Rise’s broadsword was lined up to make a diagonal cut on what was left of the training dummy’s neck. They made the movement they had made a hundred times these past hours once more, and the blade deepened the gash in the enchanted wood.
But it was still not fast enough.
The Rise from three years ago, alive and known as Fall, would have made three-hundred such slashes by now. However, that Rise’s arms would be aching by the fiftieth slash, and there was little chance they could have trained for a week straight. Sacrifice and gain, they thought.
They missed being The Fastest Blade in The Ster.
Rise took the dummy to the back of the barn, where another ten of its kind lay slain in heaps. There were two untouched dummies left. But Rise had had enough of still targets. “Jonny,” they called. They were no longer surprised by how deep their voice was.
Jonny rolled out from the pile of hay they were sleeping in, yawned, and with a bored expression asked, “Finally done? Are we going to town now?”
“Not yet,” Rise said. “I’m sorry but I’m down to the last two dummies. Could you make them move?”
“Both at once? Sure.” Jonny stretched their fingers out then plucked at the air, at strings which existed on a different plane. Rise could not see them, even though those very strings were what held their unliving form together.
Jonny made a subtle pulling motion and the two dummies levitated. They moved as if by their own will, centering on Rise.
Three years ago, striking a moving target was easy. Strike where it’s going, they thought. Few opponents could change direction fast enough to avoid Rise’s blade. Before. Now there was more challenge; these dummies changed direction erratically.
Rise swung their sword almost horizontally. Less power, but a greater chance to hit. The dummy backed away at the last moment. Just as Rise wanted. They charged forward, forcing the dummy further back, towards the edge of the barn. Jonny did their best to guide the dummy out of the way but it was already too close to the walls. Rise slashed as they did before—the dummy was forced into the corner—Rise switched to a thumb grip, drew their weapon to chest height and thrust forward.
Not as fast. But faster than most.
The dummy avoided a direct hit, but the wood on its side split. Still, there was no escape for it now. Rise grabbed its stick arm and threw it to the ground before plunging their sword into its chest. Then they were knocked against the wall themselves, and left a dent in the metal.
“I didn’t expect you to fight back!” Rise said, pushing themselves away from the door as the second dummy charged towards them. It clipped their shoulder. They made another grab, and got the very end, but it pulled away.
“You should have.” Jonny smiled as the dummy floated higher, out of reach of Rise’s sword.
“Now that’s just unfair,” Rise said. They extended their hand. Despite their near six-foot height, the dummy was out of reach.
“Maybe, but I think you should take a break anyway. What more can you gain from this? Besides, we should get going before it gets dark. At this rate, we’ll need to stay in an inn.”
“Very well,” Rise said. “Lead on, and don’t forget your purse.”
Rise stared at the dummy before placing the sword in the hilt, and slinging it on their back. Their friend was right; even dummies in the control of a skilled Threader were still dummies. The only real preparation for the tournament would be a sparring partner.
#
Johnny had done their best to hide it, but raising the dead wasn’t something you accomplished with just a few snips and a knot; Rise’s threads were a mess. Other Threaders could see that. Jonny once described ordinary threads as highly symmetrical, with even tension, pulling smoothly at each other. Ordered, pretty. Rise’s threads were knotted together in odd ways, twisted in places they shouldn’t be, split, and dangling. According to Jonny, it was a miracle Rise functioned at all.
But as impressive as the feat was, it was better to stay unnoticed where they could.
Hence why Rise looked more like a bundle of clothes than a person. They wore a thick jacket, gloves, and cloth over their face except for the eyes. To be sure, their hood was also up. The Threaders in shop called The Wonder Collection gave Rise and their disarrayed threads some long glances, but didn’t say anything to Jonny. If they could not see a person under the clothes, they assumed Rise was common material construct. Several of the shoppers had small constructs of their own.
Just like those constructs, it was Rise’s job to transport the items Jonny was accumulating. For this purpose, they had a metal shopping basket. It was once not magical, common even, but the shopkeep had altered its threads to make it unrustable.
Inside the basket was an assortment of thread-altered items. Rise did not know what much of it was for; heavy bottles filled with dark liquids, a pair of shears, a textbook on the Theory of Threads. Rise had purchased one thing for themselves, a bottle of oil for their swords that would, very slowy, replenish itself. They were sure Jonny didn’t need many of the things they bought, like the chess set that would play itself. It was like a mere novelty. Still, they couldn’t stop Jonny from spending his money as he wished.
If Rise won the tournament, money wouldn’t be an issue for a while. Of course, that was just a nice bonus. If they had wanted to be rich, they would have started a sword school. Even after the last defeat, their reputation would have been enough to attract students. They might have had a nice life. But this is a nice life, too, they thought as they watched Jonny barter with the shopkeeper.
“Twenty disks,” Jonny said. “And a dagger that returns to your hand when thrown. What do you say?”
The shopkeeper huffed. “If your work on the dagger is as shoddy as that construct, no thank you.”
“If it functions, then what’s the issue?” Jonny opened up his coat to reveal an assortment of their altered items.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I spent ten years studying under my master. If a single thread was misaligned, our homework doubled. You self-taught Threaders bother the hell out of me. Forty discs, the requested price.”
Jonny smiled. “You know what? Fine, but I will not be coming back.”
“Suits me fine, patcher.” The shoopkeeper almost spat the word.
Jonny paid the forty discs, stuck his tongue out at the shopkeep. When we were outside Jonny tried not to laugh as he opened his purse to find the twenty enchanted discs as if they’d never left.
#
The Battle Goose Tavern was not the sort of place Rise frequented when they were alive. Especially not before a tournament. Now they were drinking their new friends under. They felt safe enough to lower their hood here; most Threaders wouldn’t give the place a second glance. Unless they were like Jonny (who was flirting with the barman) and if they were like Jonny they wouldn’t care
Rise took their last swig of ale. “So,” they continued, “the guy had a lot more reach than me. He was stronger too. It was the final fight and I was buzzing—but I could also hardly hold myself upright. If I had thought more clearly, I might have stayed just outside his reach, taunted him. But I wasn’t. I just wanted to win. I wanted a flashy victory and that’s where it all went wrong.” They looked at their new friend, a big man called Hank, to see what he thought.
Hank was asleep still clutching his half-filled bottle in his left hand.
Rise didn’t mind too much. They only reason they told the story here was because no-one would remember it anyway. But with their companion asleep and five bottles of ale in them, they considered stopping. Alcohol did affect them, just very slowly, and they intended to be in optimal condition for tomorrow.
Unfortunately, they had not yet found what they had come for—a fight. There were more than enough people who seemed willing, but neither the old drunks in the corner, nor the young students on the dance floor seemed like they’d make a good match. Everyone else who would be going to the tournament would be asleep, so there was no chance of finding another competitor.
Rise excused themself from the table, and went to find to find Jonny, still at the bar.
“Rise, my friend! I’m so glad we came here.” He smiled and embraced Rise. Evidently, Threaders got intoxicated just like ordinary people. “Are you having a good time? I’m having a great time. The staff are very friendly. I’ve. Got. A. Date! Don’t worry, it’s not tomorrow—it’s the next day. Although Kyle is coming to watch the tournament—he was going to anyway, that’s actually how we got talking—hey, you look bored, everything alright?”
“Yes,” Rise said. “Congratulations on your date. I’m just getting wearing. I’ll be at the nearest inn, if you need me.”
“Oh, hold up, you didn’t even get your fight! We are not letting you end this night in a sour mood, not on my watch.” Jonny looked around the room quickly and then got up on top of the bar table.
“Hey, what are you doing—”
Jonny cupped his hands over his mouth—their future-date looked on in equal parts curioustity and concern—and Jonny announced: “Ten rounds for anyone who can beat my friend here in a sword fight!”
“Hey, I’m—”
“You’re welcome is what you are.” Jonny got down, cautioned and mildly scolded by Kyle. “Date still on, though, right?”
“Yeah, just keep off the tables okay? And no fights in the bar.”
Jonny blew Kyle a kiss.
“Thanks, Jonny,” Rise said.
The competitors were already lining up. The first one was one of the students from before. He was confident until he saw the size of Rise’s weapon, then backed away. A few more did the same. Then a man with thick cloak came up, followed by an older woman. From his posture Rise suspected the man was military, and when he shifted his cloak to reveal his saber, Rise was sure.
“So you’re looking for a fight?” he said. “Outside, hop to it.”
Rise and the man left the tavern to a courtyard just outside, followed by first by the woman and soon the rest of the crowd. Staff accommodated their patrons by bringing their food and drinks out and taking orders there. The man and Rise stood facing each other.
The man held out his hand. “I’m Matthew,” he said.
“Rise,” Rise told him.
The combatants stepped back from each other and drew their weapons.
“Isn’t that sword a little large for someone with your frame, lass?”
“I’m sorry, would you be less afraid I had something smaller? Maybe a toothpick.” Rise grinned. It was cheap but the crowd seemed to enjoy it. “And I’m not a lass.” Matthew was right, though—wielding the broadsword was not something Rise would have done when they were alive, when their muscles were capable of fatigue.
To his credit, Matthew dipped his head and apologised. “My mistake. Regardless, I do hope for a good fight.”
Rise nodded. “So do I.”
Jonny counted them down from ten, and when they said one, Rise lunged forward. Matthew was more cautious and stepped back. As Rise was reach of their lunge, the man swiped his sword towards Rise’s, attempting to disarm them.
“My lord, your grip!” Rise’s sword stayed firmly in their hands.
Rise could no longer hold a sword as delicately as they once did, but a touch of rigor mortis did wonders for grip strength.
Rise drew their sword up again, pushing against the man’s saber, driving him back. He could not drag his sword out of the lock; if he gave up too much, Rise would have the upper hand and their sword would pierce him.
Rise gave a sudden push downwards sending Matthew to the ground. The crowd cheered.
He sighed and let go of his sword. “I’ve never seen someone fight that recklessly. Especially someone with training.” Rise helped him to his feet. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join the army? We’d be glad to have you.”
Rise shook their head. “Not for me. But thank you for the fight.”
The man nodded and vanished.
“Anyone else?” Jonny yelled. “Offer still stands!”
The woman had already stepped forward though. She did not have any weapons on her that Rise could see. A Threader? She approached Rise and peered at them closely. Peered beyond them. Definitely a Threader.
“Who made you, desecration?” she asked. She was close enough for Rise to see the faint tattoos on her lips and beneath her eyes.
“I made myself,” Rise said. “With some help, admittedly.”
Jonny stumbled out of the crowd to stand next to Rise and put on as serious an expression as they could. “We should get going, Rise.”
Jonny knew when to turn off their bravado, even when intoxicated. Besides, Rise knew it was safer to not fight a Threader. “I think we should.” The crowd seemed bored now that there was no fight going on and were filtering back inside.
“Not yet,” the woman said. “People! What stands before you is a desecration of the Threads! Unholy, undead, sewn together in defiance of nature. I will not let it blemish the holy Threads any longer.” She twisted and plucked, more rapidly than Rise had ever seen Jonny do.
Jonny responded to her movements.
Rise’s world went black for a moment. They stumbled, and when they came too, the pair were still twisting and pulling. Jonny was sweating, the woman’s face was deep in concentration. Then Rise’s world came alive with colours. The colours sharpened and separated until they could see the threads.
From their own body was frayed and twisted and their threads vibrated out of tune with each other.
The woman was a mass of tightly coiled strings. She snipped and destroyed Rise’s threads, as Jonny, reconnected and tied together.
Jonny.
Jonny glowed. Jonny’s threads were loose and looping. They extended far in all directions, some gently curled around other threads, while the closer ones twitched and manipulated. Two of those closer ones reconnected one of Rise’s severed threads and they were back in the real world.
For a moment, they could think clearly. Now. I act now. They drew their sword—and almost dropped, unable to grip it with their full strength. Regardless, they hacked downwards. It did not pierce the woman’s skin or even her clothes, but the force was enough to distract her for a moment. Jonny twisted his right hand. Around and around and around, presumably drawing threads towards him.
The woman’s movements turned erratic, all elegance lost, as she tried to stop him.
“Kill her!” Jonny yelled. Rise did as instructed and this time the blade plunged through her chest.
#
Rise registered at the tournament reception and said that Jonny was their coach. The pair were let into the former football, and the waiting room which was once a locker room. They sat down in the furthermost corner from the other competitors.
Between the good word of Lieutenant Matthew and the fact that Purifying Beam (the woman’s name) was a wanted criminal, Jonny and Rise were pardoned their murder and allowed to participate in the tournament. A small comfort compared to the lingering affects of the battle.
The friends had stayed up the entire night, as Jonny repaired what he could. The process brought about strange visions, periods of complete paralysis and ghostly whispers, but in the end Rise was more or less functional.
They were slower though, capable of only ninety three swings in the time they could do one-hundred before. They were glad it was not worse. “I might be able to do better once I’ve had more sleep,” Jonny said. “But this should do.”
It was acceptable. At least I can still compete.
Rise scanned their competitors. They recognised more than one face, although many of them where new. Which didn’t mean inexperienced, of course; Rise had won their first tournament after all. If anything, being unknown gave one an advantage. Of course, Rise—or Fall as they used to be known—was presumed dead, so had a similar advantage.
Then Rise saw Whirl and instinctively drew their hood further down. Whirl looked the same as he did that day, although with newer armor. He held a familiar spear. It had one obscene blade at the end, and smaller blades down the side. The very weapon that made it impossible to close in on him. How much better could he wield it now?
Rise got up at once to inspect the tournament board. They gritted their teeth and smiled as they found what they somehow expected—Whirl would be their first opponent.
#
Rise’s anonymity shattered when they handed their cloak to Johnny and stepped onto stone-floored cage in the centre of the stadium. The crowded murmured then burst into conversation. Whirl was, for a moment, speechless.
“Are you a ghost? A brother of Fall?”
“Not a ghost. I’m a zombie called Rise.” By now the crowd had recognized Rise as the person involved in the previous night’s murder. They lowered their voices.
Whirl had come to a similar conclusion. “What a re-entry you’re making. I’m honored to be your first opponent.”
The referee, outside the cage, yelled over the crowd, “You fight when I whistle. If one of you suffers physical harm and cannot fight, the fight ends, and that person loses. Murder is pardoned, but discouraged.”
A long moment. Then the whistle.
Whirl charged forward, almost dragged by the weight of his spear. Rise had dodged such a move several years ago but that wasn’t an option now. They held their stance and when the spear was almost upon them, they deflected it past their shoulder. The angle was bad and they could feel the tendons in their wrists stretch and burn for a moment.
Rise used Whirl’s momentum to push the spear down. Whirl followed through, dropped the spear and swept at Rise’s legs. In those moments, Rise managed to put their sword between their legs and the spear, but it was a weak block. Their legs were knocked from beneath them.
The spear came down on Rise. They kept their sword between themselves and the edge of the weapon, but they were working against gravity. Up, need to get up. How did it turn bad this fast?
As Whirl withdrew their spear to prepare another strike, Rise used the chance to stand up. They were not fully to their feet before they spear struck again, and found themselves exactly where they started.
With their left hand they grabbed the spear between the steel spikes and pushed it back. Whirl was stronger. They could feel three of the spikes pressing against their chest and stomach, the pressure slowly mounting. Rise shoved the spear to the left, but it was just as quickly back on them.
They felt wetness seep from the places the spikes were touching.
Then Whirl’s grip faltered; his muscles were at their limit. Rise pushed backwards, and got to their feet. Whirl attempted another sweep, but Rise still held on to the weapon. As Whirl moved it, Rise moved with it.
Rise tugged, forcing Whirl a little closer. For a moment, instincts said to let go, to lunch forward and strike. Rise held back. I need to make him tired.
Whirl drew their spear towards them, unbalancing Rise. Regain your stance! It was impossible, though, since just as they thought they could, Whirl thrust their spear in another direction.
Rise pulled back on the spear, Whirl shoved it forward, and let go. Rise was forced to do the same or else fall with it.
A moment later a shortsword pierced the side of their chest.
Whirl stood there, panting. Rise jabbed downwards with their sword, making a clean slice at the elbow joint of Whirl’s armour. Whirl withdrew immediately. Blood poured liberally from his wound, whereas Rise’s was no longer bleeding.
“That’s hardly fair,” Whirl said. They gritted their teeth. “Can you even die?”
“I don’t think so,” Rise said.
Whirl said no more, their breathing rapid but slowing. Their wound was not as deep as Rise had hoped. But it was a wound. More than Rise managed before. Rise wanted to savour the moment.
There was no time for that. They took a two handed grip of their sword, and made a diagonal slice at their opponent. Whirl deflected the blow, and stabbed at Rise’s neck; they were nicked on the jugular. If they were alive, it would be over.
Rise resumed their attacks with a thrust, blocked by Whirl. Rise pushed forward, maintaining the lock. Whenever Whirl tried to disengage, Rise stepped forward. Soon, the pair were at the edge of the cage.
The crowd had been cheering and jeering for a while, but Rise only noticed their roar in that moment. For that moment. Then it was gone, and it was was only them and Whirl. It was their chance. Victory.
Rise withdrew from the lock and struck. Blocked. Again. Blocked, but weaker. Once more.
Parried.
Rise saw the sword coming for their face. They backed away, and if they were half a second slower they would have lost their head there and then. If they were half a second faster, they might have only suffered a graze. Whirl’s blade went through half of Rise’s neck.
Their head wobbled, off balance. In the disorientation they were pushed backwards. The mass of Whirl came barreling into them, shoulder-armour first, and shoved them back. They could not block the first from crashing into their face, and although they thrust out their sword in the last moment, it harmlessly slid across Whirl’s armour.
Then they found they could not move their arm. It had been all-but-severed. Before they could stop it, their other arm was too.
They looked up to see Whirl, breathing so heavily it was a wonder he could move at all. His short-sword dripped with Rise’s thick, black blood.
The crowd was silent as they saw Rise, mutilated, but still alive. Do you all think I’m an abomination now too?
I can still move, Rise thought. But their arms would not heal fast enough to be usable any time soon.
They started to laugh. The holes in their chest let out strange whistling sounds. Whirl looked down on them and laughed too.
The referee whistled.
#
The barn was as they had left it. The dummies still sat where they had been a little over a week ago. Rise took stance, and held their sword in the first time since their defeat. It heavy, but no heavier than it should be.
They imagined that spear coming for them again. They carefully planned the move; block, deflect, grab. I should have grabbed it sooner, they thought. They repeated the motion, adjusting it to make it as smooth as possible. This was more to check everything still worked.
It did; they had finally healed.
Just in time too, since the previous night they had received their first contract from Biting Saber. The group had contacted Rise immediately after the tournament.
Rise the monster hunter. It didn’t sound quite right, but the advance had paid for the last week spent in the inn, and most of Jonny’s dates with Kyle. Biting Saber thrown in some heavy armour for free. They had also offered a new sword, but Rise was content with their own.
In any case, the money was of secondary concern. As far as Rise was concerned, they were being paid to practice. Slavetraders, villanous barons and their guards, and monsters made for much better training than random drunks in bars.
That training would begin in a small village not far away. Pale Beasts stalking Wetfield Village. Eliminate them. The contract contained only those instructions and a map.
Rise recalled what they had read of the things. Grinding teeth and lanky limbs, Rise thought. Vicious, but they bleed. Ravenous, devouring, but they bleed. As long as they bled, Rise could defeat them, and if they couldn’t, Rise would try again. And again, and again, until they surpassed their enemies and themselves.
