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Blades of Hollow

Martin Reed



  Blades of Hollow

  By Martin Reed

  Published by Martin Reed

  Copyright 2012 Martin Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including

  photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,

  without prior written permission from the author.

  ISBN #: 9781476209449

  Blades of Hollow

  Sweat, sweat.

  Drop, drop.

  Like nimble fingers tickling your countenance, you feel perspiration escape your youthfulness, heat suffocating you.

  You are a Templar knight.

  For God. For Country. For Jerusalem.

  You personify excellence and mental purity of the highest form. These virtues are characteristically imbued, never to set exterior foot. The seeds of stability have been sewn into your kind for generations. Why then, does this barbarian breach these ideas, contradicting the teachings of the syndicate?

  You proceed forth yet again, determined to strike with apt resiliency. He is ready however, mocking you. That distasteful, wicked smile flickers across corrupt lips while beckoning for you to join him again in his despicable art of savagery.

  You heave for personal assurance and take the bait—your spotless blade gleaming from reflecting rays bouncing off honest sand as it edges towards its target. Steel strikes steel, relaying messages of certain sophistication not wholly appropriate for most. The brief encounter gives way to numerous shards of tiny white innocence.

  Your eyes meet his, enigmatic in their nature. His exotic irises reflect residual resentment towards some familiar party. For the briefest of moments, the warmth abandons you as fear takes grip and uncertainty creeps forth through your armored garments, enveloping your shaky confidence. Feeling infracted, you call forth the sole thought successful in recoiling qualm. You remember once more.

  You are a Templar knight.

  Another blocked blow against the force of the impervious scimitar rocks you to the core, shaking your viscera while inviting cruel reality. You stagger back, dazed. With honed instincts you regroup as he charges unapologetically, poised and ready. The spotless scimitar travels forth with stunning blurriness that can only be detected by the highest ranks as it slithers towards your neck. With exhaustive effort, you deflect the piercing strike, only to be forced into reacting swiftly against its descent toward your legs. Again you parry, brushing off surfacing debility as well. Your arms suffer, singing melodies discontent while perspiring fingers burn from the blade’s vibrations.

  Yet again your dizzying assailant leaps forth, the crown of his blade set for your most prized possession in your heart. Your sword laboriously works to absorb the shock of the reverberating blow. The impact sends you rearing yet again before you crash onto one knee. You are not ready. Not yet. He is however. Always set. Always fast. Too fast. He is simply too fast and unmatchable in his alien quickness. For every thought dedicated to striking, he is eager to acquiesce, always three steps ahead, anticipating the multiple courses of action undique. The amount of variables one must consider when conjuring such a convoluted defensive matrix is boggling.

  You absorb his scorn and miraculously evade another rapacious swing of his harbinger while adding separation. With your blade extended and your weighty shoulders rocking rhythmically, you breathe with ferocious temperament and watch. He stands erect, arms by his side—a few visible chords of his squalid hair escape the confinement of his head cloth—with a supercilious smile devoid of emotion, fear, urgency, sweat or exertion. Much unlike you: grounded, bloodied and weary. While he remains untainted and vigorous, deriving pleasure from his actions, you sense the weight of your chains anchoring your decrepit spirit, reminding you that the desert is his domain.

  For a moment, you are uncertain. For a moment you hesitate… and twitch.

  But then, like the welcome adrenaline nourishing a warrior, a soothing perspective of comfort gravitates back and you feel complete again, cleansed from your insecurities.

  You are a Templar knight.

  Rejuvenated, you shoot forth with brilliant displays of dexterity and swiftness, broadsword extended forth with surgical precision. The momentum of your weapon and body are enough to cut through anyone and anything, sending even the most powerful antagonist back. Including him?

  No.

  Unfazed, he calls on leverage while elegantly meeting your horizontal sword vertically with his, rudely extinguishing the kinetic fury of your steel. The sound of two malevolent blades merging emulates a cold hammer striking anvil on the most desolate night as your fatigued hands scorch from the hilt’s dizzying vibrations.

  Curious, you are given a fractional instance to make eye contact and it is within the depths of his bitter pools that you are hinted to retract. Heeding the wisdom of your accelerated thoughts, you pull back in time for your weapon to be greeted by the chant of impatience from the left. Another reversal of motion sends the scimitar in the opposite direction, revealing the blunt exposure of your figure. Your transition is seamless and fast but so is his.

  The pain pinches your right bicep at first, tickling and satiating the senses before plunging the lining of your exposed flesh, plucking away inhumanely. You cry in agony and fall back limp, your arm partially incapacitated, the grip on your sword lacking its former glory. Regardless, you are not permitted the luxury to dwell on the pain.

  You are a Templar knight.

  He slithers to the side before manifesting at your rear. Your heightened reflexes serve perfect cause to spring you forth and from certain death. The attempted fatal blow catches faceless air and by first count, a measurable grunt is heard escaping his foreign lips. Virulent lamps rein fire and the call of impatience is clear but deaf as he catapults towards you, in sync with you turning to greet him.

  The first strike is parried with unforgiving exertion. The second comes infinitely even on course, impressively trailing only by thought and just narrowly defeated by your arduous effort. The third blow serves to loosen your hold on your bastion of defense and the immediate fourth prompts a loss in footing and equilibrium. Like a man shedding himself of the shackles of slumber, you give your head a violent shake before leaping away with heightened alertness, clear from tyranny.

  The beating of your heart is audible to all and suddenly you feel it. It heeds your name, beckoning for you to instill its discipline within your practice. The wet hot sensation in your weakened arm fades away as a resonating aura of sensational euphoria emanates forth, dancing around your proximity. Adrenaline suddenly requests invite and your broadsword, previously an albatross, now floats delicately, clenched within the vices of your sweaty fists.

  Delivering your grim reaper contempt, you charge and strike with fatal certainty only to have your attack expertly swept aside, vanishing like a hollow wisp into the vapors. He glares at you not with malice or venom. No. He glares, seemingly inconvenienced by your antics and it is then that he equips a gear not suited for you. But this is not a problem. For you see, it still does not rattle you despite the crystallization of fear.

  You are a Templar knight.

  His next steps are in tune with the wind, confusing even its host surroundings as he dances a dizzying maze of labyrinthine design towards you. Steadily, you call forth your faceless companion once more, applying unforgiving pressure around the hilt. With heavy power, he rains down lightning from overtop, throwing his slender sheet of metal at you. Your overhead defensive parry effectively halts the killing blow but the force of impact nearly merges you with sand. You regain balance but it is clear he has shed his patience, unleashing a barrage of
rapidly intricate slashes that elicit a questioning of both your vision and sanity. There is no opportunity to contemplate the offensive any longer. You have played into his hand, relegated to a mere defensive prism, struggling to hold its essence.

  You react to the swing from the right but not its ensuing shadow that knocks your blade loose, opening you up to his glory. The next strike comes unchallenged, apathetic in tone as it travels diagonally upwards, cutting you across from the left thigh to the right shoulder.

  The earth involuntarily shudders before going still as your heavy cross is dropped.

  You struggle with the infinite silence before your limbs abandon you, commencing a glorious descent backwards. Several loose fragments of sharp and protruding debris declare home inside your body upon impact, dying themselves your color as the taste of metallic crimson intensifies. Swallowing, you spew generous amounts of life line while staring up at an eternally ethereal existence.

  His imposing footsteps sound faintly through the sand before he halts at your side, towering from above as a faceless silhouette engulfed by an unforgiving sun.

  Was it worth it, this romantic crusade? Will people stop to discuss your legacy or will it stretch on unnoticed like the hollow, uncaring air?

  You were a Templar knight.

  A faint smile takes temporary hold as you reflect with remote sadness. Your thoughts bleed and betray you, no longer friendly in their guise as the weight of your somber eyelids cruelly invites the impending darkness…

  Amidst a vapid desert of obscurity, you and your blades of hollow finally succumb to the power of memories.