Of A Dark Heart

Chapter One: Where There's Shade

"Where you run is where you hide, Better hope you're hiding well,

Cause when the angel catches you, You know you're damned to Hell"

-Damned to Hell, John Butler Trio

This far into the desert there was nothing but dry heat.

Every horizon was a bent unbroken line where cracked terracotta met faded blue sky. No longer an orb, the flat sun burnt hair into curly strings of ash. There was not a soul here except for the man.

To him, time had hollowed to the point of meaninglessness. His water canteens had run dry after the thirty seventh day. He didn't bother counting the days after that. Part of him wondered if he had died already. Still he knew he was followed, no matter how far he travelled The Demon would chase him. He was the cat after the rat, but the dog was coming.

Blinking, a lone eucalypt tree stood before him, bark bleached white and void of any leaves. Under it sat a man in a business suit, one arm hung limply over the back of a black rocking chair.

Another mirage. Damned place is full of mirages.

"Can I get you anything?"

The man in the business suit spoke as if he worked in a bank; dull, professional, predatory.

"I'm just passing through."

"Then you'll need some of my wares."

Rocking gently in his chair the man in the suit smiled a banker's smile; shark's teeth showing with a perfect white sparkle.

"No thank you, I'm just passing."

Shrugging his shoulders the man in the suit tilted his head.

"Maybe I'll sell to your friend then. Seems she's travelling faster than you are."

Spinning on the spot the Swordsworn looked far back from where he came. There was nothing, an empty canvas. This entire desert was empty for hundreds of kilometres.

"You're eyes are better than mine."

"Eyes have nothing to do with it."

Grunting the Swordsworn relented.

Play nice, he's a figment of your mind. Can't go crazy now, that would be pointless.

"What are you offering?"

The man removed his feet from the table and stood. An array of weapons lay upon the now full wooden top. There was also a very large carafe of water. His chair was no longer there, instead a blacksmith's fireplace.

"Every fighter needs a weapon."

"I have one."

"Show me."

Grimacing at having to prove himself to a mirage in the desert, the Swordsworn moved his dust covered outer robe aside. Feeling at his hip he pulled his shortsword from its sheath.

"Hmm. A little outdated aren't we? Perhaps a gun would be better?"

"I'm a Swordsworn."

"Ah."

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"A new sword then?"

"I vowed on this one."

"What one?"

Looking down the Swordsworn saw that his blade and sheath were no longer there.

"I hate this place."