Page 24 of A Waltz with Lord Death
Her heart picked up with fear as she turned her head toward the voice only to find a group of six men standing at the edge of the clearing. They wore leather and fur, and their weapons glinted beneath the soft glow of dawn.
Fear bolted through her like a flash of lightning streaking across the sky. She clung to Death, but when she attempted to jump to her feet, he held her closer, which prevented her from moving.
He didn’t reflect the same fear racing within her. “Take one more step forward and forfeit your lives. I can kill you without rising to my feet.”
The men snorted in laughter, their guffaws creating a pit of fear in her heart. She clung tighter to Death. The ruffian who appeared to be their leader took only one step forward as if to taunt Death, all while raising his sword with a menacing snarl on his face.
“Death,” she whimpered.
“Shh,” he said soothingly, turning her face into his chest. “You will not want to see this.”
She still peeked anyway.
An unnatural black fog rolled into the clearing, a power so dark that a chill cut through the air, far colder than the blistering winter winds. Death’s body grew warm against hers, almost too hot to touch, as his power surged from him. She debated between clinging to the searing heat or braving the hushed chill.
The shadowy fog crawled up the cursing men, who tried to kick the dark vapors off them. Each cried out in alarm, which only allowed the fog to slither into their mouths. Men screamed. Bodies convulsed. One man tried to flee, but a shadowy tendril latched onto his ankle and pulled him into the densest part of the shadows. Although he disappeared from view, his shrieks cut through the air until they quieted all too suddenly.
The leader fell onto his backside and tried to scramble away from pursuing shadows. Using his sword, he cut through swaths, but the fog relentlessly surged through him. But then the shadows ceased their path of devastation as the man spoke four words.
****
“I challenge you, Death!” the man cried while raising his sword in his direction. The ruffian’s chest heaved, thick with fear for his own life. The existence of Life, Death, and Time were not well known, so how he knew who he was baffled him.
Death did his best not to roll his eyes. During his mortal life, he had been a hunter, a warrior among his people. A weapon fit perfectly in his hands like a friend who knew his soul inside and out. But he was no mortal. He was Lord Death, more powerful than a mere human.
“Are you sure you want to duel me?” he asked, his gaze boring a hole through the man’s soul. “I don’t usually tell people how long remains of their lifespans, but I will make an exception for you. Two minutes and fifteen seconds. That is how long you will last before your soul succumbs to the darkness. And I’m not talking about paradise in the afterlife. Your soul will cease to exist, such are the rules of a duel.”
His own words created a pit of anxiety within him. Would Barret’s soul cease to exist despite all of his and Time’s efforts to keep it alive?
No, he refused to entertain those thoughts. He refused to give up hope.
The man’s eyes hardened, and he said again, “I challenge you, Death.”
“Very well.” He reluctantly set Meira aside and stood, his gaze scanning the forest floor around them. Five men dead, two staring at the sky with empty eyes, another three in unmoving fetal positions. At least they would get to see the afterlife unlike the fool before him. “First, tell me the name of the man who I will kill today. And second, name your weapon of choice.”
“My name is of no concern to you,” the mortal snarled. “A sword will do me just fine.”
With a mighty war cry, the man sprinted forward with his weapon raised. He was only just aware of Meira’s screech ringing in his ears as he prepared himself. The moment the blade sliced through the air, he ducked beneath the swing and kicked his opponent in the back of the knee. The man stumbled but managed to regain his footing.
Power pooled from his core, down his outstretched arm, and circled his fingers. A hilt made of onyx shadow became solid in his hand, climbing upward to form a blade and a wicked sharp tip. However, the tip wouldn’t cut flesh. It would cut straight to the soul and sever it from the body. Only this time, it would be a severance so deep as to send the man’s soul straight to oblivion.
Death tunneled his focus on the man before him, trading blows, dodging attacks all while counting down the seconds. One minute left.
The man got in a lucky cut to his arm. The wound leaked wispy shadows before his skin began to reknit itself, much to the man’s shock. Panic led his opponent’s footwork, his attacks becoming faster yet a bit choppier and unbalanced.
Weapon clashed against weapon. Screeches of metal rang in his ears. His opponent was not only strong, but quick as well. He gritted his teeth as he ground his feet into the earth to keep his balance as he blocked an overhand blow. The man far outmatched him in strength, but in brains? Not so much. Thirty seconds left.
He brought his knee up and smashed it into the man’s stomach, enough for him to stumble backward in surprise. He traded blow after blow until he disarmed the man and forced him to his knees.
His opponent breathed heavily, a dark glare in his eyes. Yet, a trace of fear shone through, unable to be doused by his stubborn spirit.
Holding the blade only inches from the man’s neck, he said, “If you wanted to kill me, you should have brought an immortal weapon. That was your second mistake.”
“A-a-and the first?”
“Challenging me to a duel.”
With one powerful swing, the blade passed through the man’s neck, not cutting the flesh, but rather passing right through one side and out the other like a shadow chased by sunlight. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, his spirit exiting his mouth in a single breath before crumbling to dust and scattering across the ground. His body fell backward with athump. He didn’t move again.
