The Dread and The Saint

Old Guard by Alexandr Komarov

The higher he climbed the more bodies he found. Curled up against the cliff or face down on the path and more still smashed upon the rocks below. All bones now. So many had attempted the climb to meet the Sword Saint but few had reached the summit, have any? The world seemed small from so high up. The cities and towns mere crumbs surrounded by forests and grassland and mountains, and beyond all that the sea. He had never seen the sea so vast and empty, silent and still. The sun rose above it all, its light catching on the waves all the way to the horizon were sea and sky met. He continued his climb.

How is a man meant to fight the Sword Saint after this climb? He thought. His legs burned and his throat was raw. He would not abandon his armour, could not. Hours earlier he had passed a cairn of armour; mail, scale, even plate. All abandoned and left to rust. Good quality, once. He leaned on his battle axe, blackened and stained with war and ash, and sucked do…