The Legend of Shura (Fantasy)

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The armored knight thrust his spear at the swordsman before him, the cruel barbed point streaking towards his opponent's throat. Shura deflected the blow with a weary sweep of his shorter blade, twisting his body so that the long curved sword in his right hand arced in to split the knight's head, helm and skull. He stepped aside to let the body fall with a great thump into the muddy battlefield. All around him, cheers were being raised but he was too exhausted to pay much attention to their exhortations.

"BLACKMIRE! BLACKMIRE! ALL GLORY TO BLACKMIRE!" thousands of men bellowed at the top of their voices. Astride a great stallion, the young warlord raised his gauntleted hand in response to their cheers. Sagging to his knees, Shura barely managed to sheathe his blades. The longer blade, called a katana in his homeland, snagged in his loose tunic. Wincing in pain, he eased the sword back into its’ scabbard, blood welling again from a wound in his side. The feathered end of an arrow jutted out, one wound among the many that covered his body. Lord Blackmire had won another victory in the seemingly endless succession wars that plagued the kingdom. Despite his wounds, Shura felt a grim sense of achievement. The Ravagers, an elite shock infantry unit, trained and led by Shura himself, had done well this day.

“ Train these men, Shura. My forces lack a cadre of solid infantry. I expect nothing but the best of results from you.” Lord Blackmire had said to him that distant day three years ago in front of a parade ground where a force of men a thousand strong were gathered. It turned out that most of the men Blackmire had handed over to Shura were wanted mass murderers, rapists and criminals of the worst kind. The life of another sentient being was of inconsequential value to each and everyone to them. As a master of the Shura Sword School, Shura was able to impart the very basics of the murdering skills he had been taught by his sensei all those years ago.

Every Ravager learnt the art of wielding the long curved sword that Shura was so proficient with although none were able to wield two swords at once like Shura himself. Although his knowledge in this aspect was severely limited, Shura taught his men what he could of the manipulation of ki that formed what was known as the Third Sphere of the Shura School. Unlike his sensei who specialized in the Third Sphere, Shura himself was more inclined in the First Sphere which constituted of the wielding of the katana and had some skill in the Second Sphere a Sphere which was shunned by all the previous Shuras and the knowledge of which was preserved down the ages. The Second Sphere dealt with the powers of the mind and how they were used to enhance the power of the wielder’s blade.

Under his tutelage, each Ravager was more than an expert swordsman and had slightly greater strength and endurance thanks to their training in ki. The Ravagers were able to halt charging heavy cavalry in their tracks, flush out guerilla skirmishers and basically decimate any opponent that closed to melee with them.

A hoof struck the ground near Shura. Looking up, Shura gazed at the giant form of Ander Lolias, the Captain of Blackmire’s heavy cavalry unit and one of Blackmire’s trusted lieutenants. Big, golden haired and squared jawed, Ander was an imposing sight indeed, especially with the great two-handed battle-axe that now rested on a saddle hook.

“ You really should put on some armor, Shura. One day, you’re going die of a minor wound that could have been prevented by a good suit of mail.” Ander boomed in his boisterous voice.

“ I fight better this way.” Shura responded. Armor restricted his movements and dulled his reflexes. Every Ravager wore a suit of chain mail except for their leader who fought in a simple black cotton garment. He tried to get up but a stab of pain stole his strength.

“ Rest easy, your wounds are quite serious.” A hoarse whisper came from the side. A slim figure dressed in a red and gray robe glided forward. He wore a mask depicting a leering skull and had never taken it off in Shura, Ander’s or anyone’s presence. Kalvairn Levensrua was Blackmire’s personal advisor. Many dark rumors surrounded the masked figure for it was whispered that he practiced necromancy and performed dark and vile experiments on dead human flesh. Shura and Ander knew for a fact that Kalvairn was truly a practitioner of the magical arts and was also a devout follower of a cruel and chaotic deity. Taking a firm grip on the arrow that jutted from Shura’s side, he chanted softly and a pale blue glow suffused the wound. The arrow dislodged itself and came free in Kalvairn’s hands.

“ The battle won today was a crucial one. With the enemy weakened to such a state, we will not see the battle-field for many a day.” Kalvairn whispered in that scratchy voice of his.

“ Then it’s time for some serious wenching and drinking! Eh, Shura? “ Ander slapped Shura on the back, making him wince in pain. Shura had other plans, however and was about to tell Ander so.

A shadow fell across the three companions and a chill penetrated their spines, even Kalvairn’s. They turned around to face the cruel blue gaze of their leader, the Lord Blackmire. Shura himself studied his leader. The two of them were no longer the callow youths that had shook hands so long ago before that wooden booth. Shura himself had grown a bit taller and his muscles had thickened. Being slightly stoop shouldered despite his height gave him the illusion of frailty, a deception thickened by the sweeping and shapeless cloak he wore over his simple cotton clothes. Blackmire had grown out of his slenderness and cut a powerful figure in his beautiful black plate mail armor. His dark hair was tied back with a ring of silver and he still wore that same gauntlet with the twisting and writhing bodies of demons encircling it.

He raised his head to the heavens, a cloud of carrion birds soaring past a sapphire blue sky. “ A different kind of war will be fought now, my friends. A war where the battles will take place among the shadows, battles without honor. Fear not, however, that the killing will be just as bloody and you will all be drenched up to your souls in carnage as you fight by my side.” Blackmire spoke in that hauntingly ethereal voice of his.

“ HAHAHAHAHA! Oh how I look forward to that!” Ander, bloodthirsty as always rubbed his hands with glee. Shura shrugged nonchantantly. His un-judging character made him willing to go along with whatever Blackmire was going to pull him into.

Kalvairn, however, was silent. His eyes glittered behind his mask. “ Ah yes, we will be drenched up to our souls in carnage…..what will become of each and every one of us….? “ Kalvairn thought.

 

That was perhaps the best yet, kudos.

 

I was a bit confused in the first phrase. We jumped from the harbour to the battlescene, with no idea of time or place. Those were partually described later. If you describe the scenario before the scene its easier. But I would actually prefer if the story was longer. the plot is strong enough for it and your personality descriptions are exciting.

 

Actually, I like the snapshot mechanism. Keep up the good work.

 

ahahahah!
whens the next installment hurry hahahahha
damn cool uhr no shoni go go!

 

The city’s streets ran red with blood. By day, it was a bustling center of trade and commercial activity. Poets recited their work on street corners and craftsmen tried to woo customers by exclaiming the value of their goods. By night, swords flashed in the moonlight and shadowed figures battled each other.

The plump senator waddled his way down the dark streets. He was confident of his safety as a dozen armored guards formed a circle around him. Tomorrow he would expose Blackmire for the scoundrel that he is in front of the ruling council. The young lord had won a seat on the council due to his accolades in battle. However, he had a hidden agenda as sinister as it was mysterious. Senator Darle had spent huge amounts of gold hiring the greatest spies and many of them had perished, their bodies found hacked by a fine blade in a dark alley. His own nephew had died after putting a scroll depicting a mysterious temple into his hands. Gritting his teeth, Senator Darle shook with anger at the loss of the boy. A single slash across his back was the only wound across the boy’s body. It seemed as if he had been wounded and then allowed to reach him before dying. Senator Darle would not let his loss be in vain.

He walked into the armored back of one of his guards. “ What?” He said in confusion rubbing a lump on his forehead. A dark figure stood before his contingent of guards, the frayed ends of his cloak streaming like wisps of mist in the cold light of the moon.

“Identify yourself!” the captain of his guards demanded. The stranger’s only response was the whistling sound of steel cutting air as a dagger embedded itself in the captain’s throat. The man fell gurgling to the floor as the rest of the guards stared in astonishment: they had not seen the slightest twitch in the stranger but now his hand was outstretched as if he had just threw something.

Like a black whirlwind, the stranger spun into motion. Two arcs of gleaming metal sliced into the foremost guards, sending their heads spinning into the night. The guard behind them raised his broadsword but the stranger planted a short and curved blade under his arm.

Darle turned and tried to run, only to crash face first into the steel breastplate of one of his guards, rebound, and fall onto his rump. The armored corpse of one of his men crashed into the guard he had just bumped into, sending him flying into a wall. The crack of bone was hideously audible in the night’s silence. The remaining two guards leveled their spears and struck at the stranger. His movements were fluid and snakelike. The stranger seemed to flow between the twin shafts inside the guards’ respective reaches. Darle heard the sound of steel slicing through flesh and the two guards twitched and fell lifeless to the cobblestones.

Scrabbling backwards on the cold pavement, Darle pleaded frantically with the stranger.

“ Please! I’ll pay you double! Just do not kill me!” Darle sobbed. He had soiled his fine clothes and he left a trail of urine as he crawled backwards away from the ever- advancing stranger. A sudden gust of night air blew the stranger’s cowl away from his face to reveal a young man with cropped black hair and slanted eyes.

“ You! You’re Blackmire’s….” Shura thrust his shorter blade into Darle’s eye and twisted it. Wiping his blades on the senator’s clothes, he then proceeded to search the body, wincing with distaste at the man’s soiled breeches. Retrieving a scroll, he turned and walked away from the scene of carnage he had left behind.

Breaking into a slow jog, he made a beeline for the city hall. A ball was being held there and Lord Blackmire expected the presence of his lieutenants. Shura could not be bothered with such festivities but Blackmire was insistent. He reached a carriage parked a discreet distance away from the brightly lit dome-like building that was the city hall. Opening the carriage, he boarded it.

Kalvairn was sitting inside. He wore a fine robe but deigned to remove his skull mask.

“I expected you much later. Well done, Shura.” His whisper was soft even in the silence of the carriage.

“ Easy work.” Shura replied. He and Kalvairn were both laconic individuals, speaking little to each other but a deep level of trust and respect was present between them. Beside Blackmire, Kalvairn was probably Shura’s only friend since he arrived from the east all those years ago. Hastily, Shura removed his bloodstained cloak and changed into the fine clothes that have been prepared for him. A white shirt replaced his dark gray tunic with its’ voluminous sleeves and black leather breeches replaced his worn cotton ones. A black leather coat the reached to his ankles took the place of his tattered cloak.

“ This is totally unnecessary.” Shura grumbled. He started to buckle his sword-belt on but Kalvairn stopped him.

“No weapons are allowed inside.” Kalvairn admonished. Shura shrugged and tucked his swords under the carriage seat. The carriage lurched to a stop before the city hall and the two friends got off. The doorman bowed respectfully and ushered them in. Amongst the crowd of nobles, Shura spotted Blackmire and Ander easily. An excited crowd of young ladies surrounded the two. The sheltered and pampered daughters of the aristocracy, they were fascinated by the now legendary warlord who had never lost a battle and his handsome general. Shura sighed. Delivering the scroll would have to wait till later.

A hush suddenly fell over the reveling host. As one they turned their eyes to a stone pedestal built before a fountain. The king and his teenaged daughter had made their entrance and all eyes focused on them.
The aging king held a goblet in his trembling grasp. Abruptly, he raised it above his head.

“Hail the peace that has finally settled over our kingdom!” every noble in the hall immediately echoed the king’s toast. When silence had resumed, the king spoke again.

“The war ravaging our land has ended. Amidst the slaughter and the suffering, one hero has come forth. By his might, my treacherous half-brothers have been defeated and peace has descended throughout the land. Our fair kingdom can only prosper under the protection of his strength and wisdom.” The king picked out Blackmire amidst the crowd and raised his goblet towards him.

“Lord Blackmire, Hero and Guardian of Gryloas!” the king exclaimed. Again the crowd broke into frenzied cheering. Chants of “Lord Blackmire” shook the building to its’ foundations. When the cheering faded away, the king spoke again.

“ To reward him, I have decided to give my daughter’s hand in marriage to Lord Blackmire! From now on, Prince Blackmire shall guard our kingdom with his might!”

The crowd was stunned for a moment. After the enormity of the news sank in however, the crowd turned as one to Lord Blackmire, congratulating him eagerly. Standing in an unnoticed corner with Kalvairn, Shura was no less dumbstruck by the news. He turned to speak to Kalvairn but found the sorcerer chanting softly and holding a figurine made of clay. Whirling around, Shura took another look at the king. The old man’s complexion was grayish and his eyes were bloodshot. With his acute vision, Shura noticed the minuscule green sparkle in each of the man’s irises.

Turning to Kalvairn in horror, Shura found him chuckling softly to himself. The king had already been killed. Kalvairn had re-animated the corpse and spoke the words that made Blackmire a prince himself.

“ Blackmire will have need of you yet, Shura. Many powerful nobles oppose him and they must die under blades from the shadows…..” Kalvairn whispered. Shura found himself again shrugging uncaringly although a slight sense of wrongness wormed uneasily in his stomach. Turning on his heel, his long coat flaring, Shura walked out of the building.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Shura walked into a figure hurrying up the stairs. Their conflicting momentum tangled their limbs and Shura, despite his superhuman agility, found himself tumbling painfully down the stairs.
Lifting his cheek off the cool stone of the pavement, Shura found himself staring at big brown eyes that gazed into his worriedly.

“Are you alright? You took the worst of the fall, I think. Every step of that staircase must have struck your head and I landed on you at the end.” A female voice said.

Shura raised a hand to ward off her worries and got up gingerly. A master of the Shura School indeed! He thought scornfully. Rubbing his aching head, Shura looked at the person who bumped into him.

Shoulder length waves of dark hair framed a heart shaped face. She was dressed in a modest gown that nonetheless hugged her slender frame. Shura had never been a lustful man, unlike Ander who pounced on anything that wore a skirt, and his returning gaze was open and direct despite her obvious beauty.

“My apologies, lady. I was deep in my thoughts.” Shura bowed.

“No harm done. I should not run up stairs with my head down anyway. Although your perception of the world really changes when you’re viewing it while spinning through the air.” Came the lady’s reply.

“ My name is Jo-Annia. And yours, good sir?” Jo-Annia was calmly re-arranging her gown while her brown eyes stared at Shura with an intensity that made the steely swordsman uneasy.
“ I am called Shura.” Came the reply.

 

Very good!
I am glad you can write well after all!
very well in fact!
I should not have judged you by that pathetic attempt in my post before.
My goes off to you

 

Shura staggered along the dark city streets, clutching the hilts of his blades tightly. For what seemed to be the hundredth time, he had left an entire family slaughtered in their manor house. He was covered from head to toe with blood but none of it was his.

The Lord Kaine, a mighty general of Gryloas had denounced Blackmire’s royal status and had moved into the city with his knightly legions, intent on intimidating Blackmire.

Prowling through the shadows, Shura had slipped past a few thousand armed warriors and came upon Lord Kaine just as he was having dinner with his family. Shura had bolted the doors of the dining hall shut and attacked without hesitation, streaming like a dark mist from the shadows.

He had a rude shock when the Lady Kaine took up a sword and fought by her husband’s side. Both husband and wife were expert swordsmen but when facing Shura, they did not stand a chance. Ducking under Lord Kaine’s sweeping slash, he tangled Lady Kaine’s blade with his short curved sword called a wakizashi, whirling it with his fingers while he calmly fended off Lord Kaine’s follow-up attacks with his katana clenched in his right fist.

Jerking his left blade backwards, he dragged Lady Kaine’s blade past him, the owner stumbling forward in an attempt to keep a grip on her weapon. Another flick of his wrist sent the wakizashi slashing across her throat, felling the noblewoman. Lord Kaine roared in rage and raised his heavy blade in a two-handed grasp, intent on cleaving this dark murderer who had invaded his home into two. Shura took one look at the upraised blade, stepped inside Lord Kaine’s reach and promptly disemboweled him with twin sweeping slashes of both his swords. Another quick slash to Lord Kaine’s head ended his agony.

Hearing the whisper of steel on leather behind him, Shura whirled around and struck savagely with his katana, only to see his curved blade slicing easily into the collarbone, ribcage and sternum of a ten year- old boy, the son of Lord Kaine.

Blood bubbled from the child’s mouth and his eyes glazed over while his scrabbling fingers clutched Shura’s blade. Shura fell back in horror. The child’s lifeless eyes stared accusingly at him. Wrenching his blade free frantically, Shura fled through a window. Too distraught to maintain the same level of stealth he had while coming in, Shura had to murder a few dozen guards who spotted his presence.

Stopping suddenly, Shura tripped on an uneven cobblestone and pitched forward onto the cold stone pavement. Pushing himself up, he hobbled towards a gutter by the side and retched. Killing a child always did this to him. Shura would feel nauseous and uneasy for a couple of days but he would recover after some time. This time, however, was much, much worse. Shura had already thrown up everything in his stomach and yet his vision still refused to focus and his head seemed to spin. He barely managed to stagger his way back to his living quarters, a small stone cell in the large building that served as a barracks for the Ravagers.

He took a bath and changed his clothes but the stench of blood still seemed to linger. In fact, for the past few weeks, Shura had lost his sense of taste and smell. All he could feel on his tongue was the coppery taste of blood and the only aroma that registered in his nostrils was that of spilled blood. Nightmares plagued his sleep now, horrific mental landscapes where a thousand voices were shrieking in pain and loss. In the midst of it all, Shura stood in a well of swirling blackness from which mutilated eyes gaped and severed hands clutched. Many were the times he had woken to the sound of his own screaming. The legendary discipline required to practice the Shura Sword availed him not. In his sleep, only terror and hysteria could touch him.

Not wanting to face his dreams after a night like this, Shura held his swords and huddled in a corner of his cell, tucking his legs into his body. In this position, he awaited the coming of dawn.

Sunlight streamed through wooden shutters but Jo-Annia had already awakened a few hours ago. She was the daughter of the architect Jakob Renlia, a valued and respected member of the city’s community.

The bumbling old man was obsessed with his studies and could hardly be counted upon to deal with the little issues of life, namely food and housekeeping. The Renlias were fairly wealthy and could afford to hire a servant. The mess caused by the man’s daily research however, was beyond the ability of one person to tidy.

Neatly tucking a sheaf of notes into a scroll case, Jo-Annia smilingly nodded at the middle-aged housewife who she paid to help out everyday. The matron rolled her eyes resignedly at the clutter present everywhere and started her work. Jo-Annia then proceeded to the huge library in her house to commence with her own studies. This morning, however, her thoughts were on the young man, Shura. During the years spent with his sensei, Shura had learnt the reading and writing of three human languages, studied eastern literature and practiced the science of numbers and logic. Many were the beatings Shura had received when he did not learn his lessons well.

Unlike most of the city’s populace, Shura could speak on even terms with her. Now, whenever she had a problem with her studies, instead of waiting for that bothersome father of hers to emerge from his study, she would bring it to Shura and the two would crack their heads over it, searching for a solution. She wasn’t worried about imposing on the young man: he seemed to spend all day sitting in the city square staring into thin air, an unreadable expression on his face.

Marking her page, Jo-Annia slammed her book shut and dropped it into a bag. Shura should be at his usual spot by now.

Indeed, the slight form of the easterner sat beside the fountain that adorned the center of the city. Hearing her approach, Shura turned and bowed politely.

“ A fine morning, lady.” Jo-Annia looked at the young man’s face. Shura looked haggard and worried today. He still maintained the same smooth and expressionless look on his face as best as he could though. Raising an eyebrow, Jo-Annia reached out with both hands.

Before he knew what was happening, the woman had Shura’s cheeks pinched between her fingers painfully.

“What…?” Shura stammered, frantically drawing his hands back as they streaked forward instinctively to deliver a killing blow on her delicate throat.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to smile once in a while, you know.” She retorted. “Autumn’s already cold enough without you trying to chill it with your stares.” Looking at her mock-fierce expression, an incredulous chuckle escaped Shura. It was then followed by a short and low laugh. When he could look up again, Shura found that a smile pulled at the edges of his face.

“ Well, what can I do for you today? “ Shura asked. Jo-Annia immediately retrieved her book and started a commentary on her work, some sort of contraption based on wheels and gears that made for better traveling. Shura listened intently, analytical ideas forming in his mind, taking note of calculations required. He noticed something though; the smell of blood that had been dominating his smell had faded to be replaced by the fragrance of the perfume that Jo-Annia always wore.

Exhaling in irritation, Shura brought his mind back to task. There was a distinct flaw in the plan to make the fourth gear in the design so big….

The clatter of hooves on cobblestone interrupted the both of them. Shura turned around to see a young man dressed in gleaming armor with a white surcoat over his breastplate. A holy symbol was emblazoned over the cloth.

Shura’s eyes narrowed. He did not like the look of disturbing zeal present in the man’s eyes. The young man had his fair hair held back by an ornate circlet. His features were sharp and strong and his voice held power.

“ Greetings, milady.” He bowed from his saddle, moving elegantly despite his heavy armor. He totally ignored Shura, figuring him to be some peasant servant.

“ My lord.” Jo-Annia curtsied. She knew how to behave towards nobles.

“ May you know the way to the palace? I have come from afar by my God’s will to bring goodness to this part of His domain.” The knight intoned.

Jo-Annia obliged but the knight had one more thing to ask of her before he left.

“Your name, fair maiden?” he asked.

“ Jo-Annia Renlia.” The architect’s daughter answered.

“ I am Laron de Culaes, holy warrior of the Church. I look forward to our next meeting, lady.” The knight cantered off on his steed. Shura stared at his back, an uneasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. A strange power permeated the man. Suddenly he felt very worried for Blackmire……

 

Both are wonderfully written grats

 

The sorcerer Kalvairn stood on the balcony of his manor house, his masked face tilted towards the stars. A thousand flickering diamond lights glinted on the velvet black that made up the night sky. Behind him, ten figures cloaked in white with helms covering their faces made a semi-circle surrounding him.
“ I have anticipated your arrival a long time ago. Blackmire’s rise to power could not have gone undetected for any great amount of time.” Kalvairn whispered. He refused to turn and face the cloaked men, so great was his arrogance.
“ Your evil is now known to us! In the name of all that is holy, we shall cleanse the kingdom of Blackmire’s foulness, beginning with you, sorcerer!” One of the cloaked figures said, his voice almost incoherent with the amount of religious zeal dripping from it.
Swords were torn from their scabbards. Eight of the cloaked figures held their weapons in their hands and started advancing on the frail and skinny sorcerer. Without turning around, Kalvairn raised his hands.
“ Let me know one thing, however. Are you all so eager for death?” Kalvairn rasped harshly, a tinge of mocking laughter evident in his voice.
“ For Righteousness!” the eight swordsmen shouted in unison, charging at Kalvairn’s seemingly vulnerable back. The leading warrior thrust his sword forward, only to stumble forward into the empty air where Kalvairn was standing. The swordsmen gazed around frantically, trying to discern the location of their nemesis.
Kalvairn reappeared suddenly beside one of the swordsmen. Jamming a frail hand under his visor, Kalvairn’s fingers dug into the man’s face.
“ Inle Mortus Putrefi.” Kalvairn chanted. The man screamed in agony. Dropping his sword, his gauntleted hands scrabbled at his helm. Horrified, the others could only watch as their companion fell to the floor, writhing in agony, his booted heels kicking on the fine tiles. A horde of maggots burst from under the helm’s visor. The man twitched once and then was still.
Kalvairn started laughing then, a horribly shrill sound that dripped with contempt and arrogance. The laughter grew louder and louder as the swordsmen hesitated. Kalvairn pointed at another two swordsmen, an outstretched index finger to each and said a single word of power.
“ DIE.”
The two men fell lifeless to the floor. Their companions bellowed in horror and fell back.
“ Fools, the Lord of Chaos grants me power beyond your ability to overcome.” Kalvairn said. Folding his arms across his chest, the sorcerer started chanting again.
“ Attack now! Before he casts his next spell!” one of the swordsmen said. The remaining five lunged forward, blades leading. Again Kalvairn disappeared, to re-materialize behind them. Raising his right hand to the heavens, outstretched palm towards the swordsmen, Kalvairn completed his spell.
“ And so you die, foolish worshippers of the Celestial Knight.” Magical energy coursing through his body, Kalvairn grinned maniacally through his mask as he prepared to destroy his attackers. One of the two cloaked figures who held back in the initial charge stepped forward. He raised a silver rod and spoke a command word. A burst of energy streamed from the rod to strike Kalvairn squarely in the chest. Kalvairn screamed in agony as he was thrown off his balcony.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, Kalvairn managed to twist the ruby inlaid on one of the rings he wore. His fall immediately slowed and he glided gently to the ground. A slash of light materialized beside him, though, and the remaining five swordsmen charged out from it, followed by the Holy spell-caster and the other man who had yet to act. The swordsmen were too close. Barely ducking a sweeping slash from a sword, Kalvairn stumbled back, frantically seeking some space for him to work his sorcery. His attackers would have none of that however, and they swung their swords frantically.
Cursing to himself, Kalvairn focused his mental energy on the jeweled necklace that he wore and transported himself ten feet away from his attackers. Instantly he began the mysterious hand gestures and arcane words that preceded one of his deadly spells. He had underestimated them. His next spell would be his mightiest yet, seeking to destroy his opponents quickly. The five of them did not pursue, however but went to gather around their two companions instead. The cloaked man who played no part in the earlier battle drew a huge two-handed sword and held it in front of him. Yellow-white fire blazed along its’ considerable length and an aura of power radiated from both blade and wielder.
Kalvairn hurled his magical energy at them, his will crafting the eldritch power into clouds of vileness that would consume the flesh of the swordsmen. The result was not quite how Kalvairn expected it to be, however, as he felt his power drained suddenly. The glowing energy only visible to a sorcerer like him sucked violently into the great glowing blade. Gasping his shock, Kalvairn could only stand dumbstruck as the Holy spell-caster hurled another burst of energy at him, shattering his mask and knocking the robed sorcerer to the muddy ground.
“ NO! MY MASK!” Kalvairn’s shrieks of uncontrolled terror were shrill in the night air as he clawed frantically at the shattered remnants with one hand while the other covered his face. He paid no attention to his advancing enemies as he curled up into a ball, his sobs of terror wracking his frail frame.
“ May His Holy Grace have mercy on your miserable soul, foul one.” The man wielding the glowing sword raised his weapon to deliver a killing blow to Blackmire’s most powerful lieutenant. A great roar split the air however, and a huge armored form crashed into the white-cloaked figures, scattering them.
A great axe crunched into the side of a swordsman, sending his broken form soaring through the air. The return sweep cut another man in two at the waist. A huge hand seized the mangled torso and sent it sweeping into yet another man with a horrible crunching sound. Ander Lolias stood in front of his friend, his teeth bared in a terrifying snarl, great axe swinging menacingly in his hands.
Looking at the whimpering form of his friend, Ander Lolias did not bother to ask any questions. In fact, he rarely did. The cruel spike atop the axe streaked towards another swordsman, smashing through his feeble parry and spitting the unfortunate victim. The remaining three attackers backed off and the spell-caster raised his rod again. His eyes widened in astonishment as a dark form seemed to flow from the shadows. He felt something cold enter his throat and he fell, his vision turning dimming, the last thing he saw being a pair of black eyes gleaming with fury. Shura pulled his wakizashi out of the man’s throat and rammed it into the back of another white-cloaked figure. He never had compunctions about stabbing someone from behind. The man fell, blood gurgling from his mouth. He and Ander were returning to their quarters after a night of carousing at a tavern. Passing by Kalvairn’s luxurious residence, Shura’s keen hearing had picked up the sounds of a battle and the two had rushed in to investigate.
Seeing Ander engage the last assailant, Shura went to check on Kalvairn. The sorcerer’s injuries were not serious although he was still a sobbing heap. The shattered remains of his skull mask caught Shura’s attention for a while before he turned his head to witness the battle between Ander and the cloaked swordsman.
The battle was already over, to Shura’s astonishment. The mighty Ander lay in a crumpled pile of shredded armor at the swordsman’s feet. The cloaked man wielded a sword that blazed with fire and he wasted no time in leaping over Ander’s bulky form and bringing the sword down in a great two-handed chop on Shura. Baring his teeth in a snarl to dim the sudden fear he felt, Shura brought both blades up to meet the attack…

 

YIKES!!
Great story

For a moment i thought the sorcerer was a gonner. Would be a shame

 

Amazing, definetly one of the best battle scenes I have read, professional authors included.

 

I stand in awe. Well, ok, I sit in awe. Pray continue.

 

see shura? and you said you didnt think it was good...

 

*goblin voice* yess see we told you it was good but did you beeleiive us? nooOOoo

 

The impact of the three blades meeting sent a jarring shock through Shura’s arms. Gasping under the impact, Shura could barely see his adversary pull back his great sword through watery eyes. Flinging himself to the dirt, Shura avoided the next sweeping attack by barely an inch. A huge piece of his cloak floated freely in the air, severed by the burning sword.
He looked up to see the wielder of the fearsome blade reverse the grip on his weapon and bring it over his head, in readiness to finish him off with a mighty thrust. Scrambling out of the way took all of Shura’s awesome speed and agility, and none of his dignity.
Coming out from a forward roll, Shura readied his blades and faced off again against the white-cloaked swordsman. The great burning sword was leveled to his throat level and an aura of oppressing wrath washed across Shura. The cloaked and helmed figure radiated power that tore at Shura’s courage. He wanted to scream, throw his swords away and grovel for forgiveness. Cold sweat poured down his forehead and the sides of his cheeks and his swords trembled in his grasp.
He had heard tales of such warriors before: fleshly incarnations of righteousness wrath that wielded weapons of great power. Demons quailed before them and darkness fled their gaze. “ Paladin!” Shura whispered hoarsely as he realized the truth about his opponent. The paladin raised his great sword in a salute and assumed a battle stance.
Shura did the same, despite the fear that tore at his insides. How could he flee and leave Kalvairn and Ander to the mercies of the paladin? The normally cool and composed swordsman roared in determination and defiance in the face of the dreadful glowing sword, forcing his fear to the deepest parts of his soul.
A leap closed the distance between him and the paladin. Shura immediately sent his swords into an intricate and marvelous attack sequence, hoping to overwhelm the paladin before he could bring his huge weapon to bear. Katana and wakizashi swirled and slashed, only to be deflected by the great sword that whistled through the air with an impossible speed. First the heavy blade deflected the long sword, then the short sword. The paladin whipped his blade horizontally, catching Shura a glancing blow in the chest. Shura felt his flesh rip and tear apart even though the sword barely touched him. Gritting his teeth, Shura thrust his wakizashi forward, the short, curved blade seeking his opponent’s throat. Again the flickering weapon was knocked aside by the paladin’s weapon and a gauntleted fist slammed into Shura’s face, sending him flying a full four feet back.
Despite the pain, Shura twisted his body and landed on his feet gracefully. The paladin thundered in, his sword slashing. The weapon struck with strength greater than Ander’s axe yet moved with the flickering speed of a viper’s tongue. Shura parried each attack perfectly, calling upon all the skills in the First Sphere of the Shura Sword. Desperation brought him to heightened levels of genius and his swords flowed and parried in a pattern unrivaled by any swordsman in the east. The paladin’s sword blasted powerfully through each of Shura’s awesome parries however, and Shura found himself hard pressed to maintain the status quo, let alone launch a counter attack.
The two battled furiously, the paladin driving the dark swordsman a step back with every step. Swords spinning, Shura diverted the paladin’s blade instead of directly blocking it. A booted foot slammed into the paladin’s helm repeatedly, Shura keeping the glowing blade trapped between his own two swords, pressing down with the weight of his entire body. By keeping the glowing sword out of the equation, Shura hoped to equal the odds in the one-sided beating he was receiving. Releasing his grip on his wakizashi, Shura ripped a dagger from a shoulder sheath with a snarl. He thrust it at the paladin, the blade seeking the crease between the helm and the man’s breastplate. The paladin twisted desperately and the dagger glanced harmlessly off his polished armor. With a heave, the paladin ripped his sword free, sending Shura flying into the air, his shorter blade lying on the dirt before the paladin.
The amazingly skilled Shura still had a trick up his voluminous sleeves, however and he fired his dagger in midair, his aim unerring despite him being upside down. The missile caught the paladin by surprise and sank to its’ hilt in the crease between the man’s breastplate and shoulder guard. Hitting the ground heavily, Shura growled away the pain and got to his feet, katana in hand. The paladin clutched his wound. Now he would be unable to wield the great sword properly. Shura advanced upon his victim with a vicious snarl. A blinding light that materialized beside the paladin thwarted him, however. A slender female form stood beside the white-cloaked man. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she stared at Shura in cold fury.
A cry of rage escaped Shura’s lips as he hurled himself forward, wicked curved blade streaking towards the pair. He found himself striking thin air, however. Overbalanced, Shura could not catch himself in his current weakened state and fell heavily to the ground. Looking around wearily, Shura surveyed the scene of carnage around him…


“ They will recover.” Was all Blackmire’s personal healer would say as she ushered Shura away from the room where his wounded companions slept. A follower of the Lady of Tyranny, the priestess had called upon her magic to heal their grievous wounds. Shura wore a blood soaked bandage across his chest however. The priestess of Tyranny was perplexed when her deity-granted powers failed to work in mending the swordsman’s wounds and had to rely on more mundane methods to staunch the bleeding wound.
“ Do not disturb them.” She said sternly to Shura who bowed in acquiescence, the act sending waves of pain across his body. He entered the room anyway after she left. Ander was sleeping peacefully, his snores shaking the confined room. Kalvairn, however, was more worrying. For the first time since they met, Shura looked upon his friend’s face. Kalvairn’s features were sharp and delicate, his ears pointed. He was not human, Shura realized. Kalvairn probably drew his heritage from the Elder races, beings that excelled in the arcane arts of sorcery. That explained his great magical aptitude. The fine delicate features were what most ladies would consider handsome, Shura surmised. Why would he hide his features maniacally under a steel mask?
Kalvairn opened his eyes just then. His frail hand gripped Shura’s sleeve tightly.
“ My room, the box atop the central shelf…please….fetch me my mask….” Kalvairn’s voice was musical and melodious, totally unlike his usual scratchy rasp. Shura nodded and ran off to fulfill his friend’s wish. In a matter of minutes, Shura handed the piece of metal over into Kalvairn’s trembling hands. The sorcerer wasted no time in putting the mask on. The hideous skull imprinted on the metal now replaced his delicate features.
Kalvairn sensed the unspoken question. Looking at Shura through his mask, Kalvairn was no longer trembling. The swordsman looked weary indeed. Bruises covered his face and fine stitches and a bloody bandage held the flesh on his chest together.
“ We all wear masks, Shura. To some degree or the other.” Kalvairn’s voice resumed its’ rasping tone again. “ Your past is a bloody one, but no less bloody than mine. Beings like us are killers, murderers without peer. Different methods to the same end, but no less similar.”
Shura was silent. He did not know how to respond to a statement like that. “ The horrors I have committed in my past have left deep abscesses in my soul. My mask is an indication of a marred and terribly disfigured inner being.” Kalvairn said.
Shura’s hands rested unconsciously on the hilts of his swords, the same blades that had struck down the man who raised him and countless others, women and children included. “ When your soul becomes as tainted as mine, young friend, would your swords become your mask? Or would you be as strong as Blackmire, who knows no remorse for his deeds?” Kalvairn asked him.
“ How can I seek the truth of my existence without my blades? They have become part of me and with every opponent I defeat, I find that I become just that little faster, stronger and more accurate. My swords fit a little better in my hands and my soul seems to…..ascend….” Shura responded, his words trailing off as he realized how empty his ideals were. His sensei had spent his entire life killing people. People all over the land feared him and dubbed him ‘Shura the Murderer’ . In the end, he had been cut down by his own disciple on a snowy plain. Shura realized with horror how far he had walked in his sensei’s footsteps.
“ Know the truth about our leader, Shura. Blackmire’s hands are drenched with the blood of thousands. Atrocities that demons would not consider come easily to him. Yet he seems unfazed by his deeds. He is truly a monster in human form and we, lesser monsters, are drawn into his service by an irresistible force. Call it fate, perhaps.” Kalvairn paused to look upon the slumbering form of Ander. The big man had been a rapist and a mass murderer before Blackmire took him under his wing. Many a peasant housewife had watched the heads of her children dashed against a tree before Ander took his pleasure.
“ The Way of the sword is a noble one, Shura. A much nobler one than the obsessive clawing for power and the blind pursuit of pleasure. You must start living your life on your own soon. Your swords must strike for yourself and not for Blackmire.” Kalvairn said. Shura stared at the sorcerer in alarm. Was Kalvairn attempting to backstab Blackmire by shaking his faith in the great warlord? The sorcerer seemed to smile through his skull mask.
“ Blackmire would never betray his own companions, however. He sees us as equals and holds a deep and profound respect for each of us, even the great oaf Ander. I am not asking you to betray our leader. I am pointing out to you that you can only follow Blackmire’s path for so long before you come to a dead end on your pursuit for the Way of the sword.” Kalvairn continued.
Shura stood in silence for a while. “ I must go now. Some rest is in order if I’m to recover quickly.” He said. Shura turned and walked out of the room, his face thoughtful and troubled. Kalvairn knew Shura would not be returning to his cell. The girl Jo-Annia Renlia awaited him at the city’s fountain. Her shoulder length hair would sway in the chill autumn air and her smile would drive Shura’s worries away. Kalvairn kept a close eye on each of his companions. He stared at the plain stone ceiling, his thoughts drifting back to the more pleasant times of his past…..

 

Well done Shura. The story is very good while your writing is polished and professional. My anticipation builds while waiting for the next chapter to unfold...

 

This surely is a battle of titans. I like the way your characters evolve

 

Veeery cool, Shura!

 

cool story...find yourself an agent, if you don't have one yet.