The Seventh Day Is Crimson

Death came to town that day -
he marched in through the gates.
Death came to town that day
and dispelled the 'early's, the 'late's.

*****

And so, and lo, and lo and behold...!

Death came to town that day
And something wasn't right,
For when Death came to town that day
He brought his favorite scythe.

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Sunday showed his teeth as hot bursts of blood slapped against the mortared wall. He rocked back with the blows, his leather-strapped body swaying drunkenly. Upper left arm. Left thigh. High on the shoulder. His arms jerked around, muscles failing to support them.

A sudden gut shot. Sunday folded over the bolt, matted hair falling across unseeing eyes as if to add insult to injury.

“Hold!”

A final crossbow twanged, the bolt burying itself into the wall.

Blood pounded in Sunday's ears. It splashed onto the ground with heaves and gurgles, sucking wounds drooling the heavy liquid down his shirt front. The breath rattled in his chest, grating against the metal embedded into his collarbone. His grinning lips twitched. It hurt.

In the vacuum of his sightless world, Sunday grasped on to the pain, on to the dripping presence of his blood, dispelling the fuzzy haze that threatened to overcome his remaining senses. The fingers of his right hand twitched, the loose fist tightening on something immaterial. He attempted to lift it, but the hand was as dead as it was empty. He dismissed it with a profound sense of derision, rolling the taste of blood on his tongue, wheezing as it slipped down his throat. The flowing blood suppressed the laughter that was in danger of bubbling out, the muscles of his face drawn taught from tension.

Boot scraped on dirt as a person approached. Sunday could hear the creak of leather as hands tightened on crossbows and breaths were drawn in; he could hear the flags above crack in the wind that failed to penetrate the courtyard. The boots were five steps away, then four. There was a subtle shifting as cloth fell into place – the person had stopped more than two arm’s-reaches away.

“Who sent you, dog? On whose order did you come sniffing at my gates?” a voice demanded.

Sunday let a fat blob of blood slip from his lips; it slapped onto the ground in disdain of the man's question.

A faint sound of disgust. Then, “Very well. Die nameless, cur. It is of no real consequence.” A snap of fingers. “Klein, my crossbow.”

“But sir, you've already -”

“Idiot,” snapped the man. “The Brimstone.”

“Ah, yessir. Right away, sir.”

Metal clanked as the soldier fled to answer his captain's will. The captain's stance shifted. Metal lightly striking metal, breast plate to vambrace, then the creak of a shoulder strap. Settling in for a short wait, slightly favoring his right side.

Right footed, so probably right handed. Patient. Smart, as evidenced by the distance he had left between the two. Sunday's red-red teeth shone as he felt warmth rush through his veins, his muscles quivering in anticipation. A shadow rushed up from within him, eagerly coiling in his breast. Not yet, he thought, and a rumble of amused consent traveled through him.

Abruptly, his knee crashed onto the ground, his injured leg giving under his weight. In the next instant, the air was sliced with the sound of numerous crossbows going off at once.

His form blurred as his three working limbs propelled him hard to the left. Steel tipped bolts clattered off the keep wall as he ground to a halt amidst a column of dust, hunched down like a beast. Sunday lifted his face to a chorus of disbelieving gasps and belatedly turning heads; light glinted off shiny breastplates and helmets as they shifted to face their adversary. The dusty courtyard was a flat, featureless killing field - perfect for dealing with unwanted visitors, the garrison clearly holding the advantage with their long range weaponry. Or would hold, on any day exempting this one; quiet, bubbly laughter seeped from Sunday's lips. Twin globes of bloody witch-fire danced behind the veil of his long, gritty hair; they sputtered and flared, giving the impression that they were swiveling to take in every last detail.

For the space of a laboring heartbeat, silence reigned as the two parties eyed each other. The soldiers stared at Sunday's heaving, bolt-riddled form, the strips of fluttering red leather indistinguishable from the blood that sputtered from open wounds. They looked upon the glowing orbs that leaked writhing fire onto the ground and recoiled, the points of their weapons drooping downwards.

“Hold.” The word cracked over the courtyard, allowing not a hint of disobedience. The captain's voice lashed out again, drawing the attention of the men at arms unfailingly. “Drop ballistics.”

The soldiers squared their shoulders at once. They dug in their heels as one, the cumbersome crossbows thumping onto the ground in unison.

“Dra~aw steel.”

Metal snaked on metal as gleaming tips emerged from scabbards. Again, no hesitation. Sunday approved.

The captain's cruel gaze fluttered on Sunday's bleeding, shivering form. He flicked a hand in quiet disregard. “Put him down.”

A howl of fear and defiance ripped from twenty-odd throats as the men thundered across the flat stretch of land.

Give it to me, Sunday thought, bring the rest of the madness, make it dance.

The swirling dust around Sunday abruptly halted and crashed to the dirt. Ripples shot outward from around his body as the once-dormant demon flooded his veins with raging fire. It felt good. The grin came more naturally now, the madness tugging at his mouth with fervent fingers. The witch-fire of his eyes burned brighter and his lips found familiarity in words he couldn't understand.

“Kaareth zine karak.”

The words were barely muttered, but their message reverberated in the skull of every man present, the soldiers' charge faltering for a precious second. The roar of flames overcame the damage his nerves had suffered, and Sunday lifted his right hand. The clattering of chain was heard for an instant, the heavy sound of something settling into its natural place, and in the next, where Sunday had hunched over his wounds was left nothing but a uneven puddle of blood and displaced dust.

The lead man of the charge blinked, only to find himself staring into gleaming, gleaming eyes of fire.

Bared teeth were drawn into a horrid mutation of glee and grimace; they flashed red as Sunday wrenched his body savagely, tearing the six-foot blade from the man's armored chest. Tortured metal screeched and the man screamed in fatalistic agony, his forgotten blade clattering from the fingers that raked along his cloven chest.

Heady lifeblood splattered onto Sunday's face and torso as he whipped past the falling body, pivoting backwards on his left foot, the blade of his scythe held parallel to the ground. The backhand blow cleaved through the skull of the man directly behind him, showering his fellows with filthy brain matter. Sunday barely needed to check the momentum of the massive blade, stepping through a full-body pivot and swirling the shaft overhead as he shifted his grip on it; he brought it whittling down first behind him and then up in a viscous underhand that slammed into an armored figure and bore him skyward.

Ragged portions of guts trailed the man's body as Sunday completed the circular motion of his scythe, the body crashing down into the dirt behind him. The initial shock of Sunday's assault had worn off and, whether through sheer idiocy or a frenzied lust for revenge, the soldiers closed in, tooth and steel bared and striking.

A cold, logical portion of Sunday egged him to take a step back and play to the strengths of his long reach. The blood-mad animal in him pulled out the blade from the crumpled body, took a step forward and rammed the blunt end of the shaft clear through the man in front of him. He angled the shaft upwards, sliding the howling man down its length and into the way of four keen edges hungry for Sunday's flesh. His heel slammed into the impaled man's back, sending him hurtling away, wrenching hilts from stunned fingers.

Sunday's left hand shot out, tearing into an exposed throat. His demon-fueled muscles bulged and he ripped off a ragged chunk of meat with a low growl; he followed the circle of his left arm through, sending his scythe ripping through the side of a reeling soldier, rending him in two just below his ribs. His left hand found the end of the shaft and he pulled back on it savagely while kicking out with his right heel, catching the next man in the chest and throwing him towards the blade. The wicked edge sliced through steel and flesh, finally coming to rest upon the sole of his boot. The separated portions of body slumped down, spewing out pools of blood and organs with odd little gurgles.

A tremor ran through the scythe as a sword recoiled from it with a harsh crack. In his enhanced peripheral vision he saw the terrified gleam of the man at arms' eyes as he hastened to check the recoil. With the maddening grace of a predator, Sunday stepped his right foot across his body, the scythe's blade following the turn in a diagonal upward cut that opened the man's chest wide. The demon's fiery eye caught the horrified faces of the remaining men as they turned to run. Sunday let out a bark of laughter and let go of the shaft with his left hand, pivoted once more, angled the scythe with a slap of his palm, and brought it down in a whistling arc that clove into a fleeing soldier's shoulder.

The man screamed as the horrible blade stuck fast in his collar bone. His bloodied comrades never looked back, the slippery guts of their fallen friends hampering their retreat as they scrambled for safety. Sunday watched the scarlet gleam of their various helmets rush for the keep. He shifted his arm around without much thought, his body instinctively taking into account the minute twitches and struggles of the man he had caught so as to not accidentally kill him.

The captain of the guard looked on with ashen face as the dust settled around the brief battlefield. His gorge threatened to burst out from his lips as the stench of death, the stench of soiled and bloodied bodies vomiting out their guts, reached for his nostrils.

Amongst the dead, the demon was wrapped in scarlet leather, endless strips of the material wound around his lean body. Bolts stuck out of him at angles, the entry wounds heaving out bulging blobs of blood, but yet those otherworldly eyes shone with a wicked light, fixed on the surviving members of his guard. It did not matter that they weren't angled directly at him. He could feel the pressure from the demon's eyes in the tangible waves of terror that shuddered through his bowels. Another agonized bark from his guardsman drew his eye to the scythe. The blade was at least the length and width of a full-grown man, pearly white where the gore didn't quite reach.

There was a sudden fountain of blood as Sunday flicked his wrist, the edge of the scythe slipping out of the soldier's side. The links of chain around Sunday's wrist clanged together in the eerie silence that had enfolded the courtyard. The hollow thump of metal-encased meat resounded through the keep as the soldier fell face first, dead before reaching the dirt.

Sunday hefted the massive scythe onto his shoulder and started toward the master, the laughter bubbling up again. His feet found slick, congealing blood that slightly stuck to the soles of his boots. The steel bolt in his collarbone itched irritably and he ripped it out, throwing it away with revulsion. The cold portion of him noted the sudden gush of blood with concern – he'd gone beyond his limits this time.

“D-Demon...,” the captain of the guard mumbled, his spasming hand trying to curl around the hilt of his sword. “G-Get... back.”

“Demon?” he asked, his voice distorted due to the taught muscles of his face, still locked into that maniacal grin. “I am no demon.” A burst of that madness broke through in a fit of giggles. “I am a child of Death. Sunday's the demon.”

The master wrestled his sword out of its scabbard and held the quivering point toward Sunday. The simple act of defiance seemed to bolster his resolve and his voice regained some of its steel. “Stay back, demon. You will not have this keep as lo– as long as I draw breath.”

Sunday advanced on the drawn sword, the witch-fire of his eyes flaring brightly. Hot blood dripped from his pointed chin, pooling in the hollow of his neck. “I am Hashashin. One who walks the night. One who lives the night. One who ends the night. I fear not your sword or the night it might bring.”

Sunday's lips formed ancient words, and the gory scythe and chains disappeared. Sunday regarded his hand; it still appeared to be grasping the shaft though nothing was in it, and would not obey when he told his fingers to uncurl. He hadn't expected them to, it was just a habit – an uncontrollable itch.

The captain of the guard had seized the chance. He hurtled forward with a quiet desperation, sword extended like a lance. His mouth was wide open in a silent scream as he rushed the blood-smeared Hashashin. The grinning maniac was focused on his now-empty hand, and the master felt a surge of viscous hope well up in his chest. He lowered his shoulder at the last instant, and dove under the Hashashin's arms, aiming for his stomach.

“And on the Seventh day the God in the Heavens gave his Creation the most cruel gift of them all,” whispered a voice in the captain's ear.

There was a wrenching, tearing pressure in his abdomen, and his body slumped around it, powerless. The naked steel slipped from his grip as the pressure subsided; it felt as if he was being sucked out of his navel, his grasp on reality slipping one lurch of his heart at a time.

“Hope,” said the voice. “He gave them Hope.”

The man fell lifeless as Sunday retracted his bloodied hand. Sunday smiled a wicked, bloody smile, the madness of the grin finally ebbing. There's nothing quite as refreshing as true, cutting despair, found only in the shattered edges of hope. Sunday, the demon, shivered in agreement, causing the Hashashin's body to quiver.

It had been a good day.

The enchanted string of the Brimstone cracked and a whistling cone of fire gouged a four-foot hole into the heavily fortified wall with a whump of expelled space. The flash of flames set his leather and hair to dancing; heavy chains fell across Sunday's wrist as he ripped the scythe out from its containing dimension.

The grinning mask of Death rushed towards Klein the guardsman, whipping up a massive cloud of dust. Sunday ducked another bolt of hastily aimed dragon fire with a violent swerve of his body, dug in his right foot, and leaped the last four yards towards the reloading guardsman. The rushing wind of his fall blew the lashing hair away from his face. Whatever Klein saw in it, it was enough to make him blanch and freeze in terror, the awesome power of his weapon completely forgotten. The pearly whiteness of the Gates shattered his ribs in a fount of crimson.

Sunday's red-red teeth glistened as he hit the ground hard, bearing the man down.

The day was far from over, it seemed. Cartilage and bone snapped as he pried free the bloodied tip of the scythe, and stepped free of the corpse. Splinters of the Brimstone cracked underneath his boots as he prowled toward his next target. The demon's baleful eyes now drew his attention to the large, barricaded doors that separated the courtyard from the keep proper. They were slightly ajar.

Sunday let the crazed laughter escape his stomach as he set out on a flat sprint to the keep, all four limbs hurtling him forward, to kill, to kill, to kill. He licked his teeth, nearly biting off his own tongue.

To kill.

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A/N: Ugh. Couldn't get the song in the beginning to format properly (vastly reduced line spacing and aligned to center), sorry about the awkward look of it. A bit of a long read, this one, but I hope you enjoyed it; I attempted to make it as riveting as possible so that it wouldn't get boring despite it's length. I toyed with the notion of cutting it into two parts, but there was no good pause anywhere sensible.

This story was a way to test some ideas I intend to use in a longer work, if I ever get down to writing it, Sunday being a side-character in it.

And so here we are, at the end of this bloody romp. Please leave any constructive criticism, positive or negative, if you've the time for it. Thanks for reading.