The Sword

The cliff walls rose steep and severe towards a bleak and colorless sky. A narrow, lifeless path curved a jagged opening between the cliffs. The rocks jutting from the cliffs pointed like threatening knives towards the earth. Dust swirled upward as gusts of wind blew through the path. It was a cold, clean wind blowing from the opening at the far end of the cliffs.

A thin trembling figure appeared at this opening. It was a young woman who was slowly placing one foot in front of another. Her clothing was new and washed. Her hair long and clean. Her sword bright and sharp. She was untouched by battle, yet deep, desperate knowledge glowed in her bright eyes. The questions in her mind were spinning.

Why was she here? What could she possibly do? Was this really her fight? Who had fallen to this trap? Not her. Surely there were bigger more vital battles to fight?

The voice of her father, however, rang in her ears, louder and clearer, the more her doubts assailed her. GO AND BRING MY PEOPLE BACK TO ME.

She could not turn around and leave now. Her fist clenched around the hilt of her sword. The leather dug into her palm. She closed her eyes. The dangers were real, the fear however was not true. There could be no fear when she held her sword. She was one against a hundred, but she had been given more strength than a thousand.

Her feet began moving forward, firm and defiant. Her enemies would not keep their victory today. Their temporary glory would fall to shame at their feet. She steeled her countenance, preparing herself for the sight she would see. Death was waiting on the path ahead.

The path turned as the cold wind propelled her feet forward. With it came a new smell. A stench, overwhelming and strong. The stench of a hundred dead bodies heaped against the sides of the path. Their mangled, bloody limbs were bent and twisted at odd angles. Faces blank and lifeless. Deep and gaping wounds glared angrily towards the sky.

The young woman caught her breath and one hand involuntarily covered her mouth. She had seen death before, but not to this magnitude. Doubt reared its ugly claws and clutched her heart in an iron grip. She knew what she had to do, but what if it didn't work? They were all already dead.

There was no but her enemies to see. They were invisible but she knew they were in the rocks hiding, waiting with baited, poisenous breath. What if she looked like a weak and powerless fool in their eyes?

Her sword began vibrating and then heat shot from its hilt to its tip. The physical reminder of the power she held brought tears to her eyes. This was going to be painful.

Sobbing, she began walking and reached the first pile of dead. Realization hit her chest like an avalanche. It nearly knocked her to her knees with its weight. These dead would never know freedom unless she moved in the power given to her. They would never know real life, real truth and unshakable faith unless she reached out to touch them.

She slowly raised her sword over the first body. Flames of heat began flickering off its shiny surface. How her hands could hold the sword without being burned she did not know.

Crying out the name of her father she brought the sword down into the center of the corpse's heart. Her gut lurched in agony as the dead one's anguish swept through her body. Her sword began trembling violently as the body broke into convulsions.

She withdrew the sword and the body, a man's, let out a shuddering gasp. Skin, bones, blood and sinews rippled back into place across his body. Both eyes popped open and he sat up with a deep gasp,

The young woman backed up, speechless. It worked! He smiled, reached for his sword and jumped to his feet," What are you waiting for?"

Still unable to speak she stared. She wasn't a fool!

" The others..." he turned, plunging his sword into the body that had been lying next to him, motioning her forward.

Strengthened and empowered the young woman leaped forward, sword still hot.

The truth had brought life. She murmured her father's name in gratitude and thankfulness. She was no longer alone. An army was rising at her feet.