100 Short Stories of Fantastic Fiction, Horror, Sci-fi, Fantasy and Other Genres

The Legend of the Shattered Sword

The Order of Fire was a warrior society much like the ancient Cult of Mithra. Men were invited and initiated after passing and surviving the battle trials with honor. Inside the Order was one of the most legendary warriors ever heard of, Tristan Kernow, capable of defending his king with any weapon available. Even with no weapon whatsoever. About him, was said that he was the child of an Abyssinian warrior and a Danish woman – everyone knows that Danish women also went to war, but Christians tend to hide this information from their women so they don't get many ideas.

Tristan was supposedly trained ever since he learned to walk, while his father returned home after many battles for the Bretons, or for Saxons or Franks, in search of great treasures; and after that, when older, though still a boy, he returned all by himself in the hope of meeting his mother in Ireland, then overrun by the Vikings. With his mother by his side, and maybe a few half-brothers, he fought for the Danes until they conquered the lands to the northeast of Europe, where the cold is even more intense than on the home land of the Vikings, and men spoke a language unmodified by the romans, just as they did. Tristan, such a wondrous warrior, returned to his home on the shore. He got married and pledged loyalty to a Christian king, but never lost his ability to battle, until he died the way all warriors wish to.

This is the story of his death, and its aftermath: one day, after months sieging a castle, Tristan and his companions had finally been able to tear down part of the wall and breach in. They were exhausted and hungry, because it was hard for the king to send supplies to an army so distant from his lands. Many returned home after becoming ill while surrounding the town. Some hid their ailments not to be forced back home, for there was no home to get back to, and the hopes of looting were the only force moving these men. Now there they were, inside the town.

Tristan did not enter with the first wave for he knew the boiling oil would be followed by arrows or spears, and waited. He penetrated the walls and used his sword when he noticed enemy warriors running through the streets; now the dangers were on the same level as he and his battle companions were. He drew out his sword and swung it back and forth. Swords and spears, as well as hands, helmets and also heads flew around squirting blood throughout Tristan's path. A heavy knight rode towards him, with his fast horse speeding down the streets. Tristan thrusted his sword into the chest of a man next to him, tossing his body – still shaking – on the horse's way, making it trip and fall on its back, throwing the knight far from it. One of Tristan's companions grabbed an axe nearby and decapitated his opponent that was fallen with his face down. Our warrior retrieved his own sword from the dead body lying under the horse. He lifted the animal, making sure his legs were still good.

– Save me this horse! – he shouted at a kid he found shivering behind a tree, that disappeared as fast as he could taking the animal with him.

Tristan followed through town. He wanted servants, maids, fine tapestry and jewels for his wife. He wished for gold to bury next all the more he had already hid. He hoped for glory, to reach the distant and sunny southern lands where his father lives or lived. In the midst of the cry of children and women and the clamor of soldiers and religious men, Tristan saw someone that, sitting on a short stone wall, did not seem to mind all the chaos. This man carried a weapon, but showed no intention of using it anytime soon. He just watched Tristan calmly. When his eyes met the stranger's placid stare, Tristan felt a blade go through his torso. A warm, slimy taste of rust filled his mouth, as he felt the blade moving back, and a hand on his back pushing him to the ground. He watched as the peaceful man stood up and walked in his direction. He knew who that man was, and for that he reached out and grasped a sword near him. Was it his sword? It did not matter, he would not be taken by the Reaper. Tristan got on his knees and stuck the sword in his stomach. He never imagined Death had blood, but he believed it when he saw it fill the blade and drip to the floor. The Reaper just shattered the blade, taking what was left in Tristan's hand and throwing it away. Then he touched Tristan's forehead and that was the end of our renowned warrior, killed by the blade of a sword on his back. What is left of the shattered sword still carries the blood of the Reaper. No one knows its whereabouts, but from time to time rumors appear that it has been used, and that it never fails to kill and destroy everything it touches.