Editor’s Note: Continued from Bindle Zine Spring 2024. Previously posted parts can be found at https://bindlezine.com/coterminous
Cane and Urcus are on my sides, Crozley behind me. They bait the attack of the triplets as I rush through them, avoiding the reach of their claws and jaws with a nimble juke while my allies engage them. Shriven sees me coming and smiles, welcoming my approach. The blade I keep has been with me for as long as I can remember, and remembering is always difficult for me. Compared to the other weapons in the caravan — save for Crozley’s — mine is an implement of a more distinguished nature. I would know, considering I made it myself, a memory that always remains. I will never forget the heat of the forge. The days spent sweating over its creation, skin burning from the flames, and muscles aching after its completion. I wept after it was finished, for it truly is a thing of beauty.
The blade is obviously the best choice considering the close quarters situation. Firearms would serve well, sure. But they are currently unnecessary for several reasons, and are lacking in tradition. Too many moving parts, prone to jamming despite my constant upkeep, bullets are finite, and much less personal than a sword. There is an intimacy in the use of a blade, a synergy between the sword and wielder, the former an extension of the latter, the latter beholden to the former. Its victim shares that same connection, for in their last moments they witness the affection shared between swordsman and sword.
The scabbard is fastened on my waist by way of a harness underneath my clothes. It is secure enough where it doesn’t jostle as I move nor protrude so much and get in the way. The sheath is minimal, but heavy enough where I could use it as a bludgeoning instrument. I unbuckle the throat of the scabbard and draw the blade, metal ringing amidst the chaos, the layered steel reflecting the light from Meresinea’s fire. It is a single edge and slightly curved, as was the handle which is wrapped in long swathes of canvased cloth and leather cords in a crisscross pattern, hanging down in varying lengths like decorative ribbons. The hilt almost matches the length of the elongated blade, and as such the weapon made an effective pole arm and sword-staff hybrid. The full tang is weighted in such a way that this seemingly unbalanced design retains full functionality, but only in my hands. The pommel, carved from a heavy precious stone, adds a significant amount of weight which increases the weapon’s versatility as a blunt implement or shield breaker if need be during swings. It’s shape resembled that of a curved ball club with a fine polish. A silken tassel hangs from where the pommel meets the hilt, decorated with rune cuneiform. In my old language it reads: “Deep Sacrifice, Perfect Victory.”
Danger gleams like sunshine in a brave man’s eyes. Violence is like a drug coursing in an addict’s veins. In this moment I want to bask in the light and fill my blood with that high, and I see that Shriven shares the same desire. He creeps confidently down his perch, the serpents that hide in his spines now upright and hissing to supplement his aggression. The birds caw menacingly as they fly towards me, but brave little Vespine promptly intercepts them, wielding her tiny saber with impressive skill and flourish. With everyone else now occupied, I am finally able to confront Shriven. We don’t engage right away, circling one another and maintaining poise.
“What a rabble,” he says, snakes hissing in unison with each syllable. “But that should be expected, considering your leader.”
“Crozley is not my leader, just another employer.”
“Whatever he is to you, he has brought you all to the wrong place.”
“Most jobs I take bring me to the wrong places. They tend to pay better.”
“We have had our fair share of grave robbers, but what that woman is looking for is not so easily taken. I hope your prices are relative.”
I enter an offensive stance, aiming the sword in his direction, “You going to talk or fight?”
Shriven’s first rush is quick and precise, disappearing for a moment and then materializing overhead, front legs reaching out for a grab. I avoided the mauling and spin to my left, swinging the sword and slicing off the heads of his pet snakes and a few spines along with them. He howls upon landing, laughing when he regains his footing, turning to me with his third eye now open.
“Ah, I can smell the old wolf on you. You are a Concordance dog, but the scent belies something more prestigious.” In an instant the snakes and his severed spines regenerate. The serpents hiss wildly after they grow back.
“That’s a neat trick,” I say.
“We are full of them,” he snickers, “I hope your friends don’t tire easily.” Shriven lunges again. This time I let him make contact, blocking his claws with my blade. He gnaws on the sword, the eye fixated on me, and the snakes reaching out to take a bite.
I lean in close enough where I am out of the reach of my attackers. “If you like tricks, tell me what you think of this one.”
There are a handful of anomalous abilities that are known throughout this world. I am no stranger to them. This is largely due to a natural process of maturation that spans countless epochs. The modern generations of Coterminous have developed congenital skill sets that represent and affirm the height of their individual and communal evolution. This has effectively brought the present day denizens of the planet closer to emulating the transcendent nature of their progenitors of their respective Clades, the Preceptors. These inherent biological peculiarities are not just limited to humankind, as each species has its own unique brand of latent power.
The sorceress has her Augury and Conjury, each with a subdivision of skills that includes pyrotechnics, mood alteration, medicinal applications, and a slew of other techniques. Most humans have varying levels of access to these abilities. The female hominid derivatives known as the Quintess are better apt at advancement, and Meresinea exemplifies this quality quite impressively. Eidetics are another special sort, in that they can do what they envision in their minds, invoking natural kinetic energies to produce a desired effect. They can mainly move things without touching them. Some are known to mess with the mind, one thing that I am not particularly fond of, considering how messed up mine already is. Threnians are able to successfully emulate most of the aforementioned through the use of Somatics, invasive physical alterations to their body and minds via their technological advancements. But I hear there is a lifetime of upkeep, and if you aren’t high enough on the social ladder you are bound to fall sick.
Members of the Concordance are masters of a wide range of combat techniques, martial or otherwise. Soldiers are free to pursue whatever thaumaturgical school they wish, and most are very disciplined in their mastery of the chosen craft. I opted for Noetics, which is known for its use of an ancient battle art known as Scindo. It utilizes a medium — typically a weapon — to evoke one’s bodily kinetics into a focused projection of force. As far as I know I have utilized these skills since the birth of my consciousness, so it is difficult to say when I learned them or if they are intrinsic. I try not to think too far back, as memory is a sensitive issue for me, actually causing me moments of pain. But I know Scindo as much as I know my own body. It is as natural as breathing.
At its core the foundation of Scindo is based purely on contemplation, meditation, and reflection, but in rapid succession. The moments before employing a skill requires all three of these criteria to be performed on the fly. Contemplating the technique to be used, and assessing and addressing the target it is to be used on. Meditating and storing the energy to be expended in its use and then reflecting on the effects that one causes by using them. All the skills originate from an individual’s mind. The results are feats of strength, speed, and maneuvers that are primarily close quarter combat techniques that can be integrated into one’s melee and ballistic implements.
Time passes slowly when activating these abilities, and I am able to utilize this effect to appraise the rest of the battle, as if I was a conscientious observer both overhead and in the midst of the fray. Crozley, Cane, and Urcus are preoccupied with the triplets, all sustaining a fair amount of blows and cuts but thankfully nothing detrimental. Tiny Vespine does her best to do her part, but she spends most of her time fleeing from the beaks and talons of her little foes. Tala and Meresinea focus on the flying female of the group. I see the sorceress starting to wince and tire from casting her spells while Tala pants from exhaustion. Vore is getting the brunt of it, now in the grasp of the giant, barely escaping by sinking his teeth into the creature’s fingers. The large Harrowed counters with a suplex that causes the ground to shake. Vore shakes it off and puts his prey into a choke hold, but judging by how woozy he appears from the last hit he won’t be able to hold much longer. Meanwhile, the other wrestling match between Brune and the four-legged horror continues. I see the former had lost a few scales in the process, his skin now exposed and bleeding.
I now face Shriven and close my eyes. I imagine him being torn in half by the steel. I see his cohorts falling to the onslaught of my blade. I see the fear of death in the eyes of those that barely survive. The earth is cleaved, riven at my feet, a great rift in the ground before me that buries the river. The trees split down the middle, leaves disintegrating from the pure force emitted from the sword. The very air is ripped apart, manifesting as a bright flash of crescent light. Every molecule shatters, every atom hewn, and all energy rendered neutral by the pure and clean power that is Scindo. Let ruin follow this swing, I shall revel in it. Then I strike.
Shriven’s body is eviscerated, splattered across the trunk of a tree, but slowly self repairing. The four legged hound falls into the rift I created, breaking two of his legs in the process. His bipedal counterpart suffers a deep laceration from the blade of air that struck his chest and nearly removed his arm from his shoulder. The ropes and chains that hold the cadaverous accessories around his neck are completely severed, stripping him of his trophies and returning them to the ground. A fallen tree has crushed the airborne enemy, and she now struggles to release her broken body from underneath the girth of the branches. She eventually frees herself, her wings visibly broken. She limps away in retreat, falling down in the process to lick her wounds. The triplets avoid the attack, dodging out of the way of the swing and its effects, retreating to the log where Shriven stood before, now whimpering and yelping for their master. I wasn’t targeting them, but I knew the spectacle was enough to deter the cowards.
Shriven’s shredded body is in a bloody pile of jagged bones and whatever qualified as organs at this point, rendered to a mass of tissue and slime. But his head is intact, third eye dilated and looking around in a panic, slowly closing and recessing into his forehead. His injured party starts to crawl back into the forest, as though he had already given the command to retreat, but my allies are too tired to pursue. Despite his injuries, Shriven is still able to heal, albeit slowly. His snakes and birds come to his aid, picking up bits of bone and entrails and bringing them back to their origin. I approach, holding the sword to his forehead as he begins to stir and regain his ability to stand even though he only had one-and-a-half active legs.
“Missed,” a laugh gurgles its way out of his torn throat.
“I confess I missed on purpose. It was the eye that I wanted. Open wide so I can put you out of your misery.”
Shriven coughs up some viscera, his body still battered but healing faster now, “If you knew the weakness, why didn’t you go for it?”
“You seem the type who likes to toy with his quarry. We have that in common.”
“Something slumbers in that damaged little mind,” he coughs. “I can smell it. I’d like to tear it open and see.”
“I think your nose is over there, and you can’t do much tearing without arms. Crozley, you have any more forest friends we need to worry about?”
Crozley kneels near Shriven, “Well old friend, I didn’t think you could look any worse. Seirath here has proved me wrong.”
“Ssseiiirathhh,” Shriven’s snakes hiss.
“Seirath,” Shriven gasps, “we will remember you.”
With a gliding step we narrowly avoid the sudden reach of the giant as he scoops up Shriven and places his gored body on his shoulder. He then springs forth with great strides and sprints into the depths of the wood. My friends are back on their feet, gathering their wits and senses, checking one another’s injuries and sharing congratulatory conversation.
Meresinea, fixing her hair and clothing that was loosened during the fight lets out a long satisfied sigh, “Well, you all know how to show a girl a good time.”
Continued in our next issue!