Of heroes and swords

Olf Hette,  Last year of Aeritha , the Great Queen of Crovellem.

“It is universally known that a hero needs a magical sword. Sometimes it is found in some ancient ruins. Sometimes it is gifted by the gods themselves. Sometimes the hero may forge his sword along his own destiny. However the case, a hero’s sword is always a unique blade.

Some were blessed by gods, some may be cursed by the fate herself. All can be a  source of tremendous power. Such is the case of White Hilt. Short and deadly dagger  forged in the depths of forgotten mountains. Or the splendor of Gramr, gifted by the gods,  whose long blade banished so many  dragons. Still there is no other equally powerful  as the Kaledvoulch, slayer of the daemon lord.

Its story begun on a deathbed of an old and grumpy sailor. Bedridden by the fever which soon became his undoing, Gapon raved all the moonless night. He talked about the far away shores he saw, the monsters he slain, the women he raped and treasures he splurged. And nobody listened. Nobody except the young deck hand, forced to tend the dying gimp.

Bootis listened and learned. Not about the monsters, he had seen and killed plenty of those. Not about the travels, their boat swam back and forth around the  Long Lake to let him see enough of the world for himself. Not about women, a drunken haggu blown his whistle when he was twelfth and ever since he had no trouble finding women. Some he paid, some he took. No. He listened about a sword.

Somewhere along the shore, there supposedly was an island where a magical sword awaited the one who dare challenge fate and claim it as his own. Before death took him, Gapon revealed  the exact location of the island where the Nymph herself drove the sword into the stone so it could await the rightful bearer.

Bootis knew that island. He told his captain that old fart forced an oath on him so he would rest his body upon that island. A man under a geis on a ship, never brought any good for the ship. Sailors, being a superstitious lot,  packed him onto a boat alongside the dead body and set them off towards the island.

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As soon as his ship disappeared in the fog, Bootis dunked the body over the board then free of the burden rowed towards the island.

It was hard to call this an island. Several tall rocks stood propped against each other, sprinkled with moss and bound with poisonous shrubs. There, in the morning sunlight, a glint of steel caught his eyes. Just like the old man said, it was there. An ominous black longsword with its blade half buried in the stone mocked him with an eye of enormous ruby set in the pommel.

Enchanted, he climbed the rock to get a better look. Steel was charred, darkened and burned by ungodly fire. Yet it shone, reflecting light akin to a polished mirror.  What manner of sorcery could do such a thing to a blade? He watched his own fascinated stare reflect in the black, cold  surface.

Unbeknownst to him, his hand reached for the grip. He stopped himself just before his fingers could close around it.  Was this a cursed sword that would rip his soul or a godsend made to battle the destiny? Was he worthy? Full of greed he closed both hands around the leather bound grip. As if sealing his doom, he felt the tiny spiked of a snake skin bite into his hands.

Cold sweat covered his body as an alien mana rushed through his bones. His hairs rose while sparks crackled in his mouth. What have he done?!

As if propelled by the swords will alone, he arched his back straining his muscles as he braced his legs against the stone. He pulled yet the stone would not wish to let go.  He tugged and ripped and screamed with all might yet the stone just mocked him with its cold blooded heft.

He cried out in passion with the last of air from his lungs, praying for god’s help in his final bout. Suddenly the stone shrieked with the might of a thousand horns, sending more chills down his shaking bones. Bit by bit the blade begun to slide out, cutting the stone on its long way out. Suddenly the stone cracked, revealing the blade so black a night would feel light.

Was this the birth of a hero? Bootis knew not.  Would he cast away the sword knowing where it would lead him to? Perhaps or perhaps not.

Praised be the gods he had known not. […] “