Dance of Blades

Remove all ads!

This is a one-short short story I whipped up - but I still feel it has more to it than a lot of my other half-attempts at writing. It is not set in any particular 'world,' just one that has samurai. It could just as well be Earth.
Feel very free to comment.


Dance of Blades


Darrav knew he was going to die. There was no doubt in his mind as he stared into the eyes of his opponent, readying his body and spirit in anticipation of the run. It would be a good run.

His armor rested lightly on his shoulders, the cool strength reassuring him. The metal, extremely durable yet exceeding light, was like a shield of light over his body, protecting him from great harm. It was opposite to that of his opponent’s, as his was a suit of pure ebony-black armor.

It twisted and curved in bizarre patterns, deceiving the eye as to where its true joints lay – the vulnerable positions. Darrav’s armor was open and honest, a reflection of his soul. It was bold and tinted with a silvery-gold, and embossed with the face of a goddess. The other’s was patterned in grinning skulls, like the grinning skull that was his face.

The enemy peered from beneath his spiked helm, cool blue eyes promising the cold of death, yet the hints of a cruel, twisted grin crawled its way up his pale cheeks. Surely madness was within that devious mind, working its insidious malignancy upon the intellect within.

Darrav sighed to think that it would end like this, at long last. He had hunted down his enemy, and the enemy had done the same to him. By all rights, they should have met long before. But this was the day they would meet, and in this place.

The morning was a damp one, and tendrils of mist still clung to the marshy ground, just beginning to turn golden in the rising sun. Dew dotted the leaves of the few shrubs that managed to eke out an existence amidst the moss and ferns below. It would have been a wonderful day to be alive. It was an even better day to die.

It surprised him that they should actually meet in this place, just as they first had those many long days ago. Almost three years to the day had passed, and neither had become weary of the chase. It had been a dance – a dance of seeking, and a dance of blades. Little blood had been spilled, other than that of innocents – blood spent in the pursuit.

The dark warrior’s weapon seemed crude, almost ludicrous, for a man that had proved himself to be so cunning and vile. It was a great black club, stained dark red in some places, probably dipped in the blood of a hundred long dead foes. Those lost souls screamed for salvation and retribution at the hands and sword of Darrav.

His weapon was elegant, just as was his battle style. A delicate yet strong katana hung at his waist, ready and hungry for battle as it had ever been. It was the pride of the warrior, and highly attuned to Darrav’s spirit, working in harmony with him to weave deadly patterns upon the enemy.

The time was drawing near now. There was an almost palpable feeling of intensity rising between the two, in preparation for what was surely to be an epic battle.

A small tear ran out of the corner of Darrav’s eye, shed for the memory of those lost to him. He had started with three other warriors at his side, those three years ago, and all of them had fallen to the machinations of the dark warrior before him. But as they had fallen, they had taken down those who served the enemy.

Now only the two of them were left. One bore the external scars from the first meeting, and the other bore the emotional scars from the same. Cool and in control were their hallmarks, yet both were shaken by the other’s tenacity. Both were surprised their vendettas ran this long.

That day, long ago, had been a terrible one. As the sun had set, the two warrior companies had met on this same marsh. It had been autumn then, and the land was dry, devoid of life. Now the land was flushed with water, and the sounds of softly buzzing insects and croaking frogs broke the continual silence.

Blood had been shed that day, much blood. It had fallen to the ground in deluges, flooding the land with unholy sustenance. For was to kill not unholy? To shed another’s blood was murder, a tenet of all that is evil. Of course the dark warrior reveled in the slaughter. Of course he had struck out with all his might.

Of course Darrav had had no choice but to strike back.

Both had walked away, caked in blood and dust kicked up during the battle. That battle had started a war. All across the north they had hunted each other, and all across the south they had fled. They traded places in the west, and swapped roles in the east. Through fire they had persevered, and in water they had rested. With the wind they had fought, and with earth they had solace. Like the night after day and the day after night, they had come before and after each other, both never giving up.

So why had it come to this final conclusion? Could not the dance of blades have gone on forever? But here they were, full circle, and the dance had come to an end. It would be a bloody one, and there was no doubt that Darrav would die. He could not defeat the enemy alone.

His companions seemed so far away, being in the land of the dead. Their spirits were not with him – he would have known if their favor was upon him. He would have felt the strong and firm hand of the bulky fighter resting on his shoulder, assuring him that the right thing would be done. The silvery presence of the silent samurai would have shown his approval, evidenced by a sword raised in prayer. Her hand would be there, fingers entwined about his, letting him know that no matter the outcome, she would always be there. But now she was not. She was gone, lost to the gruesome club of this foul bastion of evil.

Her voice would be filling the air, humming a soft hymn in praise of the spring, the flowers, the golden sun on the mists, or even the fight to come. The twinkle in her eye would betray her complete lack of fear, and her absolute trust in the positive outcome of the battle. Just like she had on the day of her death.

Darrav’s throat trembled with internal grief over his thoughts of her. He had been cut down that day, two years and three weeks ago, lying down with rocks, blood trickling quietly from his wounds. She had died to protect him; that was what most bothered him. And now she was dead and her killer stood before him, seemingly unbothered in the least, and ultimately calm in the face of his sworn enemy.

The dark warrior took a step forward and brought the club around. He whispered dark words that Darrav could not catch. Not that he would want to. Cruel words could crawl from that man’s lips like serpents, instilling fear and then striking, going for the kill.

Darrav took his own step forward, and his katana seemed to hum at his waist. The weapon had been forged after his spiritual journey, the quest of trials he had taken to gain new insight into the world. It had been forged in wisdom, in respect, and in love. Her hand had guided his strikes of the smith’s hammer. Even though dead, she did live on, if only in the mind of the warrior, raising his sword before him, hands clasped about it as if in prayer.

The soft ground sunk down in with his feet. Soft swirls of moss sprung up again as the foot left its hold for a new position, releasing tiny droplets of water to the air. The smell of lilac was in the air, perhaps the first flowers of the season. A perfect day to die.

Darrav whispered words of his own, a prayer to any power that would listen to him, to guide his spirit to whatever land held that of his beloved.

Was it the desire to see her again that gave him the knowledge of defeat? Did he want her so much that he would die just to see a smile cross her face, lighting up his life – or death? Darrav didn’t think so. He knew his destiny was to die in battle, and what better a way to die than in combat with the bane of his latter life?

A small breeze lifted the soft curls of hair atop his head, tugging playfully at them. It was if a voice was whispering to him to come away and savor the delights of spring. He closed his eyes, imagining those joys – those joys that he would never now experience.

No tears now stained his cheeks. No tightness of the throat remained. No hesitation stopped his next few footsteps. No regret slowed the rise of his katana.

No mercy showed in the eyes of he before him.

Darrav looked straight into those eyes, remembering her.

“Shall we dance?”

[ May 05, 2005, 05:50: Message edited by: Smyther ]

 

You have written a nice Short Story. A Novel could be written telling Darrav's story or a bard's tale.

 

You certainly took the poetic approach to this short story. Very Nice, you have talent, you have knowledge, but do you have creativity! Creativity could take your obvious talent a long, long way.

 

Your wording makes the whole scene "come alive". I almost felt the little breeze at the end.

Your writing is an inspiration for me to improve my own skills. Keep it up!

 

Very nice, Smyther.

 

After several re-reads I have come to like your story even more then I did before. You really should add some more to it. You have found the roots to what could be a truly epic tale.
By any chance do you plan to continue writing, because I would have to say that you have more talent than alot of the accomplished writers do.

 

Well, many thanks to all your kind replies! It's actually a lot more than I expected.
I could potentially work something more out of this, though I actually feel kind of hesitant to expand on it. I like the feel of it as it is, a brief window into the life of one man's doomed fight against evil. I really have a half-and-half desire to work some more on it. Is there really that much interest?

PS, I think I'll edit the story soon, to eliminate a few redundancies and such.

 

Your story is quite good and I'm sure there are others beside me who would enjoy reading more of your work.
Your right about it being fine the way it is, so I guess my only advice to you is not to listen to me. It's your creation so no pressure should be felt when determining its fate.

 

Well, I've edited the story to make a few things sound a little less dumb, redundant, or humorous. The story is now in it's complete form, and I don't plan on doing any written work with it any time soon. However, I might end up drawing the scene (though my skills aren't the greatest). Anyone else that would like to do an artistic rendition of the story (especially a painting...) is welcome to it, as long as I get a picture of it when it's done.
Well, cheers for now. I might write something else along the same vein as this story, but this style is definately not my normal one. It's not likely anything else I write will be like it (or come close to matching it if I did). Many thanks,
Smyther

 

Wow. I almost started crying, then. Well done, mate.

 

Thanks for waking this thread, Moonstone. I came to read it months ago but had to leave it for another time and didn't return to the forums and forgot about it. Wouldn't have seen it if you hadn't refreshed it.

@Smyther= I pictured two versions of the story whilst reading it. One a sort of dream-like live action, the other a very stylized and much appreciated anime version. Your talent is exceptional, and I applaud the choice of leaving the story as is. With expansion it could be epic indeed, but as it is it has such an undeniable charm. In short, I'm in love with your story.

 

More comments! It's good that this story is still attracting people.
Actually, I entered it in a local writing contest, in our town of 2000-something people. It came in third place for the age category grade 8 - 12. Also got second place with a poem - I'd put it on the Boards, but it's a spacial poem, requiring a layout on page completely different than it could look on-line.

 

Congratulations Smyther!

 

Professional stuff, definitely. This was amazingly well done. Thanks for a good read!

 

Nice, I like the style, it's well suited for the short-story format.

 

Good story, though the "enemy" should have a name. Keep it up. Awesome work for someone your age. You have exceptional talent. I want to hear more, who was SHE? What was the name of the Silent Samurai? What was he like? Go on tell us...

 

I know you dont want to add on to this story but you should seriously write another. Something different. I think anything with your charm would be awsome. I know this is an old thread but its up to you to feed our hunger for your stories.

 

I'm still getting attention from this story? Wow!
Well, to address your replies:

Thank you very much, Jathszu Khatharua, Foradasthar, and Sticker. It's great to see positive comments about your work.

@Scifigoddess: I very deliberately made it so the only person in the story with a name was Darrav. It is his story, a window into his life, and nobody else matters in the tale but him. Even SHE is not named, for SHE has passed out of existence. The enemy warrior is not named, considering that names are power, and the enemy holds all the power in this scene - his name cannot be given away.
(Or perhaps I'm just too lazy to think up names for them all).

In addition, and this is directed at Atari Man as well, I've been thinking of starting a thread with similar short stories making up the lives and past of the characters mentioned. However, no more names will be revealed. Darrav is the only one that will ever have a name.
Now that it's summer vacation, I have lots of time to write and write some more. I'll try to 'feed your hunger' whenever I complete something new.

Thank you all for the comments and reviews, and I bid you all adieu for now.