Merala’s Story

By Andre Ricardo 

A gentle spring breeze played with Merala’s vibrant red hair as she rested from a sparring session. Old Reigor still cast spells as if he were in his youth. Streams of glittering green danced off a shield held by Merala’s younger sister, Meretha. She continued to press her advance on the aging wizard. Her boots dug into the mud as she struggled to maintain balance after each walloping attack from Old Reigor. The wizard took a deep inhale, then unleashed two consecutive blasts at the young woman. Meretha was prepared for the first one, but the second pushed her down into the mud.

“Ah, no shame in it! You’re still young. You’ll get stronger.” Old Reigor called out to the fallen warrior. “Next!”

Merala approached her sister and helped her back to her feet. Meretha picked up her shield and slung it over her back.

“I can take individual bolts, but whenever he sends two at me, I can’t hold on anymore.” Meretha said.

“He’s right, it takes time.” Merala said.

“Just don’t get frustrated.”

“Too late for that.”

“Hey, no great warrior ever won a battle because she was frustrated. Angry? Yes. Passionate? Of course. Infuriated even? Definitely. But frustration clouds your mind and stops you from improving.” Merala knew that her sister simply wanted to stew for a while, but she knew it was best for her to at least hear what she had to say.

“Maybe I am angry then. Would that help?”

“Only if it's at something worth being angry at.”

Meretha huffed and walked back towards their family’s house. Merala walked past the tattered gate of her village and regarded her quiet birthplace. This valley had been the home of Merala’s ancestors for untold generations. She knew this was Thaxon land now, the Margraviate of Sesse, to be specific, but Verntic peoples like hers had been here first. Most of the other Verntics moved to the Northwest, but Merala’s peoples has stayed firm where their traditions were born. The once proud warrior culture Merala was descended from which once could threaten even the fiercest of the Thaxon kings had now diminished down to a small village of only thirty inhabitants.

The knowledge that her people's glory days were far behind Merala’s time weighed on her mind often, and she knew it was becoming more and more apparent to her sister. Meretha was fourteen now and no longer could be fooled by the stories of yore Old Reigor used to tell.

Merala rubbed her thumb against the pommel of her sword, a weapon which had never been used for its true purpose. Nestled into the wooded hills sat the crumbling ruin of a fortress, which Old Reigor had said once belonged to their people. He said it had withstood a hundred sieges and not once was the gate breached. Merala thought that must have been a lie, as there was no gate to see. In fact, Merala could scarcely discern the walls of the fallen fort from the stone of the mountain it was built into in some places from where she stood. As a child, Merala always dreamed of fighting back a whole band of invading orcs from those decrepit walls to give the fort one last time to prove its worth. Now that idea depressed her more than it enthused her.

“What are you doing out here?” Meretha called for her sister.

“Nothing. Do I need to be somewhere else?” Merala responded.

“Not yet. Can I join you?” Meretha asked.

Merala gestured to her side and produced a small smile. Meretha approached and sat down on the cool grass.

“So, what are you doing?” Meretha asked.

“I already told you.”

“Well, you can’t really be doing nothing. You’re standing here. That’s something. You’re breathing. You’re looking out at the hills and that old fort. You’re doing something.”

“Why’d you even ask then? Clearly you already know.”

“Because I know nobody just looks at things. You’re thinking about something.” Merala started to speak, but then hesitated for a moment.

“Thinking about how Spring has blessed us with such beautiful trees this year.”

“Certainly. But Spring has forsaken us in many other ways.” Meretha said.

“Don’t talk like that.” Merala retorted quickly.

“It’s true though. You ever think about the future? What are we going to do? We can’t keep this going for much longer.” Meretha spoke quickly.

“Remember what I said about frustration?” Merala chided.

“This isn’t about that! I just don’t see why we keep playing pretend with this!”

“This is our culture, and we have our duty to defend it!” Merala tried her hardest to believe what she was saying.

“What is there left to defend? A handful of houses, a barn, and that old, decaying relic over there?” Meretha pointed at the fort with a splayed hand. 4 Merala was silent. She stared into her sister’s matching emerald eyes.

“We defend the people. Each other. Buildings are just buildings.”

“All thirty of us.” Meretha’s gaze separated from her sister’s and centered on the rolling hills.

The two did not speak again until the sun began its descent behind the hills. They returned together back behind the gate of their village and ate a humble dinner. Merala’s father, Deagen, was a stout man with many freckles. He tore into his hard hunk of bread with his strong jaw. Despite his threatening appearance, her father was the kindest man in the village. He served as one of the sparring trainers to help teach what few young warriors were left how to fight, but his real passion was alchemy. His potions were as unpalatable as they were effective. Merala’s mother, Brinora, sat across from him. Her shield arm had been broken about a month ago and was resting in a sling. It was healing quickly due to Deagen’s potions, but she was still in a delicate position. Her injury frustrated her immensely, as her zeal for combat was unshakable. In fact, it was her vigor that caused her to get injured in the first place.

Something about what Meretha had said about Spring forsaking them had stuck with Merala. Before she went to sleep, she thought of a prayer to the patron deity of her people.

Oh Spring, Lady of growth and joy, Lady of the trees and soil, hear me here. Our oath to you is unfaltering, our reverence is unshakable. Today, my sister told me you have forsaken us, something I did not take lightly, as my devotion to you is true. But a fear is growing in me that she does not speak wholly untruthfully. Our people, which once were many, now are few. Our once proud past is far behind us. I pray you guide my people, guide me, and guide my sister towards your path again. We are your swords, and always will be, but I also know a sword is 5 worth nothing without a hand to wield it. I pray you let my people grow and prosper like the trees and grasses of the home you gave us and thank you for remaining our truest guardian.

Brinora urgently shook Merala awake in the middle of the night. Merala’s tired eyes adjusted to the scene. Her mother’s stricken face looked down at her while her sister and father hastily armed themselves in the dark background.

“We’re being attacked. Get up, Merala! Take your sword.” Brinora forced Merala’s scabbarded arming sword into her arms.

Merala tossed on her gambeson and tied it quickly. She belted her sword, grabbed her shield, and ran outside with her family into the fray. The rickety gate struggled to hold back the invaders. Merala entered a defensive stance with the rest of her village. The archers atop the walls climbed back down to join the others.

“Arrows don’t work on them. They’re undead.” One of them said with a lump in his throat.

Fear began to slowly drip into Merala’s heart like water from an icicle. She tried to hold it back as she knew there was no time for fear in this moment. Suddenly, a wave of strength filled her body. Green tendrils of magic seeped into her veins. Old Reigor had cast an empowerment spell on the entire village. Merala filled her lungs with cold air and braced herself as the old gate splintered to the ground. A horde of skeletons poured into the village. Deep battle cries from the villagers clashed with the ethereal howls of the undead. The undeads’ eyes glowed in various shades of purple, white, and red. Within their tattered armor, their exposed souls shined from the centers of their ribcages.

The villagers held their shield wall for a while, but it faltered as the undead swarmed around it. Old Reigor called from the rear for a retreat. He lobbed a few more magic blasts towards the enemy to give his people time to fall back. A blast of dark purple magic struck Old Reigor, knocking him down to a knee. Merala looked back to see who had produced the attack.

A tall, darkly robed sorcerer sauntered onto the battlefield. As the sorcerer continued to approach, his face came into view. His eyes were bloodshot and glowed purple around the irises. Flesh peeled from his face. His teeth, lower jawbone and right cheekbone were exposed. His upper lip hung loosely over his front teeth. His emaciated fingers curled around a long staff made of dark wood and which was twisted by dark magic. A multicolored gem rested at the top, which glistened in red, green, yellow, and blue. He sent another wallop of magic towards a cluster of villagers and blasted them backwards. Smoke rose from their bodies.

The battle erupted into chaos as the undead gained the clear upper hand. Any organization they had was lost and their shield wall crumbled into stragglers, desperately defending themselves from the outnumbering undead. As Merala cut down a skeleton, she caught sight of her parents in the corner of her eye. Deagen lunged towards a skeleton that threatened Brinora. In his frantic defense of his wife, he missed the skeleton behind him, which plunged its axe into his back.

Deagen crumpled to the ground. Merala’s heart shattered. Brinora’s face twisted in anguish as she dropped her weapon and fell to her knees beside her husband. Merala thrust her blade into the bare souls of two skeletons in her path as she forced her way towards her family. She was too late, as the skeleton which killed her father then took Merala’s mother from her next. Its skull cracked into pieces on the impact of Merala’s vengeful blade. She couldn’t bear to look at the limp remains of her family.

Only around a dozen villagers still stood. Merala had to find Meretha among them. Her sole purpose was to ensure her sister’s safety. Her eyes scanned the scene. Old Reigor hurled attack spells at the dark sorcerer, each one being blocked by a magic shield. The sorcerer delivered a final finishing blow to the aged storyteller. Merala saw Meretha charge at the sorcerer, but her advance was halted.

The sorcerer aimed his twisted staff at Merala’s sister. He drew a tiny sphere of blue light from her mouth. Half of it was broken off, and half of it returned to Meretha’s body. Her flesh turned to dust and blew off her bones like dry leaves in a crisp breeze. Her bleached bones began to march in tandem with the other undead. The fear that had been soaking Merala’s heart consumed her. She watched as the last of her people fell to the undead. Merala ran. She ran from her home, her family, her friends, and her duty. She crawled through a gap in the rotten wooden walls of her village and continued her flight into the hills. The memory of her family’s fate poured from her face in thick tears.

She looked behind at her old home. A handful of undead continued to pursue her. Their somber howls taunted her. She entered the courtyard of the fort and readied her shield. The undeads’ howls grew louder until one of the shrieking invaders stumbled into the courtyard and swung its mace wildly. She dispatched the first attacker with a cut along the lower spine. Two more appeared. She blocked the first skeleton’s axe strike with her shield. The aftershock from the strike was far worse than the blows her father would deliver during sparring sessions. She pushed the undead to the ground in a flurry of vengeance and grief. She lopped the skull from the second skeleton clean off, and then smashed her boot into the fallen one’s ribcage, breaking the bonds between its half-soul and its bones.

She stood still for a moment. Her heart pounded against her ribs and tried to escape her body and go back to her home. Her mind knew there was no home to return to now. Her body wanted to collapse onto the ground and rot into the soil. She straightened her slightly bent sword under her boot and returned it to its scabbard and slung her shield over her back.

She trudged out of the old fort and continued to ascend the hill. The steady rhythm of her breath became her sole focus. She watched as she moved one foot in front of the other. Her shield knocked against her back. Her scabbarded sword brushed against her left leg with each stride. When she reached the top of the hill, the morning sun came into view as it climbed the horizon. The pale blues of the sky beckoned her onward.

Andre Ricardo has three projects in the works: Chronophobia, a time-travel novella, Four Seasons, a high fantasy series, and Bonded, a science fiction series. He graduated from Colorado College in 2024 with an English Creative Writing major. Sign up for free seasonal short stories on his website: http://andrericardobooks.com.