His blade was thick with blood, crimson and beautiful.
His enemies lay around him. Their cries turning to ragged gasps.
The breath of the last man before him was steady and calm.
They had not expected such a fight from an old man. But they did not know him.
They did not understand who he had been. They had no idea what he’d become.
The girl, unconscious, staked down in the dirt was alive. Her clothes, muddied and torn.
The last man, the leader, howled and rushed at him. Screaming oaths of vengeance.
The old man laughed, his wounds did not bother him, the rush of combat was his world.
He raised his weapon high, the blade dripping, gleaming.
Motionless he waited with the patience of stone.
The leader got closer, the old man did not move.
The leader was screaming in rage, the old man did not respond.
The leader lifted his weapon over his head, preparing to strike.
The old man smiled.