Labyrinth of the Sword

Buried in mud on a field littered with the dead, most clad in similar gear. The dark sky poured.

Wet rhythm tore across the scene. A warrior — hearty of constitution but surely not yet even of age to know the pleasures of drink or company — in terrified flight, stumbling over so many fallen comrades.

The boisterous downpour concealed tones of panic, but could not dissuade the stalker’s calls. And surely the lightning revealed position, as confident as the thundering heartbeat of fear.

Many had been such times, the warrior knew. Ferocious battles for the freedom of men, and the demons what assailed armies. Father’s tales did not go unheard.

What would they sing of this? The rain was too heavy, and the warrior ungraciously fell. The fingers of a severed hand clawed motionless through the mire only a few inches away.

Encroaching taunts of death, resounding between falling tears. But footsteps before the meal.

A scrambling revealed it. Slick to the initial finding but its finely woven handle true upon the gripping. A piercing whisper known as the edge of death, yet the warrior raised the wielding arm.

That resonating hum rang of a blade ages on the hilt. The warrior rose and met, and in singing combat defied the coming night. The last foe was left gurgling, unheard beneath the storm.

It was won.