Knives of Fury

Dawn had only just arrived when the war-drums were sounded.

“O, ye noble sons of Ireland! We’ve endured storm and strife to get here. Let not our spark of victory be put out by these vile curs! I know, war is a grim and terrible business, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. He who dies in this battle will die with honor. Let history remember us as men who were fearless and proud. Keep your heads high and your eyes sharp. Let these bastards know who we are! Woe unto the hand that rises against the sacred harp!”

The tumultuous cheering that followed that short, emphatic speech caused a flock of lethargic birds to take off to another roof.

The speaker, Lord David, stood at the helm of his Irish Army. Despite being clad in torn pieces of clothing, the man carried a regal air about himself. Tribal markings adorned his forehead, making him look terribly fierce. And fierce he was. David was barely twenty years of age when he slew his fiftieth man.

Before him, the Irish were a small, inconspicuous group that survived on the scraps left behind by stronger communities. They preferred not to involve themselves in local conflicts. However, fortunately or unfortunately, the complacent attitude of the Irish took a drastic turn during the early 1800s. When the old Lord died at the age of 76, his body was released into the holy waters of the Yelten with a few short, undeserved prayers. The transfer of lordship to his son, David Tay, was immediate and uncontested. Within a year of Tay’s coming to power, his clan was transformed into an enraged, war-like tribe with an intense desire for bloodshed. During the previous summer, they had conquered a third of the city within a span of twelve days, defeating several powerful clans in the process. Irish symbols of strength and victory were hung everywhere in the annexed parts. David acquired a god-like status in the minds of his followers. The military success of the Irish sent shockwaves throughout the conurbation. Un-amused by the prospect of having to wage war upon battalions of cutthroat bandits, the other clans quickly took every measure to ensure that the Irish did not get anywhere near their borders. Unfortunately, no amount of negotiation seemed to work with Tay. The man was hell bent on taking all of Barkas by force.

And now, that bloodthirsty monster stood at the gates of New Milan, the Italian portion of the city, one of the few areas in the south where the green, white and orange flag did not fly. Like most clan armies, his men were a mix of peasants and thieves. In their sweaty palms, they held knives, pick-axes, hammers, sharpened sticks and virtually anything else that could be used to kill. Gunpowder did not feature in the military strategy of the average clan leader. Their warriors did not have the skill to operate such weaponry, let alone the money to purchase them.

Behind the melee soldiers, trailed a line of marksmen armed with slingshots and blowpipes. When a soldier began growing grey hairs, he would be shoved off into this section of the army and be given a ranged weapon of his choice. Although not as efficient as the knife, the slingshot was a deadly weapon in the midst of battle. A marauding rock could kill or seriously injure an unwary opponent.

At the very back of the formation, stood the war-band. Battle-hardened soldiers, playing traditional Irish instruments with every ounce of strength they had, produced a strange cacophony of honks and thumps that rattled the cold morning air and chased the common folk back into their dilapidated homes.

It wouldn’t be long before the defenders showed up.

Armed men began pouring into the dark, empty street from hidden alleyways and passages. Obviously, Lord Vanquez had been anticipating this attack. Within minutes, the large, empty area that lay before David transformed itself into a well-organized battle force. Vanquez was locked somewhere deep within the formation. David could hear him barking commands in Italian. The voice was deep and demanding. Yes, it was him.

But where?

The commander’s eyes scanned through the army, searching for weak spots within its ranks. While soldiers on both sides exchanged angry, defiant roars, David remained strangely quiet. The maelstrom of emotions that usually assails soldiers before a battle quickly died down along with the music and the yells.

Where?

A flurry of movement, which only David’s well-trained eyes could capture, gave away Vanquez’s position.

The blinding light of a rising sun bleached his dogged vision. He clenched his rusted knife and raised it high in the air. With a loud, terrifying war cry, David charged into battle. His men followed suit. The Italians took a defensive stance, contemplating the fact that many of them would not live to see another day.

When the two armies clashed, blood rained down upon the street. The ‘slingers’ let their stones fly, causing several to stumble over in excruciating pain. The Celtic war-band continued playing its frenzied battle tune.
A winning side presented itself within the first half-hour of battle. The Irish cut through the opposition as if it were butter. They fought like vicious, caged beasts, deprived of flesh for days on end. The blood curdling screams and the sickening thunks might have driven the ordinary man insane, but the fighters seemed to deal with it well enough.

“Brun! Take the left!” David yelled, while fending off a group of soldiers, “Push them back into the alleys!”
He dodged the pick-axe of a choleric warrior and tore into his heart with his knife. In a burst of explosive strength, he rammed into another man, twice his size, knocking him down. The soldier cursed in Italian as his elbow scraped against the stony ground. A few savage slashes to the neck finished off the job.
Despite being enclosed in a sea of dust, blood and sweat, David knew precisely where Vanquez was. One could possibly attribute this to some mysterious sixth sense that he possessed. He had always been a good tracker.

Slowly, the demigod began weaving his way through enemy lines, dealing a quick and painful death to all those who ventured too close. The peculiar pitch of Vanquez’s voice set him apart from the rest of the din and David used this to his advantage. As he trudged through the hellish battlefield, he caught a glimpse of Brun, a man who, only moments earlier, was alive and well. His head had been brutally smashed open by rocks from an anonymous slingshot. His body lay on the street, trampled upon and hacked. David looked away, trying to disguise his grief in ferocity.

Torturous images of his dead friend still plagued David’s mind when he faced Vanquez. The Italian removed his baneful hammer from the carcass of yet another victim and wiped his bloodstained face.

“Your head will be a fine addition to my wall,” Vanquez taunted. His English was fluent, although heavily accented.

“A wall that I will own when this battle is done.” David replied, almost ceremoniously. Just then, a well-aimed stone struck him in the knee. A fierce pang of pain shot through his leg. He yelped in anguish and crumpled onto the cobbled street.
A moment of weakness.
Vanquez pounced on the Irishman, bringing his large, malignant weapon down on the exposed abdomen.

Luckily, David managed to roll away before the crusher could gore him in the stomach. He stumbled onto his feet and picked his knife off the floor.

Vanquez swung his hammer once more and David evaded it yet again.

Frustrated by the quick footedness of his opponent, he gathered all his reserves and prepared for one dazzlingly quick, earth-shattering blow. He licked his sweaty moustache and lifted his hammer high above his head...

... And David knocked it straight out of Vanquez’s hands with one swift chop. It sailed through the air and disappeared into the fog. A brief fistfight ensued, in which David nearly tore apart his foe’s jaw. Somehow, Vanquez managed to wriggle out of David’s hands. Scared and defenseless, the coward broke into a mad sprint to save his life. David pursued.

They zipped through the battlefield and entered an adjoining street. Men and women peeped out of their windows to watch the two. They held a strange fascination for such carnage. It appealed to their simple minds.
When David was absolutely certain that he couldn’t catch up with the wretched worm, he skidded to a stop and assumed a throwing position.
May the lord guide my righteous fist.


He flung his knife at the runner with precision enough to make Robin Hood gawk. It whistled through the wind, flying true.

The cuspated, iron weapon sliced into Vanquez’s medulla, rendering him unable to think, see or breathe. With a violent twitch or two, he collapsed onto the pavement. Life went out of his eyes quickly. He hardly had enough time to scream.

As his blood surged into the cracks in the pathway, an ocean of silence enveloped the killer. Quietly, David approached the dead body and dislodged his ruddy knife from the man’s head. Rivulets of sweat dripped from his brow.

Victory