The Battle

Copyright 1996 By James E. Martin
A warrior walks the silent street, vorpal steel gleaming in the 
moonlit night.
Moving quietly toward his destiny; a monstrous horror bathed in eerie 
light.

The huge ape-like creature with hideous horned helm draws a blade 
seeming of crimson light.
He laughs coldly at this gallant young fool, soon to be dead by his 
hand this night.

None before had fought him and lived, no quarter, no mercy had ever 
been displayed.
No-one but fools would challenge him; he and his mighty magic blade.

The warrior knew nought of the fear that this horror should surely 
bring.
His heart was with his family slain; the dead are scared by nothing.

Gleaming sword met gleaming sword with the sound of thunder in the 
sky.
The warrior reeled under the blow his arm broken and lifeless at his 
side.

His weapon lay at his feet, useless, but he could not but stare at 
the sword
flashing silently toward his skull, soon an end to the pain in his 
soul.

At the last moment he somehow moved, his spirit not quite ready to 
die.
His left hand grasped his father's sword, his only inheritance that 
had survived.

The beast was startled by the man's eyes, a gleam of hate and pain 
like he had never seen.
The sword of his enemy flamed brilliant white, left handed this time, 
the human came again.

He that had never known fear, knew terror that eve, when nought but a 
shaken, wounded child,
clumsily bearing sword with off-hand closed for battle, his eyes 
insanely wild.

The warrior swung his father's sword with every ounce of strength and 
more.
Crimson light met silver fire, steel on steel exploded in a sudden 
roar.

For a moment the beast thought he had won as his gaze caught the 
warrior's broken blade.
For a moment he felt a twinge of pity, then he felt the broken shard 
in his chest impaled.

The warrior looked hesitantly down at the beast, appearing more man-
like now that it was dead.
He picked up the magic blade and walked away, nervously adjusting the 
horned helm on his head.