Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck

Christopher awoke. Helga served him a fine breakfast, a ration of bacon on the side. He found that a little too close to a “last meal” for comfort, especially when he saw that no one else was having any.
    After breakfast Karl dressed him in the armor, cinching it expertly for maximum protection and minimum interference. He had other gifts, a plain open-faced helmet, the katana safely contained in a simple wooden scabbard so new it still had splinters, and a long cloak to hide the sword until the proper moment, the better to surprise Hobilar. Svengusta watched carefully through these preparations for battle, and then took Christopher into the main hall.
    â€œI trust that Karl has prepared you physically for your ordeal. Now it is my job to prepare you spiritually. For you, a stranger to our land, I have no words of comfort to give. Nor should you, on the dawn of battle, seek advice from one as old and dry as myself.”
    The old man built up a fire while he spoke, Christopher handing him chunks of firewood.
    â€œBut I can give you this much wisdom: you must be of one purpose, in your own mind. Your misgivings are plain to me, and the battlefield is no place for thinking. So sit here and consider, until you are certain what your fate demands of you.”
    Svengusta left, closing the kitchen door with a sense of finality. Christopher felt alone for the first time in days, with only himself and the wooden gods for company.
    Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to try to kill another human being? He had never attacked anyone in anger in his life on Earth. He had never even wanted to kill somebody. He had never contemplated it, in the sense he was now, sitting here waiting for noon so he could shove a razor-sharp piece of steel into another man’s body and watch his blood and guts spill out while he screamed and screamed and screamed.
    He could walk away from this. They would pay the man off, and he would survive. He would be reduced to poverty again, having only just escaped it, but nobody would get killed. It was the rational thing to do, and he was a rational man. Why wasn’t he doing it?
    Because Hobilar was wrong. But what did he owe Dynae? He couldn’t protect her from all the thugs in this world. He couldn’t protect all the peasant girls from all the Hobilars. It wasn’t his job. Nobody had asked him to do it, and in fact a lot of people were asking him not to. Even Dynae would understand if he walked away.
    Because he was proud? But he was reasonable. He couldn’t believe he would let his pride get him killed. There were other ways to deal with bullies like Hobilar. Giving up his pride would diminish him, make him less the Christopher he used to be, but wouldn’t becoming a killer make him even less? None of the priests he had met would think less of him for not fighting this fight.
    Because I want to go home.
    The thought sat there, waiting for him to acknowledge it. War and blood had been presented to him as his only hope of return. Was he prepared to climb back to Earth over a stack of bodies? Would Maggie still want him then? Would she even recognize him? Would he recognize himself?
    He called back the sound of her voice. In the quiet of the stone chapel he thought he could hear her speaking to him through the crackling flames. He knew that it probably didn’t matter. Even if he won this duel, it was unlikely he would survive the next three years, let alone ever find his way home. He knew that she would forgive him for failing, even if she never saw him again. He knew that she would love him, had always loved him, for who he was, had never asked him to be anything else.
    Half an hour before noon, Karl came in through the double doors. He left them open to the cold, hard sunlight.
    â€œIt’s time.”
    Christopher stood up, followed Karl out into the day silently. His tongue was leaden and he could not speak.

    A crowd was waiting, hovering