Slowly the victorious warrior scanned the battlefield around him, and as he did so, his eyes alighted upon Malagor and myself.  He started slowly toward us.  I did nothing but stand and stare at the alien knight.  He moved slowly at first, but as he got nearer, he seemed more and more menacing, and when he was only several yards away, he began to raise his wondrous sword.

“Stop!” called Malagor, backing up his command by brandishing his light rifle. The blue-skinned man stopped and stared at us and particularly at me for a moment.

“You carry a dead sword,” he said to me.

“I carry this sword that I found.  It is not as marvelous as your own….”

“Just where did you find this sword?”

“It was in a cave, along with these light rifles,” I replied.

“You took these weapons from the dead!”

“There was no body,” I said, “only the weapons and some food items.”

“You lie!”  He took another step forward.

“He tells the truth,” said Malagor.  “Do not take another step, or I shall have to kill you.”

The Amatharian looked carefully at my friend as if for the first time.  “You are a Malagor?”

“Yes.”

“My clan, long ago, dealt with the Malagor.  They were a people of honor.”

Malagor nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment, but didn’t lower his weapon.

“You affirm that this pale one did not desecrate the bodies of my people?”

“I swear it.”

The Amatharian looked back at me, the fury of battle now fading from his eyes. He straightened his back, and then carefully sheathed his sword, which now appeared to be nothing more than a metal blade of the non-glowing variety.  This fellow was a magnificent specimen.  He was almost a head taller than I, at least six foot seven.  He was muscular and handsome, and wore the typical Amatharian fighting clothing, the black body suit and white tabard.  His own tabard was surrounded by gold braid and bore his insignia, a flaming sun with outstretched wings.

“May I see your weapon?” he asked.

I handed him the sword, hilt first.  He carefully examined the blade and its edge.  Then with something akin to reverence, he carefully removed the jeweled hilt and opened a here-to-fore hidden compartment in the base.  He sighed.  Then he carefully replaced the hilt, and handed the weapon back to me.

“I offer you my apology,” he said. “A sword this fine was designed for a remiant, and yet this sword has never lived.”

“I accept your apology,” I replied.

I could feel Malagor breathe a sigh of relief.  It was obvious that he didn’t want to have to kill a brave man, especially over a misunderstanding.  I certainly didn’t want to force him to.  The knight bowed his head.

“I am Homianne Kurar Ka Remiant Norar Remontar of the Sun Clan,” he said. I later learned that he had given me his name as Norar Remontar, his rank as Remiant or knight, and his social status or nobility as Homianne Kurar Ka, which literally means child of the overlord, and implies that one is a prince or princess.  In Amatharian society the head of each clan is called Kurar Ka or Overlord and his direct heirs are his Homianne.  Just below them in rank are the Kurar or lords, and below them the Kur or lesser nobles.

Malagor replied with his own name, which as I have previously explained, defies all attempts at transcription.  It is a kind of a growl and a cough and he seemed to throw in something else, perhaps a title, though I didn’t press as to what it might have been. I must confess that at that moment I felt somewhat inadequate in the name department, as I had neither a particularly long or eloquent name nor an impressive title.

“Alexander Ashton” I said.

The Zoasian ship was no longer even a dot in the sky.  Malagor invited Norar Remontar to our camp to rest and recover, but he demurred saying that his first duty was to his fallen comrades.  I didn’t see what he could possibly do for them, as it was only too obvious that he was the only survivor, the Zoasians were quite thorough in their murderous methods, shooting even those enemies that were already down, and it would have been insane for an individual to contemplate burying all of the dead soldiers.  The Amatharian explained to me that he was required by custom, to pay his respects to the dead and that he had an additional obligation to confirm the status of those members of his own family among the warriors.  It seems that the military units as well as commercial concerns were organized around the concept of the family clan.

I began my own search through the bodies of the slain.  I saw that Norar Remontar watched me sidelong as I looked through the remains of his countrymen.  Perhaps he thought that I had in mind robbing the corpses of their possessions.  I of course had another, more pressing concern.  I was continuing to look for the remains of the warrior goddess that I had seen during the pitched battle.  She consumed me to the point that I almost thought, that if I found her dead I might take my own life, so that my body might lay beside hers.  I knew in my heart that I had fallen hopelessly in love at the first sight of the beautiful Amatharian woman, and I was devastated by the thought that she was most likely dead.

After what must have been a long time, the Amatharian knight concluded his business with the dead.  He looked very sad, but he also looked somewhat puzzled.  I too had concluded my search, but had turned up no sign of the woman of my dreams.  It did seem almost as if she were made up of the stuff of dreams, so suddenly did she appear in my life, and then vanish into nowhere.  I was about to explain my private loss to Malagor when Norar Remontar returned to our side.

Malagor and I crouched in the high grass watching the mile long Zoasian battleship hum along in the sky.  The great dreadnought cruised to a point about four miles away from us, and came slowly to a halt.  I asked my friend if the Zoasians might have spotted us, as there seemed to be no other reason for the ship to have stopped, but he did not seem to think it likely. I asked him if the ship was equipped with radar or sonar, but he had no knowledge of those devices.  I tried to explain them to him, but since I am neither a scientist nor engineer, I didn’t do a very good job.  Malagor seemed to get the gist of it, though he said that such technology was unknown in Ecos, or at least the part of it known to him.  He assured me that the only detection apparatus aboard the great vessel were powerful telescopes manned by Zoasian observers.

We continued to watch the ship from our location for a very long time.  It might have been an hour, or it might have been a week— there was just no way for me to judge.  As we waited, I strained my eyes to make out every detail possible on the fantastic vessel.  The weapons were massive and futuristic in design, though possessing none of the simple beauty of the light rifles we carried.  There were numerous structures and housings along the top and sides of the ship, but it was impossible to determine what the purpose of any individual compartment might be.  In the foreword of the vessel was what I assumed to be an airstrip, lined with bizarre looking aircraft.  This was somewhat of an assumption on my part, since they did not look at all like earthly planes, but I was later to be proven to be correct.  I could see tiny figures moving around on deck but the distance was too great for me to make out what they were like.

I was drawn away from my careful observation when Malagor tapped me on the shoulder.  He directed my attention by pointing off into the distance.  At first I could see nothing except the green band where the Ecosian landscape reached up to become the Ecosian sky.  After a moment though, I saw a dot in the distance, which steadily grew in size.  It didn’t take long for me to determine what the object was.  It was a ship similar in size and method of locomotion to the great Zoasian battleship, and it was zooming toward the black ship at over one hundred miles per hour.  Of course the eternal sun of Ecos makes the measure of miles per hour almost meaningless in terms of long distances covered, but it seems the best way for me to describe the velocities involved.

I glanced at the first ship and saw that it was turning its weaponry toward the interloper.  The airstrip on the upper deck began spitting aircraft into the sky.  It turned slowly like some great black beast crouching for a spring.  It presented all its teeth to the enemy.

The second ship was close enough to observe clearly now.  It was roughly the same shape as the Zoasian vessel, and seemed to have a similar array of armament.  Instead of being the hollow black of the battleship though, it was painted navy blue with bright silver trim and highlights.  From all over the craft were hung colorful banners and bright waving flags.  Along the bow was a great golden insignia— two crossed swords above a flaming sun. This ship too began disgorging squadrons of aircraft.

“Amatharians,” said Malagor.  “The banners on the ship are the colors of her knights.  The insignia means that there is someone important on board.”

“Why would they fly into battle if they were carrying someone important?”  I asked.

“If an Amatharian sees a Zoasian, he will attack.  If a Zoasian sees an Amatharian, he will attack.  These two things are as sure as the sun in the sky.”

The two ships began to fire their weaponry almost simultaneously, as the squadrons of fighter aircraft began to engage in a huge and deadly dogfight. The Zoasian armament consisted of a broad range of weapon types, from missiles to powerful cannon to a particularly ugly black ray.  The Amatharian weaponry appeared to be all of one type, based on the same principles as the light rifles, with their churning bubbling liquid sunlight, although the shipboard guns fired light streams anywhere from one inch to one foot in diameter.

The battle went on and on.  It seemed incredible that ships of even that size could withstand the punishment that those two did.  Each took hit after hit from the enemy ship and its aircraft.  Fighters were shot out of the sky right and left, and they dropped to the ground bursting into fireballs.  Several of them crashed into the enemy ship, or into their own.  Explosions rocked the battle cruisers, and we could see tiny figures on the deck fighting fires and in many cases, losing those fights.  After a while it seemed that most of the fighters were gone, victims of the ongoing conflict, but the two great dreadnoughts refused to give up. They kept pouring volley after volley into each other.  As they did so, the battle began to slowly drift our way.

“I think that we had better find another vantage point.”  I said, as I started to gather our things together.

“Wait, look,” said Malagor, pointing at the conflict.

It seemed that both ships had been damaged to the point where they were no longer under complete control.  The Zoasian ship began to slowly twist away out of control. It was the Amatharian vessel though, it was now obvious, which had taken the greater damage.  First it listed slowly to one side, then tilted over more and more, until it appeared as though it was a toy hung from a string attached to its bow.  Then, slowly at first, but with rapidly increasing speed, the ship dropped from the sky.  As it plowed into the ground below, it erupted into flame as great explosions rocked the countryside.  It reminded me of the old film clips of the Hindenburg disaster, though on a much greater scale, and I could feel the heat of the explosion upon my face.

I crawled out of the tunnel into the bright light of the eternal Ecosian day. Malagor followed me.  Between the two of us we carried the artifacts found in the inner chamber, with the exception of the rusty cans. I had a feeling they contained foodstuffs that were far from fresh.  Besides, we didn’t have a can opener.  We set everything down, and Malagor skinned his small game animal, spitted it, and put it over our campfire.  I tossed a few more twigs on the fire and then sat down to examine the fascinating swords that I had found.

I hefted the long sword in my hand, and was surprised to find that though it had obviously been crafted as a two-handed sword, it was too light for that method of swordsmanship.  I then recalled that here on Ecos my strength was increased, roughly doubling what it had been on Earth.  If I had not had this additional strength, the sword would have been quite heavy and well balanced as a two-handed weapon.  The blade was bright silver in color but strangely, neither the blade, nor the many small runes and designs carved along its length, reflected the sun. The hilt was carved of a material that looked like wood, but was much harder and did not show the great age that it must have been.  It too, was carved with fantastic designs, and, set all along it, were fourteen beautiful gems.  I guessed that they were quite valuable, though I suppose that the value of gems, like so many other things, really depends upon one’s culture.  I was never much for mineralogy, so I don’t know if they were emeralds or sapphires or what, but they certainly were lovely. The short sword was almost identical to the long sword, with the exception of its length, and the fact that it had been designed to be used single-handedly.

I looked up from my examination of the sword to see my dog-faced friend.  He had finished getting dinner cooking, and now was devoting himself to an examination of the rifles.  He drew one to his shoulder and looked down the barrel. I was somewhat surprised, because I had assumed that Malagor was from a low technology society.  It had never occurred to me that he might be acquainted with firearms, or in this case an even more advanced weapon.

“Do you know this particular weapon?”  I asked.

“It is an Amatharian gun.  They call it a light rifle,” he said.  “I have used weapons similar to this, but never one this fine or this powerful.”

“Tell me something of these Amatharians,” I said.

“The Amatharians are a most interesting race.  They look much like you, and yet they are different.  They are a race of honor.  If you insult an Amatharian you must be ready to kill him or to die. They travel over a wide area, but live only in their great city of Amathar.  It is said to be the greatest city anywhere.  They are trained in war, but do not love war the way some other races do.”  He stopped for a moment as if trying to remember.

“An Amatharian warrior’s soul is in his sword.  If the sword sees the warrior turn from an enemy, the soul will be disgusted and will never be with the warrior again.  If the warrior dies bravely, the soul leaves the sword to live in the sun, shining brightly forever.  If a warrior gives his sword away, he gives away his soul.”

He stopped and looked at me.

“These Amatharians are funny people,” he said.

“Have you actually known any Amatharians?”

“When I was a little pup, a group of Amatharians came to our village. There were only six of them.  The leader of the group was an old trader. He wanted the pottery and leather crafts that our bitches made.  He traded us tools and interesting foods.  The others were his assistants, all that is except the Remiant.”

“Remiant?”

Malagor went to some length to explain to me what I suppose would be sort of a combined military rank and social status of the Amatharians.  Most young Amatharians, he explained, were militarily trained.  Even those that pursued other occupations within their society were also soldiers. After leaving military duty, the former soldiers became explorers, scientists, or merchants.  A beginning soldier was a warrior or remiantad. After glorifying himself in battle he became a swordsman or remiantar.  When a swordsman became somehow complete, a true living weapon, he became a Remiant, something like a knight.  To be a Remiant, was the ultimate goal of all Amatharians.  Though there were ranks beyond Remiant, a Remiantad or captain and a Horemiant or general, these were only ranks for use in large-scale warfare. In the context of social status, all remiants were equal.  Yes, a Remiant was a knight.  Malagor went on.

“The knight was tall, even for an Amatharian.  He stood, back straight and head held high.  On his tabard was the crest of his house.  His swords were strapped to his sides.  They were not as magnificent as the ones you have found, but it seemed to me that the long one shined with the light of the soul within.

“The merchant and his apprentices went into the house of our alpha male to discuss the terms of trade.  The knight took his position outside the doorway.  There were several of us, all small pups.  We stood there watching him.  He smiled at us.  That is all that I remember.”

“Was that a long time ago?” I asked.

“A very, very long time ago.”  He looked at me with his head cocked to one side.  “It is a boring story.”

“No, it is not boring,” I countered, “but I wonder why the Amatharian left these swords here, and what happened to his soul?”

“It is possible that these swords have not seen use.  They certainly appear to be in fine condition,” said Malagor.

“You know a great deal about Amatharians and their swords considering you met one only when you were a small child.  You must have studied them.”

He just shrugged.

Newswoman Tanya Everson appeared on the screen.  “On the world stage today, middle eastern strongman Bloodstone vowed never to relinquish power in his home country of Magogistan—this in the wake of two weeks of pro-democracy demonstrations in the capital city of New Babylon.”

The screen switched to male co-anchor Bill Drake.  “An explosion rocks the downtown area today as resident supergals All American Girl and Skygirl battle two well known villains.  Find out which ones after the break.”

As the television screen switched to a commercial for cholesterol lowering drugs, the house telephone on the kitchen counter rang and Linda got up to answer it.

“Hello?  Yes.  And whom may I say is calling?  Who? Hipp?  Hippo?”  She put a hand over the receiver.  “Do you know a Hippy somebody?”

Stella jumped up and pulled the phone from her hands.

“Hello?”

“Stella?  Who is that foolish mortal?”

“Hi, Daddy.  That’s just my room-mate.  I can’t believe you called.”

“What does she mean by pretending she doesn’t know me?”

“Never mind about that, Dad…”

“All of Greece knows the legend of Hipparion.”

“…cholesterol doesn’t just come from what you eat. Family history, exercise, and the machinations of power-hungry supervillains can all play a part…”

“Can you turn that thing off?”  Stella asked Linda.  Then she turned her concentration back to the phone conversation.  “Look, Dad.  First of all, you’re not that famous anymore.  Secondly, I don’t live in Greece.  I live in Chicago.”

“The land of the Skraelings?”

“No, Daddy.  Home of the Cubs.”

“Hmm.  The Cubs is not a name that would inspire much fear in one’s enemies.”

“Yeah, well their home record was 35-46—not exactly fierce.”

“Your mother told me that you asked after me.”

“Yes, I did,” said Stella.  “I didn’t think you two talked.”

“We bumped into one another.  What did you need—a magical weapon or the answer to a riddle, perhaps?”

“Um, no.  I just wanted to… where did you bump into mother?”

“It was a sort of a… religious festival… event… party.”

“What kind of religious festival event party?”

“It was a Bacchanal.”

“What is wrong with you people up there?” wondered Stella. “Is that all you do?”

“Make war, make music, make dancing, make love—what else is there in life?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe enjoy a quiet evening with your family.”

“What was it that you required, Stella?”

“I don’t need anything,” she said, exasperated.  “I just wanted to say ‘hi’ and, you know… tell you ‘I love you’.”

There was silence and after a moment Stella thought she had lost the connection.

“Are you there, Daddy?”

“Um, yes.”

“Well, I’ll let you go then.  I know you probably have a murder or an orgy to go to.”

“Stella, be sure to let me know if you ever need a weapon or anything.  I have this new magical armor…”

“Yeah, thanks Dad.  Goodbye.”  She dropped the handset onto the base stand of the phone.  “Thanks a lot.”

“So that was your father?” asked Linda.

“Yeah.”

“He has a nice telephone voice.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice that you are still able to talk to your dad.”

“I suppose.”  Stella got up.  “I’m going to take a shower.”

She made her way toward her bedroom and its attached master bath and a moment later the sound of running water could be heard from the rear of the apartment.  Linda busied herself cleaning the already clean kitchen.  Then the phone rang again.

“Do you want me to answer that?” called Linda.

“I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Stella called back, and then continued under her breath.  “You’d think you’d remember by now that I don’t have super hearing.”

“And you’d think you would remember that I do,” said Linda, who stared at the phone undecided as it rang again.  When it rang a third time, the sound was followed by a click and the answering machine message.

“This is you-know-who,” said Stella’s recorded voice. “Leave me a message; maybe I’ll call.” Beep.

“Stella, baby!  Irving here.  I’ve got to say it—fantastic, fantabulous, phenomenal, and lots of other f words—good f words.  Not the bad ones.  That was beautiful, my mega-powered babe.  First, you save the city from a really big bomb.  Then you rescue skyslut, who was lying helpless in the middle of the street in front of God and everybody.  Nice.”

“Skyslut?” said Linda.