Short Story: Death’s Sword

I don’t want to be here. My body trembles, rebelling against every step. Behind me they call, calling me back toward them, but they don’t know. Turning from the darkness, I glance over my shoulder.

“Run!” I shout, and face again the figure in black.

His tattered cloak is a spider’s weave of weightless fabric flowing in invisibles swells like stalks of sickly green algae in a stale lake. A cowl covers his face like a shadow. His sword is drawn. In a sudden motion, he runs me through.

The bite of his steel is cold, and I feel my strength stolen from me as I fall forward, burying the blade up to its hilt, burying the blade within my chest. I have a moment, a second, before the light dims, before my heart is dried of blood.

“Sic kobo, humayo. Lattice nay san,” I say, casting my final spell. “Run,” I whisper as the light fades from my eyes.

Below me my body falls, dragging the sword from his grip. Dead, a spirit, I find his features changed to my eyes. I see through the cowl, I see the face of death. A smile or a grimace, I cannot say, he turns to me.

This is how it’s meant to be, I think, how I fit into the plan.