Raising Swords in Anger

Stiffening, Modesty pointed.  Following the line of her finger, I saw movement in the bushes that couldn’t have been the wind.  Lisa-Louise motioned for us to dismount.  Moments after I’d vaulted from the saddle, guardsmen burst from the shrubbery on either side of the road.

“Bitches!” one of them yelled.

 “Die!” another took up the chorus.

 “Kill!” perhaps this was a sergeant issuing an order.

Without conscious thought, an unsheathed sword occupied my right hand; the handle, chain and spiked ball of a morning star weighed in the left.  Ducking, I avoided a rather clumsy sword swipe – rising, my blade lodged, quivering, in a guardsman’s throat.  Tossing the morning star to my right hand, it arced into the face of another enemy.  Spinning on the sole of my right boot, I tensed for a third assailant, but there wasn’t one.

So we return to enemies.

Here, in the age in which you and I live, The Warriors of Love is a part projected, part written, series of books in which all of the above, and much more, is recounted.

The books are, I suppose, post-apocalyptic novels.  Unlike other examples of that genre, they never mention the nature of the cataclysm that ended the age we know (the Old Time).  Rather, the books are set two or three thousand years later: a period in which much of our technology is forgotten.  There is no electricity, or internal combustion engine.  As to guns: