The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (39 page)

‘No, Marmicus! No! Don’t fight him!’ cried Larsa. She did not want Marmicus to fight for her – how could she endure watching him being hurt or, worse, killed in front of her?

Marmicus had already made up his mind. The princess was the centre of his world and he would die to protect her.

‘Hold your tongue, princess, or I’ll cut it out.’ The Dark Warrior jabbed his weapon against her cheek, almost slicing into her smooth skin. He had been waiting for this moment for far too long; he would not let it slip away because of her pathetic pleas.

‘Let her go! She has no part in the destiny that binds us both.’ Marmicus stared at Larsa, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be alright; she needed to trust in him now more than ever before. ‘You’ll have your battle. Take your glory as your prize; mine shall be her life,’ continued Marmicus. ‘These are my conditions. Either you accept them or you have declared war.’

The Dark Warrior turned to his cousin, like a dog wanting to gain his master’s approval to fight, but Nafridos would have to wait before he received any kind of answer from the Assyrian emperor. The only movement on Jaquzan’s face was the subtle twitching of his jaw muscles beneath his skin; even so, Marmicus could tell that beneath his expressionless appearance was a man who was deeply afraid of losing his power. The Assyrian emperor glared at the Gallant Warrior; he had almost destroyed everything the emperor had built, and the mere thought of him made him react in ways he had never before experienced. Jaquzan moved in his seat and his lions roared, twisting their heads from side to side. They clawed at the air, trying to reach the Gallant Warrior, but their iron chains held them back.

‘I am the world and you are the dust crushed beneath my feet,’ said the Assyrian emperor. He glanced at the Gallant Warrior’s sword, admiring the sacred words of allegiance that ran across the metal blade. They would soon become meaningless words lost in the mists of time.

‘I will make sure that nothing shall remain of you: not even the whisper of your name or the blade of your sword will exist. There will be nothing in this world that will speak of your story, not even the dust of your body, or the memory of your name.’

‘You can have the world and everything that lies within it. Today I fight for only one thing.’ He turned to the Dark Warrior. ‘Now let her go, and let us see where our destiny leads us.’

‘Release her,’ said the Assyrian emperor. He had given his consent to the terms of battle. He looked at his cousin, knowing that he only had one opportunity to kill the Gallant Warrior; whatever happened, Nafridos could not let it slip through his fingertips. He needed this battle as much as the emperor did. What would be done with his enemy’s body after that would be up to him.

‘If allegiance lies in the heart of the sword, then today the beating hearts of men shall surrender to me. The time has come for you to meet your equal upon the battlefield, oh Gallant Warrior … step forward, Dark Warrior. Kill him, and seize the destiny to which you were born.’

The Dark Warrior turned with excitement: this would be his greatest ever battle, and the princess would be the closest person to the fight. By nightfall, history would honour his name as the man who killed the Gallant Warrior from the beautiful Garden of the Gods. He grabbed the princess, pulling her up from the wet ground, slashing through the rope that bound her wrists. Larsa felt her heart sink the moment he cut it; somehow she wanted to remain prisoner. Only then could she guarantee that Marmicus’s life would be safe.

‘If there is a god in the heavens then he has sacrificed someone else for you,’ said the Dark Warrior, as he turned to face his opponent.

The winds were singing on the edge of the Gallant Warrior’s bronze helmet, making it difficult for him to hear. Marmicus needed to use every sense he had, so he lifted his glorious helmet from his head, revealing his face. The muffled echo of waves crashing against his ears immediately disappeared. He flung the helmet onto the wet ground, choosing to fight without it.

‘Swear by your honour that you’ll abide by the conditions of combat and that no harm shall be inflicted on her.’

‘I have no honour to swear by,’ replied the Dark Warrior. He followed his enemy’s actions by removing his own helmet, as if peeling back the layers of his identity to reveal the inner sanctum of his barbarity. The grip of his sword had been moistened with his own blood and gritted with sand, as was his custom.

‘Then let the scribes of history hold you to account, for you’ll be buried without any,’ replied Marmicus. He turned to Larsa; she stood in the rain, trembling, unable to absorb what was going on. Thoughts of despair kept running through her mind. How cruel could the world be? How could her army do nothing to help the man who had sacrificed so much for them? Marmicus understood that these few minutes of combat were going to torment her more than anyone else, and he remembered what he had told her the day he had returned home; how she was the heart of his sword, the very place where his allegiance lay. Now he would be fighting to save their love, using the same weapon.

Larsa cried out as soon as she saw Marmicus take the first step into battle. An Assyrian soldier held her back, stopping her from running towards him. Her hands reached out to him, desperately wishing to touch him one last time, but Marmicus had become a prisoner of this war as much as she had.

‘If there is any cause worth dying for, then it is this. Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword!’ roared the Gallant Warrior. His voice travelled across the battlefield and could be heard through the plunging winds. It was heard by the thousands who looked on, watching this epic battle unfold.

The two warriors began to circle each other, like lions stalking their prey. The Dark Warrior held his shield high, covering one side of his muscular body. Only his eyes could be seen above the circular disc that moved along with his stride. Along the metalwork of his shield was an array of iron spikes, so that anyone who brushed against it would find their flesh torn off. Marmicus knew that his opponent’s strikes would be quick and clean, just like his own; he had had a glimpse of his fighting ability in yesterday’s battle, and that had been enough to warn him what to expect. Using all his energy, Marmicus tried to focus on his moving target, but his vision was warped and hazy. Instead of seeing one opponent circle around him, he saw two figures, rotating and distorted as through a prism. He only had one chance to live, and he could not afford to make any rash judgements, not when so much was at stake.

Suddenly, the Dark Warrior threw himself into combat, moving his heavy shield aside and unsheathing his sword. Marmicus leapt back, his knees bending just in time as the sword curled across, sweeping past his head. Nafridos swung the heavy weapon again, this time striking at a different angle. His muscles pumped with hot blood and adrenaline. Marmicus threw up his shield, blocking the blow, his body jolting back as the sword met his shield, leaving a scratch across its full width. Nafridos laughed as he watched Marmicus struggle; he had just started to warm up. The Dark Warrior swung his sword again, rotating his wrists as he did. Each time he moved, he smirked. His aim was to make his enemy tire until he had no strength left, and it was working better than he had expected. Marmicus felt the strength being sucked out of him. His reactions were beginning to slow; it was the worst possible dilemma for any soldier on the battlefield. Blood dripped from his injured shoulder, and he felt the wound tear every time he raised his arm.

‘There’s only one entrance to the hall of death. Run to it and set yourself free,’ said the Dark Warrior. He powerfully rotated his arm, slicing his weapon down. Marmicus threw up his sword, trying to stop the blow from slicing his neck. The deadly instruments clashed together with the force of a lightning strike. Marmicus felt his heart thunder against his chest. He was not frightened of death; it did not matter to him if he died at this very moment – all Marmicus needed before death was to know that he had set Larsa free.

Marmicus was doing everything he could to block the assaults, but they kept coming, crashing down with the pelting rain. Every time he blinked, he saw another blow coming, stronger than the last. It was getting harder for him to defend himself and control them. His enemy jumped into the air, hammering his sword down and punching it across. Marmicus raised his sword; their weapons clashed. This time the Dark Warrior did not pull back. Instead, he glared into the Gallant Warrior’s eyes, wanting to strip him of all confidence that he could win. He needed him to know that he was going to die, and that the princess would watch it happen. Marmicus felt his body sink, his feet slipping into the mud. Nafridos was forcing his weapon down, using his full strength. With no choice, Marmicus rolled across the ground, unlocking the grip of his opponent’s sword. It was a dangerous move. Nafridos followed him, hacking his weapon into the ground. Every time he missed him, large chunks of earth were thrown up. The lions launched themselves towards Marmicus, trying to swipe his head with their claws, but they were at the limits of their chains.

‘You disappoint me, Gallant Warrior. I was expecting a challenge from you. I’m still waiting for it,’ said Nafridos, wiping the mud from his brow. He was getting bored of the Gallant Warrior’s defensive moves; the time had come to change his tactics.

‘I’ll give you three seconds to rise to your feet. I want history to remember the day you fell to your knees.’

Marmicus rose to his feet, feeling weak and disorientated. He could barely see, and could hardly stand straight. The poison had taken too much from him. The Dark Warrior began to circle him, but Marmicus could not concentrate; he could see three shadowy figures walking around him, and he had no idea which one was real. He squinted, trying to clear his vision, but it made no difference. The torrential rain grew stronger, seeming to surge over him. Suddenly, his enemy rammed the bulky edge of his shield into Marmicus’s chest, battering his ribcage, the spikes tearing flesh from bone. A scream of agony came from Marmicus’s lips. The air in his lungs had been expelled by the blow to his diaphragm, and he fought for breath.Marmicus fell to the ground, his body blackened by the mud. It was if he had come to accept his defeat; he had nothing left with which to fight. The last powerful thrust had broken him.

‘Get up, Marmicus! Get up!’ Larsa screamed, begging him to stand up. She reached out to him. Her fingertips were so near to him, and yet she felt as if she were standing a thousand miles away.

‘Where’s the mighty lion whose roar unsettles the hearts of men?’ laughed the Dark Warrior, kicking dirty water on Marmicus’s face. He had imagined their battle would last much longer; alas, it was almost over. ‘Never trust a man who has no honour to live by. After I kill you, I’m going to kill your wife. But, first, I’ll make her watch you die. Then, I’ll take your sword and cut out your heart and give it to her. I think I can be sure that when she sees that she’ll die from the heartache.’

The time had come for the Dark Warrior to make his kill. He walked backwards, laughing as he did so. The Assyrian soldiers knew how he would slaughter his enemy; the Dark Warrior had done it many times before. He would jump up high, holding his lethal blade above his head, before shooting it downwards into his enemy’s throat and ripping it all the way down his chest. It was his signature kill, and a gruesome one. Larsa’s eyes were streaming with tears, she did not want to watch the horror that was about to unfold in front of her. Her infant moved in her womb as if he too were screaming inside her.

‘Marmicus, fight. Fight for us. Fight for your child!’

‘If you are not prepared to fight for love, then you are never prepared to die for it,’ said the Dark Warrior. He ran, then leapt into the air, holding his heavy weapon above his head. The surging winds swept over him, the rains ready to mix with the blood that would spill out from his victim’s neck. As Nafridos swooped downwards, Marmicus looked at Larsa, as if absorbing her beauty for the last time. She was screaming at him, pleading with him to stand up. These were the final moments, the last time she would ever see him alive. The blade shot down, ready to disembowel the man she loved with all her heart. But Marmicus rolled sideways, avoiding the oncoming blow by inches. Using all his energy, Marmicus stood up, flexing his muscles and roaring like the enraged lion he was. He threw his shield to the ground and wiped the mud away from his blade. The words of allegiance on his sword began to glimmer again, as if revived by honour and restored to youth.

‘One day of freedom is worth more than a thousand years of slavery. Today mankind shall have its freedom, and today I shall have Larsa.’

He looked at the Dark Warrior, no longer seeing haziness or feeling any kind of weakness. His muscles were burning with fire and rage. The Gallant Warrior struck his mighty Sword of Allegiance against the Dark Warrior’s weapon, his body twisting like a flame. Nafridos did everything in his power to defend himself, but with every blow his feet sank, and he fought to keep his grip on his sword. Marmicus had become the beast of the battlefield: all the anger rooted inside him now erupted. Larsa watched, feeling her hope revive. Marmicus had regained his strength, sprinting forward and bringing the fight to his enemy with the Sword of Allegiance. Meanwhile, the Dark Warrior’s fighting had become scrappy; his feet were slipping in the mud due to the sheer number of blows that kept coming at him, pushing him back, disorientating him. His eyes remained focused on the swinging sword: each time it came at him, he raised his weapon, feeling its power sing through his body.

‘Your time has come,’ whispered the Gallant Warrior, as he struck his enemy’s blade once more. The force was so intense that the Dark Warrior fell back, his head hitting the ground, and his weapon falling from his hands. Marmicus walked to him, ready to kill him.

‘Death is no stranger to a man who has already killed. Your death has come for you. Greet it with bravery just as you have forced innocent others to,’ whispered Marmicus. He looked at Nafridos, who was crawling through the mud like a coward, trying to run away, his knees digging into the soil as he desperately tried to retrieve his sword, hoping to save himself from death. But the Gallant Warrior stood above him, digging the tip of his weapon into his neck, just as the Dark Warrior had done to Larsa. Marmicus showed no emotion or remorse.