by Mike
Johns tried to watch with detached stoicism but failed. He could feel the bile rise in his stomach. A quiet, acrid belch stole from his mouth, which he tried to cover with his hand.
The Mage glanced at him sideways and smiled a wicked smile, as if to say, ‘stand under my gaze, will you? I win this round.’
“I thought all the ancient magical weapons were destroyed by the Coven ages ago?” Johns asked, though he knew that to be untrue.
It was true the Great Purge in which the Coven seized control of the Cantons had seen countless old magic items destroyed, along with numerous Mages; but as the Mage in front of him proved, they hadn’t gotten all of them. Of course, the current Coven did not hold with the ban on magical weapons, neither had the four Covens before. Since the ban had been lifted, new weapons had begun to surface, an ancient, magical weapon was an extreme rarity, but not an oddity.
“Most of them were, it is true, but as I stated, this one was buried beneath Blintinstone for a long time, and so was unknown at the time of the Great Purge.” The Mage reached behind him and procured a stopper and pressed it into the top of the vial. Holding the vial of the child’s blood up between them, he swirled it around as if it was a rare vintage of wine he wished to aerate to liven the flavor. It occurred to Johns, unfortunately, that might be precisely what he was doing.
Again, the Mage smiled wickedly at him, as if reading his mind and delighting at the discomfort Johns was in.
“Wren-Kurth is unlike other blades of old, and most assuredly unlike anything made since. Its creation is an interesting tale, but is unnecessary to share with you, as it matters not.” The Mage placed the vial to the side and folded his hands in his lap, to which Johns was immensely thankful for. The less those hands did, the better, as far as he was concerned.
“As I said, Wren-Kurth is an ancient blade, it does not rust, it does not break under normal circumstances, but all of this is known of such blades. What is not known of other blades is this one is intelligent.”
The Mage let that statement hang in the air between them, but try as he might, Johns couldn’t get a hold of it.
“I’m sorry…. Intelligent? As in smart?”
The Mage shrugged noncommittally.
“I do not know how smart it is, but what I meant was, it has a personality. It is its own identity. It can speak to its wielder and can think on its own.”
Johns stared in disbelief at the Mage for a long time.
“That is impossible.”
“No,” the Mage countered, “it is not.”
Chapter Two
Quint gazed at the blade laying crosswise on his lap, his sword and only companion. It felt an eternity since he found this weapon in a forgotten chamber beneath the catacombs of Blintinstone, though it was only seven months ago.
Weeks of running brought him to the ruins of Blintinstone; running from Captain Johns, who almost caught him outside the ruins of the town surrounding the broken down keep. Ducking into the keep was his only option at the time. The catacombs beneath the keep had many exits and it would take a great deal of luck for him to find the one which would see him away from Johns and this place.
Light was a stranger to the catacombs as he moved blindly through the dark and twisting tunnels. He dared not light a torch for fear Johns’ men would see the light. Countless turns and dead ends left him disorientated and unsure of where he was, and how long he had been there. The timelessness of utter darkness left him confused, uncertain if it was hours, or maybe days.
Groping as he did, is doubtless how he ended up in a partially collapsed section of a tunnel. As he stumbled around the rock-strewn passageway, he felt a slight breeze caress his ankles, the coldness of it awakening the hairs on his legs, making them stand at attention. Immediately, he scrambled down on his hands and knees, blindly shuffling rocks, as quietly as he could, to open a large enough hole to climb through.
Sounds of pursuit echoed all around him and he knew Johns and his men were close. This hidden opening was a well-timed escape.
Hurriedly, he entered the hole and pulled a large rock to cover it behind him, plunging him into a deeper darkness, if it was possible. Waiting, he hoped his eyes would eventually adjust. They never did. This room/tunnel was lightless in every way. Listening for sounds of pursuit, he was thankful to hear none. Those sounds disappeared when he pulled the rock over the hole, as if the rock not only shut out all light, but sound as well.
Digging about in his satchel, he got out his flint, tinder, and what remained of his last torch. It wouldn’t produce light for long, but hopefully long enough for him to determine where he was and what he could do to get out of there before Johns and his men found him.
After several attempts striking a spark, his torch flared up like a new dawn after a moonless night, and for the first time he got a look at where he was. It was obvious, right at first, this room, for it was a room he was in, was of much older construction than the initial catacombs of Blintinstone where he started. Since he traveled blind in the catacombs, there was no way for him to know when he had entered this older section. It looked to him, this area must predate Blintinstone, but by how long ago, he had no way to know.
The room was stone construction, and small, like an antechamber of sorts. A door led out from the room opposite him. The wooden door was in bad shape. Age taking its toll upon it and all that remained was a skeleton of what had obviously been a work of incredible craftsmanship. Two wall sconces held torches in much better shape than the one he had, so he collected them up. He wouldn’t be out of light anytime soon.
Apart from the wall sconces, the room was bare, except for a deep layer of dirt and dust from ages of neglect. Quint crossed the small room to the door. Rot had taken its toll, especially around the hinges, and the metal handle. The lock and latch mechanism were rotted away. Pushing against the door, it opened with an audible creak, making him cringe. The smell of stale air wafted past his nose and he entered the room.
His torchlight faded into distant darkness, both in front and above him. The room itself was immense, some sort of great hall, he imagined. Large tables lined this room, thick oaken masses supported by rough square stone columns. Stoneware was placed uniformly around the tables in line with two score or so of high backed oaken chairs. In almost every chair sat a skeleton. Tattered remains of finery hung loosely over dull white bones. The figures sat slumped, their mandibles resting on their breastbone, caught in eternal slumber.
Quint was no Constable to know what might have killed so many without any sign of struggle, but due to the location of all of them in the act of dining, he would assume the food had been poisoned. But why were they left here? Poison implies intent. Why leave your victims where they were? Or why didn’t loved ones remove their remains for proper burial? There were too many unanswered questions, and too much time had passed for him to find out the truth. Though that didn’t keep him from speculating.
Moving further into the room, he noticed, near the back of the room, a large table ran perpendicular to the rest. High backed chairs lined only the backside of this table, with a higher backed and intricately carved chair sitting at its center. There rested what must have been a giant of a man. His skeleton easily beat the others in both width and height.
Skirting around the huge table, he made his way to the large skeleton to examine it more closely. What remained of the man’s clothes, for it had been a man, Quint could tell now that he was closer, were in tatters. Degraded over the years it had been down here, little was left, but what remained was obviously of fine material.
A circlet rested upon the white bone of the man’s skull. Dark gray in color led him to believe it was perhaps made of platinum, a popular choice for crowns in olden times. Several gold and platinum rings sat loosely upon desiccated fingers. The rings and the crown would bring a small fortune, but the sword resting at the man’s hip really drew Quint’s attention.
Only the handle could be seen jutti
ng above the scabbard. The white ivory grip ended with platinum ball. Braided gold thread encircled it in a gradual spiral, to meld into a platinum crossbar. Embedded at the center of the crossbar, was a white opal the size of small egg. The opal’s shiny white surface reflected off the torch, showing a myriad of colors as the light played across its surface. Judging from hilt of this weapon, Quint was sure it was enchanted, but to what extent he did not know. Most weapons of magical portent were destroyed during the Great Purge, but this predated that time and since it was hidden down here, missed being destroyed.
Hesitantly, he reached for the blade. He realized his wariness was unwarranted for the man who had carried this weapon before was a lord or a king of some note, and if he carried it so prominently, the chances of it being cursed were minimal. Now, filled with confidence, he reached for the blade, his hand gripping the hilt and pulled it free of the tattered sheath it had rested in. The sheath split, for age left it brittle and it all but disintegrated.
The blade matched the hilt in elegance. Made of some metal he did not recognize, it shimmered a dark violet in color. The long sword was perfectly balanced in Quint’s grip and felt almost weightless to him. Even from here he could tell the blade had kept an amazingly sharp edge to it. In all his life, he had never seen anything so beautiful as this blade. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship he did not believe could be surpassed. Turning the weapon this way and that to get the feel of it, he tested its balance from several different stances. It was truly a remarkable blade, and it felt as if it had always been destined to be his.
Glancing down at his waist, he saw his commissioned blade, its leather wrapped grip worn and dirty, scratches and oxidation marred the surface of the ball and pummel, and the blade was not much better. Without hesitation, he set the torch down and drew his old blade. It had served him well for years, but it was no match for the blade he now held. Setting his old blade down on the table, he was about to sheath the new one, when someone spoke.
“Hell…hello?”
The voice was distant and faint, yet somehow close. Too close. Quint spun around snagging the torch as he did to cast light in a quick arc, his new weapon at the ready.
But there was no one.
“Hello?” The voice called out again, stronger and not as faint, and yet, still so close.
“Who’s there?” Quint called out, moving back and forth with his torch and blade thrust out before him, to ward off any sudden attacks but still there was no one.
“Who are you? Ah, never mind… I see now.”
He sees who I am now? Quint thought. How? When he had yet to see anybody else in the room.
“I see who you are now Quint, because I have access to your mind.”
Quint froze. Now he realized why the voice was so close at hand, because it was coming from inside his head and not being spoken from someone at all.
“Where are you?” Quint noticed a little panic had crept into his voice. He wanted to know where this person was, so he could ascertain the threat.
“I am close. My name is Wren-Kurth, though my previous owner called me Wren.”
“Owner? So, you are a slave?”
Quint realized this conversation was not right. As far as he could tell, this room had been hidden here, undiscovered for what might have been hundreds of years, and now apparently someone was still here? It must be a spirit, or a ghost, or he had succumbed to madness.
“No. I am no slave, and no, you are not going insane. I do not know how long I have been here, since my previous owner died I have lost track of time. That often happens when you are alone in the dark for so long.”
The voice paused for a moment. As if to catch its breath, an action, Quint was pretty sure it didn’t need to bother with.
“Though I guess I could have done something about the darkness.”
Suddenly, the blade in his hand glowed. A slow radiant light, a soft violet in color, emanated from the hilt, gradually it worked its way to the point of the blade. All he could do was stare at his newly found sword. It was a long moment before Quint could discern the truth and realized the weapon reacted to what the voice said. Or maybe it was simpler.
“You… are the sword?”
“I am. I take it you have never talked with a sword before?”
“Um, no.”
“Ahh, I see this is going to be difficult,” the weapon mused.
“How is this possible?” Quint asked aloud, but in truth he wasn’t asking the sword. He understood how this was possible. Weapons of vast power were not uncommon before the Great Purge, though swords having intellect, or personality were only whispered about, since the question of how they gained intelligence was rumored to be something dark and sinister.
Quint was unsure of what to do next. Something he did realize was the sword hadn’t answered his question, rhetorical as it had been, the blade wouldn’t have known, or would it?
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“That was because you didn’t ask me, Quint.” The sword answered, in a slightly amused tone.
“How did you know I didn’t ask you?” Something else about the sword’s answer suddenly struck him. “How do you know my name is Quint?”
“The answer to both those questions is the same, and one you have already surmised.”
“You can read my mind?” The idea disgusted Quint and his immediate thought was to rid himself of the weapon.
“Only surface thoughts, I assure you.” The sword’s tone was placating. “Unfortunately, your desire to be rid of me will not work. I am with you till the end now.” The blade’s tone was one of sympathy.
*
Wren’s statement was correct as Quint discovered over the next few days. It was several days before he climbed out of those ruins to make his way to the West Trading Road. Thankfully, free of the Captain’s pursuit, at least for the time being, he picked his way eastward. There was no trace of the man and his compatriots in the area. They had stopped searching for him and left, or so he believed.
When he emerged from the ruins, day was breaking over the skeletal remains of the town. The surrounding forest was making gains on returning this land to its rightful owners and Quint couldn’t help but marvel at the conflux among the ruins and the forest. Stones and bricks intermingled with saplings and vines. Civilization’s last dying breath before being engulfed in wilderness.
Standing there, outside the ruins, Wren in one hand, and his old sword in the other, and indecision in his heart. He was loathed to be rid of this beautiful and well-crafted weapon, but the idea of having a sword in his head disturbed him too much to keep it.
“This won’t work, Quint. My nature will not allow you to be rid of me until you die.”
“I’m sorry, Wren.” Quint said. “I can’t keep you.” With that, he slammed the blade into the ground, point first, sheathed his old sword and left the ruins.
Walking most of the day, he barely took the time to stop and chew on a piece of cured meat and take a swig of water from his skin. An hour before dusk, Quint found a place to bed for the night, beneath an old spruce tree. As he pulled his travel sack off, and undid his sheathe, he froze. His old sword was no longer in his sheathe, Wren was.
“Hello, Quint.” Wren’s voice echoed in his head.
He could do naught but stare down at the blade. How was this possible? Quint thought. The blade had been left in the dirt — I left it there and hiked miles away from that place This… this isn’t possible.
“Clearly, it is possible, Quint, just not very usual.”
“I left you,” Quint whispered to himself, and as he guessed to Wren as well.
“You did. But, I forgive you. I told you it wouldn’t work — that it wasn’t within my nature for you to be able to abandon me.” Wren sighed. “Whether you or I like it, we are stuck with each other. The bond will not break until you die.”
Not knowing what to say or do, Quint sat, staring at the weapon in his
hands for a long time. His thoughts could not move past what had happened. In time, he decided to act, instead. Tossing the blade to the ground, he grabbed his travel sack and left the safety and confines of the spruce and moved off, away from the setting sun.
Walking till it was dark, and then, when his eyes adjusted well enough, he continued. He knew he was being careless and was perhaps overreacting. Things could be worse than to be stuck with such a fantastical blade. The thing had been cognizant for ages, its knowledge would have to be vast. There were things he could learn from it, who knows what else it could do? The weapons of old were said to hold powers not seen in hundreds of years.
He decided he should return for the sword, and yet, when he stopped to turn around, he realized he had been walking in a mental fog and had no idea where he was or how he would get back. And with night upon him, the chances of finding the spruce he was going to spend the night beneath, was unlikely.
Cursing himself for an idiot, he peered around for another place to spend the night, perhaps he could find the weapon tomorrow.
As he circled around trying to find shelter, he caught sight of two red eyes, peering at him through the darkness. Quint froze. Forest wolf he was sure of it. The eyes were about equal with his chest, and nothing else big hunted in these forests. He didn’t need to check behind him to see the other set of eyes he knew were there. Forest wolves always hunted in pairs. Flanking their prey as they moved in for the kill.
Cursing himself again for leaving Wren, for now he was weaponless against two deadly foes. There was little he could do but wait until they attacked, and then, it would be too late.