You’re not an assassin. A mercenary maybe, or a soldier. Unquestionably tough as steel. But not an assassin. Your employer knows this, and that is why he phrased it how he did.

I want you to supervise, supervise Gideon and Koker, supervise them killing this guy.

And you’d said okay. He was upset with you already about a job you botched not long ago, and you didn’t want to push him. You agreed to supervise.

Now that you see the guy, you get an idea why he wanted you to come along. Looking at the target through Gideon’s scope, you see he’s just sitting there in that old, decrepit temple, legs crossed, swords in hand, meditating probably. You see him perfectly through a small window. It’s not the swords that make him intimidating. Hell, the three of you have more damn weapons than a small army. It’s not his strength either. Sure he’s strong, got every muscle cut, defined and ready to explode out of his body. But Gideon’s got to be three feet taller than him and four hundred pounds heavier. And it’s not the cold, angry look on the pale-skinned, pointy-eared elf’s face that makes him look like a bad ass either. No, it’s because he’s sitting there meditating and he’s doing it about three feet off the ground. Floating there. This isn’t just anybody. That’s why you had to come along to supervise, and you figure your hands could get awfully damn bloody for just supervision .

Gideon takes his rifle back from you. You can’t see the guy, now, unaided by the telescopic sight. The warrior is probably five hundred paces away and the sun is going down. Not that it matters; Gideon’s rifle can see in the dark. He takes aim. The elf remains meditating. Levitating.

You cover your ears, but you still hear the gun’s roar. Like thunder. Gideon tells you the guy went down. Blood is coming out of Gideon’s ears. He doesn’t seem to notice. He and Koker are up, running toward the temple. A couple of pros. You go too, but they are faster, Gideon being the juggernaut that he is and Koker the quickest assassin you’ve ever known. They get there before you do. But that’s okay. You’re only here to supervise anyway. As you approach, you draw your gun. You leave your sword sheathed. You know he’s been shot, but you want the gun for precaution. You’ve been shot before, haven’t you, and you’re still around. But certainly there’s no need to unsheathe your sword yet.

By the time you run into the temple, the battle is almost over. Gideon’s shot was good, right into chest. But it wasn’t good enough. Gideon is on the floor, both his legs cut off at the knees. The elf and Koker are going at it, the most rapid clash of blades you’ve witnessed. Before you know what to do, the elf’s short sword is buried to the hilt in Koker’s chest. The other sword becomes a blur, and the top of Koker’s head pops off, just above the eyes. Blood splashes out. Koker drops.

The warrior looks at you. You unload all twelve bullets from your pistol into him. No effect. You didn’t expect any. There’s little blood. Even the fist-sized hole from Gideon’s gun only caused trickles of dark red. He approaches you. You draw your sword. So much for supervision.

At first, you can tell, he thinks it is only a black blade. But he pauses, slows his approach, takes a second look. He knows what it is; you see the realization on his face. No black is that black. It’s a hole, a hole taking the shape of a sword. A sliver missing from reality. A blade-shaped void. No past, no present, no future. Nothing. Your sword is nothing, and you can tell by the look on your opponent’s face that he doesn’t want to get hit by a sword somehow forged of nothingness.

Hesitantly, he backs away. You approach. Quickly, surprisingly, he lashes out with the smaller of his swords. You’re stunned by this -- his reluctance was a ruse! -- but you parry the attack, leaving his sword in two pieces. Nothing cuts through anything.

He was expecting this, you realize too late. His longer blade bites into your stomach. You’ve felt excruciating pain before, but it never gets less excruciating. You double over, and, before you can react, your assailant severs the hand holding your infinitely black blade. Your sword, with your cut-off hand still clutching the handle, drops point first into the floor. It sinks to the hilt.

You fall backward, lie on the floor. He takes his crimson-soaked blade and bolts you to the ground. He misses your heart and spine, but you know one of your lungs is destroyed because of the blood coming out your mouth and nose, the difficulty you are having trying to breathe.

He stands over you, victorious. Pain screams from everywhere. Your vision is fogged, distorted -- you’re adversary looks like he’s underwater. You’re drowning. Every breath you take is filled with blood. You don’t panic, though. You turn your head, and through your wavy, rippling vision, you see Gideon. He’s wounded. Wounded badly but not dead.

The elf pulls the sword out of your chest, raises the blade to deal you one last, fatal wound. You feel a tiny pulse of energy in your body, the last little bit keeping you alive. You grin, even with all the red gushing from your mouth and nose. You’re going to win this fight. You’re sure.

You kick and sweep his legs. As he goes down, you struggle to get up. With your last scrap of power, you don’t go after him. That would be stupid. You get your sword. It relinquishes itself from the ground easily, like the hilt was floating on water.

With your left hand over your severed right, you hold the precious weapon. Blackness threatens to envelop you. Your world is a hurricane. Everything is swimming and crooked. You are about to die. You don’t turn on your opponent. Again, that would be stupid.

He jumps up. You run. Not away. You run to Gideon. When you reach him, he looks at you, wounded, in pain, but alive. You bury your sword in his chest, and his eyes stare at you first in disbelief, then in anger, and finally they stare at you with no emotion.

The sword drinks.

Gideon dies. You live.

You turn to face the pale-skinned elf warrior. You clutch your black sword with both hands. Your old, dead hand lies at your feet. Blood covers you, but you are not wounded. You feel strong. You feel alive. You feel invincible.

Your adversary looks shocked at first, but then his face turns to stone. He is cold and unafraid. You don't’ care. He charges. You charge. His sword point breaks through your breastbone and into your heart. Your sword, a sliver of life-devouring emptiness, does the same, diving into his chest to the hilt, rammed through his heart. The two of you stand facing each other, mirror images.

You feel your life disappearing, but it doesn’t matter. You just need to wait. Any moment now his soul will shoot through the sword into you.

He wrenches his sword out of your chest. He doesn’t try to pull away from the black blade. Where is it? Where is his soul? Where is his life? It should be yours now. With all the strength that remains, you hold the sword firmly through his body, his heart. He stares at you, and you realize. There’s nothing there, nothing for the sword to take. Nothing.

You collapse, hunched over on your hands and knees. Everything is blurry. Everything is black. Everything becomes nothing.

Stories that end with the narrator's death commonly bore me. This one didn't. Perhaps its element of fantasy and its many unanswered questions saved it. Who is the narrator? Is this an homage to the Elric saga? If so, is the 'employer' the narrator's pet demon? Is the 'black sword' an avatar of Stormbringer? For whatever reason, I thought this rough piece a valid addition to this year's story collection. Your opinion?--gm