A Knight of the Sacred Blade Read Free

brother’s Sacred Blade. The weapon felt heavy and strange in his hand, yet flamed to life nonetheless. 
    He could only wield one Sacred Blade at a time, and since his sword was buried in Khan-Mar-Dan’s hip, that mean he could wield Luthar’s blade with ease.
    Baal-Mar-Dan cursed and retreated as Arran whipped Luthar’s Sacred Blade through a flurry of swings. Baal-Mar-Dan dodged and ducked, his scimitar flashing through parries. Arran spun, thrust, and drove his sword through Baal-Mar-Dan’s shoulder. 
    The winged demon screamed and dropped his scimitar. 
    “This is not over yet!” the demon roared. Baal-Mar-Dan flapped his wings and soared away. Arran sprinted at Khan-Mar-Dan. The wounded demon clawed Arran’s Sacred Blade free from his leg and joined his brother. They flew away, and soon became two black spots on the horizon. 
    Arran snapped his brother’s sword into its scabbard and scooped up his own Sacred Blade. He shoved the weapon into its scabbard and drew both of his pistols. He still had time. If he killed the officers, threw Marugon’s soldiers into disarray, the Antardrim might yet carry day…
    Then he looked at the battle, and the despair rose up in him anew.
    The few hundred gunmen had slaughtered the mighty army of Antarese. Thousands of armored, bullet-ridden corpses lay gleaming in the sun, and the blood turned the Emerald Plain into crimson mud. Arran saw King Septimus’s banner, bullet-riddled and shredded, lying in a pool of gore. The King himself lay in pieces, his head mounted atop Marugon’s banners. Even as Arran watched, the soldiers mowed down the last of the fleeing Antardrim soldiers. In a few hours the gunmen would march on defenseless Antarese. Thousands of women and children waited in that city…
    A soldier ran past, Kalashnikov smoking. Arran snarled and shot the soldier down.

    ###

    It took him hours to escape from the soldiers, and the day faded to twilight as he made his escape.
    At last he stumbled up a hill five miles or so from Antarese and looked back.
    The gunmen had blasted open Antarese’s gates and stormed inside. Endless choruses of agonizing screams rose into the night, seeming to echo inside Arran’s head. 
    The soldiers had set the city ablaze, and even from five miles away, the glare turned the night into sullen day. 
    The last of the High Kingdoms had fallen to Lord Marugon.
    Arran stumbled onward, too numb even to weep.
    He had failed. He had damned himself, fought the gunmen for years, and it had all been for nothing. The White Council was gone, the Knights were gone, and now all the High Kingdoms were gone. 
    There was nothing left. Marugon had triumphed.
    And Arran had nothing left to live for.
    A distant explosion rumbled over the plain, the light of Antarese’s pyre flaring brighter.
    Arran drew his Sacred Blade, the silvery blade gleaming with the inferno’s hellish light. 
    “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”
    He contemplated running himself through with the sword. Then Arran’s teeth gritted, and he slammed the sword back into its scabbard. He had ruined his soul with the guns. He would not profane the sword with his wretched blood. 
    “All for nothing,” he whispered, watching the distant fire. 
    What little hope King Septimus had offered him was crushed beyond recall. Now there was nothing for the world but fire and Marugon’s black magic. Perhaps Arran should charge back to Antarese and die with his weapons in hand…
    But what good what it serve? He had failed.
    Arran turned his back on doomed Antarese. He trudged down the side of the hill and stopped, staring into the parched, bleak plain that marked the southern border of Antarese.
    He stood on the edge of the vast Desert of Scorpions, its borders stretching into the unknown regions of the world. Let the heat broil him, the sun blind him, and the sand scour the sand from his damned bones. 
    It was over. 
    Arran staggered into the Desert of Scorpions to die.

Chapter 2 -