This poem tells the tale of the struggle between Darius Inglorion, an ageing champion who is sick of his unparalleled skill at killing, and Sarinian, an intelligent holy sword that remorselessly calls him back to duty once again.
Their exchange highlights one of the themes in The Paladin Trilogy, exploring the hard toll that duty can extract from even the most valorous and virtuous of men; and the cold, uncompromising justice that can do great harm when not mollified by human compassion.
Here, then, is The Song of Sarinian and Darius.
| Sarinian: | Darius: |
|---|---|
The Piercing Rays, the Thunder Plays, The Heralds of Heaven's Storm. A shining sword, a weapon lord, And take that as my form.
Of glories old and heroes bold And triumphs still to win. The angels harp for justice sharp, To purge the world of sin.
The endless war, the weight we bore, The cause we fought so well. Again they rise with dark despise, Black armies vast and fell.
With heaven's light and honor's might, We'll stand as we did of yore. To beacon's flame, the valiant came And so they shall once more.
The world grows bleak, the corpses reek, Of murder foully done. The blood they spill, the land shall fill, Less we set free the sun.
Our common steel, the bond we seal, Your purpose not yet nigh. No matter foes, count not the blows, T'was not your time to die.
The fate you bore, the blood-oath swore, From such be no release. On your Death Shroud with Mourners Proud, Comes that which you call peace.
Your Soul in Strife, o'er one Child's Life, As Nations lie in Thrall. Yet those you care, must all despair, If Right Itself should Fall. |
A sweet respite in the forest's glen, Forsaking the world of strife. To cherish a growing daughter's strength And remember a blessed wife.
A distance call, an echo makes, Beyond the range of ears. A sorrow roused, an old wound aches, Beyond the range of tears.
I'll heed him not, that devil voice, Let him cry himself dry hoarse! I've given all a man can give, My fate has run its course.
A sacred oath, a warrior's rage, Threw back the murderous Flood. The gentle Hand my Daughter held, Now covered thick with Blood.
Yet mortal lungs must yield their breath, And I too of flesh am made. Your unholy life, denied me death! War naught but a butcher's trade.
Oh let this cup pass from my lips, A draught I hate and love. And leave me thus in tender bliss, To hear no voice above.
To leave my child and march to war, With soul barren and hollow. Abandonment, but darker more, The fear that she might follow.
No give or take, just white and black. 'Tis now as ever was. While I yet live, you shall not lack A Champion for His Cause. |