The Sword Saints

Prologue - Red Sands

(Judar)

                                "For the blood of innocence is the purest form of substance in the world and should never be shed meaninglessly. Bloodshed of any kind should be avoided for a world without violence, a world of peace, is a world in harmony."

The Book of Peace: Ch. 4: verse 5-6.

The southern sun beat down on the neck of Judar the Devil. Sweat drenched him from head to toe but soothed his cracked and burnt skin. He breathed in and out, heavy and labored. It felt like he was draped in flames, cloaked in the raw power of the sun and stars. Painful but elegant.

It was a feeling that he had experienced before.

His eyes were closed, but through his lids he saw nothing but white. His lids didn't do much to block out the blinding light. He sighed and breathed again. His legs, crossed, burned against the cracking sandstone road, his good and ruined flesh both ebbing with pain beneath him. He supposed that sitting in the sand that dominated the land would have been better, if only slightly. It would have been just as hot, and he hated getting sand in his boots. No, sitting in the road was the only way. Of course, he was also making a statement as much as he was being an obstacle. He had to be seen. Judar had survived the sands before though, and was used to the heat, used to barely drinking or eating. Not pleasant, but something he could endure, and would endure for his cause.

The road curved around a large dune ahead of him. Often, such dunes would overtake the road and travelers would be hard pressed to find their way again, a problem dating back to when the Old Daathkari Way wasn't so old.

The patter of boots and metal on stone echoed across the dunes. He cracked opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the blinding bright. There was a blur ahead, coming along the road, around the sand dune. As his eyes focused, the blur materialized into a carriage, black, ornate, and trimmed in gold. A legion of soldiers – thickly wrapped in grey garbs to protect them from the sun – surrounded the carriage. His target had arrived.

They were an imposing sight. Row upon row of massive bodies marching in synchronized step, stretching so far back that Judar was unable to count them all. Lesser men would see the sight of them and flee for their lives. Judar was no such individual.

He smiled and stood slowly, straining to get to his feet. His joints were older than his pride would like to admit. The burnt flesh didn't help. He craned and cracked his neck and popped each and every knuckle. He took in the advancing company, then peered out over the landscape. Large stone pillars were built at intervals along the road so that travelers wouldn't get so lost. That was a godsend, for getting lost out in the wastes of Daath was a death sentence. Even for one such as he, it was a terrible and often unavoidable fate. But that wouldn't be his fate, not on this day. On this day, there wasn't a cloud in sight. Whispers of sand lilted from the tips of the dunes, the wind carrying them on a gentle breeze. It was a truly gorgeous day.

Death could happen even on the most beautiful of days. Judar intended that be true for this day as well.

His lips curled to reveal a wicked and excited grin. Judar pulled his blade from her harness and undid her bindings. She lusted for blood, her thirst seeping her of life. He rubbed his hand over the terrible sword. Soon, he thought.

The soldiers saw his sword, and all unsheathed their weapons. There was no worry in their eyes, for why would there be. They were many and he was one, just the type of odds that fueled him. His skin itched for the action. Whispers tickled at his mind, urging him forward. A giggle escaped his lips as he sprung like a starving cobra eagerly attacking its prey, feasting after such a long time without satisfaction.