The Swordsman by John Bullock
The sword made a wet metallic sound as it was unsheathed. Sometimes it seemed to Gared that the slithery sound of metal on leather was a living sound, like the drawing of breath through razor sharp teeth.
The sword was a curse, that much was certain.
It clung to Gared like a plague, and he could no more remove it from his belt than he could his arm from his shoulder. The sound of the whetstone against the cold, deadly steel sent a shiver through Gared’s spine but he persisted, as he did every night, until the edge of the loathsome blade was sharp enough to cut flesh with the slightest of kisses.
‘Why do you sharpen that thing every night?’ Halder asked after more than an hour of quiet, ‘you have not used it in days. If you sharpen it further, it will slice open your sheath during the journey and open the belly of your horse!’
‘That is unlikely,’ Gared said distantly, his eyes fixed on the razors edge of the sword.
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Halder, ‘or perhaps you will carry on sharpening it until it is as thin as paper and good for naught, save looking pretty.’ Gared said nothing.
This was not the first time they had discussed the matter, but Gared had never told Halder the truth; that he had no choice. The sword was part of him, and it was for killing, and at such times as there was no killing to be had, it grew restless. The preparation for killing sated it for a time, but even that would fail eventually.
They said little else, that moonless night, under the clear sky pricked with bright stars. Gared paid the stars little attention, though, and Halder’s head had barely touched the ground before he began snoring like a hog. Gared placed the sword under his bedroll, and sought for sleep of his own.
~~~
He awoke to the taste of blood. It wasn't his own - he was sure of that - but it was spattered across his face all the same. With all the speed given to him, Gared rolled to his side, grabbing the bedroll and sword as he went. The crimson coated longsword dug into the earth where Gared had lain, barely an instant too late to strike him. He leapt to his feet and drew the sword, letting the bedroll fall to the ground. The edge glinted, reflecting the light of a thousand stars, its well honed edge hungry for blood. From the corner of his eye, Gared saw Halder laying still on the ground, his chest red with blood, but he had no time to dwell on that now.
His attacker was big. Huge, in fact. Where Gared stood a respectable six feet tall, this man towered over him by a head, if not more. He wielded the longsword one handed, though it was half again as big as the sword Gared held. It came at his head, slicing through the air almost in slow motion, though Gared only just got his own sword up in time to deflect the blow that would have cleaved his head in two.
The man was a knight, his fine armour and the coat of arms on his surcoat betrayed that much, but whose coat of arms it was, or whose face was hidden behind the closed helm, Gared did not know. He raised his sword to deflect another blow, the knights longsword raising sparks as it clashed with his own blade. The knight's sword may have been big, but it was made of inferior metal, and Gared saw the notch that was left in its edge as it slid away from him.
The knight came again, only this time, Gared did not deflect the blade, but ducked underneath its arc and brought the butt of his own sword up into the helm of his opponent. The big knight reeled backwards, and Gared was satisfied to see the depression his attack had left in the other man’s visor, but he didn’t wait to admire his work. Moving quickly forward, he brought the business end of his sword down at the knights head, but his attack met the steel of the other mans sword once more. Gared pressed again, and rained blow after blow on the knight, who met each with increasingly sluggish parries.
Then, like a guiding light, Gared saw his opening. Perhaps it was the sword that saw the opening, Gared was not certain. It certainly felt as though the sword moved under its own power, gliding gracefully through the air towards the knights throat. The sound it made as it swung was as though it was cutting the very world apart before it, but that sound changed quickly when the end of the sword found the opening between helm and breastplate. It should not have been an opening, but the sword cut through the light mail around the knights neck as though it were cloth, and the flesh behind fared no better.
Gared lowered his sword as the knight fell ponderously the ground, his head only half as fixed to his body as it had been. He walked over to the fallen man and ripped off a piece of surcoat that had not yet turned crimson with the fallen knight's blood, using it to clean his sword.
As he lifted the visor of the dented helm to look on the face of his attacker, he wondered idly why he'd never thought of the sword as his sword. He hated it, true, but it had been in his possession for as long as he had been able to wield a blade, and it had always protected him. Still, it was the things it made him do that were why people like this knight sought him. And now this knight is dead, Gared thought, where is the justice in that?
He turned to look on his brief companion, Halder, bloody and unmoving.
Perhaps it is time I travelled alone, he thought dully.
And sheathed the sword.
~~~
