I COULD KILL HIM RIGHT NOW. That thought echoed through my soul as i leaned on the soft velvet curtain beside the open window allowing the crisp cold air to enter. Viktor Lustrana was lying in a bed that an elephant could sleep in, dead to the world, the smell of dreamwine drowning even the sandalwood incense on the braziers around the room. His silk shirt was open, revealing a tatoo of intricate design, in crimson and black. The sight of that had my own tattoo writhing under my skin, desperate to devour the other. It would be so easy killing him now, my hand strayed to my moonblade, I could see myself slicing his throat with it, opening a crimson smile. it would be too easy, his crime demanded more. He had killed my brother.
It was seven years ago, my brother had taken me on my first tour and we had arrived at Rashada for it's Festival of Roses. We were receiving much money for our act. Josef, my brother could dazzle the ear of any listener when he played his lyranthe. I would juggle and perform tricks. Our favored spot was at the Fountain of Cold Tears. That is where we met Vanya, or rather she met us. Her beauty, even then could melt the heart of any man who saw her, and Josef fell in love with her like a fool walking off a cliff. Everytime she was around he played his best, and she came around more and more. It would have been a perfect tale of lovers had it not been for her brother, Viktor, and his two henchmen, Gustav and Andrei. They came around on a windy afternoon. Viktor had Gustav drag a pleading Vanya back to their mansion while he threatened Josef and myself if we did not leave. My brother decided then to fight for his love and he told Viktor so. He just sneered and ordered Andrei to hold Josef while he drew his sword, a straight moonblade, I moved to protect my brother from the bearlike man but he only kicked me away. My brother was not a fighter, he was a great musician. I could do nothing as, my brother held in Andrei's iron grip was gutted by Viktor. Josef had gotten a hold of his dagger and stabbed Andrei's leg, getting away. He turned to fight Viktor, but Viktor was too fast and too strong. It was only later that I learned the reason for his ability. I charged Viktor with my own dagger but he danced away like quicksilver and thrust his sword deep into my chest, then turned and buried the blade in my brother's throat. I could only watch as the light went from his eyes. They left, laughing, they had nothing to fear for the killing of two Gitanos who had no country. As they left, my own ability blossomed, as did my hate. Wracked with pain greater than from the whole in my chest, I wept, and made a vow to return, for their lives.
For the past seven years, my wanderings have been driven with this dark purpose. I have travelled the six countries, learning their languages and ways of fighting. I have searched for and found The Tsurara Knife Tribe, and they have taught me their ways. I have learned to harness and feed the abilities brought by the harrowing. I have learned to kill. The marks brought by the harrowing have grown, on most days arranging into circular blue patterns. Killing another with such markings is never an easy task, but the reward is the opportunity to feed your own with the other. I have learned the law that governs people who are marked, the only law that binds us, the law of the knife. To claim the power you must be prepared to fight a battle to the death, single combat. And that is what stays my hand. The only reason, when I had so many others to kill him then, while he slept.
With cat steps I approached his prone figure and took his blade from it's sheath. Only a great effort prevented me from gutting him then, instead I took a quill and a sheet of paper, wrote a time and a place, then stabbed the blade through the paper. Slowly, I pushed the blade into the bed beside Viktor. With cat steps I headed for the door, where I knew Gustav and Andrei stood guard like the loyal dogs they are.
The surprise in their eyes tasted better than Ghaellian ambrosia, their shouts died in their throats as I sliced their throats in turn. Then I went back in the room and out the open window.
Posted at 02:28 pm by Moonblade
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Maliki ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Sweat ran down his face and he was breathing heavily. He could see heavy black smoke rising from his village. The only home he had ever known: Lanil. A sinking feeling gouged his tummy. The dusk light framed the high rising smoke. When he got to the first house he stopped abruptly and stared the roaring flames spilling out inside it and on the roof. A scream startled him from his gaze and he quickly jumped for cover. Dora Farsworth ran by, her clothes ripped and her face a red mask of blood. Three horsemen sped after her hooting and jeering. Maliki knew Dora. She was a friend of his mother’s. She would give him sweets when he and his mother visited her home. Maliki also recognized the armor. The Soldiers of Akilia. A soldier violently swung the butt of his sword on the woman’s head sending her sprawling to the ground. The soldier rounded and stopped around the woman. He got off his horse. The other two soldiers entered the nearest house to plunder. Dora wailed uncontrollably. The one who hit her approached her with a sly grin. He bent over and hit the woman hard. Blood covered the ground. Maliki flinched. His knuckles growing white as he gripped the soil under him. The soldier began to remove his lower armor and grabbed the woman by the hair sitting her up. Dora looked in terror at the soldier, she began sobbing and pleading only to be hit again by the soldier.
“Lanil wench! You shall have the honor of pleasuring me before I slit your throat!” Spat the soldier. Dora seemed not to hear this and continued to cry and plead. The soldier then kneed the woman’s face. Stopping her cries and leaving her face a bloody mess.
“Stupid Lanil wench, what use are you to me now!?” The soldier pulled his fist back to deliver another punch. His sword which he had lain forgotten a few feet away had burst through his chest. There was a moment of confusion before he hit the ground. Behind him, Maliki stood trembling, the soldier’s sword shaking in his hands. Tears ran heavily down his face. He glanced at Dora. A deep hatred burned inside him.
“Hey, you there!” cried a soldier from inside the house. He ran towards Maliki then grabbed the boy’s shoulder. Maliki spun around, savagely swinging the sword across the soldier’s neck, severing his head. Maliki sank to his knees and began to cry. He cried like he did when he was a child. His village was burning to the ground around him, and all he knew and loved was either dead or ash. He waited as the fire crept closer and closer to him.
Maliki suddenly felt something awaken inside him. Despite his grief and anguish he felt strange power pulsing through him… The fire appeared to dance around Maliki, surrounding him as if in ritual. The smoke twisting and circling above him. Light seemed to shine through his closed eyelids. At first it was a tingle of pain crawling under his skin, then suddenly he felt as if a surge of white hot fire covered his skin. Maliki opened his eyes and he screamed at the night sky. The flames all around him burst and, just as suddenly, went out. Maliki sat up. He felt strength within him. He looked down and found strange markings burned on his chest. Questions and thoughts filled his young head. He heard hoof beats across the fields, beyond the forest. Slowly he picked up a sword and started walking. He turned his back on the only home he had ever known with a burning hate and the markings on his chest.
Posted at 11:49 am by Moonblade
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