Illustration by A.R. Stone

The best thing you can do if you want to find rip-roarin' sword and sorcery ficiton is, of course, to check out the anthologies published by Pitch-Black books. The latest release from this rising company is Steven Shrewsbury's erotic sword and sorcery novella, "The Whore of Jericho." We're sure that novella is safe reading for those who are strong lovers of fantasy fiction, for those with a real taste for sword and sorcery fiction. Here, we are very proud to present a short-short by Steven Shrewsbury to whet your appetities.

--- Daniel

Branwen's Soul
by
Steven Shrewsbury

The first time I beheld Torin Maddox my heart nearly stopped. Barely seven years of age myself, I recall him with vividness as he waded into the grim soldiers from the north. The giant barbarian warrior shouted his name-TORIN MADDOX-and swore in a tongue seldom heard in our land. Though four horsemen dressed in chain mail armor drew steel to attack the hulking man from afar, I sensed danger for them. Two of them dismounted and even smiled, showing their confidence.

Immediately after making his namesake boast, Torin drew an enormous sword from a sheath on his back. He then, much to my and the soldiers surprise, flattened to the ground. The blades of the soldiers on horseback swooshed through empty air as the hairy fighter slung something at the feet of one of the defenders of the land. From this projectile, a set of steel balls flew out, tied to a long cord. These wound around the legs of the nearest man, causing him to fall, his weapon to fly.

Torin roared, still on the grass near our field, and swiped at the soldier next to the bound up man. The sword passed cleanly through the shin of this fighter, sending him screaming to the earth. Taking a knee, Torin clashed swords with one of the last two men who came down from their horses. Reaching into his leather jerkin, the alien warrior pulled out a dirk and through it at the fourth man who stood stunned at the fierce carnage before him. The look of astonishment on this young man's face never wavered as the dirk buried itself in his chest. Myself, I could not believe the blade passed so easily through the chain mail. Torin must have been strong indeed to plant the weapon in so deep, as sure as splitting a log with an ax.

Arising and towering over the last man standing, Torin traded blows from the sword. Over and over again, the colossal barbarian drove his blade at the soldier, grunting hard, calling on pagan gods, making me pray to my Lord Jesus stronger. After a few more swipes, the blacksmith who forged the soldier's blade proved the weaker artisan. Once the soldier's weapon broke, Torin buried his sword deep in the man's neck. I was stunned that the head never flew free from the fighter. It hung back lazily on a thread of skin, releasing jets of crimson up into the air and onto the green grass. Torin dispensed with the man whose legs were bound up in an identical manner, paying no heed to his cries for mercy or entreats to the Lord. His head rolled free and Torin kicked it into the crops, grinning as he did so, blood in his teeth.

Inadvertently, I stepped free of my covering and the savage set his eyes on me. Fear took my heart, thinking myself worse off than those oozing blood. I knew tales of these pagans and their rites, perhaps what they would even do to children. However, the giant only waved at me to come closer. I stumbled a few steps and stopped.

Lowering his sword, Torin said, "Lass, do you have water nearby?"

I nodded and motioned for him to follow me. Terrified of what this outlander would do to my Grandfather, I led him to the smithy at the edge of the woods. Grandfather was calm as he pointed to a rain barrel. Torin grunted and leaned his sword on the blacksmith's hut. Dipping both hands in the water, he splashed his face wet, but made no real attempt to be clean. Lowering his hairy face to the water, Torin drank his fill.

My Grandfather was an aged man, but wise in the ways of the world. The old man looked at the hulking, hirsute barbarian polishing the broadsword and commented, "Erina said you spoke a strange language when fighting the soldiers from north of here."

Brooding blue eyes leered at the aged man who sat outside the cabin. "You care not that I killed your soldiers?" Torin looked at the thatched roof through wet, auburn curls dangling from his scalp.

Grandfather shrugged. "They are not of our clan and had no business targeting a man such as you anyway."

Torin sat on the bench beside Grandfather and exhaled. The man looked weary, but took out a flat stone and started to run it down the length of the impressive sword.

"We get few travelers up here this far inland," Grandfather commented as he produced a tall flagon and gave it to the barbarian. "Drink, but be careful, young man. That's powerful whiskey."

"I have drunk of the water of life since my youth," Torin muttered, then drank of the cup. Appreciating the taste, Torin said, "By Lugh! What fire! Made from the Wells of Wisdom itself."

"I am Milo Quinn," Grandfather told him. "What brings an unrepentant Welshman across the sea and into this fair green land?"

"My name is Torin Maddox and I was born in the mountains of Wales." Putting away the stone, the huge man produced an arm Torq from his belt. "I have come to free my true love from the clutches of the dark priest in Armagh."

Milo raised a gray eyebrow and sighed. "Dark priest you say? What does he want with your true love?"

Torin stood, looming over the old one, gripping the handle of the mighty blade in one hand and the Torq in the other. "Word has come to us who supported Uther that the dark priest has her soul. What else do evil priests want with young girls? I was off awandering north with Uther, so I never was there when the minions of the shadowy cleric kidnapped young Branwen from our village."

Looking at the heavy belt cinched tight over the Welshman's trousers, Milo said, "Branwen, that's a beautiful name, young man."

For such a muscle-bound, seething creature, Torin suddenly wore an expression of dull melancholy. His look was one of a yearning youth, not that of a Celtic warrior. "She is a black haired beauty from the mountains of Wales. Like her name, Bran, she had the hair of a raven, yet the white skin of milk." His fingers touched the small Torq lovingly. Surely, this decoration was one wore by a heathen girl.

"And you say she is in Armagh with an evil priest?"

"Aye," Torin said with a swallow. "I will take her soul back to Wales, one way or another."

Milo nodded and said, "That's an easy enough place to find."

I meekly commented, "It is but over the valley, Torin Maddox." At his gaze, my voice failed me.

He leapt to his feet, full of energy and declared, "Then lass, I shall confront the wicked wizard Padrig this night and take her soul back! All of his legions of devils cannot stop Torin!" He took a step forward and shoved the Torq into my grasp.

With that, the barbarian charged out across the valley, running like a deer.

Grandfather looked at the object in my hands, yet never told me to give it up. He said quietly, "Erina, dear, shall we take the horse to Armagh and see if he succeeds?"

Though fear gripped my tiny heart, I could not say no.

The journey took us several hours and the sun was near to setting by the time we arrived at Armagh. We would stay the night there, surely, for it was too late to travel home safely. Grandfather seemed intent on seeing what this savage would do to those in Armagh.

We found the wooden doors of the main hall were indeed ripped apart, but we found no bodies or pools of blood. Holding Grandfather's hand, we walked among those who closely taught with the great sage from afar.the man who saved our land. Though the sanctuary of the building appeared to be quite disturbed, no one was dead.

Light poured into the building from a rear door. In this open stood the great teacher, the one whom I was sure Torin would slay to find his beloved Branwen. Yet, the educator still lived and smiled warmly, as he always did. His long, dark robe ruffled as he motioned for us to join him at the doorway.

"Did he find his beloved?" Grandfather asked the teacher.

The brown haired man nodded and gestured at the vast yard in the rear of the citadel of learning. "Yes, Milo, he has found her. He came to me demanding Branwen's soul. I informed him it was too late."

My eyes focused on the yard, and the giant Welshman in the dirt throwing loads of soil with a shovel. The earth he displaced covered the other graves nearby. A great sob escaped from the hole in the ground as Torin embraced his beloved.

Young men with swords approached us behind, speaking to the teacher in low voices. This stoic man shook his head and frowned. "I think the savage will leave once he has what he came for."

Grandfather's face showed concern and he asked, "Is that wise? His love is dead! What does that crazed barbarian have to live for?"

The teacher smiled again. "You misunderstand his kind. You all are only a generation away from paganism your own selves."

Jumping from the grave, Torin laughed heartily. Again, he nearly caused me to faint as he brandished the filthy head of his beloved. "Filthy necromancer, Padrig! You could not rob me of my true love's soul! I shall carry it back to Wales and set her free. She was a common girl of common soil. I shall set her soul free to where it belongs."

Embracing the severed head to his bosom as a child does a doll, the Celt giant ran away from the sanctuary at Armagh.

"You do not understand," the teacher explained. "The Celts believed the soul resided in the head. It's an aged pagan thought. If the body dies afar from home, the soul will wander forever. Torin Maddox now returns Branwen to her native soil, in his mind and belief. He thought me to be a dark mage, stealing her soul to give to Jesus Christ."

Grandfather sighed and nodded vigorously. "Her soul dwells with the Lord on high, aye, Patrick?"

The brown haired teacher raised both of his arms as the barbarian ran south east. "This is the day the Lord has made! In time, all of the former things will be passed away and we shall see a New Heaven and a New Earth. All of the heathen kind will be driven from this land."

My tiny hands gripped the Torq Torin gave me tight, my fingers tracing the spirals and designs. I knew it to be a relic of the pagan times and a symbol of those long gone from Ireland. I could not bring myself to cast this druidic Torq away and I have kept it all of these years. When I need courage in life, Jesus forgive me, I still caress the heathen Torq twisted in the manner of a snake.

End