Chime

[Roger Smith]

His first strike as he surged into the ranks of his chosen enemies turned the gleaming flash of silver into a wet splash of red. One of the bandits had a moment to view his own intestines as they spilled out, through a mess of shredded flesh and flailing strips of ruined leather, before he toppled over in a messy, red puddle. A wheezing, desperate rattle of breath as the man fumbled about, trying to stem the tide of blood and life pouring out of him, incoherent babbling of pain spewing from his mouth. His eyes glazed over, arms going still.

The executioner of God turned aside, his eyes slowly sweeping about over the remainder of his foes. His shifting posture elicited a soft, gentle tinkling sound from the cross hanging about his neck. The lapse in movement allowed another strike to land on him, a spear bursting through his chest as it was thrust into his back. The sheer force of it lifted him from his feet, leaving him momentarily suspended in the air as both blades fell from his hands, embedding point-first in the earth. The immense weight of the insane priest was too much to hold up for long, even for a strong man. Gravity won out, and he slid back down along the haft of the weapon, toward its terrified owner. Feet touched the ground, and rather than the crumple into death one might have expected...his legs continued to hold, bearing his weight.

In a blur of gray, Anderson's left arm flashed up, grabbing hold of the spear just forward of where it emerged from his chest. And he pulled. The man behind him, still holding the weapon, gave a frightened yelp and released it, staggering back. With a single, long motion, the entire haft of the weapon was pulled through the wound, with a splattering of blood.

"W-What the hell are you?!" the spearman demanded, now several paces back and fumbling for his backup weapon, a short sword at his hip.

God's Assassin turned about slowly, the spear still clutched in his hand. A mad, delighted grin was on his face, eyes hidden behind a sheen of silver and gold blazing in his glasses, reflecting the light of the sun. "The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous!" In the blink of an eye, there were three quick steps, and a sickening crunch of impact, a wet squelch, and the spearman was transfixed, his own weapon piercing his chest and nailing him to the ground. Like a fish out of water, his mouth worked, open and closed, staring at the polearm piercing his torso. Shaky hands lifted up to grasp it, trying to pull it free. A flash of silver removed his head and put an end to his attempt. "...and his ears are open unto their cry." Anderson turned again to survey what remained of his opposition, seeing they had all gathered together in one front now. All together, leaving him no more chance to catch them isolated. Wise. But foolish.

Many more of them had drawn bows and crossbows now, likely from within their wagons. Staring down the point of a dozen bolts, gleaming dully with the rough black of crudely worked (but still all too effective) iron, Anderson didn't show an iota of fear, merely giving his free hand a twirl, another blade flashing into life in his grasp. This time, the keen-eyed among the pack of pilferers saw it. A billowing in his sleeve, before the blade shot down into his hand.

"So it's magic..."
"That's how he holds so many!"
"Damn fool's got some tricks up his sleeve — literally!"
"That's a hell of a place to keep weapons!"
"How many does he have?!"

"Shut yer traps!" the boss bellowed, giving one of them near at hand a rough smack upside the head. "It's talk and behavior like that what's let him make a fool of ya so far! Get it together, and keep it that way! Fight with some sense, not like a bunch of green recruits!"

"Hear ya, boss!" one of the bowmen said.

"Good. Now, then, if you'd be so kind...FIRE!"

At the word, every bow and crossbow snapped. A dozen bolts and arrows whistled through the air, each one finding purchase in the priest's body. His limbs, body, even one through his throat, tearing a chunk out of the side. The onslaught sent him toppling over onto his back, amid a pool of blood and visible viscera, through the many wounds adorning his body.

"You're tougher than an ox, Father, I'll give you that...but I doubt even you could stand up after something like that." Bertrand turned aside with a grin. "Who's the one what got him in the throat? Five gold to them!"

A hand raised, from one of the crossbowmen. "That'd be me boAUUh..." He was cut off in mid-word as a blade pierced his chest. Gleaming stark silver, quivering with the force of impact. A chilling, rattling breath came from the distance, blood spurting wetly onto the ground. The blade in the crossbowman's chest let out a worrying click, a cap on the end jettisoning off. Thick red smoke billowed out, a harsh glare blazing from within the handle along with a deep, fizzling hiss.

Only the boss was wise enough to guess at what was about to come next. With wide eyes, he roared out an order to "DUCK AND COVER!" as he did exactly that himself, leaping into a roll behind one of the ruined wagons, just as an explosion tore apart the unfortunate crossbowman who had 'caught' the blade, and a deafening boom of noise and hail of shrapnel rocked the world of those near to him.

In the distance, the Executioner had regained his feet. Methodically, systematically, he plucked at the arrows and bolts embedded into his flesh and ripped them out with a fountain of blood each time. And with every movement, there was a soft, gentle chime from the cross about his neck.