When Night Fell

When night fell, death came. It came in the night, like a like a shadow's nightmare, slaying the ethereal lives before it. For men's lives are a shadow, a pale imitation of living that cease to exist when real death comes.

When night fell, death came. It was a cruel mistress and harsh lover that men could not escape, though they ran screaming, gritting and grinding their teeth as death coldly caressed them in her earthy embrace.

When night fell, Shavine waited. His long, silver hair fell about his shoulders hiding his watchful eyes. His hand, calloused from years of training in the way of the Hramvi, lightly gripped the sword which lay across his lap. He knelt, two knees often used to reverence the Hramvi masters, and ready to meet obedience with the swiftness of action. Yesterday it seemed his obedience was to accept the title of master though he was the youngest to hold the title, without even a full beard.

Tonight his obedience was death.

In his other hand he moved the knots of his hesych, counting the prayer passed on to him by his fathers. He timed each prayer with his heart beat, and kept his su'un, his mind's attention, within his breast where his heart moved slowly. He was not afraid of the night, for the Light of Hram illumined all. He was not afraid of death, for the Light was its foe and instant cure.

Strapped to his back was a blessed short javelin, blessed by seven priests in the ancient rites. If it became obvious there was some moral fault Shavine that would prevent victory, the javelin would lay waste to any shaemon spawn rising from the nether regions of the shadow.

The townspeople, on his order, shut up their wooden doors and simple shutters. They had no choice but to obey, for he was the Imperial Law. They would have obeyed without a word from him, however, for the night brought terror.

So, Shavine waited.

It was in the third hour, just after that part of the night watch would have started that it came. What was it? Shavine could not tell, for out of the ground came the form of a lumbering giant, skin tan to match the underbelly of the earth, arms hanging long to the ground and thick as a tree which had stood for a century. Its legs met the earth, and with each step the ground stretched to remain in contact with its monstrous talons. Pulling its head back, with eyes so dark they shone in the moonless night, and a mouth that was forever grimacing, the giant howled, a deep, growling howl, the howl of a thousand waterfalls if those cascading forms could shriek.

Then the giant fell apart. It fell apart into scores of its own form, small miniature giants, each grimacing eternally, each attached to the ground with every step, and black eyes that shown in the dark night.

Shavine, remained where he was, kneeling. He still gripped his sword and still prayed his hesych. He watched as the small clones ran up to each house and shop on the lane, clawing at the doors. They scraped and banged doors, moaning small screams and, seeming to find nothing, moved on to another home.

Shavine stood, smooth and quiet so as not to disturb the mass of malevolent creatures. Leaving his scabbard aside, he let his sword point down as he followed the monsters movement through the town. And then it was they found what they were looking for. A door. A home. Here the prayers of the family could be heard outside in the street where Shavine stood.

With one mind, the creatures descended on the home, tearing chunks of wood with their claws, cracking the walls and closed windows with their assault. Shavine let his sword drag on the ground, a fine steel blade ringing over rocks and dirt. But the monsters paid him no attention. Shavine yelled, his fierce battle cry in the ancient tongue, but when we was finished there was no response but the creaking of the home under the attack of the creatures mixing with the fervent cries of the family within.

Shavine had to protect the family, but if the foe would not fight he would not be able to keep them from slaying the innocent inside. The reality that those under his protection might fall hit him.

It was then the creatures looked at him. They all sniffed, a chorus of breath tasting the air, each section following some unknown conductor. Then they screamed. Then they attacked.

Now he could protect the family. Shavine kept his hesych moving as he sliced through the head of the first creature that leapt at him. It fell, melting into the earth. Though they be shaemon they still died, and now Shavine lept at them in return.

But they scattered. Shavine's sword found the air and nothingness, no foe to fight him. The monsters returned to the house, chattering their cries to each other as they resumed their destruction of a family's home and sanity.

Shavine ran to the mass and struck one of the monsters with his sword. But nothing happened. Hi sword went through a cloud, a fog, and the monster remained to terrorize.

"What sort of foe is this?" Shavine exclaimed. "O right glorious Light, illumine my su'un that I may save thy people!"

For if the Light did not intervene people would die that night.

It was then a mass of bodies fell upon Shavine, biting and gouging his flesh, screaming in his ears as he fought to stand erect.

Fear, he thought. They seek fear.

Shavine let his love for the innocent master his courage, throwing his su'un into his heart and pushing aside as if with physical force the mental foe that had crept in and stolen his his faith. Then, with the maneuver he learned from his fathers and elders, he ran his sword deftly over his body, the technique called Cutting the Seams. Limbs fell off, arms and legs, bits of monstrous flesh, and all merged with the ground, melting as if in some smith's forge. But the rest ignored him once again, and ran towards the house.

Shavine had to prevent them from entering the home. So he brought his su'un out of his heart, and forced himself to feel fear. He waited for them to claw him, and then he attacked. Slamming his su'un into his heart and knocking the fear aside with love for his charges, he swung his sword with vigor and zeal. A score fell before him. But Shavine would not let them go, and he alternated between fear and faith, slaying the monsters that slew the fearful.

When the last creature was dispatched, Shavine offered up a prayer to the Light, wasting no time in sealing the eternal fate of these shaemon assassins.

Again, the giant form emerged, punching and clawing as it stretched the earth in its battle to escape the ground. A sound issued from its mouth, a guttural curse as if a forest of ancient pines had all snapped in unison under the strain of a mighty wind.

"You keep me here, poor hramvi," the giant groaned.

"I do not fear you, I pity you too much in my love," Shavine whispered. Sound was nothing to the shaemon.

It groaned once more.

"It is not me you fear, on this you speak correctly. But you have fear, and this keeps me here."

Shavine thrust his sword into the dirt beneath him, and pulled the short javelin from off his back.

"I will not waste time talking to you. You will return to your abode in the shadow and never bother the innocent again." He cocked his arm, extending the other before him for proper aim.

"No one is innocent before me, hramvi. You must face me first, and no one anymore dares to."

"Then tell me true and tell me now, what does it mean to face you?"

"You slew my many parts with your love, for that banishes me. But to be rid of me once and for all, you must face your conscience and slay me there. You will banish me tonight, but I will return soon enough."

Shavine rebuked himself, for he felt his heart leap from fright. He ran forward and hurled the javelin with all his might, whispering his prayer for destruction of the shaemon before him.

As if it was a bolt of lightening the javelin flew, and struck the giant with a thunderous boom. The smell of burnt earth assaulted Shavine's nostrils as the giant melted from the white flame that engulfed it. The giant did not scream, did not moan, nor fight back. It knew it would return.

It was in the morning Shavine roused the townsfolk, and told them of the words of the monstrous shaemon. They sent runners to every village and city, calling for all priests that would come. And they did arrive, twenty or so of those blessed men, and confessed the people for all that they had done from their earliest youth, helping each to cleanse their conscience and guiding them on the path of loving everyone.

As for Shavine, once given praise for his quick mastering of his courage when but a youth studying under the masters, wondered what his fear was. And it gnawed at him, like a rat through a refuse pile. But that rodent of a foe is best left alone until we love the freedom of light's truth more than the deep shadows of our heart's prison.

And this tale is repeated as a proverb to this day: Perfect love casts out fear, and when night fell death came for the conscience.