From the embers a demon arises, an eight-fold chorus
harmonizing with each weapon in its hands, echoes and artifacts of an evil
undefeated. Like an unholy archetype, the Righteous will not die. The sweeping
victory of the seven sisters only forced them into reclusive slumber until the
acts of man once again drew them forth from their long, deep hibernation, renamed
and reincarnated, their numbers undiminished. They now call themselves the Chosen.
The counter-revolution their ancestors sparked so long ago was not easily undone,
the forest not easily reseeded after their clear cutting and slash-and-burn
viniculture. The acidic ash lay fallow until, watered by tears of envy for an illusive
Arthurian empire long lost, it fertilized the grapes of wrath, ripened to near
bursting, ready to be crushed. Even now their red vinegar once again stains the
tongues of man. Only a single descendent of the seven sisters still lives to stand
against them, the youngest daughter of youngest daughters tracing back seven
generations to Martyred Mary. She bears the birthmark of Alcy the Fallen, a
kingfisher above her breast. Her blood is all that remains untainted of their
original res publica vision. But their armor ill fits her. She is a poet not a
warrior. A philosopher not a prophet. She seeks sympathy and common ground
through treaties and beneficial trade. When those inevitably fail, her
reluctant call to arms comes across as more cipher than clarion.
The Chosen gather. A legion of the
faithful stand against the prophecy unleashed, an immortal ethernaut sent to
raze their souls to god. She has none of the subtly and guise of her grande
dames, none of their martial prowess. She marches her meager army out according
to the histories, a vanguard, center, two wings and a reserve. The pueblas
have little cavalry so rely on a native contingent who pledged their support
after their own blunted revolution farther north. Bands bearing distant names
like Cheyenne and Sleeping Buffalo.
Once they had been equal allies. Now they are auxiliaries. She positions their
scant numbers to cover her flanks. The Chosen had taken
up positions first, facing dusk. The sun reflects off their armor, making the
sky before the ranks of women catch fire. They murmur it’s an ill omen. But
when the battle is joined, it’s the Chosen center that
does not hold. A cheer arises. She presses her advantage and pushes forward,
just like the histories say. It seems too easy. But perhaps this is exactly how
her forbearers won. She only realizes her mistake too late when the Chosen
center turns and fights, their retreat a feint. The sun across their polished
shields covered the sweeping charge of their cavalry hidden behind their lines.
Their horses scattered her wan allies. The Chosen wings
now press her flanks, with their cavalry behind. Her veterans fight valiantly
but already sense their doom. The women would rout if they weren’t already
encircled. As night descends, only crows and the Chose celebrate the field.
Wounded beyond grieving among the army of the dead, she is
lured into the shadow of an ancient shrine by the mystery of a whisper. How she
slips through the Chosen pickets, she does not know. She
just follows a voice in the darkness that softly calls her name. Sophia.
Sophia. Behind her, the distant lamentation of no quarter asked or given
transforms into a raven’s song until an anti-chorus of crows lends it the
quality of children’s cries. By moonlight, she spies the ruins of the square
tower in the mountains. To achieve its sanctuary, she must first navigate the field
of broken crosses. Their tiny, jagged arms rend her clothing and deeply etch
her armor until her fingertips grieve with blood. Within the crumbling shelter
of the tower walls, she gathers deadwood and strikes a fire. Her only goal now
to survive and keep the candle lighted for another generation. Her little blaze
mimics the twinkling bonfires on the battle plane below. She prays that death
has been sated by the offerings and remains too drowsy to come seeking more. Overwhelmed
by the magnitude of that carnage, she buries her face within her hands until
the teardrops from her fingertips run clear.
She strips away her armor at the altar of an unnamed god,
feeding it to the wishfire, beseeching an intercession to restore her savaged
faith. Her weapons she drops beside it, believing them useless and unnecessary.
Naked and ashamed she confronts the disaster her reign has ushered in. That
gentle voice whispers the fault is not hers to bear alone. She ignores it. Her
mind is wracked with dreams and nightmares, visions of black or white. The
voices of her ancestors insisting you are either with us or against us. No
dissent. No middle way. Their shrill chorus alienates their allies by casting
them as enemies while expecting them to understand. What they understood
instead was that their aid was no longer needed, their alliance no longer valued.
Their fight had become theirs alone. Her night is a pain filled crucible of
tempering by self-recrimination. She glimpses a future where all their causes
are defeated in detail. How can she conquer unrelenting human nature?
She awakes alone in cold confusion to find a dreamcypher
inscribed across her mind. Arcane words unbind an avatar. A martyr is unborn. The
voices inform her what she must do to seek redemption. She smears herself with
ashes mixed with blood that now become her armor. She takes up her weapons and
hones their dull edges back to razor sharp. In the foothills, she gathers what
remains of her forces, guerrillas and refugees drawn to her light as they flee the
mountain fastnesses. Rumors that the puebla
army had fallen spread faster than a plague. The voices instruct her to bide
her time and wait. Not long. On the plane below, the Chosen
shift their attention to Cheyenne
and begin to march. Slowly so the terror of their coming precedes them,
pressing the city’s will to crumble to obviate the necessity of siege. With a
cadre reminiscent of the old days, warriors, witches and ingénues, she tracks
them along the ridgeline. She can only pray her erstwhile allies see their situation
clearly. After Cheyenne, their only
the remaining camp is Sleeping Buffalo filled with their sick, wounded, elderly
and young. And it cannot be fortified. But not their women. The example of her puebla
empire taught them that at least. Their scattered cavalry regroups within the walls.
Their hope forlorn, they stake themselves to the land to fight just as the
voices said they would. The Chosen invest the city. Her
camp remains cold and fireless to conceal her presence. The voices order her to
hold fast until the moment the native cavalry sally from behind the walls, as
the histories say they must.
From a hill beyond their ruined temple, astrologers record
her descent as a tear down the face of god, the telemetry of a fallen angel. Alone,
she would set fire their camp then destroy their half-built siege engines and
retreat. Hit and run. Scatter them then cut them down in the passes. That’s
what the histories say. The voices reject her caution. Now is the time to impale
them from behind while their attention is fixed forward. Use her full weight as
shock tactics to savage their exposed back. A lightning strike to show the
besieged city that their allies have not forsaken them. She knows her forces
may well not survive the impact. But for too many generations, the puebla
have neglected their allies in favor of themselves. It’s time to rebalance the
equation, through sacrifice if necessary. She aims her spear at the heart of
their gathered leaders and lets gravity do the rest. Their defiant charge
catches the Chosen completely unaware. By the time they
hear the thunder of hoofbeats rolling downhill, the lance is thrust too
deep. She and her companions lay waste
to their captains and lieutenants. Decapitated, their army begins to melt away,
first a trickle, then a torrent.
Miraculously, Sophia and her companions survive. When she
links up with the leader of Cheyenne
war band, it’s she who dismounts and bends her knee. The voices reveal that her
redemption is not yet complete. In the aftermath, she refuses to reassume her position
of rulership. The pueblas are restive
but cautious of her recent erratic actions. Her desperate charge based on the counsel
of unseen advisors has already attained a legendary quality, part myth, part
cautionary tale. As her last official act, she decrees the puebla
empire will rebuild as a true res publica. To repair the alliance, she and her veteran
cadre vow to remain and guard Cheyenne
until the next generation can replace their fallen warriors. The Chosen
have once again been sown to the wind, diminished but not defeated. The voices
warn her they are destined to return, beneath a different banner, bearing a
different name. She must remain vigilant. The cycles of the histories will continue
unceasing.
So in victory she becomes Unchosen, a sibylline warrior
cursed by whispers of her renunciation until the voices fade beyond her second
sight.
