Death Comes To All (short story/possibility of expansion)

Remove all ads!

Ok, this was to be a short story for english on an assassin in Feudal Japan. I would appreciate any comments and criticism. I had great fun writing this story, and would like to expand on it (After I've finished Dawn In Shadow, of course) if anyone is interested.

************************

Ry’all made sure the ninjatos sheathed cross ways across the back of his waist were secured tightly before dropping silently from his perch in the boughs of a tree. Moments ago he had crouched upon the wall. He wore only a simple black Kimono and a similarly coloured mask to secure the identity of his face. He landed softly upon the damp grass. The gardens he stood upon were of exquisite beauty; colours of all kind were present, yellows, reds, oranges and purples.

Although flowers had a special place in his heart, Ry’all made his way past them merging with the shadows, his very being not emanating a single sound or human movement. He was a demon of the night.

With one swift motion he was attached to the cold concrete of the manor wall. A whisper of movement caught his eye and he all but disappeared into the darkness. The sound was produced by a guard, no, two guards. From around the corner they came, robed in simple kimonos of dark grey. At their sides hang the legendary katana, the traditional samurai sword. Their hands never strayed far from the blades. Ry’all noticed this along with the piercing eyes that seemed to instil fear into the night itself. Yet as they passed by Ry’all, they did not even hint upon his presence.

As soon as they rounded the next bend in the manor grounds, Ry’all let out an involuntary sigh. No matter how many writs he fulfilled, the fear of being caught always pierced his soul. It was not just a matter of life and death, but also a matter of torture and mutilation.

Ry’all swiftly pushed his fears down deep, knowing death was expected his profession. Everyone had to die, didn’t they? With inhuman agility, Ry’all preceded to scale the wall, the tips of his fingers biting deep within the cracks in the worn mortar holding the bricks in place.

At the first window, he swiftly entered, dropping again into his customary crouch, and befriending the shadows. Luckily, tonight was cloudy, and the moon was partially hidden from view, causing no light to peer into the silent house.

The information on the merchant’s manor was scarce, yet his instructions were clear. Kill the merchant and his family; none may be left alive. With no information on the manor, the night would be long. There would be guard quarters, kitchens, sitting rooms, and offices, manor-bedrooms, all fitted into the several wings. The corridor he was in right now was filled with doors, each spaced out evenly.

Perhaps the night will not be so long, thought Ry’all as he watched a weary eyed servant shuffle down the corridor. With utter ease, Ry’all slid from his hiding place and gripped the girl in one hand, his palms covering both mouth and nose, not allowing her to breath. Swiftly he backed himself through a door, thanking whichever god was watching over him as he realised it to be an empty bedroom. It was simple and unadorned. So, he thought he was either in the servants or the guard’s quarters. Slowly he withdrew his hand upon the girl, his other hand unconsciously drawing one of his ninjatos. Ry’all noticed her chest heave as she drew in breath to utter a scream. His hand, however clamped down over her mouth once more. “Your master,” Ry’all whispered harshly in her ear “where is he?” the girl seemed to calm and Ry’all released her. She dropped to the ground and began to weep.

“Three more flights upstairs.” She said between sobs “He is in his bedroom, the door is studded with iron.”

“Thank you,” said Ry’all as his blade pierced her flesh and sought out her heart. She did not even hear the words.

Hugging the shadows, Ry’all sought out the stairwell. He found it within moments standing at the end of the corridor. Still in darkness, Ry’all held his breath and listened for footsteps. None came and he ascended the steps, his padded feet not even causing a creak in the floorboards. Ry’all counted each floor as it came. One. Two. Three. At the third he stopped and placed his ear to the door. No sound came, and so he entered the door. There were four doors in this corridor. Each was studded with bolts of iron. Ry’all approached the first, drew his sword and entered. Seconds later he returned, with only one slight difference. Blood stained the black steel of the ninjato. He repeated the process with the next two doors. Within them had been the merchants children, and in the last he knew, lay the grand prize.

Carefully, Ry’all eased open the last door. The room was large, and fabulously furnished. Chairs and decorations of the highest standard sat within the room. Ry’all weaved past these so that he stood at the merchant’s bedside. For a moment he stayed still, watching the corpse to be, wondering why he had killed so many, to the delight of others. Drawing his blade, he ran it slowly across the merchant’s throat. He did not even bother to remember his name. Ry’all did the same to the woman that lay beside him. She was younger than the merchant, and too beautiful to be his wife.

With the bloodshed done, Ry’all stepped to the door, again he pressed his ear to it before sliding it open. As he opened however, the door opposite opened, and within the doorframe stood a single samurai warrior. With a battle cry he drew his katana and charged. Ry’all, not wishing to fight such a skilled warrior, leapt back into the merchants bedroom and slammed shut the door. Before he could slam the wooden bar in place though, the Samurai shoulder barged through.

Ry’all was flung back and slid along the varnished floor. He barely managed to roll aside, as the huge two handed Katana swept down. The katana shattered the floorboards, and bit so deep that the samurai was forced to give a huge tug to dislodge it. In this time, Ry’all swept to his feet and drew his twin blades. The two circled for a moment, before Ry’all heard the footsteps and shouts of the alerted Samurai’s in the courtyard and panicked. He leaped across at the Samurai, his swords flashing. The samurai ducked low and parried each slash. His movements were so slow and liquid, yet they seemed to move faster than Ry’all’s own. In one fluid motion, the Samurai came up with his blade, slashing with an upstroke across Ry’all’s chest, Ry’all blocked with his blades in a crossed shape, but not before he felt the bite of the steel as it tore into his flesh. Ry’all jumped back and glanced at his wound. This was his mistake. The samurai leapt in and Ry’all barely managed to parry during a side step. The movement burned his chest. The cut was deep, but not fatal.

Ry’all did not even see the next slice coming as it bit into his leg. With a scream he fell to his knee. The Samurai sword came up, and down, slicing through Ry’all’s throat, tearing out his jugular, despite the sharpness of the blade. As Ry’all lay choking on his own blood, he found himself thinking of life. Everyone has to die, don’t they?

 

cooool! Send more of that stuff! Really great!

 

excellent stuff man!!!!! You got the balance correct in a short story. I especially liked the unexpected ending!

 

Your English teacher read this?

He/she didn’t demand to look inside your locker or send you for counselling?

Wow, big-up to Moningstar’s English teacher.

 

Heh, it was actually my friend who was given the assignment, but he asked me to do it for him. I was reluctant at first until he said he was going to write a bout a white haired eastern swordsman, with a black cloak, wields a Katana and Wakizashi (sp?) and has never been beaten in a fight. I was kinda appalled at him ripping it off (That's right Dalveen) and decided to write the story, to save there being a cheap version going about. Unfortuneately the teacher took one glance at it, decided it wasn't my friends work, and binned it.

 

Now that's a shame! It was a great story, and you really should consider expanding it! I suggest you tell everything that happened before this or something like that. Keep up the good work man!

 

I've already decided to expand, but I hope to use the samurai that killed him as the protaganist.

 

This is cool. And realistic.

 

Good work, Morningstar. Nicely written.
As for your friend...it's about time he got...acquainted with a pair of sharp knives...

 

I've decided not to go with the samurai idea, and have gone with the use of another assassin (After a little convincing from a friend in Egypt). Please tell me what you think along with any criticism.

**************************

Song gazed over the low mound, beneath which lay his brother, Ry’all. He stood in the middle of Ry’all’s garden, the vibrant colours sickened him, and he wished he could tear them apart in his grief, but out of respect, he let them be. Ry’all always liked flowers, he thought.

They were not truly brothers, but they both grew up at the same orphanage. Song had been abandoned, and on the same day a member of the city guard had carried Ry’all there. As they grew together, they named each other their brother. They both knew it to be untrue but it gave a sense of family they could clutch onto in times of need, and there were many times within the orphanage that they were dire need of something to cling to.

At fifteen, both had been sold to a dark stranger, who had watched them playing in the weed strewn courtyard behind a tattered fence. The sale of orphans was acceptable, casting them into a life of slavery rather than have to fill their wretched mouths every day seemed a fine idea.

They had been taken to another place, dark and large, a cold shapeless building of grey concrete. The place was less welcoming than the tortured life of the founding home. For four years Song and Ry’all were put through rigorous exercises, running and lifting weights, climbing ropes and scaling walls, before, exhausted, forced to stand upon a small platform one footed, until they could achieve perfect balance. And then came the swordplay.

At first it was simple lunges and parrying, which was easy enough, until they carried it out for several days without rest, just lunge and parry, lunge and parry, until ache dulled all senses, and then the ache would slowly subside, replaced with a cold mechanism of lunge and parry. Technique after technique followed, until they were planted firmly in the mind of each individual.

Any disobedience was punished with a whipping, even the dropping of a spoon at the single mealtime was seen as a sign of weakness, and punished accordingly. This broke all of the student’s spirits, creating a single thought in their mind. Obey.

But this wasn’t the case of Ry’all and Song, their sense of family fed their spirit and kept the foreboding mind numbing ness of the other students at bay. And now that link was severed, but they were no longer in the founding home, but their own home. Most of the students had been assigned to the Assassin’s Guild, but Song and Ry’all had rebelled against it, a thought that could never have come to the empty minded slaves of the former students. They had escaped the castle the night before the sale, and travelled to the city, establishing cheap business with small time gangs.

Eventually, their skill was noticed among the nobility, and the brothers became better paid, allowing them to buy this house they lived in, and for Ry’all to create his garden.

And now the branches of a tree shadowed over the ground, below which lay the pale shell of Ry’all. Slowly, Song turned, and walked into the house. On a table lay Ry’all’s kimono and his Ninjatos. Song lifted the swords, and swung them round his waist. His own dark Kimono didn’t even rustle as the sword belt rubbed against its soft fabric.

Next came the baldric, a wider belt he wore about his abdomen, filled with sharp, black, throwing knives. He swung a bow of black horn into the sheath at the back of the baldric, along with a quiver of black arrows.

Lastly, he turned to the mirror, and raised the black scarf across his mouth and chin, tying it tightly at the back. Gazing at his reflection, he held the gaze of a tall eastern man, sharp of face and figure, a handsome man with emerald green eyes. Emerald green eyes: an unusual and extremely rare trait amongst eastern men; the only peace of evidence that betrayed his western blood.

Kneeling before a fading candle, he sat cross-legged, and cleared his mind. Laying his hands upturned on his knees, he moved into a trance like state. For an hour or so, he remained so, deep in the concentration of nothing. His meditation done, he rose to his feet, and silently passed through the front door. His horse lay within the stable, a black stallion, mounting it, he whispered soothing words into its ear before striking off at full gallop, out into the dark countryside.


With the house in sight, Song dismounted. Not bothering to tether his steed, he bent low, and silently moved toward the house. The samurai that killed his brother would die tonight.

With the shadows wrapped around him, Song glanced through a window. All was dark, and still, as he knew it would be. The Samurai had been the merchant’s most personal guard; the only one allowed within is sleeping quarters at any time. Song’s informants told him he always walked in the forest at night.

Song stalked to within the tree line, scanning the undergrowth for any sign of the warrior. None, so he moved deeper within, ever watchful, ever seeking. His senses were at there highest as he moved amongst the swirling shadows. And there he was, walking casually amongst the trees, hands clasped behind his back in perfect peace. But there was no mistaking the great katana jutting from his back.

Song strung his bow lying down, a difficult feat, and followed the swordsman. Finally deciding the time was right, Song lifted his bow. Silently he stood, and stretched the limbs of the bow. The arrow sang as it sailed through the air. The samurai swayed, the arrow tearing his kimono. Song swore; he had never seen a man move so fast. Suddenly the katana was drawn and the samurai was charging. Song blinked and dropped his bow. Four knives swept into his hands and were thrown in rapid succession, the Samurai rolled to the side to avoid them, but one slashed his brow.

Song was surprised; the man should be dead. His first arrow would have killed any normal man, but then he remembered, he was fighting a Samurai. But to avoid all four knives was a feat of it’s own.

Dragging the Ninjatos from their sheaths, Song walked out to meet the rising Samurai. Song was a vastly superior swordsman to Ry’all, his natural speed and guile giving him an edge. Unlike the assassins he had trained amongst, Song was not a machine. His movements were not mechanically honed, because Song had spirit, he had something the other students never had. He had Ry’all.

His mind was not based on a single thing, it moved through vast numbers of topics, making his movements liquid, compared to the blocky robotic like movements of his former companions.

Song’s blade touched the Katana and flickered up toward the samurai’s chest. The katana knocked the blade aside, and the samurai countered with a lunge to the face. Song sidestepped, and slashed, his blade colliding with the Katana’s curved edge. Song spun on his heel, hoping the katana was unable to come up in time to block the second Ninjato that headed for the samurai’s unprotected throat. The samurai ducked, spinning his katana in his hand, so that it left a long deep cut across Song’s forearm. A small trickle of blood rolled down Song’s arm and onto the grip of his hand. He would have to end this soon, lest his hand slip on the warm trickle of blood.

Suddenly the Katana was raised above the samurai’s head. It came down with horrendous force, ained Song’s shoulder. Song, wide eyed, raised his own sword to block it. Even as he had raised his sword to block, Song unconsciously spun the second sword into a dagger like grip. The blades screeched as the struck, and Song’s arm went numb. The point of his second blade plunged home into the samurai’s armpit. The warrior gasped as Song withdrew his sword. The Samurai’s own blade, fell to the moss covered ground.

Blood gushed from the wound, staining the dark grey Kimono. The samurai sucked dryly for air, as Song stood over the dying man. “For my brother.” He said, raising his sword.

 

I really like this story. You are a very talented writer. Keep up the good work.

 

Woah! That was great!

Just one tiny correction " the only peace of evidence that betrayed his western blood." It should be 'piece' not 'peace'.

 

Morningstar! Dude! You kick ass! Some spelling errors but that can be overlooked.

YAY! I got my second gem thingie! YIPPEE!!