, the great dragon Gargouille bore his passengers on the wind towards the mountain valley of Dor Avellar, where the immortal knight Sir Kirin guarded the rest of the few who had earned the right to sleep in that most ancient and sacred fastness.

Read the full epic story in Romancing The Sword and Akurite Empire, also by Samuel Z Jones