It was when the arrows were flying, and
his sword was cutting through good, and honourable men. That he felt
most alive. It didn't matter that he would cheat in battle at any
cost in order to win. He loved to take life. He loved to see all hope
leave a man's expression. He was filled with glory beyond expression.
This battle was especially full of
glory, because these men had been a thorn in his side for a long
time. Complaining about taxes, complaining about not having food, not
having bread. For men who had nothing, they fought better than any
other men he had ever seen. And he had seen quite a few. Perhaps they
were lying about their food supplies.
The terrain was fantastically
stimulating as well, soft moss on the ground, trees everywhere, so
easy to slip on a root and get gutted by a sword or dagger. It was
raining as well, and his blade was a shimmering crimson.
Oh! The takings would be good from this
battle, they didn't have great armour, but they had amazing swords.
He immediately replaced his own with a solid well balanced iron of
the first man that he killed.
He hoped he didn't have to kill the
blacksmith who had created these amazing swords. All of England
should have swords like these. He still kept his dagger, his dagger
he would never replace because he would never find one of better
quality. A dagger that he one from his first kill, his father had
given it to him as a prize. A family heir loom, said to have been
forged by witches, it's handle glowed red when someone was behind
him. And it never failed him.
A young man with a stout heart
approached him, and could have stabbed him in the back, if not for a
seconds hesitation. And he quickly turned on his heel and sliced him
across the belly with his dagger. When he looked down at his blade,
he swore. The blood and rain covered the handle. He would not be able
to use his witchblade again for the battle. No matter. God was also
on his side.
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The Monster was slaughtering them. He
was cruel beyond measure, and impossible to sneak up on. He just
finished slaughtering the blacksmiths son. Cut him across the belly
with that witchblade of his. They knew he would be a force, but he
unto himself was like a one man army.
Mathew was in trouble. He had led his
people to this, he had been their champion, and although he was
carrying his own as any man could in a battle. He was avoiding the
Monster, and letting his comrades die in his place, time and and time
again.
And ho! They were fighting for him,
they were fighting with a spirit in them that no song or story could
do justice. They were fighting like the wolves they were. They were
the werewolves of the forest tonight. Not some band of misfits who
steal from carriages. They were animals out there. And the battle,
and as a result the freedom, would be theirs. Save for the Monster.
And Mathew knew that if he died, the
battle wasn't between these great men and other great men. This was a
battle that was between Mathew and the Monster.
Mathew commanded the volley. He shouted
and swore.
“Concentrate your fire at the
Monster, keep him off balance, and keep him slow. You can't pierce
that armour, but you can try! And you can stop him and the rest of
our foes from advancing!”
And then Mathew threw his own bow and
arrow, around his torso, picked up his sword and shield. And went to
what he knew to be his doom. The men who saw him walk, would say that
they never saw a braver man. He walked with his hood up, head held
high in the rain, unflinching. Towards the Monster.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They stood facing each other, in the
rain. The Monster looked up and down at Mathew and spoke first.
“Well, boy, shall we do this now, or
do you simply just want to offer your Mother up to me now.”
“You speak cowards words Monster. I
thought you of no honour, but now that I see you, I see that you have
no true courage either, hiding behind your plates of steel.”
“I will fight you with honour,
Mathew, and I will see you cut down before one of your owns blade. I
will even dispose of my witchblade in this tree. So as to deal with
you justly and fairly.”
“Keep your blade Monster. You will
need it. Tonight we fight like the wolves I know you and myself to
be.”
With that Mathew disappeared behind a
tree, just as the Monster started to rush at him. He climbed the tree
and the volley of arrows slammed against the Monster. Forcing him off
balance, not so much so that he was unable to parry Mathew's sword as
it flung towards his exposed neck. With Mathews one and only trick
over with, the Monster was back in control of the fight. As he was
with every fight. He slammed Mathew in the chest, making him fly into
a tree, and dropped his shield and scurried up another tree. Not
without getting grazed across the back by the Monster's witchblade.
“Gah” Mathew cried.
“Let it go now boy. There is a reason
that I only have the one name.”
“No doubt the only thing your father
could to think to call you.”
From atop a branch. Above the Monster,
Mathew, with sword in one hand and an arrow in the other, jumped down
upon the Monster.
The Monster quickly parried way the
sword, but was defenceless against the arrow that was now protruding
from his eye. It had been driven down to his brain.
The Monster collapsed in the rain.
Mathew the Hood, had won on the day.
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