The Stone In The Sword (1) The boy was sweating as he lifted the hammer and dropped it again. It was a large hammer, suited more for war than for forging, but it was the only hammer in the smithy. The steel rang with every blow dealt to it, its white-hot frame vibrating with the force of the hammer’s impact. The boy took the blade in the iron clamps and dipped it in the bucket of water, steam hissing as it floated way from the metal. The boy began to chant in an odd tongue, his mouth tripping over the syllables of the odd words. The sword glowed again, but not from the intense heat. This time, the sword glowed from the magyck power it drew from the sapphire set into the blade. That is what made this sword special. Instead of a normal sword in our world where the jewels and stones are set in the hilt, in the realm of Tredegar, stones were put into the core of the living metal. That is where the magyck was. Thraegar is a realm much like ours, much of the landmasses matching our own. What was different was the age of the civilizations in the lands. The youngest of the nations was a millennium old, nearly nothing compared to that of the Great States. Also, technology, such as the printing press and the musket, have never been conceived, let alone invented. Instead, the discoveries were of magyck and metalworking. The philosophers and the blacksmiths spent their entire lives discovering which stones had magyckal properties and what these properties were. They also discovered how to forge stones into the metal of weapons, and the words required to unleash the magyck within. From studying ancient texts, when humans had magyck running through their own blood, they found the words used to release the inner power of the stones. The stones were used by ancients as amplifiers for their already immeasurable powers. The boy finished the enchantment, placing the sword in its hilt. The hilt was plain and simple, wrought of bronze, with indents for the fingers to grasp so he sword would not leave your hand by accident. The boy looked at the sapphire in the sword, pulsating with a gentle blue light. He pulled out his knife and cut open his palm from his thumb to his pinky. The boy grasped the sword’s hilt in his good hand, and laid the face of the blade in the hand he cut. He closed his eyes and focused for several seconds. He opened his eyes, set the sword down, looked at his hand and smiled. “It’s a fine blade, I’ll give it that. But what is its… uh … let’s see, its…” bumbled the metal clad templar, his words muffled by the helm on his head. “It’s power?” The clerk said. He was an older man, probably well into his seventies, with a silver beard and strong, brown eyes. One could feel the confidence and power behind the eyes of the old clerk, even though they hid behind spectacles that didn’t fit his wide head as well as they could. They seemed to be too large for his face. “Aye, its power. That is what I meant, good chap.” The templar said, after he wrestled his helm off, almost dropping it from the weight. “What exactly does it do, with the sapphire set into it like that?” “I wonder,” the ancient clerk said, observing the face of the templar. The templar wore glasses under his helm, and he had a graying moustache, the last speckles of blonde in it. The templar’s head was bald, and his skin was old and wrinkled. The eyes hidden behind the templar’s glasses were a dark blue, and they seemed forgetful and friendly on the templar’s aged face. “Let me call the boy, he will tell us what the blade does.” the clerk told the templar. “Larmandi, get out here! There is a customer asking about one of your swords!” The boy rushed out from the smithy and into the store. His hair was black, and his arms were thick and muscle-bound. His tan skin was covered with smears of black from the soot of the forge. His blue eyes shone out from the darker skin around them, cold and doubtful of the world. His hand still had the scar from when he tested the spellblade in the smithy. “Larmandi, tell our customer what the sword does,” the clerk said to the boy in a commanding tone. “We need all the business we can get out here.” “Aye father,” Larmandi replied, turning to the templar and began his explanation. “This sword will cut and kill like any normal blade, but when you focus on using the sword’s inner magyck, the blade will heal wounds and other things. It is classified in the ancient texts as a salve sword…” Larmandi was about to continue on when his father stopped him. “Larmandi, this is a smithy, not an academy. That is all our established guest needs to know. Now about a price,” the clerk looked to the templar, who was studying the boy. “The price for this fine sword will be one hundred and thirty pieces.” This woke the templar from his reverie. “One hundred and thirty pieces? That’s highway robbery!” the templar stammered. “No one would pay that for a sword! I do have another proposition for you, though.” “Speak, templar.” “I have need of a traveling smith with me on my mission given to me from the Consort. He will be gone for only a year, and he would be well fed and housed as well.” “What? My son? He is far better than any recognition from the Consort, no matter what you offer me! He is special. He can mix the powers of several stones into one on the same weapon! There is no way I will let him go!” The clerk turned to his son, Larmandi. “I, as your father Larson, forbid you to go with this templar!” he exclaimed, Larmandi still just sitting there, listening to the exchange. “What if I buy the sword? And what if I buy it for two hundred and eighty pieces?” the templar asked Larson, whose eyes lit up at that moment. “What about then?” “Depends,” said Larson. “What is this mission exactly?” “To kill the Paladin Souls.” “You’re mad! He will kill you and my son on sight! No, there is no way he is leaving with you!” “He will not enter within a mile of the Paladin himself. He just needs to make me a sword that can pierce Paladin’s armor.” “And he will not be harmed?” “On my Templar’s Honor, he will not be harmed.” “Right then,” Larson clapped his hands together, smiling at Larmandi. “You heard him boy, off you go. Come home safely now, don’t want to lose any business!” “Right.” The templar said as he paid Larson the two hundred and eighty pieces as promised. Larson handed him the sword. The templar made an extravagant bow, and beckoned for Larmandi to come with him. Larmandi followed like a dog following his master. “You shall enjoy our journey, lad,” the templar told the boy as they mounted the horses that were tied out front of the shop, both chargers with silver manes flowing down their necks. “The places we shall see, the people you will meet, oh, it will be absolutely wonderful!” Larmandi stared at the templar. This mage knight was making this sound more like a vacation than a quest to kill the world’s most dangerous entity. “Sir, I would like to ask a question,” Larmandi said, waiting for the templar to nod before continuing. “What is your title so that I do not just call you Templar, for that would be improper?” “My title is Sir Grumdon.” The templar said in a matter of fact fashion. “And I believe your father referred to you by name, but I have forgotten it. What is it again? “Larmandi, Sir Grumdon.” “Larmandi, eh? Good, strong name it is.” The templar, Sir Grumdon, and his new blacksmith, Larmandi, rode west into the setting sun, out of the valley and towards the forest. Larson looked out after them, chuckling to himself, holding the gold pieces in his hand, watching them reflect the sun’s last rays. He put the gold in his purse and went back in to the store, still chuckling. Larmandi and Grumdon had set up camp for the night. They were already deep into the Border Forest, separating the nations of Caolen and Haelbark, the world’s largest nation. They both sat near the campfire, warming themselves in the cold night. The light made odd shadows, some looking like humans, and others looking like odd monsters of the Amers, with giant teeth and feathered wings. There was a rustling in the bushes, and Larmandi jumped up, pulling out his knife. Wolfmen were known to inhabit these woods, and they were far more violent that their wild cousins. Grumdon just sat there, staring into the bushes. He stood up himself and looked closer. “Larmandi, you can sit down. It is no wolfman in the bushes looking for a meal, it is my daughter Reumidi coming back with dinner.” Grumdon laughed. “You are a learned boy in the ways of swords and magyck, but your animal studies are lacking. Wolfmen fear fire, and would never come close to our camp while one is lit.” Larmandi sat down, his tan skin turning red from embarrassment. He had remembered that Grumdon had talked about how his daughter would be accompanying them. She was some sort of hunter, and could track spirits as well as animals. Larmandi also remembered Grumdon talking about some kind of spirit that had made the Paladin Souls’ armor and sword. Reumidi came into the camp with a jackalope, one of those odd mixes of several animals. It had the antlers of a deer, the body, feet, and head of a rabbit, and a wolf’s tail. The jackalope was large, and would probably feed them well for tonight. Reumidi skewered the jackalope and began to skin it as she turned the skewer in front of her. Reumidi was a tall girl, with copper hair down to the middle of her back. Her skin was fair, with not a freckle on it. She wore a loose leather doublet and leather trousers, each painted to match the color of the trees. Her brown eyes were hard and soft at the same time, making her unpredictable to those who hadn’t met her. She was a kind girl, and she was very outgoing. Reumidi looked at Larmandi, then she looked to her father. “Father, who is this?” she asked. “Reumidi, this is Larmandi, he is a blacksmith and a philosopher.” “So he can make swords and unleash the magyck within?” “Aye, lass, he can.” Reumidi turned to Larmandi and began actively talking to him. Larmandi answered all her questions, but he asked no questions of his own. “You are a very quiet boy, aren’t you?” “Aye.” “You must also be strong to be a blacksmith.” “I am not strong.” “Pardon?” “I am not strong.” Larmandi repeated. “Anyone can be a blacksmith. I am weak, my father is strong, Sir Grumdon is strong, you are strong, but I am weak.” Reumidi looked at Larmandi with a questioning look. “Suit yourself.” She said, still skinning the jackalope. Larmandi sighed and took out his sleeping skin and fell asleep log before the jackalope was finished cooking. Grumdon and his daughter ate the jackalope ravenously like they hadn’t eaten in days. It tasted like chicken. The next few weeks were tedious. They entered the Haelbark side of the Border Forest. Reumidi kept on catching sprites, who were real gossipers and knew of all the world’s rumors. They all told them the same thing when it came to what they wanted to know: The spirit they were looking for was in Haelbark, but no one could find him, not even the world’s foremost spirit tracker. The only useful information they got from the sprites was that the name of the spirit they were looking for. The spirit’s name was Waymane. Tempers were running high in the camp between Grumdon and Reumidi, but Larmandi somehow managed to remain neutral in every conflict. By the time they had spent nearly two months out in Border Forest, the winter began to set in on them. Grumdon and Reumidi kept on arguing about everything, until Grumdon finally snapped. “Reumidi!” Grumdon bellowed, scaring off whatever vile animals that may have been wandering too close to camp. “Reumidi, get here now!” “What, father?” Reumidi yelled back, her words saturated with apathy. “I am trying to catch our dinner, can it wait?” “No!” Grumdon screamed, the veins on his neck starting to bulge from his growing anger. “Get over here this moment!” Reumidi walked over, and Grumdon began to criticize Reumidi’s tactics on finding Waymane. Reumidi shot back with how he ate too much and that he was too lazy to look for Waymane himself. Next thing anyone knew, Grumdon and Reumidi were in a full-blown argument, telling each other off at the same time, making a din that was incomprehensible to anybody. Larmandi stepped in between them and stopped their duel of words. “It is neither of your faults!” Larmandi told them. “I am the one to blame. I should be looking harder myself. I haven’t even been repairing any of the armor and swords I should be. I should be the one blamed, not you two. I will find Waymane.” Reumidi and Grumdon looked at Larmandi with shock on their faces. They had never heard Larmandi talk like that, with such resolve and confidence. Then again, they hardly ever heard him speak at all. Larmandi stormed off to the tent he had fashioned, which contained his tools as a blacksmith. He closed the front fly, and the sounds of metal striking hot metal floated out of the vent in the top of the tent. Grumdon and Reumidi went about their separate businesses. Reumidi caught some quetcotl that had stopped in the forest during their migration. The quetcotl were feathered serpents from the Amers that managed to flourish in any part of the world. The kind of quetcotl that lived in the Border Forest were fuzzy and had a small fire burning inside them, making cooking these beasties not necessary, but added flavor. Grumdon went out to the forest edge to see where the closest city was. Night fell, and Grumdon and Reumidi had already fallen asleep. The sounds of metals banging together began to fade away as it reached midnight. Larmandi’s tent still glowed from the hot coals from within. The tent began to glow brighter, Larmandi’s voice working its way around the ancient spell. The lights in the tent faded, and the camp was silent. “What is this, Larmandi?” Grumdon rebuked the traveling blacksmith. “A compass that doesn’t point north? What good is that?” “This compass is not meant to point north.” Larmandi explained, pointing to the stones set in the compass needle. “The emerald is the gem of sight and the opal is the gem of spirits. This compass points towards spirits one is looking for.” “Prove it,” Grumdon scoffed. “Gems only work when in swords and chest plates, not on compass needles.” “Waymane.” Larmandi said, holding the compass flat in his hand. The needle began to spin about, before resting and pointing west. Larmandi dashed off, keeping his eyes on the compass. Grumdon followed, clunking along in his bulky armor. Larmandi had to keep on snaking in between the trees, and Grumdon had a hard time keeping up. After about half an hour of this chase, Larmandi finally stopped, looking at the compass still. Grumdon caught up and fumbled with his helm straps, trying to get it off so he could breathe. “Well boy, why’d you stop?” Grumdon panted. “I don’t see any spirits around here.” “The compass is going crazy,” Larmandi said to the red-faced templar. “The needle keeps on going in circles and it never stops.” “Really?” Grumdon wheezed, still trying to catch his breath. “I’ve heard that the same thing happens to explorers that stand right at the point of magnetic north. The compass stops working.” Grumdon and Larmandi glanced at each other, and then they looked up at the same time. They saw a spirit floating there, smiling at them. The ghost laughed at the two dumbstruck people before it said anything. “’Ello then, mates,” The ghost chuckled. “ ‘Ow can I ‘elp you?” “Is your name wa-wa-Waymane?” Grumdon asked hopefully, stuttering as he did. “Aye, so what do you need from me, then? Grumdon, Reumidi, Larmandi, and Waymane rode out of the forest the next day. They rode until they reached Foundriks, the capital of Haelbark. Grumdon tried to get any information from Waymane about the Paladin Souls’ armor, but the old spirit wouldn’t talk to him. Waymane replied with vague answers and old proverbs. Larmandi seemed to be the only one who could get sense out of the spirit of the old man. They were sitting in the Topaz Tavern, largest tavern in the world. “You are the boy with the gift?” Waymane’s whispery voice rang out. “The one with the power to make many stones one?” “I can do that, but I am sure that there are others that can do that as well.” Larmandi replied, his tone somber. “In the 500 years I’ve been dead, I’ve seen nobody with your gift, boy.” “For 500 years you’ve been dead?” “Aye.” “Then how can the Paladin Souls still be alive?” At this point, Waymane instantly quieted down. Grumdon said something under his breath and thanked the stars above, and Larmandi sat there with a questioning look on his face. “’E is still alive then, is ‘e?” Waymane said as he floated down lower and tried to sit himself in a chair without passing through it unsuccessfully. “I thought ‘e would be dead by now.” “Do you know why?” Grumdon asked, seizing the chance to finally get some sense out of Waymane. “I made ‘is armor, but that does not make ‘im immortal. ‘E should ‘ave died like any normal ‘uman.” Waymane told them. “Why, ‘ow could ‘e still be alive? Must of driven ‘im to madness.” “He has not died because his soul has been warped. He was foolish when he chose to draw his power from the soul instead of fire or water, and when society became greedy, malicious, and apathetic, the Paladin Souls changed to reflect humanity. He is warped beyond compare, and his body will not let him die by nature’s way.” Grumdon paused before he continued, making sure that Waymane understood him. “He can only be killed by the sword. But he refuses to die. He kills all that enter his castle.” “So that is why you were looking for me.” Waymane had finally managed to float just above the chair as he spurted out that sentence. “So you can make a blade and armor that can beat his.” “Aye.” “Well, good luck to you, then.” Waymane tried to float out the door when Grumdon stood up and tried to stop him. Waymane stopped, only because he hated that warm feeling ghosts get when they pass through people. Grumdon began talking to Waymane, Waymane began to talk back, and the two were having a heated debate. For fifteen minutes they stayed at that front door, blocking all who wanted to enter or exit until they finally reached a compromise. “We need to get Waymane a body.” Grumdon said to Larmandi as he sat down at the table. “I will talk to the High Courts for a prisoner release. Can you make something to make the switch?” “Aye.” Larmandi said as he glanced down to his knife, the one set with opal and sapphire. “I can do that.” Three weeks later, Grumdon, Reumidi, Larmandi, and Waymane were in Deadtree Forest looking for the impossible. Larmandi had used his knife to bring Waymane into the criminal’s body, and the criminal’s spirit flew away, bitterly confused and disoriented. Waymane finally told them what they needed. They needed skyrite, also known as adamantite to those that knew of its existence. Their adventures were now taking them to the village of Sky Sprites, sprites that made skyrite fall from the sky at will. They picked their way around the flightwood trees, the branches shaking up and down uncontrollably as if they were trying to gain flight. The animal life grew more and more scarce the farther into the forest center the group of adventurers traveled. Even the lizardrats, the most annoying reptile/vermin hybrid that was found everywhere in the world, were nowhere to be seen in the dark and foreboding inner forest. Wolf vines slithered along the trunks of the trees, eating whatever animals they found before dragging the bones back to the marrowtree. The marrowtree was a horrible tree, but its lumber was valued so highly among the royalty that only special people were allowed to harvest it. It grew from the nutrients it could get from bones, giving the wood a magnificent white gleam. Termites also had resentment for the steel-hard lumber, making it very popular for framework on houses and castles. The wolf vines ate anything that got close though, living in a symbiotic relationship in the forest. Grumdon was getting hungry when he saw a coalcherry on the ground. He reached down to pick it up when there was a twang from a bow firing an arrow. Grumdon jumped and found that an arrow had buried itself in his posterior. He reached back to take it out and fell over asleep. Reumidi pulled the arrow out, looked at the coloration of the arrow tip, and sighed. “It’s covered in a fast acting sleep potion.” Reumidi said as there were two more twangs from the unknown assailant. Both Larmandi and Reumidi fell asleep with Grumdon on the ground, not even bothering to try and break their fall. The bowman appeared from the bushes and tied his captives up and dragged them off. Waymane watched in awe as the little man pulled probably five times his weight across the ground when he turned around just in time to see a crude bronze war hammer send him into the realm of unconsciousness with the rest of his party. Larmandi awoke in a dark cell made of stone. The only torch in the room flickered, and a door somewhere opened. Two small men walked in the room and started speaking excitedly in a language of clicks and shrieks. Larmandi groaned. He just realized what had captured himself and his friends. “Dwarves.” Dwarves were one of the vile races of sentient creatures in Thraegar. They still followed tribes and clans, and did not know how to use magyck. They were crude and rude, all manners and higher learning was lost on them. They were violent, stupid, tenacious creatures, and they enjoyed nothing more than to kill needlessly. Tribal leaders had managed to work their way up the chain with blackmail, bribery, foul play, and by greasing palms. Dwarves didn’t even use gold as currency. They still bartered for goods at the market. In the Goblin Languages, their name for the dwarves literally meant barbarian. They could not have given them a better name. Larmandi watched the two dwarves talk in their odd language. One dwarf pointed to Larmandi and made some gestures with his hands. Larmandi had never been good at charades, but he had a feeling he knew what the dwarf meant. The dwarf wanted to pound his ribcage in. The other dwarf shook his head and talked while making more gestures than the first one. Larmandi guessed the other dwarf meant “gut him like a fish”. The first dwarf shook his head and made more pounding motions. The second dwarf started clicking insanely and made more gutting motions, accompanied by a shriek. One dwarf pulled his mace from his belt and brandished it at the other dwarf, who in turn took his flail out of his belt. The two dwarves jumped on each other, swinging their weapons blindly, often hitting the cage in which Larmandi was being held. Larmandi saw how much the dwarves had worn down the bars in the cage during their melee, and began to goad the dwarves on. He wasn’t sure if they could understand him or not, but if he could get them to break through the cage he could escape. Escape to where? Larmandi didn’t even know how far they had been dragged to the cave. What would he do? Wander around until he died of thirst and hunger? Larmandi watched the two dwarves try to kill each other, he heard the door open again, and another dwarf entered the room. This one was different though. He wore a headdress made from quetcotl feathers set along a leather cap made from jackalope hide. Beads made from marrowtree hung along dried wolf vine sewed on to the cap. He also stood a good three inches taller than his comrades. This was the chieftain. The dwarf chieftain pulled out a knife from his belt, more like a sword on his diminutive frame. He pulled the other two dwarves apart and screamed in the dwarf language. The two dwarves had an expression of genuine fear on their faces as they scurried off, their small legs moving as fast as they could. “Stupid dwarf-guards,” the chieftain said in the Human Dialects. “They no good at keeping guard, better for smashing heads.”
Copyright © 2008 Matthew James Parsons |