A Memory of Knives and Blood

The memory of a troubled mercenary from the days of his youth.

Cheers erupt from either side of the room. The onlookers whoop and holler, hungry for the sight of blood.   They call out the names of the two young warriors, both at the christening age of thirteen. 

"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!"

"Cloud! Cloud! Cloud!"

The throng calls both names with equal fervor.  And equal bloodlust.

  

Young, thirteen year old Cloud, a lean stalk shadow of the man he will become.  His eyes glow garishly  in the intense, warped light of the hall.

 

Cloud’s face contorts from scowl to crooked smile.  Teeth, glowing as he dances ever so slowly, sidestepping in time with his opponent.  

He keeps distance.  Knife glinting ominously in the dark light as it shuffles from left hand to right, then to left again.

Jerry, young Cloud’s opponent, is of the same age but even more baby-faced under a shock of handsome red curls. His face painted with its own scowl, reminiscent of a rabid dog.  

Both fighters wear white-- so that their blood will show when it comes.

Cheers from either side of the room escalate until they begin to chant the ghoulish word in unison, and in time with the deadly dance the boys perform as they skirt around each other.

‘BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

Cloud dodges as Jerry lunges forward blade-first.  He counters, but the red-haired boy parries and slashes, tearing a line across young Cloud’s chest"" a scar he bears still. White hot pain shoots across his chest as his shirt turns black.  

First a thin line, then a broad brush stroke that dribbles to his abdomen.

 This will be the last time one boy will see the other alive.  Friends who have shared bunks.  Sneaked hard liquor and gotten drunk in their shared room.  Who have laughed stupidly at each other’s jokes.  Who have been brothers since the very beginning.  

But this was always the way it was going to be, and they had known it.  It was part of the catechism. It was their way of life.  Brothers enter Uruk after the final embrace, no longer brothers.  Only the strongest brother shall live.  The one shall carry the honor of the other there ever after.  

 They close the gap on each other, muscles flexing and following the forms drilled into them by years of violent rote.  They dance a blur of punch, stab, dodge.  Retreat, feint, stab, punch stab.  Retreat, stab, feint, kick, slash. 

Jerry takes one last, glorious lunge. 

But young Cloud has the measure of the other boy’s speed now; Timing the  sidestep, he counters surgically, blade first, he thrusts.

  

“YIP!”   

One sharp bark of pain escapes the red-haired boy named Jerry and he doubles over.  

His muscles flex in a fruitless final effort to stand and fight.  But the blow is lethal.  He collapses to the floor.  Young Cloud’s blade has slipped precisely between the ribs and punctured the heart. 

 There is no time nor room for goodbyes.  Besides, goodbyes in Uruk are not the gansuringa way.  Death is a strange concept to understand when you’ve been raised to be a death bearer.  Jerry will sink to sleep now.  And they shall share laughter again when the final sleep takes Cloud, as well. 

Heart-blood should be bright red, but in the affected light of the fluorescents it is black.  It spreads as the heart gives its last splutters of life.  

The benches to either side of the room explode with cheers.  And they chant Cloud’s name.  

“CLOUD! CLOUD!CLOUD!CLOUD!”  And then the cheer becomes, “GAN! GAN! GAN! GAN!” the cheer quickening progressively until it is a unintelligible roar.

This is the way of gansuringa.  The way of the mercenary.  The way of the gunslinger.

Reviews

[Tom McRoberts]

This is great. I admire anyone who is able to write vivid, kinetic action in prose, and you have managed just that. There's also traces of stellar world-building here. Small details that give a hints about the wider world this story takes place in--all without blocks of text 'setting the scene'. Wonderful, keep it up!

[Woody]

you paint a great scene. your words translate into clear images in the reader's mind. brilliant storytelling and an interesting, original scene.

[Marie]

Good and exciting. You know how to "show" rather than "tell," the mark of a good writer.