DEATH (The Justice Cycle Book 1) by J Kiefer (best classic books to read TXT) 📗

supernatural light, growing in intensity until it was slightly brighter than that of the Musketeer’s. The world around them was awash with streams of violet and blue as the two sources of light vied with each other for dominance.

“It is a shame that you have grown so weak,” the Musketeer reflected. “How grand a victory it would have been to have taken you in your prime. It was you who defeated my predecessor, was it not?”

“I did nothing,” the Shogun replied. “The sword took him. I was just the instrument it used.”

The Musketeer looked away as if he was contemplating some deep revelation and nodded his head. “It is so for us all, my friend. We are mere pawns, servants to their will. In spite of all our differences, you and I are the same.”

“I am nothing like you. You serve darkness and have always done so. I, though I have very little will left in the matter, serve the forces of light and have always done so.”

The Musketeer sneered at him. “You sanctimonious fool! I know what you have done. All of those you have slaughtered in the name of justice. I have witnessed your deeds, and your self-righteous judgments!”

“I am just in all I have done, even if my actions may seem harsh and cruel at times. How can it be any other way?”

“Just?” the Musketeer scoffed. “One man’s justice is another man’s tyranny!”

“Vain philosophies have no bearing on the truth,” he replied. “You know as well as I do that there is only black and white. Gray is a state imagined to justify sin.”

The Musketeer rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “Why must you bore me with your frivolous lectures? Enough! I have not come here to bandy words with you but to destroy you. Unlike you, I enjoy the power he gives me, regardless of the price I must pay. I have the power to do anything! He has made me a god among men!”

The Musketeer’s black eyes writhed with defiance as the light from the sword exploded around him, covering his entire body with a violet aura the emanated pulsing waves power.

“You are nothing but a slave,” he responded.

The Musketeer grinned and chuckled. “Maybe so, but I enjoy it nonetheless.”

With that said, he lunged at the Shogun, and with the clashing of their ancient blades, the conflict which had begun centuries before entered into its final chapter.

The Shogun’s sword arm dropped slightly and he staggered somewhat off balance. Perceiving his weakness, the Musketeer attacked with animalistic ferocity, attempting to overpower him quickly. The Shogun, his eyes blazing with defiance, met the assault with surprising strength, managing to counter the Musketeer’s every strike.

Both men fought with a skill greater than the greatest of master swordsmen, their movements as intricate as a choreographed dance.

“I am pleased that you still have some resolve left in you!” the Musketeer jeered. “It will make my victory all the more satisfying.”

The Shogun responded with a wicked combination of attacks that wiped the grin off his face and sent him into a frantic medley of countering maneuvers. The Musketeer was now the one on the defensive; it would be difficult for him to regain momentum now.

The Shogun’s arms were a blur as he slashed repeatedly high and then struck low, the Musketeer parrying every blow. Unrelenting, he struck again and again, but the cunning Musketeer knocked each one aside.

“I can feel you weakening,” he said between strikes. “It will not be long now.”

The Shogun said nothing and continued to fight undaunted, but in his heart, he could feel the fatigue. His eyes suddenly went wide, as the weariness and pain of a hundred lifetimes assaulted him at once. The weight of it took his breath away and he gasped. His hand faltered.

The Musketeer struck. He only scored a glancing blow on the Shogun’s sword hand, but the blade that had not left his hand for nearly four hundred years slipped from his grasp. It spun away from him like in a dream before hitting the ground without a sound.

Time stopped, and the world around them stilled. Both men stared at the fallen sword as if the inconceivable had just happened. Then the Musketeer thrust his blade forward, sliding it deep into the Shogun’s chest.

He gasped as the cold steel cut unrelentingly through tissue and slid through organs. His muscles would not obey him, and he watched without sensation as his body twitched when the Musketeer removed the blade. He fell backward and landed on the ground, lying in the soft grass and staring up at the night. His life force slipped away; this was the end. All the long years of service were finally over. Now he could rest. The darkness that had replaced his mortal eyes faded, giving way to a brilliant shade of brown. Those eyes once again beheld the stars before they closed for the last time.

The Musketeer stood over him, casting a long shadow over his body. He could no longer sense the presence of the Shogun and knew that his enemy had moved beyond the confines of the mortal world.

“So long, mon ami. You were a worthy adversary,” he said with uncharacteristic respect. “May you find rest.”

With his final respects paid to the dead, he approached the fallen sword. A baleful hostility vibrated out of it, and while he wore his sword, he did not dare come any closer for fear of what it might do to him.

Theirs was a bitter conflict that was predestined to last until the world ended. The Musketeer turned and walked away leaving the weapon where it lay. Both swords continued to glow in defiance of each other until the Musketeer was out of sight.

When they were gone, the sentient sword lifted itself off the ground and hovered. It bobbed up and down and its glow softened as it made its way over to its former bearer. The weapon continued to hover over him, bathing the dead body with