Posts Tagged ‘death’

Wandering Sword 3C

First, here are today’s contest requirements

This week’s flash fiction is brought to you by a long time fan, Toni O’Neill. Her comments always are a source of encouragement for me. She’s chosen to add to the Wandering Sword series so if you haven’t read the first or second installment you might want to check them out. Toni is a homemaker, potter, sculptor and sometimes writer who lives in New Mexico and commutes to Colorado to visit her grandchildren.

Drawing by G.W. O’Neill

“The sword is gone!” the commander exclaimed.

Jayjon involuntarily cowered, his whole body trembling, waiting for the killing blow, a blow that did not come. The commander took a step back and sheathed his sword. Then he reached down to help the old man to his feet.

“Are you alright?” the commander asked while he steadied the old man. Jayjon jerked free of the man’s grasp, and turned away in despair.

With breaking voice, Jayjon said, “I came to find a noble death, but all I found was humiliation. I have nothing left.”

The commander lifted the helmet from his head. In shocked recognition, Jayjon stared at the face…of his grandson. Hesitantly, he reached for him. The son of his only son held his arms wide to receive his grandfather’s embrace. At the last moment, however, the old man stopped short. His face went red and his fists clenched.

“You… you let me fight with you. You didn’t tell me!” he yelled.

“Grandfather, please, let me explain” the commander cried. “When the sentry told me the sword had appeared to an old man from the provinces, I genuinely thought I might find the answer to my questions concerning my great victory. Therefore, I put on my armor. When I saw it was you, I realized I could not reveal myself for fear on interfering with the will of the gods.”

Jayjon considered his grandson’s answer in silence. It still gave him no direction. “It is true that had I would have forgotten my purpose when I found you, but why would the sword appear to me for nothing?”

At that moment, an alarm sounded from the camp. Jayjon’s grandson dashed away, apologizing for abandoning his grandfather. The old man, unsure of what to do next, sat upon a log at the clearings edge. The sound of battle was heard in the distance. Then he heard quiet footfalls fell upon his straining ears. From his right, through the underbrush, came the enemy, obviously trying to move into a flanking position.

Jayjon shuddered in surprise, and then the familiar weight of the sword was in his hand. He stood to face his opponents, strength pumping through his body. With an agility he had never known he fell upon the enemy. Though he was pierced with many wounds, he brought down the warriors two at a time. Those who did not perish, fled from the power of the sword and the ancient warrior. When all was done, the sword was gone, and Jayjon fell among those he had slain.

He awoke to someone cradling his head upon their lap. “Grandfather”, a quiet voice called.” What happened here?” Jayjon explained through shallow gasping breaths as death drew near.

“But you couldn’t fight before,” his grandson said through his tears.

“Of course not,” said Jayjon, “you were not my enemy.” He smiled weakly in his understanding.”Desiring to live gave me the strength to face death.” His eyes closed and he whispered his last words. “Now, go and find your brother.”

~Toni O’Neill

Wandering Sword 3

First, here are today’s contest requirements

This week’s flash fiction is brought to you by a long time fan, Toni O’Neill. Her comments always are a source of encouragement for me. She’s chosen to add to the Wandering Sword series so if you haven’t read the first or second installment you might want to check them out. Toni is a homemaker, potter, sculptor and sometimes writer who lives in New Mexico and commutes to Colorado to visit her grandchildren.



Jayjon’s eyes opened to a grey dawn. The stillness was deafening. He knew he could not live in this terrible seclusion any longer. With or without strength, with or without hope, he would make the journey today. With any luck he would die along the way. He brought only his oiled cloak and the clothes on his back, and began his trek on the muddy, rutted road that lead to the shrine. His feet shuffled in the muck, as he walked haltingly through the drizzle. He cried out the misery of his life, speaking only to himself and the tree lined road.

“Three years since my son and his wife died. Three years since I buried my wife.” He sobbed unrestrained. Through his weeping he shouted.

“I had my grandsons in my grief. They were conscripted only a month after I buried my LeiAnn. One month! Any news from them would have given me hope. I have heard nothing!” He knew peasant soldiers were used on the front lines of battle and had inferior weapons and training.

“They’re probably dead,” he sobbed.

Jayjon climbed what seemed like endless steps to the shrine, shivering from the cold and shaking with fatigue. He was alone, even there. After many stops, he reached his destination, and fell to his knees before the ancient idol.

“Let me die so my suffering will end,” the old man cried out in lament. With trembling hands, he reached to the heavens to embrace death, when suddenly he gasped, his eyes wide in surprise. A sword had appeared out of nowhere, laid across his opened palms. In astonishment, he had nearly dropped it on his head. He had recovered himself enough to grab the pommel in his right hand, guiding the weapon’s fall as its tip sank into the clay brick of the shrine’s floor. He stood, unsure if he should touch this sword of incredible craft and beauty. Then it occurred to him that some prankster must have placed it in his hands. He searched the area, checking behind the four pillars which held the roof of the shrine, but who could hide on this all-but-empty hill top surrounded by stairs? Finally, convinced he was truly alone, Jayjon wrestled the weapon from the soft brick.

“It is only proper I clean the blade.” he said. This took some doing as his arm was not strong enough to hold the sword with only one hand, so he finally propped it against the stone idol and lifted the end to polish it with his inner shirt. Then he wrapped the sword carefully in his cloak and slung it upon his thin shoulder.

Jayjon laughed out loud in his delight, and the sound of it was strange after so many unhappy days. He knew in his heart that the god had answered his prayer for death.

“I shall not die in weakness, alone and defeated, but in battle.” That thought made Jayjon’s old heart sing in his chest as his doddering legs carried him home.

~Toni O’Neill

Push and Pull

Cekme fought listlessly, his sword hardly making into place to parry his opponent’s savage stroke. The weariness of too many blows, too much lost blood covered him, threatening to drag him to the featureless ground. He feared, as he always feared at this point of the fight. His chest heaved. His wounds burned. His hands trembled. The end was a few strokes away. Death reached out its harsh hand.

His opponent, his twin brother Itmek, stepped back for a moment rather than pressing his advantage. He was young, sixteen, and darkly handsome just as Cekme.

“Ten thousand. Time to be free,” the boy said and smiled mockingly and poised his wicked blade above his sweat sodden head, his curling black hair hanging lank. “You know. I’d have thought I’d get bored with this, brother, but no.”

If he hadn’t said anything Cekme might have just let the blow land he was so weary but the taunt seared a red line through his mind. For centuries they had fought. Could he let his brother win? Could he accept ultimate defeat? Itmek’s smile broadened. His sword chopped down and the battle fury finally came upon Cekme. He twisted aside at the last instant. His brother’s sword scraped the ground but the point darted back up, twisting, lunging for his throat. The the lethal blade suddenly seemed absurdly slow. Cekme let the lunge slide past and drove the heavy bronze pommel of his sword into his brother’s shoulder. His knee shot up, thudded into his brother’s thigh. His elbow made a short, sharp circle and cracked against Itmek’s jaw. Muscles, weary from endless battle gave way beneath the blows, and Itmek went down, his sword spinning away into the blood stained dust.

Itmek scrambled for his blade but Cekme stepped on his brother’s back, forcing him down. He lifted his sword.

“No!” Itmek screamed, his voice high and panicked.

The sword fell. His brother’s life gushed out, red and bright. Cekme stepped back from the suddenly still body and hobbled slowly away. He stopped perhaps twenty feet away, where in the smooth white grit of their featureless prison 9,999 little hash-marks had been scored. One for each time his brother had killed him without being killed himself. He spat on the closest marks and kicked them contemptuously, scuffing them from existence. He turned back to his brother’s body and sat down, his bloody sword resting across his knees. He let his eyes close. With the battle done, the weariness had returned.

He didn’t know how much time passed. There was no way of knowing in the ever-even light of the prison the gods had locked them within. A footstep scraped. Steel rang as it was dragged up from the hard ground.

Cemke sighed and opened his eyes. Itmek’s baleful glare scorched across their eternal battlefield to meet his gaze.

“We agreed! We would end it, thwart the gods’ punishment!” Cemke shrugged but his brother continued. “We were so close. Ten thousand battles.”

Such was their punishment for the foolishness they’d exhibited in life. Ten thousand deaths in a row, each hard won or the oblivion of the afterlife would not find either of them. Cemke supposed he had not yet ceased to be a fool. Almost, but not quite.

“I changed my mind.”

“Idiot!” Itmek snarled and pointed his weapon. “Pick up your sword!”

~SJA

Patriot’s Reward Part 3

Someone must have seen what was about to happen because a cry rang out from across the court and a rush of feet approached. I paid it no mind. Priests were a spineless group for the most part, worrisome and punctilious, but the assassin chanced a glance in their direction.

I struck.

To his credit the warrior sidestepped, lightning quick and swept his sword out. He swung, a single exquisite stroke that hissed passed my jaw. But I had wanted him to evade my first blow. I wanted him to think he had an advantage. I pulled my strike short and reversed the motion, turning the thrust into a back-handed slash. I used the micron-thick silicate blade of my spear like a sword. It struck the assassin just above the right knee and without a sound took his leg neatly off. He fell in a shrieking heap, his life gushing out with the measured beat of a frantic heart.

I lowered my spear. It was done.

God’s will.

My knees turned to water.

It was only then that I felt the hot sheeting of blood coursing down the side of my neck. I reached for the source of the flood and found an almost imperceptibly thin cut just above my high collar. The assassin’s micron-blade had struck with surgical precision. My spear slipped from my fingers but I did not hear it fall. The world swam and I found myself kneeling, clutching at my wound and listening to the thick patter of my draining blood. Somehow that sound was louder than the screams of the maimed warrior and the shocked cries of the priests.

Blood pooled on the crystal floor under me slowly obscuring the view of Jerusalem, hundreds of kilometers below. The priests gathered around the dying assassin trying to silence his screams and impede his thrashing. Solomon had vanished. No one seemed to notice me. Perhaps they knew I was already dead.

The last of my strength failed and I fell forward onto the ground, my brow touching the floor as if I were praying. I turned my head away from the blood that began to gather around my face and a surreal sideways view of the Temple Court came into focus. Blood-spattered attendants scurried about, unable to do anything but hold the wounded warrior while a ring of priests looked on with grief and horror. What did they have to grieve over? The warrior went suddenly still and silent in the arms of a frantic attendant. It was the stillness of death. I had seen it hundreds of times. I knew it was coming over me.

Why, God?

He did not answer. Perhaps, He waited to speak until I had passed beyond the veil?

My heart gave a final weak flutter and like a thin tendril of smoke seized by the wind, all I was, all I might have been, slipped silently from the universe.

The End

~SJA

Flight from Nekropolis

The others reached us and we began to run, Merlin in the lead, guiding us uncannily through the maze of streets. The city increased its pace back into the pit, carrying us with it. The the streets were now filled with screams rather than the seductive whispered of earlier. We seemed to move at an incredible pace but in fact, we only edged a few dozen feet beyond the pit. The city’s fall aided us though. As it slid back into the Beyond it drew the outer walls closer even as our steps propelled us towards them.

The black, moldering stones roared around us. The voices of the city screamed. Merlin was shouting the incantation that would open the gates. The archway with its gauzy doors rushed towards us. The street beneath our feet hurtled over the edge of the abyss. As the last stones fell away I leapt and the others leapt with me.

The noise of the city went suddenly silent.

I looked up. The storm clouds were breaking apart over Lunden. The Temes rolled lazily. A bird trilled a cautious call. Nekropolis was gone, all save for the gates, the tall arch of stone which towered above us.

“It didn’t work,” I said.

Merlin stood, and with a word cleaned his white robe.

“Nonsense. The city is gone.”

“But the gate.”

“What of it?”

“It’s the entrance of Nekropolis!”

As if to emphasize the point, a figure stepped out from beneath the arch, fading into existence before our eyes.

Death.

I dare not call it he or she for it looked as if it were both and neither. I cannot even now try to describe its features. It was beautiful and terrible, paler than moon light and clad in shadows that writhed and billowed around its thin, towering figure. Its hair was long and white. Its feet and legs were dark and wet with blood up to its knees. In one hand it carried a sword, black as night and impossibly long. In the other it carried an hourglass filled with sand as fine as ash and as pale as bone.

It looked at us and even Merlin was struck dumb.

Then it spoke.

“I cannot pretend not to be displeased,” its voice was quiet but I know that it could be heard a mile away. “But know this, I have been given this realm. You cannot banish me. You haven’t the power.”

It turned to depart but it had pricked Merlin’s pride. Our leader mastered his fear and stepped forward, brandishing his staff.

“I will one day!”

It stopped and slowly glanced over its shoulder.

“No, you will not. You have not my talent.”

“And what talent is that?”

Death smiled. I trembled uncontrollably and tried to keep a grip on my sword.

“Patience,” it said and stepped beyond the arched gateway of Nekropolis. It faded away, leaving us alone under the thin light of a stormy sky.

The End

~SJA