Swords & Heroes Story #26

An Insufficiency of Light by Jason M Waltz

Jul 03, 2025

I credit my interest in contemporary S&S to two early projects from Rogue Blades - the anthologies Return of the Sword and Rage of the Behemoth. This was back in 2010’ish, I believe, and Jason and I have been writing and publishing friends ever since - though we have yet to meet in person. Hope to one day rectify that! In the meantime, we’re going to do something a bit different for Swords & Heroes eZine - we’re going to offer a ‘twofer’ adventure from Mr. Waltz featuring a new anti-hero of his named Randuul in today’s story, “An Insufficiency of Light.” Next week, we’ll be back with the sequel tale, “Another Name for Darkness.” So without further ado… + Ed. (PS Happy 4th of July!)

An Insufficiency of Light by Jason M Waltz

Randuul watched blood rise on his left thumb, scarlet against the hundreds of white scars crisscrossing his weathered skin. “Fear...” he said.

He bent his wrist to send the blood along the heel of his hand, which he lifted to his lips. He licked the blood up to the wound, then spat reddened phlegm upon his bare blade. He squinted and the sundered flesh reknit.

“...is only another name for darkness.”

He raised his eyes to his fascinated audience. Enthralled in their stupor by his violence and apparent healing power, they never heeded the real majyk – his blood on the sword.

Randuul came from a people with extremely accelerated adrenaline production. Their bodies remained at peak performance every moment. He was not any less mortal than other men, but his reactions, senses, and pain tolerance were at the highest levels achievable. In addition, and of more danger to his foes, his blood provided the same jolt of adrenaline when it entered the bloodstream of others. At a minimum, this brought lightheadedness and double-vision or increased and excessive irritability. At its most potent, it was fatal, capable of exploding ill-prepared or over-worked hearts.

“Avanek has offered bounties for your capture.” He finished smearing his bloody spittle across both sides of the sword. “Partial for proof of your deaths.” He bared his teeth. “I don’t mind partial.”

Randull had slowly followed his bounties for days. He did not shadow them; he knew where they headed. He intentionally arrived too late to help. Too late to have to pretend to consider helping. Instead, he came upon them after they had slaughtered every resident of the small woodcutting hamlet on the edge of the disputed lands. Too late to intervene, he watched them from a small copse of firs, waiting until the gang of cutthroats had sated their carnal hungers.

A wan smile creased his face. It seemed the woodchoppers, before finally being overcome, had managed to kill one bandit and even injure another two. One who had the contents of a boiling cauldron splashed into his face now lay moaning on the far side of the campfire. Against a tree next to him sprawled another who had a tourniquet wrapped high upon his leg.

He watched the rest of them stagger into the camp with their loot, lusts dulled, and with little fear of reprisal. They’d haphazardly set two guards on opposite sides, neither of whom were now alive. Of the sixteen who had attacked the village, eleven remained to face him.

Not quite odds he liked, but when Randuul killed the second guard he had found an interesting weapon. He had heard of the toy-like devices but had never seen one. The handheld crossbow held three bolts in runnels attached aslant to a single handgrip with three triggers. The bolts were about the length of his hand and the thickness of his largest finger. The center one aimed straight forward, while those on the left and right angled outward so as not to interfere with each other’s flight. They could be fired singly or together in one simple pull.

He found the weapon in the lap of the guard whose throat he slit, even testing it upon its previous owner. While nowhere near as powerful as a true crossbow, up close and put into softer tissue this was an excellent addition to his arsenal.

Randuul grabbed the handful of darts from their pouch. Holding them points upward, he ran the heel of his hand across an edge then squeezed his fist over them. Once satisfied enough of his blood had flowed, he willed his wound closed and returned most of the bolts to the bag. Reloading as he walked, Randuul smiled. This made the odds more manageable...or at least more interesting.

Well past the midnight hour, the fire had dimmed and most of the marauders were sleeping or staring dully, eyes glazed from drink and satisfaction. Two forms thrashed on the bedrolls to the right, a naked breast falling free then a bare ass rising into the open air. Never slow to take advantage, Randuul aimed and pulled the center trigger. The bolt hummed unerringly straight into the exposed buttocks.

An unearthly scream shattered the night as the figure erupted from atop its partner. Turning to two wide-eyed figures who had sat up in confused fright, he released the left and right bolts with small twists of his wrist. The left bolt took a man through an eye, stopping when most of it had disappeared into the brain behind. He toppled over without a sound. The second man jerked aside just enough to avoid the same result. The crossbolt scored a furrow across his right cheekbone, punched through the bridge of his nose and ending in his left eye. Randuul dismissed him as a threat.

Then there were eight.

That was when he dropped the mini-crossbow and drew his sword. When he said, “I don’t mind partial,” he renewed his attack....

His first sword stroke caught a rising fighter and took the left side of his head off from crown to armpit. The arm fell to the dirt, fingers spasming on the hilt of its falchion. Without slowing, Randuul swung his sword in swift slashes right-left-back-below. A throat erupted in gore, a stomach dumped its contents and more to the ground, a knee collapsed, and a heart took a full foot of the blade as he knelt and drove it through the groaning form beneath him.

Four fighters advanced, weapons ready. Movement low to the left caught his eye. The wounded man with the tourniquet fumbled with another mini-crossbow.

Randuul spat and rose in a rush, covering the space between them in three long strides and, faster than the man could raise the weapon, kicked out with a steel-toed boot. The blow snapped the man’s wrist and sent the weapon spinning. All three bolts shot into the night, two vanishing in the darkness. The third buried itself into the groin of one of Randuul’s pursuers. The gods of odds were in his favor this night.

Sensing more movement from behind, Randuul tossed his sword from right to left hand, pulled a dagger from his waistbelt, and spun it toward the rushing enemies. He did not watch its flight but twisted into his momentum, sliding onto both knees and holding his upright blade edge forward with both hands on the hilt.

A heavy war axe thudded straight into his sword, higher than his opponent anticipated. The top third of Randuul’s sword sheared off into the night. The shock of the blow numbed his forearms, but he simply braced his sword in place upon his thigh.

The man could not slow his impetus and impaled his neck on Randuul’s jagged blade. He fell across Randuul’s shoulder, the axe dropping behind them.

“Nice try,” Randuul said as he pushed the man off his sword and rolled away into the covering darkness.

His amped senses soaked in the night. Moans and cries of pain covered any noises of movement, and the firelight had almost vanished. The smell of vomit and shit and iron was almost overwhelming. He narrowed his eyes.

There, the smallest of shadows shifted. Someone stood near the embers. Taking his broken sword in two hands, Randuul raised it above his head like a wood axe and sent it spinning through the night. The wet smack of sundered flesh and screech of pain sounded together. A body fell into the fire, sending sparks spiraling. An oddly strangled scream turned into a bloody gurgle and stopped with a sigh. The sudden whoosh of igniting clothing lit the night, and the smell of overripe liquors filled the air.

Randuul moved to the edge of the flickering ring of light, scanning for threats even as he stooped to recover the closest abandoned sword. A sword was a sword; so long as it was sharp and strong, it could kill.

His thrown sword had taken a fighter through the sternum and hurled him backward across the fire. It was his clothing that burned. He must have worn more alcohol than he had drunk. Next to him lay another man, two crossbolts protruding from his throat. Moans echoed as Randuul turned toward the two previously injured killers. The man with the broken wrist tried to pull himself into the brush one-handed. Randuul grabbed his heel and tugged him back into the firelight, turning him over.

“Thatul is it? I recognize your ugly face from—”

The sudden widening of the man’s eyes sent Randuul into a right-side spin with his new blade thrust out horizontally. He never slowed in his full turn, pulling the sword through thick resistance until it burst free. He stopped in time to see a headless, naked body crash to its knees, full breasts bobbing then hugging the bare steel blade their owner had meant to plant in his back. He watched the body fall atop the sword at his feet.

“Damn glad she’s the last.” He shook his head and raised an eyebrow at Thatul. “Close one there—forgot the bitch under the one I ass shot.”

Thatul shook his head, eyes wide. Randuul spat on the man then speared him through the heart. He left the sword there and rolled the dead woman over, snatching her longer blade. Only the man carefully cradling the crossbolt where his ballocks used to be and the one blinded by the hot soup remained. Randuul ignored their cries and stalked into the darkness to drag the dead guards into the camp.

Working steadily, he had thirteen bodies lined up, faces toward the fire. When he found the other woman he realized she was the one he had put the first crossbolt into. Her hands clutched at her upper chest. Instead of dying from the dart in her intestines, her heart had exploded from the overdose of his blood. Finally, he hauled the burning corpse from the dying fire and tossed an armload of nearby branches on it. A few pieces of discarded clothing and half a bottle of rum drove the flames roaring brighter.

“Be right back.”

Randuul grabbed up the empty mini-crossbow and reloaded it as he covered the short distance to the smoldering remains of the hamlet. He knew where the bandits had left their dead comrade. The villagers’ dogs had also been slain by the cutthroats, so nothing protected the dead from the carnivorous wildlife. He sent two crossbolts at the wolves worrying his target but ignored those ripping into the other dead. Grabbing up the dead man’s collar, he hauled the body back to the fire.

He pulled a log closer to the light and sat down. Removing a wad of papers tied in a bundle from inside his tunic, he carefully unfolded each page, holding them up against the line of dead faces, and tearing the corner off each confirmed bounty. After fourteen matches only five pieces of paper remained.

“That means you,” he nodded at the man sitting in a pool of his own blood, “must be the one they call ‘Cutter,’ Danyl the Cutter. And he,” here he nodded at the blubbering blinded man and chuckled, “must be Lucky Jimmy. Just thought you should know you’re the last of ’em. Already collected your missing pal, Smack. How I knew you lot would be here. These last two,” he shook the remaining bounties, “can wait.”

With that, Randuul picked up the short sword atop the pile of weapons he had gathered. With a simple twist of his wrist he brought its tip across Cutter’s throat and stuck it through Lucky Jimmy’s open mouth up into his brain. Then he began the tedious task of separating each head from its body.

“Hello, Mother,” Randuul said.

“My son,” she greeted him, her long hair blowing in a wind unseen and unfelt by him. He knew he slept. His mother had died a long time ago, but they conversed almost nightly. It was a familiar conversation. “You could have done something.”

“I am not a savior, Mother. I am a judge. No, I am executioner. You know the reason.”

“You could be, though. Your lust for killing is just another name for darkness, too.”

He repeated himself. “You know my reason.”

Though she knew she was dead, and that she had been murdered, she did not truly know his reason. She did not know the nature of her terrible death. He was the only one still alive who knew the horrors of that day. Who relived those horrors whenever he was not vigilant against the memories.

She had been slain the day after his tenth birthday. A day of golden celebration had been followed by the blackest day of his life. The last thing Randuul recalled of that day was staggering to his mother and grabbing her hand. Her fingers had clenched his and her one working eye had met his own crying eyes. He would forever remember the spark of light that had arced from her eye and burned into his own. He alone lived. Their clan died that day.

Ever since, his mother had visited him in his dreams. It was she who told him about his blood, taught him the smallest of majyks, really only a trick. It wasn’t true healing, simply an ability to close his wounds. The damage and pain remained; his life just no longer poured from his veins. Randuul had taught himself other uses for his blood, other majyks.

Her hand caressed his hair. But he was not willing to listen this night. He did not save people. He killed people. And he regretted none of it. Especially the deaths of his mother’s slayers. But he knew she was correct, that he could have averted the tragedy of the woodchoppers’ destruction if he had arrived earlier sooner. Or died trying. He preferred not dying.

“Another name for darkness is also Evil, Mother. And I slay Evil.”

“Death, too, is named darkness, my son,” she whispered sadly. He pretended not to hear her conclusion. “And the darkest name of all is monster.”

Randuul arrived at the rundown inn before sunset. Taking a small nugget of gold from his pocket, he beckoned the child tending the stables. He had thought the stable hand a boy, until the profile against the setting sun displayed small, rounded curves through the simple tunic. He shrugged and bit the nugget in half, then tossed one of the pieces to her.

“If you stay by my horse, keep it ready to go,” he held up two fingers, “two days, the other half is yours.” She nodded and took the reins. He followed her to the stall she selected, then tugged free the bulging sack looped over his saddle. “This stays here, in the corner. Keep away from it. Tell me if anyone comes snooping.” She nodded again and he went inside the inn.

He never stayed more than two nights in one place. Since that fateful childhood day, twenty years of looking over his shoulder had kept him edgy whenever around others. He entered towns for their bounties, then kept mostly to small villages and out-of-the-way places for his supplies. He had plenty of money – that was why he didn’t mind bringing his bounties in dead. Partial payment was more than enough for something he would do for free.

Over dinner in the common room, Randuul learned one of Avanek’s traveling arbiters was in town. If he was in luck, the judge carried enough funds to cover the bounties and Randuul could leave early.

In the morning, he strode into the stables to collect his sack of heads. The child cowered in the corner silently crying.

“What is it, girl?” She jumped, eyes filled with fear. Randuul judged her to be about ten. His age when…he savagely shook his head. “What’s happened?” he growled.

“Ma-mas-master took-took—”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where’s your half?”

Sobs wrenched her skinny frame. “He-he-he,” she gasped for breath. Randuul sighed and squatted before her.

“Shhh.” He brought a finger up and she flinched, then relaxed when it continued to his lips. He frowned. “Show me.”

She hung her head, then slowly removed her tunic.

Her body was black and blue and yellow where it wasn’t crusted with dried blood just within the hiding confines of her wretched clothing. He snarled and the girl scampered backward.

“No need to fear me, girl. Put that back on. Can you tell me who did this to you?”

She nodded as she pulled her tunic on and hugged her body.

The arbiter would have to wait. “Show me,” again Randuul said, and took her little hand into his rough palm. He thought he heard another name for darkness whispered on the wind, and grimly dipped his head.

He let her lead. They left the stables and turned to the horse yard. The trembling girl stopped about twenty feet from the back of the big man pounding on an anvil and slowly raised her hand to point. Someone yelled.

Randuul pulled the girl with him and stalked toward the smith who turned to face them. A scowl ran over the man’s florid features when he saw the girl, but he gave an ugly smile when he met Randuul’s eyes. “You want?”

“No. I want her half of the gold nugget I gave her.”

The man blanched then flushed red in anger. “I ain’t got no gold nugget.” He raised his hand to backhand her. “She’s a liar if she says other.”

Randuul’s open palm caught the man’s descending hand and squashed it into a fist which he then continued to squeeze. Despite Randuul grinding his fingers together, the smith was a very large man and would not be forced to his knees so easily. And his other hand still held the smithy hammer which began to rise.

Randuul bit his tongue and spit a mouthful of bloody phlegm into the smith’s face then followed that with a headbutt to his wide nose. Blood burst from the split flesh and mingled with Randuul’s.

The smith roared in pain and dropped the hammer in surprise. He swiftly recovered, pulling his fist free of Randuul’s grip. He wrapped both meaty hands around the bounty hunter’s throat and began to squeeze. Randuul laughed and punched the man in the throat with his right hand. His left hand quickly grabbed onto the smith’s closest thumb as it loosened with his gagging. Twisting the thumb, Randuul wrenched the brute’s hand free and spun his arm up behind him.

Randuul heard voices yelling and feet running, but he never slowed. Raising the arm higher and higher he forced the man to bend over or have his arm broken. The smith did not realize that Randuul intended to break his arm no matter how far he bent.

The arm snapped, the man screamed and finally fell to his knees. Randuul kept pressure on the arm, raising it higher until the man’s face hit the ground and his wildly swinging other hand began pounding the dirt. Then Randuul bent swiftly, plucked the hammer from the earth, and buried it in the back of the yelling man’s head. Blood and brain matter spattered the yard.

The sudden silence was interrupted by angry voices. Randuul glanced at the girl who stared at him wide-eyed. He inclined his head to the nearing yells and nodded when she swung her eyes in that direction then back to him and solemnly shook her head yes.

He turned to see three younger men, all obviously sons of the smith, raging toward him. The smallest snatched a pitchfork from the wall of the smithy, while another thrust the glowing end of the steel rod they had been heating in the fiery furnace at Randuul. The third, the largest, simply pushed his sleeves up and raised massive fists.

Randuul did the unexpected and ran right into them. Brushing past the long reach of the molten metal, he slammed his forearm into that son’s face, thrusting the man onto the striking pitchfork of the son in the rear. Both men screamed as the tines of the fork erupted from the chest between Randuul and the smaller son. Randuul smiled, his teeth red from his own blood, and spit over the dead man’s shoulder into his killer’s screaming mouth. Then he shoved them backward until they tumbled and fell, spinning to face the third son.

He met the attacker’s fist with his chest. It knocked the breath from his lungs, and he even felt his heart skip a beat. The second fist landed in his stomach and heaved him upward and back. Randuul flipped over the corral fence, landing on his back in horseshit.

The eldest son tried to bull through the wooden rails. Built strong enough to contain angry horses, he had no chance of busting through them. Helpful hands flung the gate open for him, as Randuul regained his feet. He pulled free the loaded mini-crossbow slung about his shoulder and released all three bolts one after the other into the upper body of the approaching brute. Two buried their heads in the man’s chest and one punched through his cheek and into his mouth.

Roaring in pain, the man raised a fist high above his head ready to hammer Randuul into the earth with a single blow. It never fell. The man’s face suddenly flamed crimson and he lurched to a halt, grabbing at his left arm, then at his chest. His face purpled and the veins in his neck stretched taut. He keeled over, crushing the water trough beside him.

Water cascaded across his swollen body and silence descended on everyone but the sobbing youth in the shed cradling his brother’s head. No one stopped Randuul as he walked out of the corral and to the girl. He pointed at the last son. “Did he?”

She nodded carefully.

Randuul picked up the dimly glowing steel rod and shoved it through the boy’s face and into his brain. He turned to the crowd staring at him in stunned shock. Before anyone could speak, he beckoned to the girl. She came quickly to his side. “Show them.”

She bowed her head but obeyed. Shrugging free of her simple garb, she showed them what the smiths had done to her. To their credit, most of the people cried out in horror and turned their gazes away. Randuul squinted hard at those few who did not.

One face blanched white and its owner turned to run. Randuul pulled the hammer from the sodden mess of the smith’s head, carefully aimed, and sent the hammer end over end through the air. The chunk of metal slammed into the back of the fleeing man and sent him tumbling through the edge of the crowd, most of whom screamed and fled. He looked to the girl.

“All of them? Put your clothes on.”

She quickly pulled her tunic over her head and murmured, “Yes. Thank you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I’m not your savior, girl. I’m their judgment.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.” Randuul shook his head. “Darkness walks the earth, child, as you’ve learned. As I learned long ago. It bears many names. You have to find the one that suits you.”

He bent and ruffled through the dead smith’s clothing until he found the half nugget. Handing it to her, he retrieved its other half from his own pocket and held it out.

“This will take you away from here. It will also make you a target.”

He knew if she stayed someone would take revenge on her, blame her for the deaths of the four men rather than their own misdeeds. He also knew that if she left, alone on the road, she would likely die too. But it was her choice. Randuul only made choices for himself.

“Will you still watch my horse?”

She nodded. He ignored the silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

Randuul stalked into the stables to retrieve his blood-encrusted sack. He had an arbiter to find. He felt an unseen puff of air within the shadows and heard his mother’s sigh.

“I know,” he muttered.

“It’s just another name for darkness,” they said in unison.

An Insufficiency of Light © 2025 by Jason M Waltz (4000 words). All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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