Warrior in the Dark

Inspired by the picture to the left. I saw and it simply begged for a story; who was I to refuse?

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Nothing would ever be the same.

He stooped toward the ground, delicately lifting a shredded scrap of cloth that had been trodden into the forest floor. Clutching it in his fist, he began to shake with rage and sorrow. Then, slowly—reverently—he tied the silver scrap to the hilt of his sword. Her memory would live on solely with him. The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists.

He sheathed his sword, knowing that he must move quickly before they came again. He raised his eyes to the dark castle in the distance and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to howl at the sky in rage. She was gone, and he must continue his journey alone. He began to walk, the sound of his heavy black boots stifled by the still night air of the forest. He pulled his glove onto his hand for a more snug fit.

The only sounds were the distant cries of the werewolves howling at the full moon.

He never halted in his steps again as he made his way through the forest, his dark high-collared cloak making him nearly invisible. He was not afraid, merely angry and sad: She had been his reason, his one hope in a dying world, the only thing that had kept him from going back to his old ways of life as a mercenary, and now the only thing that was left was a scrap of the scarf she had worn in her hair every day since he had bought it for her.

His gloved hands clenched into solid fists again. They would pay. Maybe not today, maybe not anytime soon.

But they would pay.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, bracing against the chilly wind that suddenly whipped through the forest air. Was it his imagination, or did he hear laughter? He dismissed the notion as childish, the wind could not laugh.

Could it?

He went forward into the night, facing what may come with his head held high. He would not crumble.

He wanted revenge.

copyright 2006 H.J. Hanauer