The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

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MetalHead
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The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

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The watchman's blood gushed out as the swordsman's knife opened his throat from behind in one swift motion. In a horrible gurgle as he tried hopelessly to scream for help, the man dropped, drying. The swordsman crouched low, and cut his purse, dropping the rather light pouch into his bag. The cold night air atop the battlements of Castle Black Star blasted him in a brief gust of wind. The swordsman pulled his black cloak tighter around him and made sure his hood wouldn't blow open and reveal his shining silver eyes. The watchman's body was given a hard shove with the swordsman's foot, and it fell lifelessly off the edge of the walls into the moat with a splash. Torches marked the position of every other watchman, making it far to easy for the swordsman to slip in unnoticed. He stalked quickly along the walls, towards the nearby turret, knife in hand. He quietly pushed the wooden door open, and slid inside the turret's stairwell. He raced quickly down the steps, ignoring his footfalls, chancing that this turret's guardroom was nearer the top than the bottom. Fortunately, he was right, and as he pushed open an iron gate into the castle's interior area, his eyes swept between the buildings, looking for enemies. There were plenty. A pair of guards stood on almost every entrance to any building, each holding a spear in his hand with a long sword at his hip.

The swordsman grunted in frustration. The main hall had even more guards around it, the two spearmen and several crossbowmen on the roof. Crossbows gave him an idea though. He darted out of the shadows of the turret, sheathing his dagger. He slid to a halt on his side behind a small stable, listening for sounds of alert. He heard none. He was now off to the west side of the main hall, out of sight of the two spearmen. The crossbowmen atop the foyer roof could still possibly see him, as barricades against arrows and throw weapons had been created facing the front of the hall, but only the front, to the north. The roof was made of tiles, not thatch, the King of Castle Black Star was wealthy beyond wealth, and more than happy to have every luxury available to him. The swordsman crawled forward on his belly, moving painstakingly slowly until he reached the western wall of the main hall's entrance. Now, the tricky part. He felt the weight of the two throwing knives up his sleeves to reassure himself, then, stood with his back against the wall. He turned to face it, and back-pedalled several steps. With a brief burst of speed and a leap, his boots scrabbled against the bricks as he boosted his jump by pushing off the wall. His ebony gloves gripped the edge of the tiles, and he hauled himself up silently. He rolled to his feet in a rustle of his cloak, and the two crossbowmen turned to see what the noise was. A throwing knife caught each man in the throat. They dropped, blood dripping out from their throats as they struggled to sound the alarm in their death moans. The first man crumpled quietly, the second man dropped his crossbow with a loud bang.

"What was that?" came from bellow. The swordsman's heart skipped a beat, but he responded in his gruffest voice, "I killed a wasp." His only answer was a snort of amusement. Fighting the urge to sigh with relief, he silently thanked the stars that war hadn't broken out and his task of assassinating the King of Merdaria would be that much easier because of it. As quietly as he could, he picked up the two crossbows, and collected his throwing knives, wiping the blood from them on the cloak of one of the dead guards. He peeked out through the wooden barricade. The other buildings all had their guards in sight of each other. This one did not. A foolish placement, but this castle had been constructed in a time of peace, not war. Holding a crossbow in each hand, he approached the edge of the roofline, and stood with his back to the northern side. In a flash, he crouched, and leapt backwards, flipping over his other side, landing hard and dropping into a crouch. Before the spearmen could even begin to contemplate a robe of black appearing from above, a crossbow bolt struck each man in the neck. The swordsman aimed just slightly to the outside of the spine, and the heavy arrows sliced straight through their flesh and stuck into the opposite wall. Each man grasped fruitlessly at his throat as he died. The swordsman wasted no time, and hacked the ends off each arrow with his knife. With a little luck, a casual glance would see two men standing at the door, perhaps looking a bit sleepy. Better than bodies, or worse, no guards at all. The fact that they were not holding spears and had blood down their rather white tunics hopefully would go unnoticed. All part of the job. The swordsman opened the door to the main hall, and slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him.

He was presented with a long corridor, that ran perpendicular with another one at the end, a T-junction. There were no windows, but their were doors. The swordsman did not have time to check any of them, and nor was he interested. He stalked in a half-crouch down the hallway, throwing knives in hands. As he approached the far end of the corridor, he peeked around to the right, facing east, the west end would be the west wall. His head flashed around the corner and darted back, and he sustained a curse under his breath. A single man in a red tunic with black stripes and light armour stood guard with a standard spearman against a great wooden door that doubtlessly lead to the main hall properly. The King of Merdaria kept an elite group of fighting men as his personal bodyguard, the Black Blades as they were known. A fitting name, as rumour had it that their hearts were as black as a clouded night. They knew no fear, no emotion of any kind for that matter, and fought with such savagery that men from across the lands of Merdaria and beyond spoke of their brutality and ruthlessness in battle. Legend had it that a King of Merdaria, an insurmountable time ago, had once been faced with a protest from his farmers about the taxes he imposed. Merdaria was already a rich nation, they argued, why should we pay so dearly? The King invited them all to protest formally at banquet. Every man, and even every woman, who arrived to petition the crown, was gathered into the interior of the castle before the King commanded the Black Blades to slay them. The following day, their corpses were hung from the walls and their heads were on spikes, where the ravens plucked out their eyes for all to see.

The swordsman grinned. Perhaps he would not go unchallenged tonight. He flung back his hood, and draped the left side of his cloak around the back of his scabbard. He rounded the corner at a fast walk. The guards jumped at his appearance, but did not shout the alarm. As he approached the door, two spears crossed to block his path. "And just who are you?" the Black Blade asked, sarcastically. The swordsman bowed deeply. "I am Harath, messenger from Adonia, with an urgent message for The Crown" he lied, not rising. The Black Blade did not sound impressed. "And what message would you bring at this hour, peasant? The Crown rests till the morrow, and I will not have him disturbed for one such as you. You will give the message to me, and I will deliver it to the Crown." the guard commanded. The Swordsman inhaled deeply, changing his tone from one of respect to one of stern formality. "My lord, I wish not to offend, but my orders are to speak only to The Crown, be it either The Lord or the Lady" he said firmly. The Black Blade guard snorted in disgust. "Yes, I'm sure you were so-ordered. Do you think to mock me, peasant, with your words? Do you insult my intelligence? You are scum, and you will wait here like scum" the man said, spitting on his boots in irritation. The spearman raised his spear as the elite guard slipped through the large door. After a minute, the guard looked at him and said, "I wouldn't worry. He'd never accept the responsibility of turning an urgent messenger away, though his temper is rather foul."
"That is well then, friend, for I bear dire news", the Swordsman responded quietly. The spearman nodded, but didn't say a thing, though his grip on his spear lessened slightly. Several minutes passed, then several more, before the large door opened, and a sleepy looking man lead the Black Blade back through. "You come bearing an urgent message for the Crown?" he inquired, a note of sleepiness in his voice. The swordsman bowed again. "I do my lord, it is of dire importance that I speak directly to the crown."
"Then you shall come with me. The Crown shall not be pleasantly surprised to hear from Adonia so far away at this hour, so your message had best be dire indeed" he replied.
"I assure you my lord, it is of the highest importance that I speak with the Crown" the swordsman said quietly.

The official gestured and went through the door, the man of the Black Blades sending evil glares at him as he moved through. As soon as the door shut, the swordsman slid the throwing knives back up his sleeves. He followed the official through a massive open hall, up a grand stair, into a wide, ornate series of corridors, up another flight of stairs, before he noticed arrow slits. The Crown's chambers were on an exterior wall. The swordsman struck out in a flash, his gloved hands gripping the man's chin either side and with a rough jerk, snapping his neck. The figure dropped lifelessly to the floor, paralyzed. The swordsman ran as quietly as he could down the corridor, until he rounded a corner and saw two Black Blades standing watch over the Crown's chamber. As he approached at a dead run, he shouted "To arms! Riders on the North Wall, to arms!" the guards, slightly surprised and confused, didn't know how to react. Some gripped the hilts of their swords, one made to move but thought better of it, and one actually barked a laugh. But that was all the time the swordsman needed. He was upon them then, throwing knives in hands. As he ran past the first guard his left arm flashed out and slit the man's throat, spraying his blood onto the stone. In one fluid motion the swordsman turned, and rammed both blades into the other man, feeling the sickening resistance of bone as he slammed the man backwards.
Both Black Blades dropped, drowning in their own blood. In a flash, the swordsman pulled his hood back over his head, and wrapped his cloak around him. He quietly pushed the large, notably iron door open, and shut it behind him, sliding a lock into place as he did so.

The bedchamber was large, but surprisingly modest by royal standards. No lavish paintings, nothing unnecessary beside a few luxuries. The bed was against the biggest window the swordsman had ever seen. It was a massive, four post bed with a canopy for the Lady of the Crown, and two bodies snored quietly within the sheets. The swordsman slid his throwing knives away up his sleeves and silently unsheathed his dagger. He stalked forward as slow as he dared, boots padding silently against the thick rug. He was twenty paces from the Crown's bed when he felt the eyes on him. One of them was awake and looking right at him. He froze, and stood still, listening. A heavy, deep breathing came from the left side of the bed, distinctly a man's sleep breath, the King. A light, slightly faster breathing came from the right. A woman, awake, the Queen, one of his targets, staring right at him. He made a gamble, and swallowed his fear, stalking forward again. The breathing from the woman increased slightly in speed as he drew nearer. Ever closer he crept, listening to the sound of her breath, gradually growing faster and heavier with each step he took. Until he was only inches from the side of the bed. And he was right, she was looking right at him. For half a moment, he drank in her beauty, the Queen of Merdaria, naked in the bed with her husband the king, beneath only a thin sheet. Her breasts were average in size, and appeared to be firm, she was slightly plump, but not unattractively so. Her hair was long and brown, which, the swordsman imagined, would enhance the radiance of her green eyes in the day. But it didn't matter really, because, she was afraid. So afraid, that she was petrified beyond speech. She remained that way until his dagger flashed. She opened her mouth to scream and his gloved hand covered her mouth as the blade slid across her throat.

For good measure, the swordsman stabbed her in the heart and stomach as well. The king slept soundly as the swordsman circled the bed and repeated the process. His gloves soaked in the blood of his targets, he wiped them off on the sheets, then began to walk quickly out of the room, his heart aching slightly at the prospect of killing a frightened, beautiful woman. He stepped out into corridor and began to retrace his steps. Twice, he became confused, but eventually he returned to the large doors he had come through before. As the doors opened, suspicion was rife on the elite guard's face. "Halt! You, where is your escort, where is Lord Brenning?" the guard commanded. The swordsman didn't even twitch. In a flash, his hand lashed out and punched the man squarely in the throat. He crumpled, grasping for breath with his ruined windpipe. The spearman reacted quickly, but jerkedly, trying to bash the swordsman over the head with his spearhead's flat. The swordsman slid sideways and gripped the end of the weapon. He pulled fiercely and the man stumbled, though he impressively kept hold of the spear. The swordsman right knee came up into the slightly hunched over spearman's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, then he shoved the spear back up, the haft crashing into the man's face. The crunch of his nose breaking was followed by a stream of blood as he released the spear. The swordsman pulled it away from him sharply, then turned the point to his enemy, and rammed the spear into the man's chest. He cried out in pain as he began to die, but the swordsman was already running for the exit doors. He burst into the courtyard, sprinting for the turret, when he heard "HALT!" behind him. He didn't look back as he crashed through the iron gate into the turret he had infiltrated through.

A crossbow bolt was right on his heels as he took the first step, running as fast as he could. His cloak flapped behind him as he came up through the turret. As he came to the door to the battlements, he paused long enough to kick it open, cracking the wooden frame. Then, he continued on up several dozen steps, and crashed into the turret's guardroom, drawing his long sword. The guards were still shouting in surprise as the first man lost his head to the flash of steel. A spray of gore followed as swords were drawn and shouts let fly, but the swordsman's momentum carried him further into the room, his blade slashing downward across a shirtless man's chest. He dropped screaming as the swordsman spun just in time to parry a heavy blow. He snap rolled to his right, where a fourth man was leaping over a table, and hacked at his shins as he completed the roll. The man twitched, reacting, but failing to do anything useful as bone splintered under the arc of the sword. He dropped, howling, clutching his ruined shins in agony as the swordsman rose to stand, stabbing downwards into the man's chest. He shook once, and died. The other man had closed the short distance between them and roared a battle cry as his blade came down in a sharp vertical slash. The swordsman parried easily, dancing to his left and flicking his blade up, pushing the slash backwards with a loud clang. He circled his blade in a shallow spin to the right and brought it horizontally across the man's chest, and stabbed him through the heart, dead in three moves, 4 if he counted the evasion. He heard men shouting from the turret's stairs below, and looked around quickly. A ladder was in the far corner of the room, leading to a trap door. The swordsman punched the door open and climbed through to the top of the turret. He sealed the trapdoor, peered out over the west wall of the castle that faced the moat. Sheathing his sword, he silently prayed the moat was not too deep and did not smell too foul , and in a stunning swan like dive, plunged from the top of the turret to the dark water below. He entered with a somewhat loud splash, but his perfect dive hid most of his escape. Shouting men would cover up the rest. He sunk like a stone, the weight of three knives and a long sword weighing him down considerably. He hit the bottom with stunning force, but his breath held, and he managed to kick furiously for the surface. The water was murky, but not heavily polluted and didn't smell terrible. He struggled for the surface, then clambered free, gripping the soggy embankment where he could.

As he cleared the water, he rolled in the grass and vegetation to soak up a little bit of the water, then he began to crawl forward on his stomach towards the outlying villages. His charge was fulfilled, and he had only to return to his employer to receive his reward. The first step on his own personal road to conquest was almost complete. "Sir Ryson, Lord of the Dawn" he whispered to himself, "it has a pleasant sound."
"Beware what you intend to say, those words will always make you pay." - Soilwork

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MetalHead
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Re: The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

Post by MetalHead »

bump..haha.
"Beware what you intend to say, those words will always make you pay." - Soilwork

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Tsukiyumi
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Re: The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

Post by Tsukiyumi »

Good stuff, man. Got any more?
There is only one way of avoiding the war – that is the overthrow of this society. However, as we are too weak for this task, the war is inevitable. -L. Trotsky, 1939
MetalHead
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Re: The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

Post by MetalHead »

If you mean more to the story then yes, its a continual work in progress. If you mean other random violence, then...YES lol.
"Beware what you intend to say, those words will always make you pay." - Soilwork

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Tsukiyumi
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Re: The Swordsman (non trek original fic)

Post by Tsukiyumi »

Well, I meant the former, but the latter works as well. :wink:
There is only one way of avoiding the war – that is the overthrow of this society. However, as we are too weak for this task, the war is inevitable. -L. Trotsky, 1939
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