by Morgan Rice
Merk stood in the forest clearing, one man dead at his feet, and stared back at the seven other thieves, who gaped back. They now had a look of respect—and fear—in their eyes, clearly realizing they had made a mistake in taking him for just another vulnerable traveler.
“I’m tired of killing,” Merk said to them calmly, a smile on his face, “so today is your lucky day. You have one chance to turn and run.”
A long, tense silence fell over them as they all looked to each other, clearly debating what to do.
“That’s our friend you killed,” one seethed.
“Your ex-friend,” Merk corrected. “And if you keep talking, it will be you, too.”
The thief scowled and raised his club.
“There are still seven of us and one of you. Lay that knife down real slow and raise your hands, and maybe we won’t cut you to pieces.”
Merk smiled wider. He was tired, he realized, of resisting the urge to kill, of resisting who he was. It was so much easier just to stop fighting it, to become the old killer he was.
“You had your warning,” he said, shaking his head.
The thief charged, raising his club high and swinging wildly.
Merk was surprised. For a big man, he swung quicker than he would have imagined. Yet he was clumsy, and Merk merely ducked, stabbed him in the gut, and stepped aside, letting him fall face-first into the dirt.
Another thief charged, raising his dagger, aiming for Merk’s shoulder, and Merk grabbed his wrist, re-directed it, and plunged the man’s own dagger into his heart.
Merk saw a thief raise a bow and take aim, and he quickly grabbed another thief charging him, spun him around, and used him as a human shield. His hostage cried out as the arrow pierced his chest instead.
Merk then shoved the dying man forward, right into the one with the bow, blocking his shot, then raised his dagger and threw it. It spun end over end, crossing the clearing until it impaled in the man’s neck, killing him.
That left three of them, and they now looked back at Merk with uncertain faces, as if debating whether to charge or run.
“There are three us and one of him!” one called out. “Let’s charge together!”
They all charged him at once, and Merk stood there, waiting patiently, relaxed. He was unarmed, and that was how he wanted it; often, he found, the best way to defeat foes, especially when outnumbered, was to use their weapons against them.
Merk waited for the first one to slash at him, an oaf of a boy who charged clumsily with a sword, all power and no technique. Merk stepped aside, grabbed the boy’s wrist, snapped it, then disarmed him and sliced his throat. As the second attacker came, Merk spun backwards and slashed him across the chest. He then turned and faced the third thief and threw the sword—a move the man did not expect. It spun end over end and entered the man’s chest, sending him flat on his back.
Merk stood there, looking around at the eight dead men, taking stock of his work with a professional assassin’s eye. As he did he noticed one of them—the one with the club—was still alive, squirming on his stomach. The old Merk took over, and he could not help himself as he walked over to the man, still unsatisfied. Leave no enemies alive. Ever. Never let them see your face.
Merk walked casually over to the thief, reached out with his boot, and kicked him over, until he lay on his back. The thief looked up, bleeding from his mouth, eyes filled with fear.
“Please…don’t do it,” he begged. “I would have let you go.”
Merk smiled.
“Would you?” he asked. “Was that before you tortured me, or after?”
“Please!” the man called out, starting to cry. “You said you had renounced violence!”
Merk leaned back and thought about that.
“You’re right,” he said.
The man blinked up at him, hope in his eyes.
“I have,” Merk added. “But the thing is, you stirred something up in me today, something I would have quite rather suppressed.”
“Please!” the man shrieked, sobbing.
“I wonder,” Merk said, reflective, “how many innocent women, children, you have killed on this road?”
The man continued to sob.
“ANSWER ME!” Merk yelled.
“What does it matter?” the man called back, between sobs.
Merk lowered the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.
“It matters to me,” Merk said, “a great deal.”
“Okay, okay!” he called out. “I don’t know. Dozens? Hundreds? It is what I have been doing my whole life.”
Merk thought about that; at least it was an honest response.
“I myself have killed many men in my lifetime,” Merk said. “Not all I am proud of—but all for a cause, a purpose. Sometimes I was duped into killing an innocent—but in that case, I always killed the person who hired me. I never killed women, and I never killed children. I never preyed on the innocent, or the defenseless. I never robbed and I never cheated. I guess that makes me something of a saint,” Merk said, smiling at his own humor.
He sighed.
“But you,” he continued, “you are scum.”
“Please!” the man shouted. “You can’t kill an unarmed man!”
Merk thought about that.
“You’re right,” he said, and looked about. “See that sword lying next to you? Grab it.”
The man looked over, fear in his eyes.
“No,” he cried, trembling.
“Grab it,” Merk said, pushing the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, “or I will kill you.”
The thief finally reached over, grabbed the hilt of the sword, and held it with trembling hands.
“You can’t kill me!” the man shouted again. “You vowed to never kill again!”
Merk smiled wide, and in one quick motion, he plunged his sword into the man’s chest.
“The nice thing about starting over,” Merk said, “is that there’s always tomorrow.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
