The City

[icy_crusader]

This is a story I'm writing which may turn into a book, but I don't like to use that word. It kind of scares me a bit. I'm at 6,000 words and still going strong, but so far this is the longest single piece of work I've written yet. The basic idea is just a world like ours only still run by swords and feudalism. If you have any comments, please fell free to post them up or PM me. This is my favorite child, so enjoy.​

The City
Charles Kirby

​

“And by thy sword shalt thou live, and shalt serve thy brother; and it shall come to pass when thou shalt have the dominion, that thou shalt break his yoke from off thy neck.”

Genesis 27:40

​

It feels, it sees, it speaks, it breathes. It knows everything that happens, knows what can be done, and does nothing. The City hates, but never loves. The City sees, but never acts. The City speaks, but never explains. It stretches on for thousands of miles, the size of a small country. No one watches it, there is no law, there is no conscience anymore. Everything depends upon the man who lives there. If he chooses evil he is blessed with an easy path to damnation. If he chooses good, the path attacks him at every turn. If he detours in good, he is cursed with a path that attacks as he struggles towards his honorable damnation. The Father watches, he gives, he sees, he speaks, but no accepts, no one listens. No believes in the Father anymore. No law, no conscience. This is the City.

Prologue: The Salesman


​

The jar fell. Her trembling hands simply couldn't hold on to it. It was to too slippery with jam and she just couldn't hold on to it. At least that was what she would tell her husband. She would never tell him what happened. She would never tell him that she was simply releasing her pent up rage and in a flurry of passion decided to shatter the closest, most breakable thing she could find. No, no. That would not do. She began to walk towards the closet to find a broom, but the memory of what she had found there before was much more prevailing in her mind at the moment. How he could lie about a dress like that? A dress she surely didn't own and would never be caught dead in, less she was out to ruin a marriage some night. She simply stared at the jam, wondering how she could clean everything up. It would take much more than broom or a bald man in a white t-shirt.

She almost gasped when the doorbell rang. She wasn't expecting anyone today. Why would anyone she knew come to her house before calling? Did she even really know anyone to have call her before they cam over? She wiped her face with her hands as if their lemony scent could not only wash away lasagna, but all the worry and all the pain from off her face. It seemed to work. Superficially at least. The door bell rang again.

"Hello Mam, my name's Ashley Stone. Cruel parents, I know. I prefer Mr. Stone, if you please. I sure hope I'm not bothering you at all, but I was hoping I could spark a little interest in a new set of encyclopedias. They are the most up to date available," his smile seemed almost genuine for a salesman. His shiny bald head reflected the fluorescent lights of the apartment building hallway and almost blinded her. The green suit her wore fit perfectly and was pressed so nicely, she was sure he was still in mint condition. Maybe a bald man in a green suit can do the trick. She laughed a bit at that, "Mam?"

"Sorry, please, do come in. We actually just had our encyclopedias ruined. Some wax spilled on them." She cursed her husband inside her head. "Take a seat on the couch. My name is Linda. Linda Keystone."

"Mrs. Keystone I presume?"

"Yes, yes that's right."

"That's always the case."

"What's that?"

"That the good ones are taken," he grinned back at her with the most charming smile he could muster. She smiled back stupidly, receiving the compliment the way an albino would receive the beach sun.

"Well, let me go get some coffee and let's just take a look at those encyclopedias of yours."

"Your the boss." The same reactions.

The Salesman took a seat on the leather couch and placed his bag on the floor next to the coffee table. As he moved the books from the bag to the coffee table, his eyes wandered about the room. No TV, but a radio, and a whole wall almost completely dedicated a massive bookshelf. Every kind of book filled it ranging from Victorian novels to Dr. Spock's latest. Also, there was one shelf which was completely empty, but not dusty. Where the old encyclopedias must have been. He hated this job.

"Here's some coffee. Now, let's take a look." She placed his coffee cup on a coaster in front of him and leaned back into the corner of the couch crossing her legs. He picked up the first book and held it up to show her. It was the A.

"Well, Mrs. Keystone, our encyclopedias had only the finest leather bound covers. Guaranteed to last a lifetime. If they don't, you just call the company and tell them what you need and they'll send it right out to you."

"What if I need them all?" The corners of her mouth upturned as she sipped from the coffee. Curiosity crossed his face a brief fleeting second, then regained his composer.

"Then you'll get them all."

"Good."

"Well, if you look at the pages they are of the best material available in the world. These suckers only tear if you want then to. They're nice and glossy too, perfect for page turning. Go ahead and take a feel." She leaned over and set her coffee down on the table, she leaned in close to the Salesman and slowly guided her finger down the page until it landed on a painting of Aphrodite. She smiled and turned her face so it was only inches away from his face. He hated this job.

"I like them." He leaned back away from her and closed the book, moving it from her finger. She instantly recoiled with a look of near shock on her face. It was true. Everything horrible thing her husband told her was true. The two sat there silently for a moment. It was one of those obstinate moments that wont just let time pass, but has to make every party involved remember the pain of the moment before and let their minds explore every possible horrible outcome until they finally find something of a decent idea. "We need the encyclopedias. I'll just go to the kitchen and get my checkbook."

"Wonderful choose, Mrs. Keystone. You won't regret this decision." He realized how poignant his words were for the moment and immediately regretted saying it. He hated this job.

She came back from the kitchen with a checkbook and pen, tracking a bit a purple jam onto the carpet. "How much is it?"

"Um, 325, Mrs. Keystone. Even."

"Here."

"Thank you. I'll just leave the 'A' here and we'll have the whole set delivered to you by Tuesday."

"Thank you, very much Mr. Stone."

"Good day, Mrs. Keystone." He left. She hated herself, and he hated his job.

The Salesman walked down the stair case, paying close attention to his watch. He quickly walked through the door of the apartment building and onto the busy street and walked to his car, awaiting his return from his job. Before he could even open the door, an explosion came from the top building. He didn't even look up, but just got into his car and reached into his jacket pocket pulling out a small silver flask. Right next to my heart. He took a long slip then dialed a number.

"It's done."

"Perfect. I was in Moscow for two weeks, I don't have the know how to build such a bomb and it was just some psycho she let in."

"You're a *******."

"And you're 50k richer. Enjoy."

He hung up.

"This City."

He hated this job.

 

[icy_crusader]

The Swordsman​

I
The smoky city fog rolled across the blue lit street. A man with a long beard made grey with dirt and grime of age sneaked from out off an alley and peeked down the street. It was pitch black, except for the street lights periodically shining down their supernatural blue light. The time to move was now. The hobo moved to the street and started going through a silver trash can as fast he could. A third of a sandwich. A purple soda with half still in the bottle. An empty bag of potato chips. The salt and grease inside the bag would be delicious. Foot steps. They weren't his own and they were much too loud for any animal. No, this was a person. The hobo quickly retreated back to the dark alley, hiding himself in the shadows just enough to see out. Then he saw him.
At first, he could only see his clothes. A faded brown leather jacket, worn from much travel and little sleep, dark blue jeans, newer looking than the jacket, a white or olive t-shirt under the jacket, no white. He came closer and he could see the matching brown leather gloves, equally, if not more, worn as the jacket. He had short, raven like hair which reflected the blue light of the street lamps. A square jaw, a cold stare, and two thin scars running down his face from the corner of each eye. Across his back he carried two swords crisscrossed of each other. A ronin. A swordsman.

The hobo pressed himself against the wall. There was not telling what any ronin was about. With no masters, they were more unpredictable than, well, a hobo. They could kill you, help you, robe you, rape you, or just ignore you all together and there was no telling what they were about. He shut his eyes tight as he remembered the food still in the trash can. If only he could get through this...a breeze? He was in a walled alley and...he opened his eyes and saw nothing. What appeared to be nothing. He could faintly see their forms in the shadows moving across him, more swordsman. They stepped into the street, their black body suits and red armor sent an undeniable reminder of who they were. Other Siders, the forgotten killers. They must have been hired to kill this man, or get information from him, or maybe they worked for him. The three (if there were not more hidden in the other shadows or perhaps even the shadow the hobo hid in now) stood before the ronin, their katana drawn. One of the three who stood out further from the other two spoke first through his black mask.

“Ronin, why do you trek through the territory of the Other Siders? Do you not know that this city is owned by us and to pass through requires a toll of awesome tax?”

Lies, all this was lies. Other Siders owned nothing, cared to own nothing and have not the persistence to collect such a toll on a regular basis. This was a simply a try to get the ronin to hand over his money easily.

“You own nothing,” the swordsman had halted briskly and now observed the three, his leathery brown eyes looking them over, searching for weaknesses and planning a course of battle before words were even spoken.

“You call us liars then? I fear such accusations and falsehoods are not accepted in the Other Siders’ regions. I fear you must pay the highest toll now. Your life!” The leader quickly charged straight forward, but the swordsman was ready. He had already drawn both his swords by the time the brigand had come upon him. Two katana, one silver and the other an uncharacteristic black. The two swords crisscrossed to catch the overhead blow of the leader and kick to the gut pushed him away and made room for the lackeys. They both attempted side swipes, but had both of their attacks pushed away by the ronin’s swords and knocked them both off balance long enough to cut one across the chest and the other across his neck. The leader tried again to catch him off guard while he was cutting the man’s neck with the silver sword, but his attack was met with the black sword and thrown away while the silver returned to cut his belly. A kick to knee immobilized the leader and the three lost consciousness as their blood flowed from their vessels and died by the time the swordsman had finished cleaning his swords and placed them both back in their holsters.

The hobo found himself sticking his head too far out from the alley and quickly returned it to it’s proper shadow. They certainly weren’t in his employ, but they possibly still could have been hired. But he didn’t care right now, he just wanted that third of a sandwich and some of that sublime purple soda. Foot steps again. He must be moving again. Oh, no, he’s coming this way again. He pressed himself tightly against the wall as the shadow on the sidewalk stretched and stretched across the divide of the alley. Then, finally, there he stood. The swordsman, the ronin, the killer of the three Other Siders and possibly a hobo. His brown, flat gaze turned and stared into the darkness. Could he see him? Could he see into the dark? The swordsman reached into his pocket and the hobo covered his face guarding against whatever monstrosity could be produced. The foot steps began again and when he looked out, the swordsman was gone. On the ground there lied twenty lucre. A good swordsman, a good ronin. That’s what he was.

​

II

Few swordsman still remember the code. The Code of the Blade. The code they were all taught as children and as adults brushed aside as a hindrance to their own gain. He could still quote it, word for word:

Love thy blade,

For it holds your soul.

Love thy fellow man,

For you will fight for him.

Kill thy enemy,

For he will kill you.

Do what is right,

For this is what is right.

And when you leave this world,

Leave it a better man.

No one remembers the code. No one cares. That’s what has become of these people. That's what has become of this City. Everyone has a sword now, but no honor, not anymore. Not like the days of Xanadu, when the Tribe of Forseti had control. There was peace, there was order, there was...none of this. When Japheth, Foresti’s last monarch, died with no heir, the wars began. Forseti broke into rivaling factions, other tribes from other cities came to make claims and the Sewer Men began to complain of the blood dripping on their heads from the streets above. His father was boy when it began and his tribe was still in Amity Forest; almost unaffected by the wars except when it came time to go to the city. Only two tribes lived in that forest, them and the...

All unimportant dribble. He needed something now. Something to drink.

​

 

[icy_crusader]

III

The music pounded at his eardrums, beating them, abusing them for listening. The constant 'bum bum bum bum' of the music and the woman's raspy voice uttering lyrics that he doubted anyone could understand. He looked down at his glass and shook it watching the ice swivel around in the water. The inscription on the side of the glass, Club Babylon, was almost completely rubbed off. There might have been a picture of something there too, but only a fragment of it was still there. A tall man wearing a tight white oxford came up to him from behind the counter. His hair was long, dark, and curly, like all those Fabio look a likes on the romance novels. His face, though, came from a dark gothic vampire novel. His pale skin and slanted eyes looked the swordsman over delicately.

"Listen buddy, I don't care if your a swordsman or a ronin or whatever the hell else you could be, people here have got to paying something. You're ordering water after water taking up room and..." The ronin responded by placing thirty lucre on the counter and drinking from his glass again. The man set down another glass of water and attended the bar hoppers (not before picking up the thirty lucre, of course).

"So, what are you doing here?" The female voice hit his right air like a cool autumn breeze. He looked over. He first noticed the short red hair fixed up in a sort sporadic fashion, and her ivory skin contrasted beautifully with her black tattered dress. She reminded him of something, so he looked back forward at the bottles lined up on the while behind the bar in sort a of strange roller coaster wave of brown and green.

“To drink,” he answered briskly and took another gulp of water, this time taking in a piece of ice to chew on.

“Yeah, duh,” she turned around and leaned forward on the bar and waved her hand at the barkeeper, “but why here? You don’t look like the party type, or the hanging out with friends type, or even the getting drunk type,” she gestured at his water as the barkeeper came over, “Yeah, I’ll take a virgin Nightingale on a Branch. On the glaciers. If your not going to drink, I’m not going to. So, why?”

“I don’t take anything that dulls my senses.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Oh, thanks,” she was handed her drink and took a sip, ”No, why are you here.” The swordsman chewed the last bit of ice, its tiny bits of gravelly presence melting on his tongue and sliding down his throat.

“Why are you talking to me?” It was more of a statement of ‘there’s no reason you should be talking to me’ rather than a real question. But she answered anyways.

“Well, you see that guy rubbing his groin all over that brunettes butt over there? That’s my boyfriend. I figured I might as well make him a little jealous and...”

“I’m not a tool.” This was a lie and he knew it. He’d been a tool of death for more than a few years now and he thought he should have accepted it by now, but he didn’t.

“But isn’t it nice having a pretty girl talk to you?” She batted her eyes in a very over exaggerated fashion, but it still came across beautifully and he might have melted in his seat if he weren’t so cold. He just stared forward and took another piece of ice into his mouth and began chewing. “You still haven’t answered my first question. Why is a swordsman, a ronin, at a club?”

He figured he would have to answer her at one time or another, so he decided now would be better than later. His eyes looked over the room, at the concrete walls, the floor lighting in a full array of crayon box colors all over the place, the lights spinning above his head as if in some dream or drug induced trance, the people dressed in barely anything having clothed sex in public. “It doesn’t remind me of anything.”

She understood. She didn’t she would at first, when he had first said it. She thought he had lived too different a life, too much more pain than she could have imagined with those scars on his face. But, she did. She understood perfectly. “I come here because it does remind me of everything. I guess I’m the dumb one.”

No reply. Just the sound of chewing ice and the woman’s raspy, eerie voice uttering incoherent whispers among the 'bum bum bum bum' of the music. They sat there silent for a few minutes, not saying anything, just looking at their drinks and think on their pasts.

“Are you done.”

“With what?”

“Your questions.”

“One more. Why don’t you want to talk to me?”

Silence, then an answer, “Because you remind of something.”

She looked over at him, his light brown eyes staring off into, no through, the wall. Staring into some past, some place she had never been, never known, but could now feel. She could feel the pain, the loss. The death.

“What?”

“A who and a what. The who brings about the what.”

"A lover?"

"I answered your question already."

"Well, I have another one," she pressed as she finally put her empty drink down, "Who do I remind you of?"

"A girl, no, two girls. Both dead."

"Did you love her, them?"

"I think I did, the one. The first one."

"You know, remembering someone who's gone doesn't necessarily mean having to remember how they died. You can remember jus the times that make you smile."

He swallowed another piece of ice, thinking back to the days of the village. The tents flapping in breeze as leaves floated about his head embodying the scents of the forest that surrounded them. He saw her, she 15, he was 14, and he loved her. Her long red hair flowing in the wind, she was carrying a basket of old, dirty warrior cloths, but she did it beautifully. He smiled. He saw walk, walk, walk away from him and into an arrow. The arrow grazed her left arm and she dropped the basket quickly placing her hand over the wound. Then the barrage began. His smile ended and he looked back into the crowd of senseless dancers and forgot it, it and everything. “It doesn't work.”

“You just suck at it.”

“Thanks,” They smiled at each other they two people might smile at each other if one made a joke at a funeral, not wanting to laugh out of disrespect, but not being able to hide the humor in the words, either.

“Oh, what's this?” She reached over to him and reached her hand into his shirt. He almost grabbed her arm. He almost grabbed her arm, twisted and threw her back and screamed, What are you doing? Do you see my face? I'm not a young flirt, I'm a hardened and damned soul! I'm not going to play these childish games! But he didn't. She pulled out a silver necklace with a small, plain silver cross attached to it. "A believer in the True Religion, I see?"

"Yes, I keep it close to my heart." My husband keeps his silver close to his heart too, she thought. "Though, little good it does me."

"So, you believe the creator, the Father, came to earth and committed suicide and saved everyone?"

"No, his Son came. And it wasn't suicide, he let them kill him, to save the souls of earth. But what good did that mean for no one to accept him. This city, the whole City is damned and no one will believe."

She dropped the chain and mumbles to herself, "Let the kill him, killed himself, same thing..." He looked at her a second, but only a second and then looked back to his now completely empty glass. He set it down.

"I'm leaving."

"Let me leave with you then please. So my boyfriend can see. Please?" She begged more than she asked, like a small child pleading with her parents for more one more ride on the merry-go-round so she could sit on the pretty white horse again.

He stood up and looked at her again, but for two seconds this time, then began walking out. She was at his side and his arm in one second. They passed through the crowd of emotionless dancers, their bodies against each other like the gargled bubbles of drowning man's last breath reaching for the surface to join their fellow air particles again.

​

IV

They walked silently out of the bar, she hanging on his arm and he stoically marching towards the parking lot. He knew how dangerous parking lots were, the type of men ( and women) who hang around there waiting for dishonorable kill and steal. Do what is right, For this is what is right. She guided him with his arm through the blue lit parking lot, the black pavement contrasting with the whites, reds, and yellows of all the varying vehicles. Cars, motorcycles, four wheelers, everything was there. All these cars and never any traffic. This City. They finally reached n newer compact sedan. He wasn't sure of the color, maybe it was black, maybe it was blue, maybe even purple, but it sure did sparkle in the blue street light.

"Thanks. Guess I'll see you tomorrow night?" She knew what would happen. No matter what his answer, no matter what his words, she knew what the action would be. So did he, so he created a pleasant fiction for the sake words anyways.

"Maybe. Your wheels guide safely."

"And you, your feet.

She drove off. He walked off. They began to forget.

 

[Dragons87]

It's a promising start in terms of the craft of story telling. However, your prologue doesn't weave in with the beginning of the story. The bombing should at least be mentioned in the first few chapters, but it hasn't. So right now I have no idea where your story is going. Also, is the swordsman on the street the same as the swordsman in the bar?

 

[icy_crusader]

Yeah, I should make swordsman capitalized so it's more specific. And i gues I do need to at least mention the bombing somewhere. The Salesman comes into the story later, but i guess that's too late? Thanks for the advice.

 

[icy_crusader]

The Cathedral

I
​

The streets spoke to the swordsman. They called to him. The wind rushed through the alleys, the buildings moving and swaying to form faint words and whispers in his ear. Blood. There will be blood for you tonight Swordsman, Ronin, Owl. His emotion remained as cold as always, his poise never lost on the outside, but inside the revelation ripped at him. The City never lied, only twisted the truth, and there was no telling what it meant. He could prick a finger or he could slaughter a bar full of men, there was no telling how or what would happen, but there would be blood. He passed another alley and the City performed her trick again. Ronin, beware your emotions, they and your virtue are your bane. His emotions, yes, he must retain power over them. He must not let his emotions guide his way, he must use cunning and precision. Virtue would have to take second to his own life. Another alley. Swordsman, you are damned. Do not make your path to destruction more difficult than it needs be. She wants him. She wants him for some purpose of her own. The words were too helpful, too exact, and too right. The City wanted to use him for some plan, some strange goal of hers. He wouldn't give in. The Code of the Blade would guide his path this night. And the Father.

II
​

Three tall steeples jutted out from the gothic building, all trying to reach the Father's throne, but not even the middle who reached the furthest could reach without leaving this earth. The smoky fog rolled and swirled around the base of the cathedral, creating what looked like a river of souls guarding the steps to the door.

He wasn't sure what time it was now, or how long he had been walking, or how long he had been at Babylon. He liked it that way. Keeping precise time was a thing of death. Once life is set up on time, it ends on time, but if time is never accepted, neither is death. Or so he liked to believe. The swordsman made his way through the river of souls (which reminded him of something) and up the steps of the Cathedral through the large, arched doorway.

The ceiling of the sanctuary seemed to be hundreds of feet in the air. On the walls leading up to the pulpit, stained glass windows depicted the heroics and fates of the greatest heroes of the Book; David holding the head of the giant, Pharaoh holding the body of his eldest son in his arms, an image of the ark floating on waters where debris and bodies are floating by, Absalom hanging by his hair in a tree, the rich man burning in Hades looking up to speak to Lazarus in Paradise. The images did more to bring fear into believer’s hearts than to inspire them. This City. The grand twisting pillars supported a grand balcony above him filled with even more pew in addition to the nearly hundred on the ground before him. The swordsman turned left before the pews where a rack holding hundreds of unlit candles stood. He walked up to them and took a long match lying next to them and struck it on the ground. After pulling out his necklace, he began to light the candles, one for every face in his mind.

He lost track of time in this ritual, the flames swaying back and forth possessing his mind and moving his eyes (they reminded him of something). The wax from the first candle had begun dripping an hour, no two hours, half an hour, no one hour maybe ago and had since been creating a rhythmic 'drip, drip, drip, drip' sound which had begun to sooth him in some way. Then a second set of drips began creating an off beat tempo of 'drip-drip, drip, drip-drip-drip, drip'. No, not drips, slaps. Like leather against stone. Shoes. Someone was coming. The outer edge of his eyes began to scan the Cathedral. The Minister was approaching. His steps began to slow as he approached the swordsman till they finally stopped.

"Those won't save their souls. They are only for remembrance. I've told you this before," his voice wasn't harsh, but genuinely kind. Perhaps the last kind voice in the City. He wore the traditional black smock with a white collar. His eyes were as grey as his hair was fifteen years ago, before it was white. Frown and smile lines were mixed in his face creating a flurry of wrinkles that no one could really understand. He had truly seen and done much. A true Believer.

"I know."

"Then why do you continue to do this?"

"Because, they won't die. Everyone, every single one of them still lives. I never killed them, only sent them into my mind, my soul to torment me. Why won't they leave? Tell me, Minister, why won't they leave?"

"You must let the Father forgive, lest no one else can forgive you. Including yourself."

"But, if I..."

"No, I've told you, works cannot save a soul. Only the blood of the Son gives salvation, no one else's. When will you accept his mercy? When will give all this up?"

"One more. There's only one more I need."

"With His mercy, there will never be any 'one more'."

"So, you say, Minister."

"So, the Father says."

The swordsman never turned around, never faced him during the conversation till now. Their eyes met. A warrior of the sword and a warrior of the soul meeting to do battle and both knew who would win in the end, only one of them wouldn't accept it. The swordsman turned around and lit the last candle and began to walk off.

"I have no more words, Minister."

"When will you give me your name, swordsman, and you mine?"

"Not till Paradise."

"I see."

If the Father finds me fit for Paradise.