On The Edge of the Sword

Measures One-Eleven

Much editing has been done and is still being done to this story since I've last turned it into my Band teacher. If it does not make any sense the reason for that would be because it was an experimental idea. What I mean is that this was a new method of writing for me.

I hope you all enjoy the story. :)

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Off in the distance, she could hear the steady beat roaring in her ears. Growing louder with every step she took.

Painful . . . as it drew nearer.

Her knees threatened to buckle from beneath her while her skull commenced to—without her consent—cry buckets of slimy, slobbery tears out of her eyes and nose.

All because of the sound.

The most dreaded sound known by every man who lived in the kingdom.

From the pauper, to the village lunatic, to the farmers, to the middle class, to the prince himself.

No one, besides the brutal tyrant, loved hearing it's echoing howl. As it would sound, mothers would quickly guide their children inside, bolt the doors and windows, and hide themselves and their families away in a safe, secluded place.

The disabled—including the poor of hearing—would try to get out of harms way, but most would sadly not get far enough before being trampled by the mighty soldiers' horses.

Screams and shrieking filled the streets and would resound down dark and narrow alleys. Murder and crime lived and thrived during this hour.

The hour of the cries of the damned and of the war drums announcing the coming of the legions of Satan.

Rarely were victims or people left outside ever seen again, at least alive. Anyone left out in the streets—the sick, the lame, the working man, the town fool, the many persecuted, the children, etc.—was left out for the slaughter and ruin.

Piles upon piles of bodies would gather in the town square.

Causing a pestilence to travel throughout for at least a few months to as much as a few years or so.

Blood would stream down through the streets that were days before busy with playing children and a dog or two.

Of woman going to the markets to buy food, fabric for clothing and blankets, and other things that they would need to try to sustain their lives for hopefully a little while.

Merchants would be roaming around.

Some unemployed people left outside in the weather to suffer in the streets would beg for a morsel to eat or a few measly coins.

Animals were traded for other such things. Some would roam freely as long as they were watched after.

So many people had filled the area. There were so many, yet now horse carriages rarely rattled their wheels down the way.

Winds would woe of the sorrow and abandonment. Buildings and shops would creak and stir so much as way of shouting out that something wrong had occurred.

Something dreadful.

Still the king's brigade showed no compassion, no sorrow, no mercy. All was fair game. And the king loved it.

He cherished it as much as the devil would when dragging a poor unfortunate soul down to hell.

'And it was approaching her . . .' she thought as her feet sprinted off into a run. Her footsteps echoing way too loudly off the cobble stones.

A wise man once told her "Once ye hear the spurring of thy own heart through thine ears, ye then shall know that the devil's warriors are on their merry way."

Still remembering the mental, old fabricator's words sent chills down her spine as she sped off.

Every time his menacing cackle returned it would resound off the walls of the abandoned parts of her mind, sending her into a blind frenzy.

Thoughts, thoughts, . . . thoughts.

All about the dangers of a noble born having her own will, her own beliefs.

That was unacceptable here.