Sharpening My Claws

In a previous post I talked about how I keep my claws sharp by working on little side projects in between my work on the rest of the Parting The Veil series.  I've decided to do some of that sharpening here…with you.

I grew up a huge fan of the fantasy genre. When my brother enlisted in the Navy he turned over his LOTR books and I was immediately hooked.  I even dabbled in Dungeons & Dragon (ok – dabble is an understatement).  Regardless, I had always wanted to try my hand at a bit of a sword and sorcery tale and now…here…with you…I am.

It is untitled and could possibly be horrible, as well.  Let me know your thoughts.

He had broken his vow.

Five in all, armed men with ill intentions, lay bleeding and dying, casting pooling crimson shadows across the snow blanketing the King's Road – and he wept. As surely as his hand, and sword, had pierced their flesh, his tears and heart now grieved for their souls.

Once known simply as "Widowmaker", he had sold his sword to those seeking justice, revenge, and in many instances – murder. For lords and ladies, beggars and bandits, coin was coin and a life was an easy thing to buy, and for Widowmaker, an even easier thing to take. But Widowmaker was dead now, or at least buried, and for the first time in nearly a decade the darkness and pain from that life began to bubble to the surface. It burned as he swallowed it down.

His steely-eyed gaze swept the trees, searching for movement – searching for others. Sensing no one, he wiped the flat of his blade across his chest, leaving a smear of blood and gore on his gray traveling cloak and turned his attention to the carriage and the muffled sobs coming from inside. It was the sobbing that had initially drawn his attention, and, in turn, his sword.

He approached slowly, his footsteps soft as the falling snow. Three more bodies, unmoving and bloodied, littered the ground near the carriage. The horses, two if he read the tracks correctly, had bolted in the struggle.

The carriage door was open, nearly ripped from its hinge. Holding the sword loosely at his side, muscles coiled like a spring ready to launch, he peered inside. Lying amongst the cushions, dressed in silks the color of honey, he found the source of the sobbing. And, with tears falling from her eyes, she found his gaze.

"I beg of you, sir – have mercy." The sobs intensified as she clasped her hands at her bosom.

He looked again into the trees, unsure. What had he done? What was he doing? He turned his attention again to the young woman. The sword felt heavy in his hand, like an anchor, and he released his hold on it. It fell to the ground at his feet, and then he fell to his knees.

"Mercy," he whispered as tears came to his eyes.

He had broken his vow.