The scythe of death

Thabis had been running for a while, his lungs burning from exertion. When he finally reached the strong

hold halls, thick, choking smoke greeted him. He forced himself to take a deep breath and plunged into the fog, his heart pounding as the cries for help echoed all around him. The air was thick, suffocating, and every step felt heavier than the last. One misstep, one lapse in concentration, and he could be dead before he saw what hit him.

The cries grew louder as he advanced, sword at the ready. His eyes narrowed as the smoke began to thin, allowing him to catch his breath. Through the haze, a dark figure emerged—a man, but not a friend. This was no ordinary tribesman.

Most tribesmen carried spears or maces, but this one stood apart, wielding a massive, wickedly sharp scythe. His head was crowned with the skull of a beast, its hollow eyes staring at Thabis like a warning from the underworld. The sight sent a chill down his spine, reminding him of the tales of the "Truci Messorem," the death-bringer who ferried souls to their doom.

Fear gripped Thabis, but he swallowed it down. He wasn't skilled at close combat; he was an archer, an assassin. He wasn't built for direct confrontation. But leaving this monster unchecked wasn't an option. This enemy was too dangerous, and if he didn't act, the village would pay the price.

Thabis moved with the precision of a predator, his steps soundless, his breath steady despite his pounding heart. Every muscle in his body was taut, his senses on high alert as he crept up behind the tribesman. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything but the pounding of his feet and the rasp of steel as he unsheathed his blade. One strike. That's all it would take.

He lunged. In one fluid motion, he swung his sword, aiming for the neck, and with a clean cut, the tribesman's head flew from his body.

Thabis exhaled in relief, his heart still racing. But his victory was short-lived.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the smoke, and a sound—like the rustling of leaves in the dead of night—caught his attention. Thabis spun around just in time to see the impossible: the tribesman's body, headless, rising once more. Blood poured from the stump of its neck, but still, it moved. Thabis felt a wave of nausea roll through him. The headless body was walking—no, charging toward him.

Impossible.

The tribesman's decapitated head lay on the ground, and yet, the body still swung the scythe with terrifying precision. Thabis barely had time to block the first blow. Metal shrieked against metal as their weapons clashed, the force of the strike sending a jolt of pain through Thabis' arms. His knees buckled from the impact, and he stumbled backward, gasping.

The tribesman's head—now lying on the ground—let out a sinister laugh, and the headless body advanced with unnerving speed. It swung its scythe in wide, vicious arcs, each strike more forceful than the last. Thabis had no time to think, no time to plan. He was fighting for his life and losing ground fast.

He deflected another strike, the blade skimming past his face, close enough for him to feel the wind from its swing. Thabis' mind raced. He couldn't keep this up. The tribesman fought like a demon; his strikes relentless. The scythe whistled through the air, coming down with a deadly rhythm, each swing bringing Thabis closer to his end.

Pain erupted in his chest as the tribesman spun, slamming the back end of the scythe into him. Thabis flew backward, the wind knocked from his lungs as he crashed to the ground. Blood filled his mouth as he coughed violently, the metallic taste bitter on his tongue. His ribs screamed in agony—at least one was broken.

But there was no time to think. The tribesman was upon him again, the scythe coming down in a savage arc. Thabis rolled, barely avoiding the blade as it sliced into the dirt where he had just been lying. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming as he staggered to his feet.

The tribesman swung again, and this time, Thabis felt the wind from the scythe's edge graze his cheek. He was too slow. Too weak. Every part of him ached, and the weight of his sword felt unbearable. He needed an opening—something, anything to turn the tide.

Thabis' mind raced, analyzing the tribesman's wild movements. The scythe was powerful, but it was also slow, its wide arcs leaving gaps in the tribesman's defense. His only chance was to disarm him—remove the scythe from the equation, and he might stand a chance.

Each time their blades clashed, Thabis targeted the edge of the scythe. He aimed for the weak points, striking with precision. The tribesman's attacks were brutal but unrefined, each swing more reckless than the last. Thabis could feel the tension building—the moment when he could turn the battle.

With a taunt, Thabis baited the tribesman into another wild swing. The enemy took the bait, roaring in fury as he raised his scythe high above his head, pouring all his strength into the next blow. It was the opening Thabis had been waiting for.

As the scythe came crashing down, Thabis met it head-on, slamming his sword into the middle of the blade with all his might. Sparks flew, and with a loud crack, the scythe was torn from the tribesman's hands, flying through the air and landing several feet away.

The tribesman froze, stunned by the sudden disarmament. Thabis didn't hesitate. He surged forward, driving his sword into the man's chest with all the strength he had left. Blood spurted from the wound, and the tribesman let out a final, gurgling cry. Thabis twisted the blade, ensuring the kill.

This time, there was no coming back.

The tribesman crumpled to the ground, his blood soaking the dirt beneath him. Thabis stood over the body, gasping for air, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. But he couldn't stop now. He still had to find Elia's parents.

Stumbling forward, Thabis emerged from the smoke and spotted another group of tribesmen trying to break down the doors of the storage hall. With every thud of their axes, the villagers inside screamed in terror. A wave of rage flooded Thabis' chest. These men were nothing compared to the monster he had just slain.

He ran at them, his sword a blur. The first tribesman didn't even have time to turn before Thabis' blade cut through him. Blood sprayed the air as Thabis tore through their ranks. Each strike was precise, brutal, and final. Within moments, they were all dead, their bodies strewn across the ground.

Breathing heavily, Thabis called out to the villagers inside. "It's safe. You can come out now. Those animals have been taken care of."

The villagers inside began murmuring, some debating whether it was a trap. Others just wanted the nightmare to end. "Stop all this useless chatter!" a man's voice rang out. "It's Thabis we're talking about—the man who liberated us. He would die before betraying his own people!"

Finally, a man approached the door, opening it despite the fearful cries from others. When the door swung open, they were greeted by the sight of bodies and destruction. Thabis scanned the faces of the villagers inside, recognizing a few men who had fought alongside him.

"We need to move, quickly," Thabis urged. "There could be more tribesmen on the way." As he hurried them out, his expression darkened. He couldn't find Elia's parents. "Where are the others?" he demanded.

"They're gone. Everyone else is dead," a bald man sobbed, tears streaming down his face.

Thabis felt a wave of guilt. He was one of the leaders assigned to protect these people. How would Robert feel when he heard this?

Then a familiar voice called out to him. "Thabis, where's Elia? Please tell me you've seen her!"

Thabis looked around, finding Elia's family among the last to leave the hall. "Elia's safe," he assured them. "I sent her to the village hall. She should be fine there."

They sighed in relief, and Thabis continued urging the villagers toward the hall. He had accomplished his mission. The path to the village hall was clear, and loud cheers suddenly erupted in the distance—victory chants. A sense of relief washed over him. This nightmare was finally coming to an end. He saw soldiers scouring the village, ensuring no enemies were left behind.

In the outer area of the village, Robert was heading toward the sound of battle, his mind consumed with thoughts of revenge.