The man was brought forth. Chained heavily, his eyes crimson with rage, he moved slowly with guards at his sides. One wrong move would result in his death. The vultures waited on high tops with their eyes athirst.
None noticed the brazen defiance in his bloodied yet heavy footsteps. None listened to his heart's hard thumping against his broad blood-smeared chest. All they saw was a "killer" being brought to justice. He repeated a silent prayer in his heart. He only craved for one thing at this moment – the quiet swish of the Great Sword.
The Sword that once saved a hundred from slaughter. The Sword meant help to the innocent, death to the guilty, and a crippler to the culpable. The Sword that saved an innocent friend or killed a guilty one.
The Sword made a decipherable distinction between the good, the bad, and the ugly. The clean slice through the neck decreed the justice being served. The Sword tested the innocence of the person to be saved. Only a genuine plea saved the person.
He concentrated and strained his ears to listen to the Sword's swish. Every breath he let out fogged his vision and cleared the noise around him. Moments passed like millennia. The Sword's audio was elusive to his hungry ears. Still, his heart prayed. He prayed for one last time to see it in action as he had seen it umpteen times since his childhood, the times when it had served justice for others. For now, he wanted justice to be served in his favour.
He was brought and put on a stand before the city's leader. The city had one law for killers. The convicted shall face the wrath of death in the same manner; the killers bestowed on their victims.
In his case, he would be slowly tortured to death. First, the feat would be accomplished by prying out each of his fingernails using pliers. Then the process would move downwards to the toes. Once all the nails have been removed, the eyelashes would be plucked out. After that, his head and facial hair, including the brows, would be shaven. Next, a tiny drop of clove oil would be dropped into his eyes at regular intervals. Simultaneously, precise cuts would be made at critical points like the wrist and neck. Finally, once all the warm blood had exited the body, he would be thrown to thirsty vultures.
He reflected on his plight. He had been killed under the order of the leader. It was a swift kill with not much blood spilt. The cuts were inflicted on the shoulder joints, wrists, and knees. Finally, he had slipped some poison into his victim's bloodstream. He had not killed in the manner he would be facing death, slow and painful. He had left the body to the mercy of the sands. Someone had changed the way the body looked. And now, he faced that same process before his death.
He pondered over the thought of being saved. He gave a deaf ear to all the sentences that "proved" his guilt. His eyes roved around, checking the rooftops for some sliver of solace. None came. The process of his death started with a flourish. He was swiftly tied to a chair. The necessary torture equipment was brought forth and laid out in front. The torturer, high on hashish, came up towards him with a sly smile.
He chose the nose-pliers out of the assortment. He said, "it is not your day today." The torturer huffed. The tortured kept his head calm and drifted to his world, a world uninhabited by feelings and emotions. No pain, only gain. Suddenly he heard a soft swoosh. He thought he had entered a dream.
He heard a second swoosh and the soft thud of a body falling from a height. A chill went up to his spine and rattled his brain. He opened his eyes, flickering bright with happiness, to find most of his finger fails missing and the torturer still in his act. When the third time the soft thump followed the swoosh, he knew the Sword had arrived to bestow its mercy on him.
As he watched, the bodies fell swiftly by the second. The Sword moved with such authority, and none could see the wielder. Instead, they were awestruck as it sliced through their bodies. It went through their bodies like a hot knife through butter. Then, for a moment, it was encircled by ten soldiers.
The shower of arrows from the rooftops missed the Sword. Not a single drop of blood spilt from behind the Sword. Instead, the blood-stained, crimson Sword gleamed in the sun. The generous arcs kept the soldiers at bay, momentarily. The next thing the soldiers knew was their armour soaking with their blood.
For a second, the spectators got a glimpse of a flowing robe, and then it was gone. The archers used all their skill, patience, and accuracy to fire at the robe. Nevertheless, none hit the target. The Sword moved in a straight line toward the torturer and his ward. Bodies flung around from the path. The gleaming Sword now pointed at the torturer. Without warning, the Sword went into an arc, caught the torturer's groin, made its way to the neck, and exited the body. The shower of blood finally revealed the Sword wielder's robes.
The Swordsman spoke in a deep voice, "There is a small price to pay. You have killed a person who had nothing to do with your leader. He was a traveller, a writer who travelled extensively around the world. For this mistake, you shall pay."
The tortured said, "I am a hired assassin. I kill when I am paid."
"There is no mercy. You'll pay the price for your folly." The Sword came down with immense force cutting the shackles. The Assassin fell to the ground. He took the time to stand up. The Swordsman patiently waited till the Assassin came up to his full height. Then, the Swordsman swung the great Sword...
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Original post: https://antarayaami.wordpress.com/2010/06/28/unknown/
