The Blood Sword

“What a Historian is doing here?” Vitor Barbeiro would ask himself this same question with some frequency. An experimental prototype spaceship, designed to pierce the barrier between Universes and reach other realities. He could have waited until 50 years after the expedition came back, if they returned. To read their reports, and make is conclusions from there.

Would have been perfectly sufficient for him! Instead, he was here, listening this “Quantic Engineer of Fractal Something”, ask him things like that. Well, at least “here”, in the most immediate sense of the world, is not an uninteresting place.

He only got a cabin in the Pelican because he was married with an Experimental Physicist. His work was more an improvised position of Journalist than anything you would expect from a Historian. Nepotism in its ugliest. And the non-existent God of his atheist childhood had punished him with this disaster. Still, this place looks cool, for something improvised under such harsh circumstances!

The Cafeteria was a large franchise once, for 3 centuries you would not find a urban centre, pioneer settlement or large spaceship in Solar System without a dozen of those. Founded in 2405 in New Deli, by a German mangaka cartoonish, the place is 55% Brazilian barzinho, whit mixed references of Florianópolis, Brasília, Belém and Manaus, and 45% Irish Pub, with a little something of Edinburg.

After its prime, when being from different places on Earth had completely lost the cosmopolitan flavour and being Earthling was starting to taste tacky, most those places turned into something else. A few remained, evolving into something more “cult” and capitalizing in nostalgia. Something that tends to be solid investment is a society make entirely of ageless consumers. Biological immortality kept the Cafeteria going for another 1 thousand years after that, practically unchanged.

When they reunited the crew for this bold adventure of try to pierce the barrier between universes, the plans included the reunion of over 50 million scientists. Who would be isolated, moving between realities, for 5 years. In one experimental spaceship. Naturally, someone felt the need to include a Cafeteria somewhere close to the main recreative hub of that thing. The largest unity build in a long time.

Place was a success during the decades of preparation, and became somewhat less crowded when the actual experiment started. Months after the lines of communication with home was interrupted, you could get yourself a table for 6 without previous reservation any time of day. The place was never completely empty, but seldom had more than 6 tables in use.

When things went wrong, and they failed to travel back home, the place enjoyed a new spring. Lots of angry protests, poetry, political debates and paranoia. Washed down by beer and caipirinhas, along with salty portions of dead pork and fried potatoes, olives, etc.

When the Pelican finally escaped its period in the limbo between realities, to fall in the wrong Universe. Then literally fall in this unknow planet. The Pelican was temporarily closed, for the first time.

To reopen half a year later, in the first urban square build in the open, outside the wreckage of Pelican spaceship. In the core of what would one day be called Pelican City “Old Town”.

During that period when the installation of Cafeteria was closed, if became the safe harbour for an incipient Democratist Movement.

Some people had always questioned the decision to “jump steps”. Originally, the list of “Logical Progression” proposed by Professor Logan Zao has 5 stages of Great Navigation: 1. The conquest of the seas of Earth by European nations, already concluded. 2. The conquest of Solar System, still in process, had just started when Professor Zao wrote his famous work. 3. The conquest of all stellar systems in our galaxy. 4. Conquest of all Galaxies in reach of our spaceships. Finally, 5: conquest of other Universes in the Multiverse. Jump to five when step 2 had just started was a bold move, certainly.

Now is easy to say it was arrogant and stupid, in addition to bold. Having the privileged information that is resulted in disaster. But, at the time, sounded like a smart idea for enough people, to get the necessary investment.

This feeling of being victim of irresponsible planning from bureaucrats was the origin of most the fuel powering up this movement in favour of a Constitutional Assembly and elections for govern.

_So, but, as a Historian, how do you feel about this law criminalizing pregnancy?

So many wrong things in this question, that was better to ignore all of them. “As a Historian, I do my best to keep my feelings out of my analyses, otherwise I would be dishonest with my source material and would be disrespecting my reader’s intelligence” was the answer he wanted to give. However, she was too pretty to be given an answer like that. He still had some hope to end up sharing his bed with her one of those long winter nights.

_Restrictions to reproduction are a necessity in many contexts, in space exploration. Particularly **** in inter-stellar expansion. Inside the same stellar system is possible to circumvent this, with some investment, if the plans prioritize reproductive freedom. Between stars, in sub-light speed, there is no realistic alternative. This 6 years restriction is not our of extraordinary, it is actually very modest, compared to usual standards. Is not uncommon to have prohibitions like that lasting for 600 years, in a travel between start. Of course, severe punishment is needed to enforce those laws. Couples must feel they have serious reason to wait until they reach their intended destination, in a new system.

She was a bit disappointed by this answer.

_That is the thing! We are going nowhere!! We have already reached the only “destination” we can hope for. Is that not the time to start making babies, precisely? As our first priority! Since, now, we are all pioneer colonists! Wanting to be it or not.

The Historian was not completely indifferent to the merits of the argument. In favour of start trying for babies, with such a beautiful woman. Since both his wife and her husband had died in the fall, along with vast majority of the people in Pelican spaceship. Was only a year ago, but what a year that had been!

Still, his upper head won this battle.

_We still don’t have farms outside. We don’t know how long will take to make agriculture viable in this Universe. Until that is solved, we must keep our population low. Because our only source of food is still the supplies stored for emergency. The plants and livestock we had in the ship died with the impact. I suppose they hope we will have a clearer picture. Of course, we don’t know all the factors involved yet.

_When we will know? What right this people have to keep us in the dark like that, about things that affect our lives and survival? No one here signed for that! We are all in the same boat. Don’t you think we should have all the information necessary to decide what to do by ourselves…?

“Do I think that?” he caught himself wondering.

She was, really, dangerously beautiful. That Engineer.

The name of the place has a poetic undertone, with melancholic layers, in Iron-Elvish Maze Nortrian language. Literally, is the name of a flower that only grows in places rich in tectonic spirit radiation, between 3 and 15 kilometres bellow sea level, in caves. Joined with the suffix that means “domestic” or “from our home”. Historically, it carries connection to the last dynasty of what is considered the original land of all Iron-Elves, a place now buried under solid mountains of toxic radioactive stones.

Poetry aside, this is a Pleasure House. One of those fancy prostitution places, frequented by both sexes, where women who are not prostitutes usually only go in company of their husbands, brothers, or fathers. Or, if they happen to be rich, with armed bodyguards. The tone of the place changes according to the region, and the kind of elf you are dealing with. However, all elves seem to like this sort of establishment.

Where debauchery, social hierarchy and polite manners mix. In an atmosphere dense in incense, smoke of pipes, perfumes and highly elaborated music.

The minotaur got his path blocked by an angry looking moon elf. With a mean smile on his face, and a performative compliment.

_This thing you are caring, dear friend. Do you know what it is?

The minotaur stopped, without a word. Most people in this situation would discreetly look around, seeking support. Or draw the blade. He did neither. Only waited. The other insisted.

_Is a “blood-sword” what you have there._ there was no shadow of interrogation in the statement. After a pause, without visible reaction.

_They are called like that, because they are entirely made of blood. I know, it feels and looks like metal, and some sort of other material for the handle. Nah! It is all blood. The blood of an arcanist who used a very specific technique to filter his spirit through the liquid, changing the properties of his own blood in that way.

Another pause, still no reaction.

_It is a very rare technique.

By now, the music was dying. Most the conversations too. Attention converging to the corridor. Between tables.

_So rare, indeed, that only one cult uses it. An order of fanatics that was outlawed when the Shadow Maze Throne felt in war under the power of Cinnabar King. When we conquered this land and the real of Iron-Elves that used to exist here was reduced to Province, under our upala king. Most high noble families of Iron-Elves either completely extinguished or reduced to slavery.

The moon elf touched the handle of his sword for the first time. The minotaur didn’t even cross his arms.

_To carry that sword means one of two things. Either the person caring it is claiming to have killed a Black-Blood Cultist, and taken his weapon as trophy. Or is claiming to be one of the criminals.

Now the tension was absolute. A few more elves had started moving to support the one speaking. Moon Elves, mostly.

The minotaur finally crossed his huge arms.

_Or, I could have killed in duel the person who killed a cultist. Then claim whatever weapon this person had would be my due right. Regardless of your petty local quarrels. _ pointed the philosophical minotaur. Leaving no time for answer.

_Or, I could have inherit the sword from my merchant grandfather, who got it as a gift when the negotiated a contract of annual supply of olive oil, in exchange for mineral coal, back in the days when the Black-Blood cult was still legal. Our world do not end in your national borders, mind you. In many parts of this continent almost no one ever heard about your war against the Iron-Elves, much less about the banishment of some obscure religious cult in this province.

The elf didn’t removed his hand from the weapon. But there was some confusion on his face.

_Are you claiming that you don’t know what your weapon implies in this land? If so, your perfect pronunciation of our idiom undermines your claim, cow.

_...or. I could be the bastard son of your upala king. One of the few given permission to study the lost arts of blood-arcanists.

_Are you claiming that?

The red blade of the two hands blood-sword looked too light and nimble to be used with one hand by that minotaur. Gently curved, the weapon was almost too fast for the moon elf to react.

The arcanist elf managed to manifest his arcane armour of dense grey light, but it was not enough to stop the blood blade. Carried by the full weight of that arcanist minotaur.

The blood sword cut the torso of the elf, stopping inches after go through the backbone.

At same time, the minotaur was bleeding by all pores. His red sweat accumulating and moving in thick layers to form a solid full plate. From his ears, nostrils, and mouth came blood in larger volumes to for even quickly the eyeless helmet. The arcanist could see perfectly without openings.

The blade drunk elven blood, dehydrating the minotaur’s foe in the view of all.

While many warriors converged, weapons in hand. Against the cultist.

Not all of them, mostly moon elves, reached the minotaur. Many stopped, after someone, usually an iron-elf, plant a blood knife in their hearts from the back.

Combat was fast, and one sided. Caught by surprise the moon elves and their allies felt.

_The Cinnabar King is coming! My dear grandfather was caught in a snowstorm. His royal guard was delayed, but he decided to push forward in the snow. With minimum escort. We must prepare his royal welcome, brothers!!

Sitting on a strategically positioned table, with privileged view of all action, a upala prince in the shape of a minotaur, and dressed as a merchant, was sipping his drink, as he had been since noon.

The minotaur arcanist responsible for this action was his nephew. His favourite sister had violated the norm followed by upala women of only have sex with their king. Since other ulapa men are punishable by **** when they touch women of their own specie. And sex with inferior races brings the risk of getting stuck in a single shape for the entire period of pregnancy.

She had her own reasons to accept the humiliation of giving birth to the children of a minotaur father. He, in exchange of this kindness and supportive position got a powerful and talented minotaur apprentice, with upala blood.

To ascend to the throne, to became king, a upala prince must kill all his brothers. His male siblings. After their father dies.

In theory, they are supposed to wait until the king die. However, given the precious and rare opportunity, this prince decided that would be in his best interest not to wait.