Demon-Killing Sword

2.1 Sword

By the end of the day, she hadn't accrued much more than she'd already found. Sphinx claws, a boot, a few scales and a handful of river beetles who'd lodged themselves into the spaces between the basket's weaving. They hissed and flashed their wings when she prodded at her findings, ready, as ever, to fight. Like Bjarne, puffing themselves up to be bigger than they were. She snorted at the thought. If only Bjarne was as easily ignored as the beetles, a little mud all the more she needed to protect from his bite.

The sword was her best finding. Even then, she wasn't sure she had enough for the medicine. No. It'll have to be. Determined, she hoisted the reed basket over her shoulders and headed into town. If Lars wouldn't give her enough, she'd bargain with him until he did. Today he wouldn't win. Not this time.

Past the tents clustered at the very edge of town, the buildings were tall, narrow, and leaned over the street, so that it almost seemed they were going to touch at the top. If one topples toward the street, she thought, staring up at the tiny square of blue sky, it wouldn't fall more than a foot before the crossroads neighbor caught it. Worse than the river mud squelched under her boots here in the slums, where no one could be bothered to wander the half-dozen steps to empty their chamber pot. She barely noticed, too used to it.

She joined the slow, winding line to Lars' odds and ends shop, sliding in behind a man with patchy fur growing up his arms. Ahead of him, an older woman filed black claws idly, a short tail hanging sloppily out above the waistline of her skirt. The older a mixed-blood got, the more they were exposed to miasma, the more demonic they became. Wonder what I'll look like when I get older, she mused. At least she was from a lineage of avian demons. Feathers weren't so bad. Her mother's friend Frida was descended from water demons, and the poor woman had it rough. It had seemed a constant hassle to keep her damp, the woman forever standing to wet a fresh towel or soak a drying one. Muninn stretched her wing again, trying to work out the aches Bjarne's little prank had put into it. If her mother was any indication, she'd look beautiful as a demon.

But then, she and her mother were hardly alike.

A crash came from the far end of the alley. Muninn perked up, then grinned, mildly amused, as a dozen mismatched ears raised from the collected mixed-bloods and turned toward the source. A drunk staggered away from toppled barrels, legs shaky. The ears lowered, crowd turning away. With nothing better to do, Muninn watched him. He was a specimen. His back was so bowed he almost had to walk on all fours. His hands were clawed and discolored red, and his legs came down to hooves rather than feet. Long ears pointed to the heavens from either side of a bald head, while a long tail snaked behind him. Too much miasma. She shook her head. He should have been more careful, not gone out on days when the clouds were thick. But then again, if he was the drunkard he looked to be, he'd probably been too far gone to notice.

The drunk looked up. They locked eyes. Muninn felt her breath catch. His pupils were slit like a cat's, irises amber. No. Her eyes slid down, to his hands. That wasn't discolored from his demonic blood. Something shifted behind him. Amidst the trash and the toppled barrels, she made out the shape of a woman, a woman stained all over in red.

"Run!" she shouted, coming back to her senses. She waved her arms. "Run, he's gone mad!"

The other mixed-bloods looked at her, then back at him. The furry-armed man gave her a skeptical eyebrow. "Look, his hands—" she tried to explain.

Further up the line, someone screamed and ran. Startled, the man jumped, then lunged, racing for the line. At that, finally the line broke. People scattered down every road and hidey-hole. The furry-armed man slammed into her and knocked her off balance before she could start. Muninn staggered back into another woman, who pushed her forward, and found herself propelled into the wall. She grabbed onto the windowframe and caught her breath, heart beating out of her chest. Bodies rushed by all around her, too thick to break free.

Down the road, the madman had another man by the throat. He raised his other hand to the man's stomach. Muninn flinched away, eyes squeezed tight, and only heard the scream, the splatter, the meaty thumps. Her heart was in her throat, beating so fast she could barely breathe. When she dared to turn back, when everything was quiet, the madman's mouth was smeared with blood. He caught her eye again and slowly lowered the man to the floor. Run, run, run! Muninn screamed at herself, but she was paralyzed, struck against the wall.

The madman threw the man's body away, and suddenly she could run again. Muninn sprinted blindly around the corner. Wherever it led, anywhere was better than here. Hooves clattered on cobblestone, so close he sounded almost on top of her. Muninn gasped. A panicked whine escaped her lips, high-pitched and pathetic. The road ahead of her blurred, eyes prickling with tears. Not now, not now. Muninn ducked her head and pumped her arms. Faster. Faster! She couldn't breathe. Her heart was a hummingbird's, beating out of her chest.

A clawed hand closed around the back of her neck. She had enough time to scream before the man picked her up. Her neck ached from his grip, from the weight of her body. Claws pricked her skin. Then he slammed her down, toward the cobblestones. Muninn threw her arms around her head and curled up, practiced from many 'fights' with Bjarne. She smashed into them. Pain sparked down her shins and forearms, reverberating up her bones. "Stop, stop, stop!" she cried, panic taking over. It was no use. The madmen couldn't hear. He couldn't understand anymore.

Not here, not here. She had so much to do! The medicine, who would pay for the medicine?

The madman lifted her and slammed her down again. The boot flew from her basket, a few beetles hissing their displeasure as they escaped. Muninn screamed again. Her knees were going to shatter. Her arms were going to break. Blood splattered on the stones where she hit. She grabbed at his fingers and pulled, but both her hands couldn't beat his one. He was so strong. So much stronger than Bjarne! He slammed her down again.

Something flew from her belt and clattered across the cobblestones.

Muninn only had a bare second to register it, the shining metal, the heavy hilt, before she was lifted again. The sword! She wriggled with all her might, reaching out. Her fingertips brushed the crossguard. Then it was out of reach again.

There was no point. It was too short to hurt anyone. An inch of steel wasn't going to intimidate a madman into backing down.

Unless.

This time, she reached for the sword as she was slammed down. Her fingers scraped against cobbles, scrabbled for the hilt. The sword, the sword, the sword! There! She snatched it up. It fit her hand perfectly, as if it had been shaped for it. There was no time to marvel at it. Muninn slashed backwards blindly. She felt the sword make contact.

Once more, she slammed to the cobbles, but this time, it was breathless, gravity that helped her down. Ash drifted like snow around her, black as the night. She gulped air, heart still racing. Every part of her was shaking, her legs, her hands, everything. The hand on her throat was gone. The madman was gone.

Gone. Vanished. No. Destroyed. Turned to ash. She looked at the nub of a sword in her hand. Like a tear, a drop of metal slid from the blade. Time froze. Sound died. The drop moved at a snail's pace as it trickled down the hilt, to the base, clutched to the end. It fell, splattered against the cobbles, and as if released from a spell, everything came back, time, sound, the world.

This was it. She had found the Demon-Killing Sword.