The Sentinel

II

With a yell, the Challengers sprinted forward,  brandishing their iron bars. Feet planted in the rubble, Venger drew his first knife from its sheath, took aim and sent it hurtling into the shouting horde. The foremost Challenger reeled mid-stride and fell sprawled on the flagstones with the blade lodged between his ribs. The others, heads unturned, raced on, the ground trembling with the pounding of their feet.

As they sped towards him, the square echoing with the roars of the crowd, Venger did not flinch. Holding his ground, staring straight ahead, he hurled blade after blade, now with his left hand, now with his right, and a volley of steel tore screeching into the midst of the Challengers. One by one, they staggered and fell, rending the night air with their screams. The watchers howled in fury.

Two yards from Venger, the last of the Challengers leaped towards the Traitor with a feral snarl, his iron bar poised to shatter his skull. In one swift movement Venger drew his last knife and flung it into space. The Challenger fell crumpled at his feet, the blade buried deep between his glassy eyes. The iron bar clattered from his hand and rolled into the gutter.

A leaden silence lay over the square as Venger lifted his head and gazed past the blood-drenched bodies of the Challangers towards the Chancellery.

The balcony was empty, the gilt-edged banners quivering in the wind. All eyes turned to the Chancellery's massive oak doors as from within its marble walls came the thud of descending footsteps, accompanied by the low rasp of something heavy dragged along the floor.

With a deep groan, the huge doors swung open and out strode the Dictator, the heels of his high boots thumping on the bloodstained marble steps. In his right hand he grasped a thick iron chain. Its other end was affixed to a mass of solid metal, nine inches in diameter and coated in jutting spikes.

Venger shivered in spite of himself. So all the barrack-room rumours had been true- muttered references to the Hellhammer, the Dictator's weapon of choice for personally murdering the most execrated enemies of the State. This, then, was how he would die.

The Dictator halted at the bottom of the marble steps, the Hellhammer resting in the dust at his feet. "Repent of your treason," he barked, "and your death may be faster."

Upright and impassive on the far side of the square, Venger shook his head.

"As you wish," said the Dictator.

Behind the broken windows, the spectators stood riveted as the Dictator stalked forward through the rusting chassis, the mounds of charred rubble, the lifeless bodies of the Challengers lying in dark pools of blood. Beside him, the Hellhammer grated noisily across the dusty flagstones. Venger steeled himself. His nemesis, he knew, would not scrimp on his suffering.

The Dictator kicked aside the corpse of the last Challenger and took one more stride towards Venger, setting down his polished boot in a rivulet of blood. Gripping the heavy chain in both hands, he swung the Hellhammer around his head and brought it smashing into the Traitor's flank.

Venger gasped. Agony was sweeping over him like wildfire, blurring his vision and sending his head spinning. He could feel his blood seeping through the stiff fabric of his uniform. His knees buckled and he collapsed groaning at the Dictator's booted feet.

As the crowd looked on, enrapt, the Dictator prodded Venger's bleeding side with the toe of his boot and snarled, "Any final words, Traitor?"

For the first time in three years, Venger smiled- a grim half-smile that scarcely reached his clear blue eyes. So close to his end, he was the closest he had ever come to his enemy. "The Revolution," he answered, raising his voice as far as he could, "is not over."

The knife, still lodged in the dead Challenger's skull, was just within his grasp.

The Dictator's pale lips curled into a sneer, and a wave of scornful laughter filled the square. Face up on the flagstones, awash with searing pain and drenched in his own blood, Venger gazed up at the endless rows of red and black uniforms, fronted by the triumphant face of the Dictator. They seemed to be closing in. He closed his eyes and gathered the last shreds of his strength.

"So ends the Sentinel," he heard the Dictator proclaim, his voice brimming with contempt. The crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer.

The Sentinel. Venger had not heard that name for seven desolate months. The Sentinel- the champion of the people, the marshal of the Revolution. Listening to the clamour of the crowd all around him, he thought of his comrades rushing resolute into the fray, crying out for justice. For vengeance.

Venger's eyes flew open. His fingers closed around the hilt of the knife, wrenching it free, and with a sudden effort he threw himself around the Dictator's legs, sending his executioner tumbling to the ground with a piercing cry. Gritting his teeth at the pain in his side, Venger raised the knife and drove it to the hilt into the Dictator's chest.

The last faint echoes of cheering died away into the shadows as the watchers stood frozen in shock. Either side of the Chancellery balcony, the gleaming standards hung limp. Underneath the flickering streetlight, Venger slumped down on the corpse of the Dictator with a ragged sigh.

The Revolution was over.