Sapphire Speaks (complete)

Chapter 8

He swung the sword wildly. He struck two of his opponents down. They were moving quicker than humanly possible, but he knew that they weren't humans. Their skin scaly, hard, and their faces were indescribable. There were no discernable features. He didn't see eyes, noses, mouths, anything. Still he swung the sword and aimed for their neck. They let out ghastly wails as his sword struck their skin, but the spurt of blood that he was anticipating never came. He sword made clanging sound as it rebounded and the force pushed him back. Their skin was armor.
He gritted his teeth and dug his feet in. He hoped the friction would help him maintain balance and gain the upper hand. The creatures growled and started to approach him. He gripped the sword with both hands, holding it like a baseball bat. WHen they were within arm's reach, he swung again. This time he aimed for their torso. The skin wasn't so thick there.
He was rewarded with a squelching sound and the spurt of blood he knew signaled his gaining the upper hand. Motivated and feeling himself, he spun around and caught another creature under the chin. He'd anticipated the reverb so this time and bent his knees and shoved the sword upwards with all of his might. He felt his feet slide backwards, but stiffened his reserve and let out a guttural scream.
The sword went through the creature's head. Brandon pulled the sword out and jumped back just as the creature's body caught fire. "Flawless victory," he chuckled to himself.
He looked down at his sword. Blood dripped down and he felt his stomach turn as the blood covered the sapphire tip. He used the grass to wipe the blade clean. He looked around, but didn't see anymore creatures. He knew that that didn't mean anything. He might not have seen them, but he knew they were there. The rapid and heavy footfalls that he'd heard had to have come from more than two of the creatures.
Brandon did his best Jet-Li impression as he played with the sword. He jumped with it. Stabbed the air. Did seven hundred twenty degree turns while yelling out in triumph. He felt good. When he was done with his mini celebration, his shoulders ached and his knees throbbed dully. "I don't see how that man does his own stunts." He said as he rubbed his knees.
He looked around once more and was slightly disappointed when he didn't see anymore creatures. He was thirsty for a fight. He wanted to prove himself. He hadn't felt this invigorated in years. He was feeling like his old self.
He decided to see what was on the other side of the hill. He took a sip of water from the creek before heading downhill.
Using the sword as a walking stick, he gingerly stepped down the hill. Feeling a cool breeze, he stumbled and tripped over his own feet. He let out a yelp of surprise and groans of pain as he tumbled down the hill. He caught several rocks, protruding branches, and other weapons of nature as he rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill.
Groaning, he stood to his feet slowly. He was covered in cuts, scrapes, and he knew his back would be covered in a bruise the next morning. He checked the sword for any damage. It was unharmed. He was lucky he hadn't been impaled on its blade as he'd fell.
He brushed dirt and leaves from his body as he scanned his surroundings. This was nothing like the meadow. It was a graveyard. An actual graveyard. Broken tombstones were scattered throughout the weeds. It wasn't green and bright. It was black, gray, and dreary. He gripped the hilt of his sword as he looked for any new opponents.
"Hello?" He called out.
He slapped his forehead in disgust. "Now, I'm a white girl in a scary movie," he said to himself as he ventured forward. Each step he took announced his presence. Old leaves covered the ground. He stepped on them as he walked. Crisp crunches echoed loudly as he walked. It might as well have been a weather siren.
"We should go," he heard a voice whisper.
He froze and turned his head toward the voice. It wasn't the old man nor was it the old woman, but he still recognized it.
"I'm not going anywhere. He go have to fight me. Kill me," another voiced boldly stated.
Brandon made a forty five degree turn to the right and headed toward the voices. They were coming from the crypt. The crypt was an old crumbling cement building covered by ivy and other weeds.
"He's not going to win," the first voice said. It almost seemed sad.
"Then he shouldn't have come," the second voice commented. "Hand it to me."
Brandon had no clue what "it" was, but he switched the sword to his right hand and steeled his nerves.
"He walks as softly as an elephant," the first voice cackled. The cackles were followed by a horrible hacking sound. Brandon frowned as the sound of phlegm being gathered and spat out reached his ears.
"You ready?"
"I guess."
Brandon stopped walking. He raised his sword and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Several minutes passed and nothing happened. He was lowering his sword when the sky changed. It went from bleak and dreary to an ugly, violent swirl of purple, black, and green.
"I think he's scared," a voice hissed in his ear. He spun toward it, but he was met with only wind slapping him in the face.
"He's not ready." He turned toward that one, but again, he was met with nothing.
Brandon gripped the hilt and held his sword out in front of him, stiffly as his eyes darted around. He didn't want to be caught unawares.
"Brandon, why are you here?" It was the reluctant fighter. "You're not ready. You shouldn't be here."
Brandon remained silent, but at the ready.
"He's a pussy. Listen..."
Brandon strained his ears. The sound of horses galloping grew louder as they grew closer. He clenched his jaw and prepared for battle.
The sound of hooves grew louder and louder until they were silent. He felt the harsh breath of disease on his neck. He shivered involuntarily as he turned around.
He refused to lower his sword as he turned, so he stepped back to place distance between himself and his new foes.
The horse was huge. He'd felt the heat from it's nozzle on his neck only because it had bowed his legs and was now glaring at him menacingly. The horse was jet back with a streak of gray running from the tip of its nozzle to the end of its tail. It's rider sat atop of it. No saddle. Barebacked. His face was covered with a black bandana. His eyes glared at Brandon. There was a red tint to them. In his hand, he clutched a handful of the horses mane. Brandon shivered again and took another step back. It was then he noticed the other horse.
This one was white and riderless. It didn't need one. It was a head taller than the black horse and had metal attached to its hooves. Metal with grooves, Brandon noticed. He took another step back. He didn't want to get caught under the hooves of that horse.
Suddenly he was pushed to the ground. He looked to his left. A person stood there. He said person, but maybe it was humanoid like the rider. It stood on two feet. It was dressed...
A flash of pain rang through his skull as he dropped the sword and grabbed his head.
"Ahhh!!!" Brandon screamed. He felt the blood as it dripped through his fingers and onto the ground.
His fingers gripped the dirt as he struggled to find the will to stand.
"I told you," the rider gloated.
Brandon looked up. Blood blurred his vision. The rider was now standing on the horse's back. His eyes now a deep, dark burgundy. Beside him, the white horse pawed the ground, making the dirt fly into Brandon's mouth. He spat it out.
"Give up, Brandon," the rider demanded.
Brandon heard the third moving behind him. He found the hilt of his sword and gripped it tightly. He wobbled slightly as he made his way to his feet. He was surrounded.
"Let's go," Brandon said as he shook his head, flinging blood onto the stark whiteness of the horse.
The horse growled in response.
"You don't have to fight, Brandon," the third told him. Its voice was almost sympathetic. Helpful, even.
Brandon turned to him first. As they locked eyes, Brandon was shaken to his core. It was him. The him he'd seen in the creek. The dirty him. The shirt hung off of him, making him look smaller than he was. His shoulders were slumped. Brandon side eyed him. This was why people would skirt by him when he would ask for money, making sure they avoided eye contact. He was an eyesore.
Brandon blinked, but when he opened his eyes, he was still there.
"I don't think he likes you," the rider joked.
Brandon watched as Old Him shrugged. "I don't like me either. But that's why you don't have to fight, Brandon. It's okay to give up.
As Old Him spoke, Brandon felt his grip on the sword weaken.
"That's it. See, it's easy. Just let go. Remember how free you were on the street? No bills. No responsibilities. How light your shoulders felt," Old Him no longer sounded sympathetic. There was a sting to his words. Each word bit at Brandon's fingertips. Suddenly, Old Him's face was no longer ashen gray. It was glowing with each word spoken.
Old Him chuckled as Brandon's strength waned and his grew. He could feel the power flowing through him. He looked at The Rider and smiled. "You didn't have to worry about the ills of the world. It was a good time."
Brandon felt the sword slipping from his fingers as he allowed himself to be swayed by Old Him's words. When he'd been using, he'd enjoyed the freedom of not thinking of solutions. He liked the fact that people no longer sought him out.
The sword slid down fingers smoothly, like it too, was being led by Old Him. Brandon looked up. Old Him wasn't old him at all. It was a thing. It had shed its costume and Brandon came to his senses. He straightened his back and caught the sword before it hit the ground.
He stared at the being. It was almost as large as the black horse, but it stood on two feet with huge bowed legs. Horns protruded from its head in awkward angles, neither straight nor crooked. Its eyes bulged out of the sockets and were constantly moving. They seemed unwilling or unable to focus on one thing. Its chest was broad and covered with scars. Around its neck a necklace hung.
Brandon narrowed his eyes. The pendants hanging from the necklace glowed ethereally. He raised the sword.
"Are you going to fight me, Brandon?" The being asked. Are you really strong enough. You liked the feeling the drugs gave you, didn't you? You liked not being the hero? You can't beat me,"' the being gloated as it pulled a sword from the scabbard on its waist. The scabbard Brandon hadn't noticed.
"You're nothing to me," Brandon hoped he sounded boastful.
The rider laughed and the horses pawed the ground.
"Wrong. I am everything to you," the being said with a yell as he rushed Brandon.
Brandon sidestepped him, but the being's sword caught him in his side. He groaned in pain, but quickly parried and mounted a counter attack.
The sound of metal clanking filled the air as the two engaged in a sword fight. They were almost evenly matched. Whenever Brandon would land a hit, the being would follow with a hit of his own.
Remembering his wits, Brandon crouched down and swept the being ankles with his feet. The being fell to the ground. Brandon sent up a silent prayer of thanks for saturday morning cartoons as he raised the sword over his head, preparing to stab the being through the heart.
"ENOUGH!"
The sound caused the earth to quake under his feet and Brandon struggled to keep his balance. The being used the moment to scurry away leaving a trail of blood behind him. Brandon looked for the source of the voice. "He was nothing. A placeholder," the rider side before hopping down from the horse. He landed without a sound.
The white horse struck while Brandon was focused on The Rider. Brandon felt the metal ground into his back as he lurched forward. Blood ran down his back. He groaned and spun around readying to attack the horse.
He was mid swing when the sword flew from his hand. It landed it amongst the weeds next to a broken tombstone.
"No need for that," The Rider said flippantly. He squared up with Brandon. "Let's see what you're made of."
Brandon looked down at all of his cuts, bruises, and felt the warm blood flowing down his back. His hands were cut and sore. Both were swollen. He made the best fist he could as he squared up.
The Rider's eyes glowed brightly and he laughed before giving Brandon the "just bring it" hand sign.
Brandon swung first. He missed. The Rider caught him with a strong right hook to the body. Brandon couldn't recover quick enough. An uppercut lifted his head. A left hook caught him in the ribs. He felt a rib break.
He swung again. He didn't aim. He didn't need precision. He needed a break. The Rider knocked Brandon's fist away easily. He interlocked his fingers and slammed his hands down on Brandon's back...where the horse had kicked him.
Brandon felt the blood pooling under his chin as he lie in the dirt trying to figure out if this fight was worth it. He waited for a stomp, a kick, something. It never came. It seemed The Rider had some honor.
"This was a complete waste of time," The Rider said aloud. No one answered him. "I could have stayed where I was. Now my pet is gone. And--" He looked down at Brandon who was trying to stand up. "Stay down. It's obvious you aren't worthy. You aren't ready."
Brandon spat the blood from his mouth. He ran his tongue across his teeth. They were still hanging on. He looked at The Rider through swollen eyes.
"I am ready. I am worthy," Brandon said with more emotion than he felt.
The Rider waved him forward with two hands. This time, Brandon didn't take the bait. He waited. That confused The Rider. The Rider started to circle Brandon, waiting on him to make a move.
Thirty seconds passed and he was bored. He lunged forward and attempted a wild swing at Brandon's temple. Brandon had anticipated that. He blocked it and countered with a body shot. It caught The Rider in the kidney. He heard The Rider gasp. He didn't know if it was one of surprise or one of pain, but he took advantage of it. He followed with another body shot. Then a right hook to the jaw of The Rider created the distance he needed.
He'd analyzed The Rider. He was prideful. His boasts and tone of his voice proved that. He was also temperamental. He was emotional. All Brandon had to do was keep him off kilter.
"Maybe you're not worthy," Brandon insulted him while he threw a jab to The Rider's chin.
"Yeah, that's it," Brandon threw three more jabs and a right hook to the nose, mouth, and chest of The Rider.
The Rider was disgusted with himself. It was time to end this. He ripped the bandana from his face and glared at Brandon.
Brandon dropped his fists. The Rider had his face. The face of him in college. The face that he wore when planning and leading protests. The Rider used Brandon's bewilderment to his advantage. He raised his hands above his head and brought them down quickly. When his hands met, a resounding clap emanated from them. The vibration hit Brandon in the chest and sent him flying back into a tombstone. He felt it break against his back. He coughed and wasn't surprised when blood wet his hands. He used the broken tombstone for leverage as he pulled himself up.
"You see, Brandon," The Rider said darkly as he stalked toward him. "I knew you weren't ready. Your neck was too weak to hold the crown. Your body too weak to resist the pull of the drug. Your soul too damaged to fight off the demons. You are nothing."
The Rider prepared to clap again. Brandon rolled to his side, grabbed the broken tombstone and threw it at The Rider.
It hit The Rider just under his ribcage. He fell to his feet as he struggled to catch his breath. Brandon limped over to him, holding his side, blood seeped through his fingers.
"I. Am. Not. Weak." He punctuated each word with a one handed punch to The Rider's face.
He watched in satisfaction as blood leaked from The Rider's mouth. A glint of blue caught his eye. His sword. He couldn't risk leaving The Rider to get it. But did he need it? He could barely raise his arm to punch The Rider and it was becoming harder to breathe. "I need my sword," he gasped out. Pain amplified his words. Suddenly his arm dropped. It was his sword. He gripped the hilt and swung it with all of his might.
Skittt
The Rider's head rolled to a stop a few feet from Brandon. His body fell over with a dull thud.
Tired, Brandon limped over to the crypt. The horses were gone, he noticed with a tired eye. He slipped through the open door and slid his body down the wall. He was out before he touched the ground.