Thursday, September 9, 2010

The Warlord's Dust - Part 1 - Chapter 1 (b)

(Author’s Note: Now that I have gotten into the action, I am seeing how much my writing has changed over the years. This is not bad, especially when you consider I was only 12 when I wrote it. Still, the action is not as smooth as I write now and the dialogue seems somewhat forced to me when I read it aloud. Wow, it’s weird critiquing my own work as opposed to fixing it. Anyhoo, enjoy… Drake)

The small fighter, dressed all in black except for the thin, white silk blouse, smiled up at the large warrior. His cloth pants where tucked into soft leather boots that ran up his legs nearly to his knee. A small money pouch hung from the right side of his leather belt, offsetting the scabbard dangling from his left. His short, sandy-blond hair, stood out in contrast to the dark black beard that covered his chin. "It's not nice to curse someone who has done so much for you. Now is it, Sivlon?" The smaller man closed the door behind him and walked around the bar.

"You've done nothing for me!" Sivlon backed into the center of the main room. Putting his back against the firepit, he raised his thick sword in a defensive position.

By this time, the patrons of Foxferds had cleared quite a large area for what they expected would be a grand fight.

"How soon we forget, dear Sivlon. Was it not me who was teaching you of justice, fairness, and humility, just before you went running off? Don't run this time, Sivlon. I’m getting awfully bored having to chase you down. And besides, we have a score to settle."

"I beg of you!" Sweat formed on the brow of the warrior. "I apologize for what I have said and done! It was wrong of me."

"By the gods, it was wrong. And I'm going to correct it as well. You, Sivlon, think in size. I'm smaller than you, so you can defeat me, right? Well then, that's all I'm asking. A dual. A chance to prove myself." Crouching low, the small fighter brought his gleaming scimitar above his head, parallel with the ground.

Sivlon flinched. "You have more than proven yourself!"

The small fighter lowered his blade and rose up to his full height. "And, you more than proved yourself with my companion," he said through clenched teeth. "Yet, he lies dead in the street now, doesn't he?" The small fighter lunged forward suddenly, raking the tip of his blade across the cheek of Sivlon.

The warrior's reaction was fast—quicker than most mortal men—and still the deadly scimitar was already away from his face and carving a deep gash into the big man’s left thigh by the time Sivlon attempted to block the first attack. Blood gushed freely from the deep wound. Sivlon grunted in pain as he fell to one knee. "Go ahead then," he said as he let his sword slip to the floor and clutched his wounded leg. "Kill me! I'm no match for the likes of you."

The small fighter raised his sword for the killing blow. "At least you will die like the coward you are," his sword came rushing down.

Before the scimitar had time to nestle into Sivlon's neck, the warrior lunged forward toward the fighter, attempting to grapple the smaller man. But to his surprise, the only thing he grabbed was air. Like a flash of lighting, the small fighter sidestepped. As Sivlon flew past, the fighter slapped him on the rump with the flat of his blade, sending the warrior smashing into a nearby table. He fell off the table and landed on his back with a thud.

As the big warrior moved to recover from the fall, the fighter jumped and landed on his chest, forcing the larger man back down. Sivlon reached up to grab the smaller man, only to find the tip of the scimitar resting comfortably under his chin.

"For the man whose blood stained your sword this past aurn."

Sivlon's eyes opened wide as the blade slipped effortlessly into his throat and nestle against the back of his skull. A gut wrenching, slurping sound filled the now silent tavern as the blade was twisted, then pulled from its fleshy resting place. The body of Sivlon jerked once before it lay still and lifeless.

The small fighter bent down and cleaned the blood from his blade on the cape of his lifeless opponent. Turning, he walked up to the bar, sheathing the scimitar. "I'm sure he has enough coin on him to cover any damages done," he said to the barkeep.

The bartender motioned for some of his bar-hands to remove the body, as well as any valuables, no doubt. "That was pretty fancy sword play uh . . . I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, me’lord."

"No, you didn't," the fighter said as he sat down. "Just give me a shot of whisky." He tossed a silver bit onto the counter. It landed with a tink and rolled around in a circle twice before the barkeep snatched it up.

Looking more than a little embarrassed, the barman set out a shot of dark elixir before storming off to the kitchen.

1 comment:

Tami Snow said...

Wow, Drake. I love how the little guy kicks butt. But just as shocked that you killed someone off in this peice. Truly captivated by the fact that you wrote this at twelve. Your talent for weaving a scene is incredible.