Tales of the Sword: Short Stories of a Fantastic Nature Read online

  Tales of the Sword

  Todd Shryock

  Revised Edition, 2012

  Copyright 2012 Todd Shryock

  [email protected]

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Thanks for downloading my collection of short stories. Some are from many years ago, while others are a little more recent – though even the newest one is from 2002. Obligations related to having a wonderful daughter and family have a way of taking away a lot of free time that used to be used for writing.

  If you are wondering where I get ideas, well, that’s hard to say. Sometimes I’ll see a painting and sometimes things just pop into my head. I have a number of characters that have resided in my head for quite some time. Their adventures continue even though I’m not chronicling their journeys. Some day, I hope to write about all their journeys so I can share them with you.

  Todd Shryock

  April, 2010

  The Indomitable

  The old man glided through the waist-high saw grass with a minimum of effort. Countless years of hunting had given him the secrets of the land, for now he passed through the sharp-bladed outgrowth without so much as a scratch. His spear with its red shaft sometimes reached out to coax aside a particularly stubborn branch, and more often than naught, the plant agreed, for the red rings that now ran solid the length of the weapon each represented a successful hunt, and this one was indeed a fierce warrior.

  The loin cloth made of cheetah skin identified him as a member of the tribe sharing the animal's namesake, and often, its speed and ferocity on the hunt. But this one's speed was waning. The years in the wilds had taken a toll, showing in the deep cracks that ran about his face like the canyons far to the north of the tribal hunting grounds. His dark eyes, still full of the glimmer of youth, hid behind a mask of a grey-haired man, his once taunt muscles starting to fall from the bone and giving the illusion of weakness.

  But there are no weak members of the cheetah tribe, only those who are alive, and those who are dead. The man's journey on this day was determined the night before. The old warrior had not gone without a fight. Rul, the chieftain, had ordered him banished from the tribe and said the time had come for him to join their forefathers in the land of the dead, for the old man was no longer contributing to the land of the living. The silver-haired warrior had pointed out that he still brought home more kills than some of the youngest hunters, but Rul would hear nothing of it. The two had never gotten along since the old man had relinquished his position of chieftain to the younger one many years before.

  The old man had listened to the judgment as the fire lit up the small circle of the tribesman. They told him that because he had no sons to take care of him, he was no longer of worth to the tribe, and the only right thing to do would be to make the journey to the land of the dead. Rul had told the old man that he was to leave in the morning. He did not agree with the council's decision, but the tribe had stood for a thousand years, and the law was the law. He took the single crow's feather tied to his spear and tossed it into the fire, signifying the end of his existence with the tribe.

  The council had nodded in approval. The old man had honored the tribe in many ways through the years, both on the hunt and in war with the tribe of the lion, but his time had passed. The tribe spent the night in mourning as its oldest member spent the night in his hut near the edge of the small village gathering the things he would need for the ritual. He placed the string of wooden beads he wore into a small hole in the middle of the hut and covered them with dirt. The spirits of the wood had guided him to successful hunts many times, but now that he was leaving, he had to return them to the earth where they would be reborn. He placed his small bag of telling stones beside his meager pile of belongings, for their guidance in things yet to pass would also no longer be necessary.

  The old man spent the night sitting on the pile of pelts that served as his simple bed, wondering what judgment the gods would pass on him the following day. He would either be judged a proud hunter and warrior, and welcomed by the cheetah into the realm of the dead, or judged a failure, then he would be devoured by the beast, spending all eternity in its belly, feeling the pain of defeat. There was also a third possibility, and for that, the old man prayed silently most of the night. He prayed for the eagle, the bird that would drive away the vultures and speak the words of the great cheetah, judging the council's decision a mistake and seeking whatever punishment it deemed necessary.

  In all his years, the old man had seen many proud warriors walk the lonely path to the land of the dead, but he had never seen the appearance of the eagle. Perhaps it would be better to be accepted into the great beyond and leave the living to themselves.

  The dawn came quickly, and a continuous drumbeat signaled the arrival of the harbinger of death, the sun, whose hatred burned so bright that it lit up the world. The old man picked up his spear and the small bundle of sticks that would be fired if the eagle appeared, slinging them on his back and started his journey in the predawn light that was neither day nor night.

  The ancient hunter now stood by the edge of the dry lake bed, its parched basin showing the same wear as his own skin, brown and cracked, and sagging from the continuous heat. Far in the distance, through the shimmering waves of the early morning heat, he could see the dark outline of the rocky burial mound that marked the destination for the walk to the land of the dead. He paused momentarily, turning to take one last look back, but all he could see was the tall saw grass weaving in the breeze, the village was too far away to be seen. An almost imperceptible smile crossed the old man's face as he turned to face the lake bed again. There wouldn't have been anyone watching him go anyway. He had never taken a mate, and was so old that many in the village feared him, thinking him a user of some dark magic to keep himself alive so long.

  He stepped out from the shade of the tall tree and onto the cracked and foreign surface of the lake bed. He set his eyes on the distant point of death and began his solitary march. The cloudless sky was soon dominated by the bright burning sun, its rays scorching the earth and heating his skin. The old man ignored his old adversary, for many times in the last few years, the sun had tried to bring him down with heat and thirst while on the hunt, but had always failed. Today was his journey to the dead, and he was not about to be taken now.

  Time became meaningless on the march. The featureless bed gave little indication of progress, and only the movement of the cracks under his feet as he walked told the old man that he was moving at all. The greenery of the distant treeline was a hazy line on the horizon; not even the plants dared venture out onto the lake of the dead. Sweat poured from his body and stung his eyes as he continued on. The dark point far ahead seemed the same distance away as before, even though much time had passed, and the old man wondered how long he could continue out in the open. He knew that many never made it to the stones, and though there was no dishonor in not doing so, he was determined he would not be one of them.

  The old man stopped and wiped the sweat out of his eyes and off his wrinkled forehead. He dropped his wet hand to his side and looked out at the distant mound once more. It seemed much closer now, and that wasn't all. There was clearly someone standing atop the mound, which the old man judged to be twice the height of a man. The figure was unmoving and the distance was too great to make out details. The old man tightened his grip on his spear and started forward.

  The figure stood looking out in the general direction of the old man, but his gaze was fixed far away and he did not acknowledge the approach
of the tribesman. The old man now stood at the base of the pile of rocks that covered the ancient dead of his tribe and looked up at the man above him. He was a barbarian from the north. His body was short and squat, corded with muscles and striped with veins that stretched to breath free of the hard work the body had been subject to. The man was bare-chested, wearing only a piece of leather attached to a wide belt that ringed the man's thick waist. An ornate sword hung in a scabbard at his side, and his right hand held a double-headed war axe that had a large barbed tip at the end of the shaft between the blades. A metal helm with a horn coming out of either side adorned his head, and a golden-hoop earring poked through the man's flowing dark hair.

  The old man looked up at the barbarian and reveled in his appearance. The horned helmet gave him the look of a bull, and if there were ever a part-man part-bull creature, this surely had to be him. He continued to stare out across the plain, ignoring the old man below, impervious to the heat and blinding light reflecting off the lake bed. The old man noticed a glint of light on the buckle of the man's belt, and the barely perceptible smile returned to his face, for adorning the belt was an eagle sculpted from silver.

  The hunter looked up in the clear blue sky and saw that there were no vultures. He quickly unslung the pack of firewood and started banging his two fire rocks together until the dry kindling caught and started to burn. Within minutes, the small fire was sending a column of smoke high into the cloudless sky. The barbarian ignored the fire, content with his scan of the horizon.

  The old man leaned against his spear and took a small drink from his waterskin, glancing back to the line of trees from which he had come hours ago, until he saw the three tribesman trotting towards them, small wisps of dust kicking up with each step. The three stopped at the base of the mound, glancing over at the old man, seeming agitated that he had signaled.

  He simply pointed up to the barbarian and nodded several times. The three tribesmen looked up and scolded the old man for signaling that the eagle had come. The old man pointed up to the sky, but they were unconvinced. They gripped their spears, shouted their war cries and charged up the mound. The old man's seasoned eyes saw the barbarian's right arm clench just enough to signify his readiness. The bull of a man had never even looked down at the three newcomers, ignoring them until the last possible moment as he sidestepped a spear. His right arm lashed out in a strike that was too quick for the eye to follow, and only the bodiless head rolling down the rocks to land at the feet of the old man signified its success. The next man fared no better, for the barbarian ducked and reversed the direction of the axe, catching the tribesman across the face, sending the body tumbling down the backside of the mound. The third man came in screaming, his spear leveled before him. The barbarian caught the spear in the space between the point of his axe and one of the blades, prying it from the warrior's hands as he continued his fruitless charge. The tribesman meant to knock the barbarian from the top of the sacred mound, but was met with the outstretched left hand of the bull, stopping him. The strong fingers clinched around his neck, and he futilely grabbed the barbarian's arms and began pounding on them, trying to force the bull to release his grip. The old man squinted as the blood covered blade twirled once in the barbarian's hand as he slammed the point up under the man's rib cage as he continued to hold him. The body went limp, and the barbarian let the corpse drop with its comrades, the head making a sickening sound as it slapped against a particularly large rock on its way down.

  The barbarian resumed his watch, the blood dripping off his axe onto the rocks below him, where it was baked by the intensity of the sun into dark brown flakes. The old man waited with him until a small group of men could be seen making their way across the lake bed in the mid-afternoon heat. Rul was at their head, and beside him trotted a strange creature. The old man had seen Rul's pet before and cared little for it. It had a long body, about three times the length of a man, and was tubular like a snakes, but it held its head upright, and the whole beast was propelled by two sets of powerful legs that ended in sharp talons. The head had large spines and plated ridges, and the mouth was full of sharp teeth, including two wicked fangs that would inject its victims with a fatal poison.

  The old man didn't like the cowardly tactics the beast used on the hunt, and considered it an insult to the great cheetah that such a creature was allowed not only in the village but on the hunt. Now it was treading on the tribe's sacred ground as well. The old man wondered what the great cheetah would do to such a beast.

  Rul stopped at the base of the mound and peered upward at the barbarian, and as before, the barbarian ignored those below him, continuing to stare out across the great lake bed. The chieftain glanced down at the headless body near the old man and sneered, blaming him for the wrath of the gods. The old man simply pointed to the sky and smiled. Rul took a step towards him, but one of the others stopped him. Killing a man on the journey to the land of the dead would offend the spirits and plunge the village into despair for one hundred years.

  Rul spoke to a few of the warriors, who immediately sped off at a run across the lake bed to fetch the rest of the hunters. Rul's pet, the viperla, hissed and spat at the old man, occasionally looking up to the barbarian to see if he had moved, and reassured he had not, continued his display against the ancient traveler. The warriors sat in a small circle about the holy mound in prayer as they waited. None of the men would look at the old man, for in their minds, he was already dead. Only the chieftain had the ability to see the dead once the sun had reached its high point in the sky.

  When the rest of the warriors arrived, Rul shouted a great battle cry to the gods, demanding revenge upon this foreigner for defiling the holy burial grounds of their ancestors. He called out a name, and one of the warriors rushed up the pile from behind the barbarian. The bull stood motionless until the tip of the spear was almost in his back, then suddenly whirled around, his axe blade cutting the spear shaft cleanly in two as his left hand lashed out in a balled fist, crashing into the mans jaw. The snapping of bone rung out in the calmness of the holy ground as the man tumbled back down the slope and lay moaning, blood running onto the ground.

  Rul called out another name, and a seasoned warrior charged upward at the unmoving barbarian. The tribesman hesitated near the top, waiting for the barbarian to move, but he refused. The hunter moved to the side and thrust in with his spear. The barbarian shifted his great mass with unreal speed, dodging the thrust and grabbing the shaft with his hand, yanking the surprised warrior toward him and splitting his skull open with a single blow. The body crashed onto the rocks and rolled down into the horrified circle of onlookers.

  Rul stood enraged as one by one, his bravest warriors were being killed. He shot an angry glance over to the old man, promising to kill him for bringing such unfavor from the gods. He dropped all sense of honor and yelled out in fury, shouting the charge to the dozen remaining warriors, and slapping the back of the head of the viperla, signaling it to join the attack.

  The warriors clamored up the rocky hill, trying to attack the barbarian from every direction at once. The old man watched in amazement as the motionless bull turned into a whirling fury of slashing steel. A muscled arm drove the axe blade into a man's chest as one of the mighty legs kicked out, sending another warrior tumbling down the sharp rocks. The viperla coiled its head back, seeing the exposed thigh of the barbarian as he was parrying the attacks of no less than five tribesmen at once, and lashed its head out. Its eyes rolled back in its head as its fangs dripped the poison that would bring this struggle to an end. But the viperla's instincts to protect its eyes only meant that it never saw the axe reverse direction and cleanly slice its head from its body.

  The unattached head hit the thigh and bounced off, rolling down the pile of rocks to join the mass of carnage at its base. The old man watched body after body roll down the hill, and each time the barbarian seemed to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, he quickly ended several lives with a twist of his axe or a devastating punch
of his stonelike fist. The wounded littered the rocks of the mound, and their cries for death were audible even above the ringing of steel on bone.

  Rul got up from the rock onto which he had been tossed, and picked up his small machete. The last of his warriors was slain as he regained his feet and charged one final time. The point on the shaft of the barbarian's axe caught him in the throat as he rushed in, and with a mighty heave, the bull flipped the large body of Rul over his head to land with a dull thud on the far side of the mound.

  The old man watched as the barbarian's tense muscles slowly relaxed as he sensed the end of the threat. The ancient tribesman looked about the hill, at the shattered corpses and over to the mangled body of Rul. He looked up at the barbarian, and began to laugh, a wheezing laugh that sounded much like that of a hyena as the air was forced from his old lungs. He continued to laugh, and for the first time that day, the barbarian showed he was human, and turned his gaze onto the old man.

  The old hunter continued laughing as he picked up his spear. He took one last look at the barbarian, their gazes locking momentarily, then the old man started out on the lake bed once more as the day began to wane. He knew he needed to get off of the holy ground before darkness came, for to be there when the sun left would anger the spirits, and that was not wise. The old man continued in the same direction, away from the village, for they had completed the ritual of death, and he could never live there again. So for now, he walked, enjoying his reprieve from the afterlife.

  As the barbarian felt the sun set behind him, he looked out at the long distorted shadows cast by the rocky mound, and noticed how much it looked like one of the spotted hunting cats of the plains. Behind him, he heard the old man laugh.