THE UNDEFEATED

THE UNDEFEATED, by Thomas J. Griffin, artwork by Miguel Santos

 

Calithor groaned as the bugles sounded throughout the camp. Why must war always be conducted at first light? Why not mid-morning, after a hearty meal and some light stretching? It took everything in him to roll off his cot and get dressed. He was in no rush, cinching the last buckle as the horns blew again. They were louder this time, more insistent. Heralds hated to feel ignored. On the far side of the cot, one of Calithor’s companions stirred, but did not wake. Calithor shook his head regretfully, then ducked out of the tent. He would be back soon enough. The killing never took very long.

This would be the last time, Calithor told himself. Tomorrow, he would retire. Yet it felt a lie. He had a reputation to uphold, one he could not simply walk away from. In his long career as the Emperor’s champion, he stood undefeated, and not simply so. No blade had ever touched his skin or drawn his blood. This was the legacy he had built, and it was the only reason he continued to fight. Love of country, civic duty, comradery with his brothers-in-arms—all were trifles. His own legend was what mattered to Calithor the Undefeated, and he would do anything to protect it. Even wake up early.

An army waited outside his tent. They had the decency not to stare, but their frustration was plain. How dare he make them wait, standing rank and file under the bright sun while he took his precious time? Well they all knew where they could shove their indignation. Because of Calithor, not one of them would have to die today. He was their champion, and so long as he remained undefeated, so did they.

And yet, none cheered or shouted his name. Not a single word of encouragement. What was the point? They knew he was going to win. He moved untouched past them, picking his way through their ranks toward the front line.

The mood shifted among the vanguard. Undefeated champion or no, there was always a static energy to be found at the front. It came from staring Death in the face, from looking across no man’s land at your opposite number and wondering whether you or he would strike the killing blow. It was the kind of energy that made some men howl like wolves and others wet themselves. It had been a long time, but Calithor remembered the thrill. He had not always been a champion. Maybe the next was among these very ranks. Maybe, one day, Calithor would have to kill him as well.

A herald gave the signal and a gap opened in the shield wall for Calithor. Across the field of battle, his opponent waited already. He was a young man, beardless, but tall and fit, with a runner’s lean build. A ruby pendant hung around his lithe neck, a sabre from his hip. His armor was boiled leather, light and flexible. No shield. Sure to be quick and rangy, the type that employed crisp technique and footwork to pick at his adversary from distance, rather than seeking to overcome through brute force. Smart, considering the many dangers Calithor posed, but it would do no good. All of them came with some new strategy, some gambit or trick to throw him off, but he was still champion after a dozen campaigns and scores of battles for a reason. He had seen it all and beaten it all.

Calithor stopped ten paces away and drew his sword.

“Hail Darrius,” he said. He always made a point to learn his opponent’s name before he faced them. They would be dead in a matter of minutes, but they were still part of his legacy, and if for no other reason, that made them worth remembering.

“Hail Calithor the Undefeated,” Darrius replied, but did not move to arm himself. Instead, he simply watched Calithor with a strange, lopsided grin. This was nothing new for Calithor. His foes often hid their nerves behind bravado. Still, there was something strange in this Darrius’s eyes that he did not like.

“Draw your sword already and let’s be done with it,” Calithor said, returning Darrius’s grin. “I’ve skipped breakfast for this.”

“A shame,” Darrius returned, “for it was to be your last meal.”

Calithor threw his head back and laughed to the heavens. Gods, he loved a good pre-fight banter. There was nothing like it to get the competitive juices flowing.  “Bold words, from one untested. Before yesterday I had never even heard of you.”

“Fair,” said Darrius, “but then, yesterday you had no cause. Tomorrow everyone will know me as the man who ended Calithor the Undefeated.”

“So you say.” Calithor took a careful step forward, then another, the battle rage in him building. “Draw your weapon and let us find out if you are worthy of the distinction.”

“Why should I?” asked Darrius. “If I do, you will surely kill me.”

Calithor paused, caught off guard by the unexpected admission. Was this Darrius, this nobody, mocking him?

His adversary’s smile suggested so, and the look set Calithor’s teeth to grinding. Riddles and jokes would not save this fool from death. Nothing would, but Calithor could not bring himself to strike an unarmed foe. Such an ignoble act would tarnish his reputation.

“How do you intend to defeat me if you do not mean to fight?”

“Must the one come before the other?” asked Darrius.

“Typically.”

“I’m afraid this won’t be a typical day for you then. All I have are questions.”

“You mean to talk me to death?”

Darrius shrugged.

“Ask, then,” said Calithor, returning the gesture. “Let us see just how pointed these questions of yours are.”

High above, a circling crow cawed. Darrius’s gaze strayed upward. “Tell me, Calithor, how was it you bested Saulimon the Tomb Keeper?”

A rush of memory hit Calithor like a hammer, throwing him back through the years. “He was my first victory as champion. He fought with a scythe, tipped in the cobra’s venom. The last true dervish, he was, more cyclone than man.”

“I grew up hearing his legend,” said Darrius, his eyes bright. “Before you, he was said to be untouchable.”

“He nearly was,” said Calithor. “The trick was using his own momentum against him. I parried his blade into the dirt, then stomped upon the shaft. From there it was a simple thing to take his head.”

“Simple indeed,” Darrius replied. “I remember the first time I heard of your victory, I could not believe it. Saulimon sent scores of men to their graves before you sent him to his.”

“My only prayer that day was that I not become the next,” Calithor said, and despite himself he smiled. “I was only a boy then, and still new to war.”

“Ah, but you are new no longer. Many bold warriors have gone the way of Saulimon in the years since.”

“Too true,” said Calithor, coming back to himself. ” Take solace in knowing you are in good company.”

“I’ll keep my own company, thanks.”

“You’ll keep nothing much longer,” said Calithor. “Draw your sword, boy. I weary of talk.”

“Strike me down if you must,” said Darrius, “but I will not draw.”

“With fists then. Do not think me above taking a man’s life with my bare hands.”

“Perhaps not, but I don’t think you will. Not until I’ve spoken my piece.”

More crows joined the first overhead. The birds chattered eagerly and circled low, impatient for the bloodshed to start.

They weren’t the only ones. Calithor huffed. “Fine then. Say what you must, that we may finish this. Today.”

Darrius’s smile returned. “Tell me how you bested Shera.”

Another page from the annals of his own story flipped open before Calithor’s eyes. “An interesting challenge. She had something of the witch’s craft, and could shroud the battlefield in fog.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Darrius, “but your victory is equally shrouded in mystery. None could witness the confrontation through victorious… but how?”

Calithor gave Darrius a mischievous look. He still felt clever about this one. His voice dipped low, so only his foe might hear. “Sight is not the only battle sense. Her haze rendered me blind, but the sound of her footfalls carried just as well.”

“No!” Darrius looked genuinely astonished.

“It’s true. She was light on her feet, but even Shera the Sorceress could not fool me… and neither will you.”

“I do not intend to,” said Darrius. “Grant me one more question, and I will show you what I mean.”

Calithor nodded, wary. This Darrius was fishing for weaknesses through Calithor’s accounts of his own victories, but he would learn soon enough there were none to find.

“I want to know of your greatest test,” said Darrius. “Tell me of your battle with Konag of the Hundred Blades.”

“Ah,” said Calithor, “now there was a warrior. He was indeed my strongest foe, the only man to match me in speed, strength, and skill at arms.”

Darrius cocked an eyebrow. “You admit it? Just like that?”

“I admit nothing. What’s true is true.” Calithor still remembered the contest like it was yesterday. That was the day he had truly become Calithor the Undefeated, for not only had he finally found a worthy rival, he’d defeated him.

“And yet here you stand,” said Darrius. “How did you manage to best a man every inch your equal as a warrior?”

Often Calithor had reflected on this very question, and despite the advantage of years, he was still unsure of the answer. Konag had been a revelation, a man purpose-built for the arts of war, and he had pushed Calithor well beyond what the man had considered his own extraordinary limits. And yet, in the end…

“Skill is not all on the battlefield. A warrior’s will must be of the same steel as his blade, for the moment he accepts death as a possibility, it shall become reality. I could not best Konag through skill alone, so I forced him into a game of attrition. When, after hours and hours, his arms had grown so heavy he could no longer raise his sword from the ground, I still had one strike left in me, and it was enough.”

Darrius whistled his admiration. “Truly, you are a living legend. Why continue on? What more could you possibly have to prove?”

“There is always another challenge,” Calithor answered, but without conviction. Today was to be his last as champion, but Darrius could not possibly know Calithor’s mind.

“Is there?” Darrius had grown serious, as if he himself were concerned for Calithor and his predicament. “You have said yourself, no warrior but Konag has ever proven your equal, and even him you bested.”

“I did…” said Calithor, feeling anew the yoke of his legacy. It was true. He hadn’t been pushed in many years, not since Konag. What was left for Calithor to achieve? What did he gain by padding his record? Nothing.

“You see now why I refuse to draw my sword,” said Darrius. “Even the honor of a death by your hand is cheap, for my name would become one of dozens. And it would not even be a great victory, for I would be no great trial. I am not so fast as Saulimon, nor so crafty as Shera. I could never compare to Konag, who was the master of all things martial. Upon your list there are myriad names more worthy of song than mine.”

“What then?” asked Calithor, hollowed out by sudden despair. How had Darrius known of his growing apathy, the fear that his story was all but written? “You are right, to continue on would be pointless. The great tests of my life all lie in the past.”

“No!” shouted Darrius. The young man shook with conviction. “Don’t you see? You are not merely undefeated, you are Calithor the Undefeatable. The Invincible. The Immortal. There are none left living who would be worthy of standing against you. Maybe there never were… save one.”

Calithor wet his lips, his mouth gone suddenly dry. “Who?”

Darrius seemed almost too reluctant to say, and when at last he met Calithor’s eye, there was no longer a need.

“Me,” Calithor whispered.

Darrius nodded, never looking away. “I wonder,” he said softly, “can you even bleed?”

The thought was a rotten one, but like a worm burrowing into an apple, there was no getting it out of Calithor’s head. Was it true? Was he immortal? Had any of his foes stood a chance at all, or had the conclusion been foregone? Calithor looked to the sword in his hand, then to the exposed wrist of his opposite arm.

When was the last time he’d bled? He honestly couldn’t recall. On the battlefield and off, Calithor had walked through life unscathed. Oh, there’d been plenty of aches and pains—sore knees, a stiff back—but nothing like a real injury. A mortal wound.

The blade’s edge certainly seemed keen enough. He had seen it draw blood from a hundred other sources.

It spilled forth like a curtain falling, blood soaking the ground at Calithor’s feet. He was almost disappointed by how easy it was, but then he reconsidered. Didn’t this make his legend all the greater? He was not an invincible cheat. He was the best on merit, a mortal risen, not a god descended from on high to play at war.

And the pain, it was exquisite. A sensation he’d never known, and only now did he realize he’d been living less than a full life without it. The aches of age were nothing by comparison; this was scarlet over gray. He reveled in it, even as the invisible fire spread up his arm and his vision blurred with tears.

Calithor looked back to Darrius, and the young man’s expression told him he understood. Of course he did. No one else had ever seen Calithor so fully.

“You have given me a great gift this day, Darrius. Now all shall know that Calithor may bleed, but none could make him. And yet…”

“It is not enough, is it?”

“It is not.” Calithor glanced back to the cut. Already the flow of blood slowed to a trickle, but the cut was still a fresh testament. “If I may bleed, then I may fall. Shall I wait for defeat to find me?”

“I think you won’t,” said Darrius. “You know what must be done.”

Calithor nodded. “None shall take the mantle from me. I shall die as I lived.”

“Undefeated.” Darrius smiled, but it was not a wicked look. Tears shown in his eyes. “Hail Calithor, who is undefeated forevermore.”

When one thousand men tense at once, it can be felt like a rippling tide. A current of anticipation swept across the field as all those within earshot realized what was about to happen. On Darrius’s side, the sense was ecstatic, the buzz of a coming swarm; on Calithor’s there was only the hush of sudden fear. Then came one whispered oath after another. Would he really go through with it? How could he, their champion, do this to them? Calithor heard it all as he lifted his sword. He rested tip against his own chest, his pulse quickening under the touch of cold steel.

It was then he noticed the whisper. It was subtle, a needling of dark thought in the back of his head urging him toward a worthy end, but now that Calithor was listening closely, it did not quite sound like him.

He let the blade drop. “Well played, Darrius. You nearly had me.”

Darrius’s smile fractured. “What do you mean?”

“You claim you are no worthy foe, and yet…” Calithor sidled forward, blade in hand.

Darius backpedaled, an animal fear in his eyes, but he had nowhere to run. His own vanguard blocked the way, and they would not part for him until the challenge was over. He flinched as Calithor reached out, but the champion’s hand did not close around his throat—rather, he snatched the ruby pendant from Darrius’s neck, snapping its silver chain.

The faint gleam buried within the gem’s facets guttered out, as did the insidious whisper in Calithor’s head. He handed it back, its power diminished now that he’d discerned Darrius’s game.

Calithor nodded approvingly. “Many foes have tested the strength of my body, but never before has one so tested my mind. A worthy foe indeed. I think I shall retire after all.”

“No, you mustn’t!” Darrius said, his voice cracking. “I was so close…” His hand strayed toward the sabre at his hip, but a look from Calithor stayed him.

“Walk with me,” he said, and turning, started off toward the field’s edge. As if on a tether, Darrius followed, his gaze in the dirt.

“Why so glum?” Calithor asked, his smile paternal.

He received a spiteful glance in return. “Must you make me say it? This was to be my ultimate triumph. I was going to defeat the invincible warrior without even raising my sword.”

Calithor laughed, his heart and his steps lighter than they had been in years. “You do not give yourself enough credit, young man! You’ve done what no one else could—you stood across from me on the battlefield and left with your life. And what’s more, you’ve helped me realize something.”

“Oh?” Darrius perked up, his spine straightening by degrees. “And that would be?”

“That I have fought enough. More than my fair share, in fact.”

As he spoke, Calithor passed rank after rank of soldier, and to a man their eyes followed him. Theirs were looks of disbelief, of anger, of betrayal, yet all tinged with fear, its effect spreading out behind him like a wake. But then he was gone, on down the row, and those looks had nowhere else to settle but on the men across from them, their opposite number on the enemy line.

Reaching the end of the row, Calithor turned back to face the two armies. “Follow my lead,” he said to Darrius, then more loudly, his voice carrying across the battlefield, “My opponent and I have come to an impasse. He cannot best my skill with the blade, nor I, his potent magics.”

Darrius nodded dumbly along, wary of some trap or trick, but Calithor’s trap was not for him.

“Therefore,” he continued, “let each army send forth a new champion, or else let battle be joined in full. May the better side win the day, and all the more glory to the victors!”

The effect of the pronouncement was immediate, the battlefield falling deathly silent. Up and down the front lines, men shifted uneasily, eyes darting side to side, hoping not to hear their name called to stand in as champion, or worse, the horns calling on all to charge.

“You see? For once, this need not end in blood,” Calithor said, then winked at Darrius. “At least, not for us.”

 

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Thomas J. Griffin is a life-long fiction lover and sumo wrestling enthusiast who lives in Nashville,
Tennessee and writes out of an attic that could use more natural light. He is the editor of Flash
Point SF and his own stories have appeared in publications such as Daily Science Fiction,
100-Foot Crow, and Myriad Magazine.

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.