The broken warrior leaned upon the overturned wagon, his sword wavering as he held it between himself and the bandit. One of the horses whinnied, confused and in pain, dying with its fellow stallion crushed beneath it. The Demon, as he called himself, sauntered to the sword’s point. Standing a hair’s breadth from the cold death of steel, his eyes were electrified, alert, ready to spy the slightest movement from his victim; his calves twitched, ready to spring out of the way when the old soldier made his move.
“You must excuse me,” he said, “I couldn’t help but notice your little cart here has had a little accident. Nobody hurt, I hope.”
The soldier’s head throbbed, his consciousness waning, but he managed a reply, “No. We’re fine.”
The demon laughed, a sordid sort of chuckling devoid of any real humor. This mocking noise died quickly, fading into silence. Darkness crept over the man’s vision as death slowly claimed him.
“Bastard,” he whispered, sinking into the dust. His arms went limp, and he lay upon the ground, his breath slowing to naught. As the sword finally fell into the earth, the warrior never releasing the blade, the demon lifted his eyes to the loot he hoped to procure. Stepping over the body, he began climbing the toppled cart.
Then he felt the cold bite of steel, and the heat of his own blood spilling onto his skin. The warrior laughed, coughing, finally letting go of his bloody sword. The demon bled, his strength suddenly gone, and together the warrior and the bandit died, alone.
Tale Told 