Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Prologue (Part 2)

"Run, Ratoul!" Tarnil cried.

With his single blade raised to replace the four lost, he leaped into the fray. Threshing his blade in a frenzied blur, his body spun and wove with celerity and power the other Storm Dancers could not match. 

Tarnil's peerless skill was not his only advantage, for his blade was forged from the Blood of the Sands - an exceedingly rare, priceless metal that snaked in scarlet veins within jet-black stone. The Palians believed it owed its origin to the fury of ancient volcanoes. Once erupted from the heart of the world, it slumbered until awoken by Palian smiths. By furnace and hammer its rage was renewed. It augmented a handful of prized swords, ready to unleash upon Palian foes the remembered violence of its birth.

A shimmer of crimson hues swam along Tarnil's blade with the relentless hail of his strikes. Showers of sparks and flecks of black burst from the hide of the creature, wherever his sword struck.

Following his lead, the remaining Storm Dancers redoubled their efforts. With flesh riven by Tarnil's sword guiding their blows, they sliced with precision, deepening the breaches. Their adversary raised its limbs to ward off the barrage. Black ichor dripped from its wounds. It staggered backward. Elated, the men swarmed forward. Its back slammed against the wall. The Storm Dancers closed in from all sides.

The trap was sprung.

The monster raised its face and arms toward the ceiling and unleashed a noiseless scream. Vile pulses assailed the men. The sinister power wrenched and twisted the stomachs of the Palians. It choked their throats, crushed their lungs, and drained vigor from their limbs.  

Defense became attack. The creature returned to the fight. Before, its motion was frenzied.

Now it was an explosion.

The very air shredded with the force of the creature's charge as it catapulted through the Palians. Another four Storm Dancers were annihilated by an avalanche of blows. Torsos spun across the room. Severed limbs rained to the floor. The sweet, metallic stench of death pervaded the air. Warm blood drenched clothes, skin, and walls. It sprayed their faces and ran in rivulets down stone and flesh, pooling in slick lakes at their feet.

Tarnil hurled himself at the creature to save his remaining men. He twisted away from a pair of swiping arms, ramming his sword firmly into the creature's torso. The second pair of arms glanced across his shoulder. The might of the creature was unimaginable, lifting him from his feet. Off-balance, he contorted his body in the air but failed to right himself, landing heavily on his hip. His head cracked against the floor. The room swam and turned. Blood snaked from his temple. Somehow he still clutched his sword, his only means of defiance, one he would never relinquish. He tried to shout a warning but his words lacked power. Only rasping breath hissed from his mouth. He licked his lips. His mouth had become dry. A second attempt brought nothing more than a pitiful gasp.

"Escape to the desert, Ratoul. I beg you."

With his whispered plea likely unheard and all but the final vestiges of his energy spent, he surrendered, eyes closed, waiting for oblivion.

It never arrived. 

A blade arced above him, slicing clean through the creature's outstretched limbs. A harsh shriek of pain, like the shearing of metal, enveloped Tarnil. He opened his eyes to see the severed sword-arms of his foe falling, twisting in the air, before unraveling into threads of scattering shadow as they fell, disintegrating before they touched the ground.

Tarnil had expected death but Ratoul now stood over him. Tarnil's jaw clenched, throbbing with pain when he saw the sword clutched in the Sultan's hands, for Ratoul brandished the blade never to be drawn.