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Silence. The only sounds that arose from the abyss were of my own creation, and I had long since learned to create none. To make noise was to invite pain. Pain would come in its own time, with our deadly dance, there was no need to call more upon myself. The silence grates at my nerves more tonight than ever before. This was not tranquility. This was not even solitude. This was the mask of a killer, obscuring details but in no way disguising diabolical intent. Focus. The shadow was coming, soon, to dance the dance we have done nine hundred and ninety-seven times before. This time I would find him. This time I would unmask the killer, stripping away the confidence that comes with anonymity, the heady feeling of power that comes with faultless stealth. Time works against me once again. My concentration falters, as I begin to wonder. Is he already here? Is he watching me from the safety of the omnipresent shadows, waiting for his time to strike? A noise echoes off in the darkness-or is it a fabrication of my weary mind, inventing sounds it wants to hear?-and I cannot afford a moment's hesitation if I intend to capture the first move. Through the darkness I lunge, twin swords slicing away ferociously at an unseen enemy. Again, my blades taste only air, as a river of roaring pain cuts its way down the length of my exposed back. As I stumble forward, it is all I can do to deny my assailant the pleasure of my screams. The sound rings out again. For a moment, I cannot help but wonder if I have grown delirious from the pain. No matter. Anger blinds me to my mistakes, and I strike out again to battle the source of the sound, figment or not. Again the weightless sword bites into my back a moment after my own weapons slash through the spot where I had presumed my opponent to be. This time I find myself unable to keep my feet, skidding onto one knee to prevent my body from tumbling forward completely. The sinews of my back protest so fiercely that I sway unsteadily when I try to stand, but beneath the worn façade my focus has returned, as a plan begins to take shape… The bodiless speaker returns again. Ever-present, as though it were doubt itself given voice, the question returns in my moment of preparation: "What lies beyond my blade?" There is no time for an answer. The distant sound has returned, and even a moment's hesitation could cost me the victory whose pursuit has tormented me through thousands of sleepless nights. Under my breath I curse my mortal legs, demanding they marshal the last of their flagging strength to propel me through the air toward the footfalls in the darkness. No opponent waits to greet the mighty downward stroke from my left-hand blade, nor did I expect one. Rather, I allow the weight of my swing to carry my body forward even as I twist at the waist, whipping the shorter sword in my right hand around in a wide, lateral arc certain to decapitate anyone waiting behind me… |
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