Tales of the Sword: Short Stories of a Fantastic Nature

by Todd Shryock

  Scala pushed himself up to all fours and looked up. He was facing away from Darkblade and wasn't aware of what was going on. He turned his head, his eyes full of blank rage, and saw Stelv sawing on the rope. He pulled his knife from his belt and crawled over to Stelv, who could do nothing except focus on the rope. Scala swayed once, and Darkblade watched as he almost went down, but then regained his balance and continued on his hands and knees. He pulled the knife back and aimed for Stelv's throat.

  The last strand of the rope gave way, and Darkblade swung his foot out and caught Scala flat on the nose. There was an awful impact as his foot broke the man's nose and sent him rolling onto his side.

  "You have to cut my hand free, Stelv," he said. It was amazing Stelv had made it this far. He looked dead already. Stelv dipped his head in what Darkblade took for a nod and grabbed his leg to pull himself up. He partially stood up and wrapped his bandaged arm around Darkblade's neck to keep from falling. The blade began it's work on the rope holding his wrist.

  Again, the race was on. Scala was holding his face, lying on his side moaning. Stelv seemed to pick up some strength from somewhere and cut the last of the rope. As the last strand broke, freeing Darkblade's arm, Stelv collapsed, dropping the saw-toothed blade across Darkblade's free foot. The ringing of the metal striking the floor drew Scala's attention. His face was swollen and bloody, but his eyes still burned with hatred.

  Darkblade leaned down to try to pick up the blade at his feet, but he couldn't reach it with his other hand still securely fastened to the wall. Scala picked up his knife and rose to his feet. He took several heavy breaths and pushed the blood-matted hair out of his eyes. The killer raised his knife and took a step forward, staggered a bit, then righted himself. "I'll enjoy this," he sneered.

  Darkblade raised his right knee in a quick motion, tossing the blade up in the air. He caught the weapon slightly above the hilt and tossed it up again to move his hand down to the grip. With an awkward backhanded slash, he caught Scala's arm between the wrist and the elbow, forcing the knife aside and drawing several deep holes where the teeth bit into his arm.

  "You bastard!" Scala screamed as he grabbed his bleeding arm, his swollen nose leaking blood. He tried to move towards Darkblade, but another slash of the blade kept him back. He yelled in anger, then ran into the other room. Darkblade sawed the rope off his other arm and leg, then ran across the room to exchange the awkward sawtoothed tool for his own finely balanced sword. He glanced at the curtain where Scala had gone, but there were no signs of movement or sounds of activity. Darkblade quickly ran to Stelv and rolled him over. The watch commander groaned, but remained unconscious. Darkblade sized up his situation. His own wound was still bleeding, but not badly. He wasn't sure he could carry the unconscious commander and make it out. The only option was to go after Scala and finish him off and hope there was enough time to save Stelv.

  Darkblade rose and glanced around for his magic coin, but there was no sign of it. He took a deep breath and rushed through the curtain into the other room. There were several work tables and a rack of cruel instruments with various hooks, barbs and saws. Two of the long wooden tables were caked with dried blood, and the floor was likewise grisly, with flecks of flesh and innards splattered on the floor. Another curtain led from the room on the far side, and again, Darkblade rushed it, hoping to catch Scala by surprise.

  When he burst through the curtain, the room was plunged into darkness and a loud grating sound came from behind him. He swung his sword in several directions, but met with nothing. The only sound was his own breathing as he crouched low into a defensive stance, weapon held at the ready.

  The lights flared on. Darkblade saw a steel gate had dropped behind him, blocking the door. The room was no bigger than the other two, and the walls were also lined with ice blocks emanating the magical light. Across from him was what appeared to be a haphazard pile of human parts spaced around a small wooden booth. Inside the booth, Scala sat with a small ice pick in each hand and a smile on his face. Four human brains were arrayed on a small panel in front of him, with various small ropes--or were they nerves?--running to the body parts attached to the booth. Six legs, three on either side of the booth, were in the kneeling position. At least eight arms were attached at various points of the small control booth, each with an axe, saw or other cutting blade held in a hand. Some were mounted to weird mechanical extensions to give them greater reach. Darkblade stared in horror at the four heads mounted atop the control booth, each with an ill-fitting helmet and a wide-mouthed silent scream.

  Scala smiled wider and touched one of the ice picks to a portion of one of the brains. The right-most head spoke: "You." Scala touched the brain several more times. "Shall die," the head finished.

  Darkblade shook his head in disgust.

  "And you thought I could only make clocks," Scala said, shaking his head. "You should have never come down here."

  "I am Darkblade, enforcer of the city, and I'm here to bring you to justice," Darkblade said, standing defiant in front of the grotesque machine.

  Scala's eyes narrowed. "Darkblade? Now I remember where I heard your name before. The rumors of the dark watchman reached me, but to be honest, I didn't care." Scala laughed, his swollen nose momentarily changing from purple to black. "I still don't." His smile returned. "Now you just become an unfortunate victim of my war machine, Darkblade."

  With that, he started moving his ice picks all over the various brains, gently touching each one with the tip before moving on to the next spot. The legs simultaneously stretched and stood up, bringing the monster to one and a half times Darkblade's height. The legs started forward, the booth jolting awkwardly with each step. The arms of the beast began to swing in random patterns: slicing, stabbing, hacking. Darkblade backed up, looking for an opening in the myriad of swing arms and sharp blades, but there were none. Scala laughed again as he moved his device forward, a blade occasionally drawing a deep line in an ice block as it scraped the narrow confines of the room.

  "You cannot even get to me to attack, and there are too many weapons to defend against," Scala stated, his voice calm and confident now. The beast lurched forward another step.

  Darkblade saw the gap he was looking for. He couldn't get an attack in to the control booth, but there was a gap under it, and only two of the arms could reach the area. Darkblade dodge left and stayed high, drawing all the arms in that direction. When the two lower arms swung up to slash at his midsection, he jumped to the side and rolled under the booth and came out behind the beast.

  Scala yelled in protest. Darkblade ran to the back of the booth and tried to open the door, but it was securely locked in place. He jumped off the booth as the beast started to slowly turn around, and ran for the opening at the other end of the room. When he reached the curtain, it too had a steel grate blocking the way. He turned to face the beast again, which had now turned to face him.

  "There is no escape, Darkblade. You are mine. Your parts will make a fine contribution to my next version of my war machine."

  Darkblade relaxed, drawing on every bit of training he could. There was no escape, he was right about that. He would have to fight the beast. He stepped forward, raised his sword and charged into the contraption.

  Two arms swung from the right, he parried the top one, stopping it cold and jumped the other. An axe swung down from overhead, which he ducked, then had to roll out of the way of a bone cutting saw that swung from the left. There were not only a lot of arms, but they had great strength as well, and didn't seem to tire.

  Sweat poured from his brow, and his wound was bleeding again as he continued to parry blow after blow. The axe swung in again, but this time he kneeled and held the blade before him, aiming for the wrist. The axe cut further in than he thought, but his sword caught the axe head where it connects to the handle, knocking it to the floor. Darkblade dodged two more attacks, then severed the hand holding the bone saw. Scala increased the fury of his attacks, and nearly landed a fatal blow with
a rapier as he blocked a long knife.

  He jabbed the point of his blade into the wrist of the rapier hand as it withdrew to attack again. The hand suddenly opened up, dropping the blade. Scala was down to five weapons, and Darkblade made a desperate lunge for one of the brains at the front of the control booth while the weapons were recoiling. But the two empty hands grabbed his arms as he lunged and gripped him to the point of breaking. The long knife waved menacingly in front of him as the arms lifted him off his feet. His sword arm was now pinned against him, and he was starting to lose his grip on the weapon.

  "You shall die," said the second head in a monotone. The hands lifted him above the control booth. Darkblade could see Scala laughing as he touched the brain controls. Darkblade saw his only opportunity.

  With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the blade in the general direction of the brains. The blade tumbled in flight, bounced off part of the booth, then sliced into one of the brains. It wasn't much of a hit really, but the magical black blade easily carved the soft exposed gray matter. The whole right side of the beast lurched to the side, colliding with the wall. The hands loosened and dropped him to the ground, where he rolled to the side and picked up the axe. The first head began humming as Scala fought to regain control.

  Darkblade stepped inside the reach of the still functioning arms and began hacking at the tangle of nerves connecting them to the booth. The head went silent. Two legs knelt down. The remaining arms went limp.

  Scala started to sweat. He backed up in the booth as Darkblade swung his axe into the booth, smashing the remaining brains. Scala picked up Darkblade's sword and stabbed wildly. Darkblade turned the axe sideways as he brought it down hard on the blade, knocking it from the killer's hands.

  Darkblade dropped the axe in exchange for his sword and stood up in time to see Scala exit the back of the booth. He slipped around the side of the carcass and ran to Scala, who was attempting to turn a mechanism that raised the iron grate. He dropped the key in panic, turning to face Darkblade. The killer's eyes were wild, his face a bloody mess from the fight and his legs trembled.

  Darkblade raised his sword above the man, stating, "I shall now bring you to justice."

  "Please don't hurt my chronometer," he whimpered, as the flat of the blade struck him on the head, knocking him out.

  **

  "You have done what I asked, and also saved the life of the watch commander," Wren said as he eased back into the plush chair in his private office.

  "I will not enquire as to what the watch commander was doing there in the first place," Darkblade said, sipping the brandy provided to him by one of the pleasant looking serving girls.

  Wren scowled. "It is of no matter. You each saved each other, remember that."

  Darkblade nodded. "That much is true." He took another sip of the sweet brandy. "And of the chronometer?"

  "Destroyed."

  Darkblade nodded again in approval. "It was quite a grisly sight."

  "So I have heard."

  "And Scala?"

  "Locked securely in the deepest dungeon of central watch."

  **

  "Precision is my religion. Ignorance is simply art," said the newest member of central watch's deepest dungeon.

  The two prisoners in the small cells to either side were amazed at the small device the newcomer had built. Small arms and legs moved around the beating heart of a rat, pointing to various scratches on the floor.

  "But what does it do?" asked one prisoner.

  "This, my friend, tells us when the guards change. It tells us how long we've been here, and most of all, how long until we get out."

  "But we're here for life," the prisoner stated as the small rat arm moved slightly around the circle. "Time has no meaning here."

  Scala poked a small sharp stone just above the midsection of the rat he was holding and twisted. The rat squealed as the man looked at the small device behind him. The long indicator moved backwards several notches.

  "There, you see," he said with a smile to the prisoner. "You do know something after all."

  This concludes Tales of the Sword. What follows is Chapter 1 of The Fly Guild, a full-length fantasy novel available now from all major e-book sellers.

  Chapter 1

  The boy peered around the corner of the ancient stone building, seeking his quarry. The youth of 12 or so years pushed his long auburn hair out of his eyes and back over his ears. His hair was matted and dirty, but this was of little concern to him, as the rumble in his stomach demanded far more attention than the simple demands of grooming. His dark blue eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the street for the right , but seeing nothing, he leaned back around the corner and sighed. He took a deep breath and glanced the other way up the rough cobblestone street, a stench of human waste starting to rise with the morning mist, but hidden between the layers of stink was the sweet smell of bread; a smell that made his stomach yearn for the soft doughy texture of fresh-baked goods that would quiet his insides, at least for a little while.

  The baker set up his small cart to entice early morning passers-by to spend a copper for a muffin or bread slice. The smells were irristible, a scent of heaven arising from the stench of human hell. Pay a copper, taste a better life. The boy glanced up the street again and saw a large man carrying the tools of a mason walking down the street at a slow gait. Perfect, he thought.

  “Quinton!” came a cry from behind him. “What are you doing?” Quinton glanced behind him and saw Altil, a younger street urchin who wasn’t as daring and was looking more emaciated each day as a result.

  “I’m getting me some food. Now go away.” The other boy looked at him dejectedly and shuffled away. Quinton turned his attention back to the large man coming towards him.

  He let the man pass by, then stepped out into the street, matching his pace. He was careful to keep the large man between him and the baker, who was busily setting out the first of his goods on the cart outside his shop, so that if he glanced up, he would only see the mason.

  As the man neared the cart, the boy slid closer to the mason, and at the last second, stepped out from behind him, grabbed a muffin and ran.

  “Hey!” cried the baker. “Stop you little thief.”

  Quinton glanced back and saw that the baker hadn’t come in pursuit, but had turned to look directly across the street. The boy glanced over his other shoulder to see what the baker was looking at. In a doorway almost lost in the shadows was a man in a dark cloak, his face hidden in the folds of the hood. He looked at the baker, then at the boy and nodded. A hand crept from the sleeve and the darkness and entered the morning light in the street. It pointed at the boy and flicked once.

  The boy’s heart raced as he thought the man was putting a spell on him, but when he turned back around, he saw instead that the man had been signaling two tough looking teenagers further up the street who had been leaning against a building. At the signal, they popped off the wall and started trotting towards the boy.

  The boy turned right onto a sidestreet, taking a bite of the muffin as he ran, trying to swallow the luscious bits of nourishment between breaths. His bare feet ached from the pain of running on the rough cobblestones, but his fear drove him on. The toughs were at a full run and gaining fast. The boy knew the city streets and alleys well, and zig-zagged through the maze of narrow paths and avenues, but his pursuers were unphased. He headed for the place he knew best, a narrow alley that ended in a dead end wall. On the other side of the wall was an old building with several holes along the street. He should be able to lie down in one of the holes and cover himself with the abundant garbage and wait for trouble to pass.

  When he reached the wall, the toughs had yet to round the corner behind him. He stuffed the last of the muffin in his mouth and scaled the old stone wall and its slick face with uncanny grace. He grabbed the top of the wall and pulled himself over, his heart pounding in his ears, held the edge tightly, lowered himself to the other side and then let go to drop the remaining few feet.<
br />
  Quinton spun around and took a step, running right into the man in the dark cloak he had seen in the doorway across from the baker. The man’s fist lashed out, catching him under the rib cage, forcing the air out of his body and the rest of muffin out of his mouth. The boy coughed and gagged as the food caught in his throat. He fell to the ground, curling up to try to regain his air, the man’s boots filling his field of vision. He heard a shrill whistle and as his breath returned; he saw the two boys come panting down the alley to stand on either side of the man. They bent over, gasping for air, their stares showing a disklike for the boy that had led them on the merry chase.

  The man in the dark cloak pulled back his hood revealing a human in his thirties, but whose eyes showed an age far beyond that. His hair and full beard were the color of the sand along the river bank near the edge of town and his deep brown eyes showed no emotion as he addressed his two companions.

  “He would have escaped had I not been here to bail you out,” said the man, his voice soft but stern.

  “Sir, the little bugger is fast,” panted one youth, his black hair slicked back on his head with an oily substance.

  The other one, a more burly lad with curly red hair who looked as though he ate very well, agreed. “I don’t know how he got over that wall, it’s slick as a fish’s puss.”

  The man with the sandy hair stared at the boy, who had pushed himself back up against the wall and slowly stood up. The boy’s clothes were rags. They were clothes that had once put him in with the city’s middle class, but that was some time ago. He had the look of a wild animal now, his eyes alert, even now darting here and there when he thought they weren’t looking, hoping for a chance to escape. The man looked at the wall behind the boy. It’s rocks were smooth and covered in slime and moss. The roofs of the nearby buildings dumped all their rain water onto the wall, keeping it perpetually wet in the deep shadows of the building, never drying out.