Tales of the Sword: Short Stories of a Fantastic Nature

by Todd Shryock

  So, there had been a struggle. Now if he could only catch up to them before it was too late. The blood trail was fairly regular, leading between buildings and down narrow alleyways infested with rats and large tomcats on the hunt. Whomever was injured was cut pretty deep, for the blood trail became thicker with each step. Large, wood and stone block warehouses rose up to either side of him now, the darkness was nearly impenetrable. He pulled out a small coin from his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. A soft magic glow came forth, sending blue light to illuminate the way.

  The trail abruptly ended at a large door at an old warehouse. The wood was rotted in places and debris littered the ground. If it weren't abandoned, then the owner certainly didn't care about the fate of its contents. Darkblade drew his small sword and crept up to the door. The thick wood planks were worn with age, and even small carvings of vandals had almost been completely weathered away. He leaned with his shoulder to push the door open as he held the point of his dark blade up to the darkness, ready to receive any charge. He quickly stepped inside and shut the door, palming the coin so its light would not give him away. His senses were at full alert, searching out the darkness for an enemy. After a few moments of concentrating, he knew he was alone. He held the coin up to get a better look at where he was.

  The warehouse was empty, the only signs of habitation being that of rats and other vermin. The wooden floors seemed to be rotted through in places, meaning there was a deeper level below. At the end of the building, a deep well seemed to indicate some sort of access to the lower level. Darkblade cautiously made his way towards the stair. A dark spot on the floor midway across caused him to stop and kneel. More blood spots, all leading towards the stair. The door behind him creaked open and quickly shut. He spun around, but the darkness had already engulfed the intruder. His heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the newcomer to make a move, but Darkblade was greeted with only silence. He thought he heard someone scream from the depths below, but the distance was great and the wind was now howling through the porous building as a storm took hold. He could wait no longer.

  He held up his palm and rubbed the coin again. A brilliant light flooded the building and caused a panic amongst some of the nearest rodents who scurried for cover. Near the door, Stelv stood with his sword drawn. He had dropped into a defensive crouch when the magical light had shot forth. As he recognized Darkblade, he slowly stood and relaxed his sword.

  "What are you doing here?" Stelv asked, his voice defiant.

  Darkblade frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the stair. "I followed a blood trail here."

  "I saw no blood trail," Stelv challenged. "And I've been following you all night."

  "I don't have time to argue."

  "Sure you do. And as soon as you tell me what you're doing in a warehouse owned by the wizard you incinerated, I'll let you continue with your business."

  "I don't have time for this, Stelv." Again came the high pitched whine of the wind; or was it a scream?

  "Perhaps you want the wizard's powder for yourself. Maybe that was your plan all along."

  "I'm going below to take a look. Come along if you like."

  "Thank you, I believe I will." Stelv lowered his sword and took three steps toward Darkblade. The floor groaned on the fourth step and gave way with a sharp cracking of wood. Stelv disappeared below into darkness.

  Darkblade started towards Stelv, then stopped. Either way, he was going to have to go down those stairs. No sense wasting time. He quickly whirled and made his way towards the stairs, careful to avoid any cracked floor boards. The stairs were also wood, and were in no better shape. The first one bowed and nearly broke under his weight. He moved to the far side of the stair nearest the wall, hoping to place as much of his weight as possible on the supports. His magical light illuminated a maze of wooden crates, walls and supports. Blood drops trailed down a narrow aisle between crates piled to the ceiling. Darkblade followed the trail, which abruptly turned behind a row of wooden planks that served as a wall near the corner of the building. Whoever was bleeding was around the next corner. Darkblade rounded the corner, crouching low with his sword held ready, his light shining the way. The blood trail disappeared at the wall.

  "Hidden door," he muttered to himself, lowering his sword so he could get closer to the wall. He stepped into the corner to look for some sort of switch or lever, but found that unnecessary as the section of floor he was standing on began to slowly sink below. A large counterweight passed him on the way down into the darkness. He shined the light around, alert for the presence of trouble, but nothing stood out as the platform jolted to a stop. Darkblade reduced the light to a glow; no sense in alerting someone to his position before he had too. The glow revealed flagstone floors, but the walls were dirt, reinforced with wood and rock. The floor boards from the warehouse loomed above, their boards dripping with cobwebs and dust. Two passages split off from the platform: one leading straight, its floor swept clean except for the blood drops leading down the passage into darkness; the other ran off at a 90 degree angle from the platform, its stones were covered with dust; only a few prints showed through the thick dust.

  "When in doubt, follow the blood trail," Darkblade said to himself, wondering if this passage would lead him to Stelv, Scala or the killer. Or maybe all three, he thought.

  The passage made several tight turns and within moments, he was completely disoriented as to which direction he was facing. His sword led the way, its point always ready to fend off attack. The passage was narrow; his shoulders practically rubbed the walls, so any attack from the rear would be difficult to defend against. He continually glanced over his shoulder, searching the shadows for enemies. He stopped in mid step, listening for tell-tale signs of pursuit or movement. The air was damp and stale, but as he moved forward, the temperature began to drop.

  The corridor twisted and turned, and continued on. Darkblade gave up on caution and increased his magical light to full power, increasing the bluish glow to a bright white light that illuminated fifteen paces ahead. He could see the steam of his breath in the now frigid air, and as he rounded a corner, he killed his light with one word. There was a heavy curtain draped across the passage, but there was light leaking from around the edges. Darkblade crept up close to the curtain and listened for any sign of movement, but was only greeted by silence.

  With his sword held at the ready, he took his left hand and pulled away the right side of the curtain, hoping that if someone were waiting in ambush, they would be expecting him to open the other side. Inside, walls made of blocks of ice, glowing with the blue light of magic showed him the way. He closed the curtain behind him and crept forward to a turn in the passage, which gave way to a wider room. Large meat hooks hung rusting from the ceiling beams, and the stench of rotting meat permeated the air. Another curtain hung across a doorway on the far side of the room. A sound emanated from within; a dull thumping that came in perfect paired rhythms. Darkblade listened near the curtain before pulling it aside, straining for the sound of movement within. He opened the curtain and stepped inside, his sword swinging in a defensive arc, but there was no need.

  The thumping greeted him in perfect rhythm. When he turned to see its source, he gasped. The sound was magnified by the ice block walls, the smell made him queasy and the sight of the pooled blood nearby signaled he had reached his destination. Sitting on a small table was a human heart, propped up on some sort of apparatus. The heart continued to pump in sequence, just as it had before it had been removed from the body lying face down to his left. Attached to the heart was a series of tubes that pumped fluid into a severed hand which in turn spun a small gear. A human head slowly rotated around, a finger stuck in its mouth. Every so often, the finger would strike a small dowel and a long carved stick would move ever so slightly. A shorter stick was attached to the same dial, but remained still. As Darkblade looked closer, he could see numbers written at various points around the dial. The long stick was pointing at the number twelve,
and the shorter indicator was pointing at the two. He was trying to figure out the significance of twelve and two when he sensed something was wrong. Someone was behind him. The light from the ice walls suddenly went out.

  Before he could turn around, a small sack of sand smacked him in the back of the head and dropped him to the floor. He fought for consciousness, trying to lift his sword in defense, but his arm wouldn't respond. The blackjack hit him in the head again and he went down, the smell of rotting meat filling his nostrils as he blacked out.

  ***

  Ten and three. His eyes blurred and refocused, but all he saw was ten and three. Why ten and three? What was the significance of ten and three? The large pointer moved slightly, putting it between the ten and the eleven. The short pointer didn't move. What happened when the pointers both indicated the same number? Was that when he would die?

  The cool air cleared his thoughts a bit, and the rancid smell shook him out of his reverie. He had no idea how long he had been out. His hands were securely tied to the ice wall behind him, and his sword had been kicked against the wall. The body that had been in the room before was gone, and most of the blood had been cleaned up. The light from the walls was faint, barely enough to see by, and his eyes strained to make out any other details of the room. There was another curtain on the same wall he was tied to that he hadn't noticed before.

  Too much time looking at the...whatever that thing is, he thought, listening to the steady beating of the heart. Stupid. Took your mind off the task at hand to look at the evidence. You got distracted and it cost you. But cost you what?

  Darkblade panicked as he tried to look at his body. Was everything still there? His inventory showed he still had all his parts, and there didn't seem to be any pain, other than the throbbing in his head that matched time with the lurid creation across from him. He fought against his rope bonds, but they were secure around both his wrists and his ankles.

  The long indicator moved to the twelve. A small lever rotated back near a small gong. The lever suddenly snapped forward, but it was too short to strike the gong and nothing happened. The creation continued on without pause as the lever repeated the motion twice more.

  "It's not quite finished yet," came a voice from somewhere beside him. It sounded familiar, but the ringing in his ears and that dreadful beating made it hard to identify. Darkblade looked to his right, but the person was standing just inside the curtain, out of sight.

  "When it's finished, a hand with a finely crafted hammer will strike the gong, indicating the top of the hour," said the voice, just soft enough to be heard. "It will be finished by morning."

  Darkblade's heart raced as he tried to pull his hands free of the ropes before they became part of the creation, but it was no use.

  "Relax," the voice said. "Your hands were a little too big. Pity. But you did help build my chronometer."

  "What?" Darkblade said, not realizing he had formulated his thought verbally until the man in the other room answered him.

  "Well, your hand was too big, but you helped me get one that will fit." The man waved a ghastly severed hand around the corner. "See. All I have to do is fit the hammer in and my machine will be complete."

  "Your machine for what?" Darkblade asked, hoping to buy more time for an escape.

  "Come now. I thought you were better educated than that. It's a chronometer. A time piece. It measures time."

  "What's wrong with an hour glass?"

  A sigh came from the other room, along with a sickly cracking of what could have been either wood or bone. "Too crude. It's imprecise. This, on the other hand--excuse the pun--is exacting."

  "But why kill people to build it?"

  "Only the heart could give me the precision I need. There are sand and water models that do a fair job, but it's not the same. They also have a lot of maintenance involved."

  Darkblade tried to pry his feet free, but they wouldn't budge either. "So tell me," he called to the voice, "why not use animal parts instead of human?"

  There was a long pause. Darkblade watched the curtain, expecting trouble. The lights in the room brightened and Scala stepped out from the other room. "Because I likes killin'," he said imitating the uneducated laborers in town. "I like the way my knife feels when I cut the heart out of a young lover. I like the way the hand severs from the wrist. And I especially like the way a man screams when you disembowel him." Scala pulled out his knife and spun around, mocking a slashing maneuver. He turned to face Darkblade with a wide grin on his face. "It is such a shame," Scala whispered, tracing the blade of the knife under Darkblade's eye, down his cheek until it pointed at his voice box. "I so wanted to use you in my chronometer, but none of your pieces would fit."

  Darkblade didn't breath, afraid the exhaling motion would impale his throat on the knife.

  "But," Scala yelled, causing his prisoner to flinch, "I do have other creations you might fit into." He removed the knife and crossed his arms, pointing the blade at his own chin as he eyed Darkblade up and down, a contemplative look crossing his features. "I don't like to waste resources. It's so hard to find good parts." Scala laughed and glanced at his lurid creation. "Ah, where does the time go?" His eyebrows raised in excitement and he pointed the knife at Darkblade. "Now that's a question worth answering. If time can be quantified, then it, like all quantifiable objects must go somewhere. After all, if you have a cup of water and pour it out, the cup is now empty, but the water has to be somewhere. It might be on the floor, it might be in a sewer, or it might be in your stomach," he said, touching the tip of his knife to Darkblade's stomach. He returned to his contemplative stance--knife to chin--and stared at his prisoner's midsection.

  "Perhaps," Scala mumbled to no one in particular. "Perhaps a human drinks of time like he would a cup of water. The body needs food, water and time. It processes the first two, why wouldn't it process the third?"

  "It's not the same," Darkblade said.

  Scala's hand lashed out and slapped him across the face, turning his head to the side. "Silence! I'm on to something." He stared in silence for a few moments before continuing. "If that's the case, then the body would have a means of storing time. If I could find this gland or organ, then I might be able to extract more time for my work. Imagine the possibilities..." he frowned as he looked at his prisoner. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name."

  Darkblade glared at him. "I have no name."

  "Everyone has a name."

  "I have no name."

  "What do people call you?"

  "They don't."

  "Surely you must have some name. Or at least a title."

  Darkblade sighed. "Is this relevant?"

  The knife flashed to his neck, pricking his skin and drawing blood. Scala's eyes blazed with fury. "If you want to live one more second, tell me your name or I'll make you into an ash tray."

  "I am called Darkblade," he rasped in response.

  Scala lowered the knife. "That's a stupid name. You're wasting my time. If I carve you up, I might be able to get it back though," he said, his voice hopeful. "I need to get a better tool to do the job right. He sheathed his knife and reached around the corner of the other room and pulled out a wicked looking long, thin saw-toothed blade. He leaned his head from side to side as he looked at Darkblade's body. "Now, if I were time, where would I be?" He place the tip of the blade near the kidney and suddenly thrust it forward until it hit the wall behind it.

  Darkblade cried out in pain as the blade bit deep as it withdrew. His side burned with pain and he could feel the blood seeping out of the wound. He would bleed to death soon and it would all be over. He closed his eyes as another wave of pain swept over him. Scala was poking the wound with the tip of the blade while looking back at his clock. "Not moving backwards, so no time gained there." He turned back to Darkblade and pressed a rag against the wound to stop the bleeding. "Can't have you bleeding to death before I'm done."

  Darkblade opened his eyes and saw Scala staring at him, a wicked grin ac
ross his face as he moved the tip of the blade to his other side. He also saw Stelv standing behind Scala, a bloody stump bandaged with rags at one side, a large piece of plank in his other hand. As Scala moved the blade to make an incision, Stelv swung the board in a broad arc, his pale face grim from the loss of blood. The board hit Scala squarely on the side of the head with a dull thud, knocking him to the ground. Stelv stumbled as his momentum spun him around. He too fell, his body weak and drained. Darkblade fought with the strength he had left to break free, but couldn't move.

  "Stelv," he said quietly, not wanting to awaken the unmoving killer. "You must free me, Stelv. We're both dead if you don't." Stelv was facing away from him on the floor and wasn't moving.

  "Stelv, you have to try. I can get you out of here if you can free me."

  Both men stirred, their arms pawing at the ground.

  "Stelv!" Darkblade whispered, desperate to rouse him before Scala awakened. Already he was starting to mumble as he regained consciousness.

  Stelv turned over, his eyes wide and unfocused. He used his one good arm to pull himself towards Darkblade. His progress was slow, and Scala pushed himself up on his arms before dropping down again.

  Stelv reached the long saw-toothed blade and inched it towards the rope securing Darkblade's right ankle to the wall. He pushed the tip of the blade over the rope and started pushing the teeth across the strands in a slow motion, with only a few of the teeth crossing the fibers in his feeble effort.