Marc Rivers, Author

Sabas stood proudly and defiantly at the threshold of the Bridge of Eltrie. A single sentry, his feet shoulder-width apart and glaive firmly in hand, he positioned himself athwart the only crossing of the Unnias River for half a day in either direction. Before him was a Laudan company of fifty men, all on horseback, spears in hand, but no bowmen. They had been strangely reluctant (or unable) to bring them to the battlefield. It had very likely cost them more than one battle so far in this war of conquest against the people of Monaria. It may just cost them another today.

The Laudan force could afford no delays, yet none of them were bold enough to make the first move against this solitary foe. They were cut off from their countrymen and had to cross this bridge if they wanted to come to their aid. But Sabas was determined that they would have to go through him first.

The Laudan commander approached on his horse, alone, seeking a parley. The man could not even offer the courtesy of removing his helmet – doubly insulting, as Sabas was not even wearing one. He approached within ten feet of the defender and stopped. Sabas remained still, his polearm planted firmly on the ground and his heels on the threshold of the wooden bridge behind him. His left arm remained relaxed at his side. He had only simple leather armor for protection and a dagger on his belt providing his last resort of defense. His unarmored head showed the gray streaks in his short, black hair and the lines creasing his face. Yet for all his apparent disadvantage, he could see it in the eyes of every last Laudan soldier – they knew what they were up against, or thought they did. There was caution written across their faces. But not fear. Sabas would rectify that.

At last the Laudan commander spoke. “We seek passage across this bridge. If you will agree to let us cross unmolested, we offer the same to you and this village. We do not desire to be men of blood. Come, see reason, and let us not needlessly shed blood today.”

“Bold words,” Sabas replied in an unconvinced tone. “May I ask who it is that speaks them?”

“I am Salaco Kodeni, captain of these men you see before you. We fight under the banner of our king, Richomer, Second of His Name, and by that name we swear to you that if you grant us safe passage, we will turn neither to the right hand nor the left as we pass through your village, nor will we lift even one finger against its inhabitants or their homes, their fields, their crops, or their cattle.”

Unimpressed, Sabas retorted, “Perhaps not today, or tomorrow. But someday you will be back. Your king has not sent you here on any peaceable mission, nor has your professed desire to avoid needless bloodshed been manifest before now.”

Quickly dropping his even-keeled façade, Salaco fumed, “Be sensible, man! You are one and we are fifty! The only outcome of violence today is your lifeless corpse being tossed into the river.”

“So you say. Yet, you would need men to do the tossing. Who among your band believes they can best me in battle?”

“We are not afraid of you,” Salaco warned.

“So I gather. That may prove a grievous mistake on your part. Do you know who I am?”

“We have eldritch knights among the Galts, too. You cannot cow us with your fanciful prestidigitations.”

“Sir, do not think that I am capable only of mere tricks. With one tap of my weapon, I could make this bridge crumble to pieces behind me. Then how would you reach your comrades in time to strengthen them against my countrymen?”

“So why do you not, then? Why would you choose to stay and die?” Salaco asked with growing impatience. Even his horse was anxiously shifting its feet.

“Your presumptiveness is irksome. You and I both know that this is not the only bridge, and today is not the only battle. Destroying this span may send you the long way around, but that would not stop you from coming here again. Better to put a stop to your destructiveness now. Sparing this bridge will simply save me the trouble of swimming back home.”

“Do not tell me you truly mean to go through with this.”

“I am not a Laudan, sir. I mean every word I say.” Resigned, Salaco turned to rejoin his men. Before he got very far, Sabas added, “You have the opportunity to turn back yourself, you know. You can still make good on your boast of avoiding needless bloodshed and quit this place.”

Salaco turned in his saddle, his anger barely contained in his voice, and said, “Spare me your needless posturing. I will not mourn your death, nor accord you honors befitting a worthy opponent.” With that, he took his place at the vanguard of his company. Taking his shield in one hand and sword in the other, he raised his weapon into the air to ready his men for an attack.

With one deep, steady breath, Sabas braced for battle.

Salaco’s men galloped toward him, their charge a cautious one due to his position at the river’s edge. Clenching his left hand into a fist, he then opened it as a tremendous burst of light emanated from his hand. The Laudans’ advance slowed as the cavalrymen tried to shield their eyes. Then, taking his polearm in both hands, Sabas made a sweeping motion that sent a wave of force into the vanguard, staggering the now off-balance horses and knocking a few off their feet, sending them crashing on top of their riders.

More riders came, this time from the side. They had avoided the blinding light, but their flanking maneuver had already been thwarted. Before they could pull up and regroup, Sabas spoke an esoteric word and brought his glaive chopping down toward the ground in front of him. Deftly, he did not sink the blade into the earth, but only lightly touched the ground, which began to contort in a strange fashion. As though it had suddenly become fluid, the ground rose sharply in an elongated ridge, starting at Sabas and making a line straight for the riders. In a matter of seconds, the earthen ridge had reached its target and began tossing horses and riders aside with ease before the ground quickly settled down and resumed its former shape and firmness.

With some of his foes now stunned and knocked prone, and the rest looking on in helpless confusion, Sabas saw the opportunity before him. Rushing ahead, he first closed on those who had been thrown from their horses. His glaive was a blur as men fell before him, one after another. Some did not even bleed from their wounds until after they had hit the ground, so swift and precise had been the killing blow.

The sight of their comrades being cut down was enough to wake the remaining riders out of their awed stupor. Splitting apart, a few of them attempted another flanking maneuver. This time, Sabas was in open ground; against any other foe, such a gambit would be perfectly sensible. But Sabas had only begun to display the guile of an eldritch knight.

Watching their approach, he took his glaive in both hands and raised it high over his head, parallel with the ground. Once the riders were nearly upon him, he quickly lowered his weapon and uttered an arcane incantation. In that instant, a massive clap of thunder seemed to emanate from him, as loud as that from a nearby lightning bolt. The sound filled the air and momentarily took the Laudans’ breath away. Even their trained warhorses could not withstand it and broke their charge, scattering this way and that before their riders could regain control.

That distraction was all Sabas needed. He fearlessly charged at his discombobulated foes before they could brace for his approach. His glaive flashed in the sunlight as it struck one rider after the next. For those he could not reach, he hewed the horses’ legs, forcing his foes to the ground.

In less than a minute, Sabas had halved the number of his enemies. Dead soldiers and horses already littered the ground near the bridge. Still, none retreated. As those who had fallen victim to the initial flash of light began to regain their sight, they systematically surrounded the Monarian defender. Salaco shouted orders for his men to constantly stay on the move in the hopes that it would be more difficult for Sabas’s magic to hit multiple moving targets.

In this he was not altogether wrong, but neither did the tactic render Sabas’s most dangerous asset ineffective. As the cavalry continued to circle him, waiting for the most opportune moment to move in and strike, Sabas issued a steady stream of arcane chants. With each repetition, the previous invocation echoed unnaturally around the battlefield, never seeming to fade, until soon there was a chorus of disembodied voices all talking over one another, nearly drowning out the Laudan commander’s orders.

Amidst the cacophony, some of the attackers moved prematurely. Sabas had not given them the opening they were waiting for and so was prepared to meet them. Again, his glaive, swift as a viper in his expert hands, moved in a blur as it brought down more enemies.

Where once there had been fifty men before Sabas, now scarcely a dozen remained, including their commander. The man called Salaco was ardent in his zeal to push past this single defender, and would not issue the command for his few remaining men to retreat, even though their hesitation was now evident.

Blind to all but his singular focus of winning this battle at all costs, Salaco ordered his men into yet another offensive maneuver. Sabas was well-positioned to receive them, but the toll of the years was beginning to catch up to him. He was not young and indefatigable as he had been before. Age had stolen up on him and robbed him of the endurance he once took for granted.

To his dismay, his steps began to slow and his arms suddenly felt the weight of his weapon that had for so many years been to him merely an extension of his body. The quick, rapid movements had taxed his stamina, but not as much as the channeling of magical energies had. He worried he did not have the strength for many more spells left in him. He would need to make them count.

Thinking quickly, he started to utter an invocation to strengthen the force of his weapon’s next strike, but one of the opposing riders came at him unawares from his side. He had lost track of the enemy and only seen him approaching at the very last second. He dodged the blow that was aimed directly for his head, deflecting the strike with his own weapon at the expense of finishing the spell. He felt the magical energy begin to move through his body and into the shaft of his glaive before it fizzled and diffused harmlessly into the surrounding air. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he even heard it make a strange sound, like the pop and hiss of steam escaping a log burning in the hearth.

Sensing he could not hold his advantage much longer, he tried to edge his way to the bridge. In spite of his earlier boasts, he was still prepared to retreat across the river and destroy the bridge behind him if necessary. Such a tactical retreat would come at a cost, however. Sabas would not be able to keep all of his remaining foes in his field of view. He had to take the chance that he could anticipate their movements by instinct.

In this, Sabas finally erred. He had cut down dozens of horsemen like a force of nature, but there was a reason these few men were still standing. They did not make the same impatient mistakes as their comrades, nor had they failed to make their own adjustments over the course of the battle. Before Sabas could reach the bridge, two cavalrymen intercepted him. One of them threw a spear, which Sabas dodged, but in doing so he fell right into the path of the other man’s sword.

The cut on his left upper arm was well-placed and deftly done, the mark of an expert swordsman who knew just the right degree of force to put into his strike. Sabas’s counter found only air.

Moving away from the two men blocking the bridge, he sensed that he was drifting too close the other four. He turned just in time to deflect a trained strike from a lance with his arm. The tip of the lance tore through his leather bracer, opening a wound on his forearm, though he succeeded in stopping the lance from piercing his skull. In no time, blood dripped down to his hand, making his grip on his weapon more difficult.

Sensing there was little point in restraint now, he swung his glaive wildly over his head, keeping his foes at bay, buying time to speak the eldritch chant for his next spell. Once complete, he brought the butt of his weapon down firmly on the ground with both hands, sending a shockwave in all directions around him.

The Laudans were now tightly packed in such close proximity to him, none escaped the spell’s effect. The horses were all thrown off their feet, and most of the riders launched from their saddles. Sabas paid a price of his own; the spell had unexpectedly rebounded back through his own weapon, accompanied by an audible crack, and stung his hands with the force of the vibration. It cost him precious seconds before he could fall on his remaining foes as they struggled to get back to their feet.

He found that two them did not need any further attention on his part – the horses had landed on top of their riders and one man was incapacitated while the other looked to be already dead. That left only four foes to contend with.

In their scramble to get back on their horses, Sabas saw an opportunity. He charged headlong at the nearest man and cut him down before he could react. He immediately moved on to the remaining three, but they saw what happened to their countryman and abandoned any further attempt to regain their steeds, resolving to finish the battle on foot.

It had now become a contest of wills. Sabas fought frantically against three Laudans. Everyone was tired, swinging wildly and dodging slowly. Technique became imprecise and footwork was an afterthought. Through it all, the indomitable defender persevered through countless glancing, superficial blows. He ignored the pain throughout his body, especially his hands and arms. He landed a solid strike against one Laudan, then two. Each man sagged to the ground under the force of his glaive. Yet with each strike, Sabas sensed that his weapon had become weakened.

At last, it was between Sabas and Salaco. The Laudan cavalry captain was all that remained. Total victory was within reach. From the way his head swam and his vision blurred, he knew there was no time for further delay. There would be time to feel tired once this final foe was defeated.

Salaco was far from fresh, himself. From the blood covering one hand and the way he was awkwardly holding his sword with the other, he had apparently lost a finger somewhere in the chaos. Nevertheless, his eyes reflected the same determination that filled Sabas. Military tactics and strategy had been abandoned – this was now between two warriors.

Salaco feinted once, twice, then a third time. Sabas retreated a step each time. He still had his back to the bridge, still refused to yield the shortest path for his Laudan opponent to rejoin his fellow invaders.

Sabas tried a bit of his own deception. He began to babble just loudly enough for his adversary to hear, though the words were meaningless. Nevertheless, he knew his foe would not be able to tell the difference. Sure enough, Salaco rushed forward to interrupt what he supposed was another spell. It gave Sabas the opening he needed.

He sidestepped his charging opponent, but could not connect on a downward strike as Salaco spun out of the way. In desperation, the Laudan threw his sword at Sabas. The whirling blade caught the Monarian squarely in the knee, buckling his leg as he shouted in pain. Before him, Salaco got back to his feet, producing a dagger and advancing with grim intent.

With his head bowed, Sabas was free to softly utter the invocation he needed without detection. It was the same spell he had attempted earlier only to be thwarted. He would pour all the strength of his body and mind into his next blow. It would need to be true.

With the words complete, he felt the energy coalesce in his weapon, however tenuously. His glaive was compromised. There was a very real risk he may not have enough time to strike. Persisting through the blinding pain in his knee, he stood to face his adversary.

Salaco dashed forward, issuing a primal scream in his bid to connect on a blow before Sabas could. But he misjudged his opponent. The defender stood before him, ready to receive him. With one furious upward swing, he caught the Laudan captain squarely in the ribs with his glaive. The blade penetrated the man’s armor and caught in his chest as a tremendous flash of light and thunderous explosion nearly knocked Sabas off his feet.

A dim crackle of energy slowly faded into the air. When his eyes could see again, Sabas found Salaco, the last of his foes, lying dead on the ground. Scattered around him were half a hundred of his cohorts, foreign invaders sent by their king to win glory for himself. In this they had failed. The Monarians had been sweeping the Laudans off the land for months. This battle would not have changed that, no matter the outcome. But to the village of Eltrie, it made all the difference in the world. Sabas had protected them all.

Feeling overwhelmingly tired, the stalwart defender sank to one knee, propping himself up with the broken shaft that was all that remained of his polearm. Head bowed, he uttered a prayer of thanks to his gods for seeing him through such a momentous battle.

The villagers had watched it all from afar. Upon seeing that the day was won, and that their countryman had repulsed the invaders, they ran out to meet him. Men and women of all ages rushed to congratulate him and give him aid. Only the children were left behind, so as to spare them from the grisly sight of the field littered with the bodies of the dead. In the midst of such carnage, Sabas knelt in prayer, heedless of the crowd hurriedly coming out to meet him.

“You did it! You did it!” they cried.

One woman reached him first. “Are you hurt? You’re bleeding! Please, let me help you!” She tried to take him by the arm, but he did not move or acknowledge her presence.

Another man caught up to them. “Well done! It’s … it’s a miracle! It must be!” Again, Sabas gave no response. He did not answer any of the dozen or so people who immediately crowded around him, offering him praise or aid. He did not even move a muscle.

Finally, one of the elderly women was able to fight her way through the crowd. Upon seeing their protector still kneeling and bowing his head in prayer, she got down on her knees as well, bringing her face up to his. She turned her ear to him, then placed a hand upon his neck. For the whole time she did this, the crowd did not speak a word. At length, she got to her feet and gravely announced, “He’s dead.”

When the other villagers looked for themselves, they saw that it was true – Sabas had died where he knelt. Yet even with his spirit fled from his body, he remained in that pose, defiantly protective and righteously humble. In the end, not even death could completely lay him low.

* * *

A young boy stood at the base of the plinth in the middle of the street, staring up at the marble statue honoring the fallen warrior, squinting a bit as the sunlight shone on the smooth, white stone. The likeness showed the legendary defender in his death pose – kneeling, his head bowed in prayer, relying on his broken weapon for support.

Despite the statue capturing a moment in time that seemed sad, there was an heroic majesty about the piece of art. Sabas’s image showed a man who was proud, serene, and above all, unconquered. The sculptor had not captured a tragic moment in time, but a victorious one.

Behind the boy stood his grandfather, waiting beside his small cart laden with goods from the city. He had stopped while his grandson observed the statue of the man who had given his life, ostensibly for his country, but more poignantly in the defense of a tiny, unremarkable village.

At length, the boy turned back to him. With a voice of innocence and wonder, he asked, “Is it true, grandpapa?”

“Yes, my boy,” the old man answered with a smile. “Every word of it. I saw it all happen with my own eyes, on this very spot. At the time, I had seen only one or two winters more than you have now.”

“Were you sad?”

The old man thought for a moment and answered, “I was. But I can look back across the years and see that I had reason to be happy, too. Here was a man who showed true bravery and love. He showed that there is always good in this world, even when evil is at the doorstep, and that one good man is worth fifty wicked ones.”

Turning back to the statue one more time, the boy asked, “Is there anyone like that now?”

“Oh, I would say so. Not right here or right now, but there is someone out there, some man or woman, who stands on the side of right and refuses to be moved.”

The boy looked for a few more seconds at the statue. As he did so, he thought on Sabas’s deeds and why he would willingly do what he did. He then wondered, Will I ever meet someone like that some day? Or will I need to be that someone?

Returning to his grandfather, the boy hopped on the cart as the old man pulled it along the cobblestones, past the proud, stone sentinel whose eternal vigil guarded the new stone bridge crossing the Unnias River into the quiet, sleepy village of Eltrie.