Night Swordsman

The night sky was aflame with stars streaked across the jet-black dome, a full moon casting an eerie glow across the forest clearing in which he stood. A black-garbed swordsman, a curved blade hung loosely in his hand, was standing in this forest, a sentinel, unmoving against the winds, guarding this place. A curious intrusion on the stillness of the woods, yet it did not seem bothered by this serene warrior, his entire body still, an aura of peace surrounding the man, as if he were a part of the whole, and not such as singular divergence from the norm.

He stood like this for some time, his eyes masked by a long fringe, casting his face into shadow. As he waited the wind began to rise, the rusty leaves scattered across the clearing began to stir, starting to twist and turn in the eddies of the flow, a dance of colour in the breeze. More violently the wind blew, rousing the fiery shades into a fury, the dancing storm of colour hiding the forest beyond. And in this tempest still the swordsman stood, immovable against the wrath of the wind. But, the rhythm of the night began to change, a pulse hidden within the shadows beating with the anger of the wind, and the stranger pulsed with it, an ethereal smile appearing on his face, as if in a trance. Shadows raced through the wind, and the stranger began his dance.

Nought but the glint of silver in the twilight showed the man’s movement, his sword rising with incredible speed as he carved into the wind, the scream of the damned ringing out in its wake. Another shadow in the maelstrom, and the stranger’s blade struck true again, another ghostly scream broke through the roar of the tempest. Again and again this happened, the swordsman striking faster and faster as the beat of the dance rose, the laments of the dead now eclipsing the cacophony of the thundering cyclone. The wind rising ferociously, in defiance of the slaughter caused by the black-cloaked warrior. So close was the assault as the storm closed in on the lone stranger, his hair whipped up about his head, drawing away the shadows that were cast on his face. His eyes were of silvery steel, and in their depths shone a demonic fire, his thoughts lost in the beat of the deadly dance. Enraged by this invasion into his soul, the stranger increased the tempo of his mindless brutality.

Where once calm ruled the plain, now was a baresark rage, the cries of the doomed so loud the Gods themselves could not turn their eyes from this battle. Desperate now, the wind furthered the assault, closing in on the madman, both sides now fighting for their lives. Glancing blows hit against the warrior, a line of red drawn under his eye, a nick on his bicep. But the wind suffered still more, the wails of the dead overshadowing all other sound, their regrets carried in the twisted notes throughout the wood. Still the warrior leapt and span in forms of lethal beauty, each thrust, each slice, each slash brought forth the screams, the deadly harmony of movement bathing the land with memories of this perversity of nature that took place upon these grounds. No thought, no spirit left in the man, just the single-minded determination to kill, the all-consuming desire for battle that fires the blood and raises the spirit to the heavens themselves. Such was the outrage of the land that the earth shook to its core in protest against this travesty, this injustice. How could a mortal do this? To fight nature itself? Impossible!

The eldritch duel wore on to the coming of the dawn, the sun’s rays shining onto the silver of the stranger’s eyes, and, it’s power fading, the last of the wind’s might bore down upon the swordsman. In desperation now were the cries of the fallen, yelling out to their brothers from the halls of death for vengeance, for their kin to humble this tireless killer, no quarter given to the man that tore them down from the skies. But no creature, be it man, spirit or god can stand up to the frenzied attacks of this swordsman, in him no knowledge of pain or fear, just the unbridled lust for the kill that drives him to the extremes, that drives him to the slaughter in the storm. The once magnificent hurricane now nought but a pitiful breeze, no longer able to cut this fearsome warrior, and with not long upon the mortal plain, it left this duel, left this forest and it’s berserk warrior.

But with the leaving of this crippled power so did the glamour break. Gone was the wind, gone were the leaves, gone was the forest, and gone was the mighty warrior’s strength. And upon seeing what lay now upon this field the stranger fell to his knees. No crippled demons lay upon this land, but bloodied babes in the arms of dead mothers. No great warriors had he fought, but untried boys armed with sticks and stones. This was no battle, but murder. And as he knelt, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen, tears began to roll down his face, tears from blue eyes.

Author's notes: Well, what do you think?