Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Chapter 45

One of the men leaned over, continuing to hack, driving his sword viciously into the newly slain bodies.

And the laughter ... it was the most hideous eruption of sound, a twisted parody of the mirth for which it was designed.

Around them, mist rose from the stones of the road, causing the men to appear as revenants sent to slay the living.

Dathion's hand clenched into a fist as he tore his sword from its sheath, baring the legendary blade of Llanos to the heavens. The fleeting light of the moon and stars whispered against the blade as they peeked from behind clouds, though the sword responded with just a melancholy, metallic sheen. Dathion yelled a challenge to the men, disregarding however many more could be hiding in the shadows or nearby streets. He was unperturbed. He had his sword and the song.

They were nothing.

He charged. His opponents glanced up from the slain Asillians in bemused surprise. Dathion's sword led his way, its tip dancing before him. His feet moved swiftly without the armor of a knight to slow them. His foes did in fact number three, not two, with a brutish man standing hidden, away from the scene of the slaughter. The first two men moved to intercept him, while the third stayed back to unlimber his weapon - a heavy, brutal-looking flail. As Dathion approached, he realized how big the last man was - a giant, probably only a head shorter than Gergan of the Cerds.

Dathion reached for the song. If his power was truly divine, then this was his moment of need. This time he would make fire dance across his sword, shattering the reticence the legendary blade had shown for too long.

Silence answered him and his sword still slept.

His final steps faltered as he came upon the men as just a mundane boy.

Adrenaline jerked his body like a puppet on strings, the swords swinging at him slower than they should, as though the rising mist from the road padded the blows. Dathion ducked under a high swing, then scrambled away from a lower strike, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. His mind raced to unlock memories from his academy training. It responded lazily from disuse, the song having always provided his means, guiding his blows ever since he left Asillia City.

Where was it?

He reached for the names, the mnemonics Malithas had spent painstaking hours teaching them at the academy. The two men circled him slowly, grinning wickedly. One spat onto the road. Steam still wafted from the blood of the two bodies, evidence of the recency of their death.

"You want to die, boy? So be it."

Dathion heard either faint hope or his doom over the man's words. Noises of struggle were amplified by the clarity of night, echoes and fog obscuring their origin. Swords clashed elsewhere in the city, the sounds muffled, either by the walls of houses, or the mist.

The sounds of fighting came as a relief. Murder alone did not rule the streets of Asillia City this night.

Booted feet approached, or at least the sound slowly became louder, closer, doubtless drawn by Dathion's yells or the screams of the couple as they died. Dathion was outnumbered. Friends could tip the balance in his favor. Foes would ...

Dathion's sword dropped to his side as his arm shook. He was not ready to die. Not like this.

"He's mine. You two have had your fun."

The giant of a man stepped forward. The two swordsmen stepped back to give him space. While Dathion watched the largest of their number, the others slipped to his flanks, cutting off his escape. The man before him swung his thick arms, his flail starting to rise in the air, swinging in looping circles, a deep, whooping noise made with each circuit. Dathion brought his sword up in the Asillian way, a position from which to guard against attacks. He may have been without the song, but he still had his greatest weapon.