The Last Guardian
Bruno Stella
Copyright 2012 by Bruno Stella.
***
Cold wind whipped down from the mountain with the slanted peak. Under its brow nestled a great fortress, long white banners streaming from its many spires. In the largest courtyard, the final Ritual of Selection was drawing to a close. Out of a score of acceptable candidates only two had passed the tests and were engaged in battle.
A fist slammed into Cornac’s face yet again, and Aginol slipped easily back from the wild hook thrown by his opponent. There was a slight smirk on Aginol’s face as his arm pumped out straight punches one after the other, slowly turning Cornac’s face into a collection of lumps and bruises while Cornac flailed away fruitlessly.
The smirk was understandable. Everybody had known that he would best Cornac in the use of magic. Everybody had known as well, that the heavyset Cornac would pummel the wiry, effeminate – looking Aginol into submission in the physical portion of the contest. Yet, here the unexpected was happening. Aginol had just tossed his opponent aside as the heavier man had tried to tackle him and bring him to the ground. Aginol’s fists were flickering lightning as Cornac tried to regain his balance, beating a tattoo on his face. It seemed as though the final elimination, the verdict of the judges, would not be necessary after all.
Cornac fell onto the platform, and Aginol leapt back lest the blood spatter over his feet. Disdainfully he turned his back on the fallen man, and raised his arms as the Voice of Yanos, the current Guardian, stood to end the contest. His handsome face was a sneer of triumph. The warrior – priests surrounding the arena began clapping clap-clap-clap … clap-clap-clap in unison to show their approval. He strode over to where their leader stood.
The old man before him was still firm of back and eye, but Time was catching up with him fast. The Voice of Yanos held up his hand. The arena fell silent. He walked over to meet Aginol.
“Anlos,” said Aginol, bowing his head, “all I await is your final approval.”
“I am indeed still the Anlos. Let’s not forget that,” said the old man, in a low voice.
“You imply disapproval of the outcome?” said Aginol, equally softly.
“I thought that it would have gone to Arbitration. Cornac would have won that.”
“Yet it did not. I dropped him like a rotten fruit. What makes you think I would not have won an Arbitration?”
“Your arrogance, for one. Even though Cornac is not your match in battle, his heart is purer and simpler. That counts for a lot as far as I am concerned.”
“You could overturn the result. Are you going to do that?”
“No. The last thing that we need is more division in our ranks. Already the Light Orders war with each other, while the servants of Chaos slink around waiting only for the right moment. I accept your victory as the Finger of Yanos, our God, pointing to you.”
“He accepts the result! I will be the new Anlos!” shouted Aginol, pre-empting the old man. The clap-clap-clap … clap-clap-clap began again, and Aginol’s heart soared in joy.
***
Forty years had passed.
Aginol – Anlos, the Guardian, to his subordinates – strode past the kneeling recruits, and spat in the dust. “Faugh!” he said in disgust, “whatever happened to the days of old, when the volunteers streamed to our gates and we could glean only the best for the glory of our God?”
“We have to accept what we get,” said the heavyset man at his right, “the plagues have ruined the population and the other Orders leach our influence. You know this.”
Aginol glanced at him. “Cornac, my old friend, we have come a long way. Yet this is the most pathetic rabble I have yet set eyes on. It looks like a collection of convalescents from the infirmary. I weep for the future of our great Order.”
Indeed, the rickety teenagers that made the latest intake, would have made a hungry mountain wolf look elsewhere for something a little meatier to devour. Aginol stretched his back, and there were a few cracks that sounded. Age was catching up with him fast. It would be only a few years until it became necessary to choose a new Anlos, and Yanos alone knew which pathetic loser would emerge to initiate the slide of their Order straight into the cesspool. Cornac seemed to read his thoughts.
“We will be the last of the greats, Anlos,” he said.
“Self-sacrifice. That is what is needed. The other so-called Orders of Light offer a life of ease and comfort. The people of today seem to think that they will stand against the Dark through the application of a sternly worded letter instead of a fist to the face,” said Aginol.
“Or outright debauchery. The Brothers of Life seem to think that they can hump their way to victory the next time the chaotics rise again.”
Aginol screwed up his face. Little disgusted him more than those self-absorbed libertines. At least true Servants of Chaos had some backbone to them. The last one he had impaled had grinned at him through the pain as he slid down the pole, and said that he would send his arch-demon Aginol’s regards. Aginol could not help but feel a twinge of respect at that.
“Have we not given enough?” muttered Aginol, as they made their way back to the interior of the fortress. The question was rhetorical. Aginol had half an ear missing and great scars running across his face now, a legacy of the wars he had been in. Cornac was likewise scarred.
“How is morality to survive without strength to protect it? Ah! How I wish I could have my old youth back. I hate looking like a half-eaten slab of beef. Not … not that I value beauty for vanity’s sake. But it is befitting that purity of heart should be contained within purity of form.”
“Well, what can we do, Aginol? Nothing. Perhaps the cycle of Guardians is for the best. Yanos will find us a new champion, as he found you for us. Imagine only one Anlos, forever. Would he not become overcome by the task before him?”
“It would be hard, yes. But such a sacrifice would be worth it to preserve the power of Good in this world. We guard many great treasures.”
Cornac could only shrug in agreement.