Gods of Blood and Fire - A. J. Strickler Page 0,1

killed before. Now three men lay dead at his feet. Their blood soaked into the dust of the dry road making a gruesome muck. Kian looked down at his grim work. Two of the brigands lay headless, the third had been pierced through the heart. He hadn’t wanted to kill them, but they had given him little choice; they had tried to waylay him for the few copper coins in his pouch. Even after he had even given them the little coin he carried, they still wanted to kill him for his cloak. Kian knew even if he had given them the cloak, the men still would have most likely found a reason to murder him.

He had dealt with thieves and cutpurses many times in his childhood—robbery and murder were a way of life for many of the residents of Thieves Port. He was no child now cowering before the ruffians of a crime-ridden city. He had trained his mind and body for forty years in the Blue Dagger Mountains with his master Gildor. So many years, it was almost half a human lifetime, but then he wasn’t human.

This was the first time he had drawn his sword to truly defend himself. It had been fast. His body just seemed to move on its own. Gildor had told him when the fighting started he would become his blade, and he had. Kian had walked the path of steel for forty years. He had honed his skills until they were second nature to him. The sword would forever be part of his life. Part of who he was. Gildor had taught him well. The lost techniques of the ancient Elven warriors were his now, but his master had never taught him how to feel after killing a man.

Kian cleaned the blood from his sword on one of the dead men’s shirts and sheathed it in its scabbard. He would oil the blade later. The Elven sword he carried was the most precious thing he owned. The blade had been polished to a high sheen. The hilt and pommel were both inlayed with silver and gold. Forged when the Elven race still ruled the world, he would be hard pressed to ever find its equal. It had been a gift from Gildor, so he always took time to care for it properly.

Kian wanted to bury the bodies. But having nothing to dig with, he dragged them off the road into some high grass so anyone that passed by would not have to look upon the gory scene. He retrieved his pouch from the dead man’s pocket and concealed the bodies as best he could. Then the Half Elf headed on down the dirt road, trying to digest what had just happened.

He remembered what his old master had told him. “You are the blade, boy—strong, flexible and sharp. When you kill to defend yourself or another, the blade has no regret nor should you.” He felt little remorse for the dead brigands; he knew if he hadn’t killed them he would be lying dead in the dusty road. If he was going to live the life of a warrior, he would have to temper his heart for the barbarity of combat. Gildor’s words echoed in his mind again. “You have too much empathy for your opponents, Kian, and a trusting nature—two things a warrior does not need.” He had spent many years trying to harden his heart, but it was one lesson he had failed to master.

He walked quickly from the scene of the fight; he wanted to cover as much ground as he could before it got dark. Kian hadn’t been out of the mountains for nearly forty years, he was very curious to find out what the world was truly like and he wanted to go home.

He hadn’t gone far down the road when he heard a horse whinny; the sound snapped his head around. A boy stood in a small stand of trees holding the reins of three horses; he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. A wave of guilt hit the swordsman: the boy had to belong to the men he had just killed. He walked towards the boy with his hands up, trying to show he meant no harm. Kian could see the boy was unkempt, his brown hair was a tangled mess and he was dressed in homespun clothing that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a very long time.

Tears began to well up