A small inn sat huddled between two large willows, relishing the wispy shade off their boughs. It was a rest stop for travelers to and from the great city Irshirana along the Derekh Shir.

  The Swordsman had been travelling north upon the Poet's Highway and came to that quaint little inn. His vigor waned as his body rebelled against the insane pace he had set over the past few days. His horse was nigh dead from the pace he had set. And the man’s own saddle sores were aching, young though he was. Six days and nights he had rode in great haste to reach the King of Shir's court and deliver his message. He had little further to go, but he might need a new horse to make it in the agreed upon time.

  He was not a man of any superior qualities or handsomeness. His plain appearance was neither alluring nor ugly, merely simple. He was not tall or short, only average in almost every way save for his thinness in which he could not have weighed more than ten or eleven stone. Though he had gathered no more than twenty winters to his life, his deep black eyes held the weariness and weight of many more. He wore a robe of simple, dark wool and underneath a tunic of finely embroidered blue and silver. Atop it all was a hauberk of black leather, well-fit to his slender frame. His sword hung in a curved scabbard on his right side from a thin piece of tanned leather slung over his shoulder. He strode towards the inn desperate for at least one full night of rest before he reached the King's palace.

  As he opened the door, the innkeeper met him with a bright, though toothless, smile.

  "It's a fine morning, like, isn't it suh, a fine 'un to be sure! What can Old Martha do ya fer? We got food, drink, women if yer so inclined, and proper warm beds, ya know what I mean, suh?"

  "A room would be appreciated, Miss, and a good stiff drink to send me off to dreaming." The swordsman responded.

  "Miss?" Martha screeched, "Don't 'miss' me young un, I'm as old as the world, or near enough makes no difference. But yer mighty polite, it'll be two copper foots fer the room and ya can talk to Fat Boris over der at da bar and he'll fix ya up right fer a drink, like."

  Without another word the Swordsman pulled a small pouch from a pocket in his robe and handed Old Martha four copper feet, smiled, bowed, and headed to the bar while Martha yelled something about him grabbing whichever room he liked.

  Fat Boris eyed the stranger with the same mild dislike that he held for all his patrons. The title was little more than a poor attempt to quantify the morbidly obese being that was Fat Boris. The Swordsman was too weary for revulsion. "A Nightcap please my good man."

  "Nightcap?" The walrus snorted through a gargantuan nose, "It ain't yet half ten in the morning, boy. You got a problem, son?"

  The Swordsman drew a silver trophe from his sleeve and placed it on the table, sighed, and stared down Boris. The barkeep stood, as quickly as he was able, poured a small tin of pure black liquor for the Swordsman, pocketed the silver and then busied himself pretending to wash mugs with a filthy rag for the evening's inevitable festivities.

  The Swordsman downed the Nightcap in a single gulp and swayed as the alcohol sent a tingle of warmth through his road-weary body. The burn in his throat and the sting in his eyes transitioned to a wry smile as he floated to the nearest room he could find, slammed the door behind him, tossed the lock into place and abandoned himself to the feather bed. Soon enough, he wandered the vast Dreamscape of distant plains, other worlds.

  #

  The banging at the door to his room rode violent into his dreams. The Swordsman opened his eyes to eerie slivers of light that lanced through the cracks of the rot worn door. There was commotion as a multitude of men trampled the floor outside his room. Cries of alarm and pain were clear amidst the cacophony. The Swordsman drew himself up, still weary, focused himself and grabbed his sword and hung it with the curve down across his lower back. He gripped the hilt with a reverse grip in his right hand and took a fighting stance. The familiar grip sent waves of calm through muscles preparing for they knew not what. He waited, his focus strained upon every sound, every vibration, every imperfect image captured through the narrow slits of the door.

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  With a massive thud something heavy hit the door on the opposite side and shrouded the room in total darkness. The wood and the hinges creaked and warped under the weight. Suddenly, a man's enormous backside burst through the center of the door sending splinters and shards of wood rocketing past the Swordsman's face and neck. He shifted just enough to dodge the worst of them and let the remainder bounce harmless off his leather hauberk. The door tore from its hinges with a giant man's rear still caught in it, and the Swordsman watched as the strange melding of man and wood crashed to the ground. Light poured into the room forming a striking silhouette around a brigand who stood a full head taller than the Swordsman, wore tattered leather military armour, wielded a knotted club, and was spattered with fresh blood.

  "What've we here? Someone we missed. Give me yer valuables and I'll make yer death a quick 'un fool." The man spoke with a smile twisted across his face that turned his otherwise handsome features hideous.

  "Here is a pouch of what little valuables I have, good sir," the swordsman said as he loosened his left hand to snatch his pouch and toss it at the brute's feet in the doorway before resuming his stance. "Now leave, it’s your only warning."

  A prodigious peal of laughter echoed from the man's lips as he eyed the young man with a mix of astonished affection and deep loathing. "Ye've got stones, lad, but I cannae' let ya go now ye've had such a good look at me. Nothing personal ye'll understand, but only death has any more need of yer company.”

  The man stepped forward and raised his club. Three paces. He took another step and wiped his mouth with his off hand and then licked his lips. Two Paces. He began to take a third step and brought both hands together on the haft of the club. Now.

  The blade was a lightning flash from the Swordsman's sheath and struck the giant man in an upward arc from his left hip to his right shoulder cleaving straight through his leather armour and sent deep red in a great spray onto the low ceiling. The Swordsman stood serene, sword cradled in a reverse grip in his right hand as the brigand fell to one knee and dropped his club with a dull thunk onto the wood slatted floor. Crimson streamed from the fresh wound and pooled beneath him. He touched his hands to his chest and pulled them away, his face filled with confusion. He looked up at the Swordsman, his eyes losing their light.

  #

  The brute stared dumbly as a being of terrifying form materialized behind the Swordsman who ceased to move but stood as a statue bound in time. The colors too faded into shades of grim grey. The being that appeared wore a robe of darkest black and had no flesh upon his bones. His eyes were glowing fire, and his breath sounded labored. His scythe was pure obsidian and dripped with blood. The brigand tried to force out a scream, but his lungs were useless as the Reaper's scythe made the final stroke, passing harmlessly through the Swordsman's hazy body on its path, and bore the wicked murderer into the Timeless Realms, with only dread to accompany his sundered soul.

  #

  The Swordsman watched as the surprise in the man's eyes transformed into a pure, sickening terror. As the man slumped and gave up his spirit, the Swordsman wondered in what form Death came to this man who so clearly had fled from him for fear his whole life. The Swordsman stepped over the warm corpse, knelt down and placed the back of his hand against just above the mouth and nose of Fat Boris. Nothing. The Swordsman closed Boris’ eyes and said, “Go, and may The Master receive you.”

  He left the battered remains of Fat Boris and walked into the main tavern area to further assess the carnage. The room was full to the brim with thieves and scoundrels. They had cudgels, maces, sickles, and other crude weapons, though a few had blades and spears of kingdom make – standard issue for the Shir soldiery. The brigands sat among the few bodies of those who had tried to resist and helped themselves to the mead behind the bar as they laughed and counted the spoils of their assault. They’d left none alive. The sounds of screams and blows had died away with the last of their victims and transformed into profane revelry. None noticed the Swordsman until he reached the door to try to exit. One yelled a curse at him and they all sprang up, weapons in one hand and pints in the other with murder burning in their eyes.

  "No one else need die, friends." His voice was the eye of a storm. The boorish brutes mistook his confidence for cowardice. Slowly they advanced and the Swordsman sheathed his blade, shifted it to the right side of his body, and sank low seizing the hilt with his left hand. The whole room stood still until the closest man incited the others against the young swordsman. They were nearly twenty, after all, what could one scrawny swordsman hope to accomplish? They moved forward as one. Bloodthirst rose in their hearts. Six paces. Weapons of all sorts were brandished. Five paces. Men laughed and sneered at the Swordsman and bumped each other as they surged forward. Four paces. "Gut him lads!" roared one particularly foul man as they took another step forward with wicked intent. Now.