On The Edge of Blades Chapter 4

Syra fiddled with the sleeves of her ragged tunic. It had been days since she had bathed, and she suspected that- if not for the sulfur candles- her smell would be dreadful indeed. Theseus left hours ago, and she had little to do but stare into the emerald candles as the dark wax dripped and melted.

Out of boredom, Syra paced in circles. The isolation reminded her of the Trials. She had never understood why such great pain was required to gain power, but somehow it seemed to be the only thing about The City that was fair.

Anyone that endured the Trials could have the power. The guilds had taken many children of the bottom layer and trained them for this reason. And while many lesser nobles were prominent members within the Bound Guilds, many of the Upper Houses would not send their children, deeming the binding process too risky.

As usual, the nobles were right- many people died in the Trials, but those that survived were strong. Strong in a way that permeated both the body and the mind.

A faint hissing sound was coming from outside. Theseus had told her that the remnants were little more than pests, but Syra still shivered at the thought of the ghostly white creatures crawling and writhing in the darkness.         

The hissing ebbed and waned, and Syra sat down. The stone ground was as it always was- cold and wet. But even the supreme unpleasantness did nothing to keep the grotesque remnants from her mind.

Eventually though, Syra heard the faint tapping of many thin remnant legs scurrying away. The hissing faded to nothing. Yet, another noise crept to take its place,

Click, Click, Click…

A deep clicking that came in bursts of three.

She grabbed a few shards of ancient pottery from the alcove above. The air was quiet spare for her own nervous breaths and,

Click, Click, Click…

One of the candles disappeared.

Syra spun in hushed panic. There was something in the quiet darkness, she grabbed one of the four remaining candles and held it in her left hand.

Click, Click, Click…

Two more candles vanished.

The light around Syra had diminished to the candle that she held in her hand and one other. And she was afraid. Since she surrendered the sword Syra had been weak and powerless. In the dying green light of the two remaining candles, she had never wanted the black blade more.

Click, Click, Click…

The penultimate candle faded to nothing.

Syra’s knuckles were white as she clenched the last candle in her palm. She ignored the burning pain as the black wax dripped down on her hands.

Click, Click-

A white limb shattered through the chiseled stone like a deafening hammer. The limb was draped in a fleshy white skin that hung like a bat’s wing.

The fragments of old pottery waited in Syra’s right hand. She drove the largest through the paper-like skin that hung from the limb. The creature howled in a high and disjointed shrieking tone, its amber blood drenching the floor. The limb darted away from Syra, but just as it did, another came crashing through the small pueblo.

She stabbed the last sizeable shard of pottery through the other limb, and again the creature shrieked. But, the small cuts only enraged it further.

Having no other choice, Syra crawled from the remains of the pueblo. She turned to run, but as she did, the candle fell from her hand. And, darkness, everywhere like a blanket. She stumbled forwards, nonetheless. Desperate to keep moving, to live.

Again, she wished for her sword, wished to feel the comforting hilt. It didn’t matter that it had wrought so much death, she wanted it anyway.

Click, Click, Click…

It was the clicking again; the creature was close.

Syra thought of her sword. The sharp blade and stout hilt that was so much more to her than any weapon. In a way it was as if a part of her still lived inside of the steel. And oddly enough it felt close, close in a way that it hadn’t felt in a long time, as if she could reach out and touch it.

Click, Click, Click…

Syra retreated further as the shadowed figure of the monster came into view. It looked like an oversized cross between a bat and a spider, with many long legs and two long pointed ears.

Closing her eyes in fear, she latched onto the sword. Syra could only think of death in the face of death. The dark blade consumed her; in her mind she held it in her hand. The cold rough hilt laid against her fingers like it had been welded there by some greater being. The whispers of the blade almost audible as she waved it through the air.

The dust was heavy. And, Syra thought, I will die here.

The monster was grotesquely malformed, yet Syra knew that it was not evil. This thing was a predator, a hunter. They were both killers, but she doubted the creature could have stopped itself.

I may be death, Syra thought. But I deserve far worse a fate.

Remembering her sword one last time and almost feeling the cold hilt in her palm, Syra opened her eyes-

The dark blade burned in her hand like an inevitable prophecy. And, Syra saw everything. The fine air particulates that kissed her sword- a thousand tiny needles. The creature in its hideous glory, and she did not think.

Click, Click, Cli-

The blade shot through the pale white corpse a hundred times over until the shrieks faded to nothing. And, the twisted carapace sank to the ground like an old cheese coated in viscous amber blood.

Syra peered around, squinting through the yellow fluid. The stone looked like it had been painted in the faint gold substance. And her nose was met with many smells at once- the most prominent of which, rotten eggs.

A loud clang rang through the quiet underground as Syra’s blade fell from her fingers. She couldn’t hold the thing that reaped so many lives. Yet, at the same time she knew her reasoning was flawed. ‘The weapon, a tool,’ she recalled the old Bladebound texts. ‘Thou wielder a weapon.’

The ancient texts- Syra remembered something. They were full of references to things that she had never understood- no one had ever understood really- oceans, deserts, vast cities, magic. The texts were regarded as anecdotal almost quasi-religious, but perhaps there was more truth in the old words than people knew.

“This should not be.” Theseus’ voice- thin and tired like the bottom layer- interrupted Syra’s thoughts.

“To come this close to the surface the Aladrac must have Seen something.” He hobbled towards the carnage.

“Aladrac?” Syra questioned.

“Yes, creatures of the deepest dark.” Theseus spoke in a hurried manner as he collapsed to the yellow painted ground.

“I need to rest. I must pay for what I have taken,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“St-rength, bo-dy, miidn, Afsi-ró…” Theseus’ words slurred together as he spoke, and soon the man fell into a deep sleep.

Syra clutched the sword which had returned to her hand.  

Where would he find it? Was he the one that stole it in the first place? Am I being used like a tool? Or am I a weapon? Her mind raced. She wanted the man to wake up and answer her. Yet, perhaps it was best that the black robed figure remained asleep. It would be much simpler that way. It would only take seconds for the ebony blade to take his’ life. Then, she wouldn't have to answer the questions, and he would only be one more face in her dreams. Trembling, she raised the sword, and-

What am I doing? Syra’s thoughts roared like gales of wind. I cannot kill him. I can’t… I cannot kill.

I’m not a killer. I’m not a killer. Not a killer. The phrase looped over and over. Yet, the sword still descended towards the sleeping man’s chest. The action was simple, methodical, mechanical; it was something she had done so many-.

“No!” She screamed hurling the blade into the darkness, “Never again!”

Theseus’ eyes fluttered for an instant, but the man did not still.

Syra fell to the ground in silent agony. Her heart and mind convulsed against the impulses that had been forged in her flesh long ago. Everywhere she saw blood waiting to be spilled, but she swore it would not be her hand, never again…