power and intent

The cold September wind slipped under Duke Aridon’s fur cloak as he stepped down from his saddle, and he paused to curse the abysmal weather of the highlands again. When they’d arrived in late June, the mountain foothills had been a temperate relief from the sweltering heat of summer on the plains below. But the temperature had steadily dropped as the months wore on. Now he had to break through a layer of ice to get to the water in his wash basin each morning, and the snow that covered the craggy peaks high above them advanced daily down the mountainside toward their camp.


Captain Rydour, Aridon’s only escort, trudged up the frozen mountain turf behind him to take the reigns of the duke’s black stallion. The older man’s ears and nose were red with the cold morning air, but Rydour didn’t seem to notice. “They were expecting you half an hour ago, Sir,” he said gruffly, his breath visible as a white fog.

Aridon waved away the old veteran’s reproach. “Cameran and Gameson will lay into each other before they even sit down at the table. I doubt they’ll even notice we’re absent. After listening to them bicker for the past three months, we deserve a respite.” Rydour huffed, but Aridon knew his captain was as frustrated and annoyed by the two tribe leaders as he was.

Spanning hundreds of miles across the great continent, from a distance the aptly-named Broken Wall mountain range resembled nothing so much as a massive stone wall, broken and fragmented by time. North and West of the Wall was Emphera, filled with ancient forests and deep jungles, while to the East and South lay the fertile plains and island-dotted coastlines of Cornith. But while the Wall was an unchanging and essential buffer between the two ancient empires, the lines that divided the territories of the mountain tribes living in the mountains changed constantly.

Though small, the mountain communities had become rich off the trade between the old empires, and they were already putting the money to good use, buying steel from their neighbors. If the minor skirmishes escalated to full war, it wouldn’t be long before trade between the two empires began to suffer for it.

So now Aridon was in this God-forsaken mountain town, along with his Empherian counterpart, trying to convince the tribes to make peace. Cameran and Gameson were the chiefs of the two largest tribes, and had numerous allies who would join with them if it came to war. The two men each seemed to have each brought with them an endless list of past transgressions to bicker and argue over. Every time they sat down it was minutes before insults and threats were being hurled back and forth across the table.Aridon walked up the meager path toward the forge. It was modest by Imperial standards, but was twice as large as the small house it was connected to. Further up the hill beyond the small building lay several large stones in rough rows. Grave stones, standing in testament to the generations who had lived and died in the building.


Grey smoke puffed out of the chimney, and a dull red light shone under the door. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal could be heard from within. Eager to escape the cold, Aridon pushed the wooden door open and stepped into the dry heat of the forge. The small space was bathed in a dim orange glow that fought the cold white light coming in through the windows. The hammering stopped. “What d’ye want?” a harsh voice demanded from the ruddy darkness.

“I seek the master of the forge.”

“Ye’ve found ‘im,” the voice said. “Now bugger off! I’m busy!”

Aridon let the insult pass. He’d had more than enough time to become accustomed to the gruffness of the mountain men. He squinted into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he perceived a man standing in the shadows just next to the brightly glowing coals. He held a hammer in one hand and a glowing length of metal in the other. “I am Duke Aridon of the Cornith Empire,” Aridon said formally, bowing slightly. “I received your message, and I’ve come to see your sword.”

There was a long moment of silence before the glowing metal and hammer banged down on the anvil. The smith stepped fully out of the shadows and Aridon was surprised at how old he was. His face was leathery and wrinkled with the years of hot labor, and what little hair he had left was stark white. Despite the man’s age though, muscles bulged under the leather apron he wore, and he walked with sure steps across the dirt floor toward the duke. “Name’s Simon,” he said, holding out his hand. “Master smith an’ owner o’ the forge.”

Aridon took the offered hand. The grip was like a vice, and he could almost feel his callouses through his gloves. Simon’s grey eyes traveled slowly up and down the duke, taking him in. Finally, he nodded and turned. “Come on then.”

Aridon was led back to the far corner of the forge, where the shadows were deepest. Easily moving aside heavy barrels filled with raw ore and coal, Simon uncovered an unremarkable plank of wood laying across the dirt floor. Lifting it, he revealed a small furrow dug into the ground beneath. From that, he withdrew a long object wrapped tightly in oilcloth.

“Why d’ye want this sword, Duke?” Simon casually asked. Although Aridon had gotten used to deciphering the accents of the mountain-dwellers, the smith’s speech was thicker by far. Like most of the men of the mountain tribes, he also addressed Aridon informally by his title as if ‘Duke’ were his first name. After three months Aridon was used to it, and he was too interested in the concealed item Simon held to care anyway. As the Simon heaved the barrels back into place, he kept a firm grip on the shrouded blade.

“I’m a collector of magical blades and weapons,” Aridon said. “They fascinate me.”

“Have y’ever held an intelligent blade then?” He led Arnidon to a long work table set directly beneath a large window. All manner of metal-working tools were laid out across the scarred and scorched wood surface. The smith brushed them to the side and set down the cloth-wrapped sword.

“Yes, once.” A holy knight had rested himself for a night in Aridon’s keep. The duke had asked to hold the knight’s silver-wrought broadsword. It had felt light as thought in his hand, slicing through the air almost fluidly. The blessed sword had spoken to him, words of gratitude for his hospitality appearing in his mind.

Such blades were rare and valuable, and Aridon leaned forward eagerly. “Is this sword intelligent?”

Simon didn’t answer, instead asking, “How many men has yer sword slain, Duke?”

Aridon stood straight. “You needn’t worry about my skill, I’ve killed at least two dozen men and bested three times that, many of them skilled swordsmen.”

Simon shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “Not you, Duke. Yer sword.” He pointed to the longsword at Aridon’s hip. “How many lives has that blade taken?”

“I’ve never thought about it before,” Aridon said, looking down at the weapon. It was an old sword, forged with a steel guard and a gold inlaid grip. He had inherited it from his father along with the title of Duke. It was unlikely that it had ever been wielded in anything other than duels of honor. “Perhaps thirty men,” he said after a moments thought.

The smith indicated the door of the forge with a jerk of his chin. “Yer man out there? How many men has his sword sent t’the grave?”

Rydour’s blade was high quality, as the skilled captain deserved, but it was still from the same armory that the rank and file soldiers got their weapons. There was no telling how many captains had wielded it before Rydour. “Could be more than two hundred,” he replied.

Simon lifted the sword from the table and began unwrapping the cloth. “This sword, Duke, has killed millions.”

Aridon could not hide his amazement. “Is it so powerful?”

“It ain’t a matter o’ power, Duke. It’s age.” He finished unwrapping the blade and set it back down on the tabletop. The cold white light coming in through the window from outside reflected dully off the tarnished black surface of the blade. Aridon looked down on the crude weapon with distaste. It wasn’t even steel. The whole thing had been hammered out of a solid piece of iron, cross-guard and all. Worn and cracked leather wrapped tightly around the grip, not quite covering the thick counterbalance at the end of the pommel. The blades edge was badly nicked and so dull that it couldn’t have been sharp enough to cut through lard.

“You must be joking,” Aridon said, flushing angrily. “This blade couldn’t kill a man if he threw himself on it!”

In a blur of motion, Simon snatched up the sword. Aridon had barely taken a step backward before the smith swung the sword down at an anvil that occupied the far corner of the table. There was a flash of light and a sizzle of sparks, and the sword was back on the table. Dumbfounded, Aridon stared at the half of the anvil that thudded to the dirt floor, along with a chunk of the tabletop. The cut was so smooth and clean that the yellow-orange light of the forge reflected brightly off of the shorn metal.

The smith kept his eyes warily on the blade as he spoke. “Magicked blades’ve all got a story, Duke. Ye’ve heard o’ the broadsword Torret Col used t’cut down the five Dark Horsemen?” He hesitated for a moment. “When I was a young man, I forged Torret’s sword an’ sold it to him at the spring market in Merida.”

Aridon gaped openly, his growing impatience with the old man’s rambling momentarily forgotten. “You forged Karansath? The stone-cleaver?” He looked around again at the meager interior of the forge and his awe faded quickly. “I’ve seen artificers’ workshops. You’re no mage-smith,” he said darkly.

The smith’s back straightened suddenly and he turned to face him, looming over the smaller man. “Damn right, I ain’t!” he thundered darkly.

Aridon backed away from the sudden anger glowing in the smith’s grey eyes. Simon reached for the black sword, but stopped just short of grasping the hilt. Even as Rydour threw open the door at the sounds of shouting, the old man was already taking a deep breath and visibly forcing himself to relax. “Sorry, Duke. Ye ain’t spoke to a master smith ‘fore, have ye?”

Returning his gaze to the dented blade on the table, he ignored Rydour as Aridon silently waved the captain back outside. “Mage-smiths’re liars an’ fools that know nothin’ o’ true steel. They glue little knives together with magic an’ say it’s better’n a sword forged by a smith with a lifetime o’ hammerin’ steel?” Simon spit on the floor contemptuously.

Aridon stared incredulously. He’d heard dozens of tales in which the creator of a magical weapon was a master beyond measure. They were supposed to be able to coax strength and speed from the very ore itself. Simon was so scornful of magic that he seemed embarrassed to admit to having forged the blade wielded by Torret himself.

“I spent my life workin’ steel an’ know it better’n my own family. Weren’t nothin’ magic in that blade when I made it. Torret knew enough not to dishonor my work by havin’ someone else cast spells on it. Not ‘til I found this sword did I learn the truth of it.

“Great men an’ women, good or evil, have power in ‘em fer great things. When they’re killed that power is lost an’ the killin’ blade gets exposed to it. It absorbs some of it. Sucks it in an’ makes the power its own.”

Aridon looked again at the ancient blade. “And this blade has killed millions of such great men?”

Simon shook his head. “It ain’t killed any great men. See every man, woman an’ child has some small bit o’ power in ‘em. T’ain’t much by itself, but that’s why ye build armies, ain’t it Duke? So ye can forge a great power from thousands o’ smaller ones?

“This blade here’s killed enough men t’build a hundred armies.” The smith picked up the sword carefully and held it out for Aridon to see. “It ain’t no masterwork, but it’s well made. Probably been gettin’ found an’ used an’ lost again by soldiers since ‘fore the Wall broke.”

As Aridon reached for the hilt, Simon drew back. “Give me yer word that ye won’t kill me, Duke.”

The duke hesitated. He’d heard rumors of intelligent swords with personalities so forceful they could overwhelm their wielder’s mind. “Why? Does this sword hold some sort of grudge against you?”

Simon shrugged. “Fer hiding it all these years, maybe. This sword ain’t like any other. It don’t want to fight good or evil, just to fight. It’ll want you to kill me ‘cause it’s a sword, an’ swords kill people.”

“Very well, you have my word I will not kill you.” Arnidon took the sword from the smith. He stumbled for a moment under the unexpected weight of the thing and tried unsuccessfully to fit the cracked leather grip comfortably in his hand. It was definitely the sword of a foot soldier, probably just poured into a mold and sharpened.

Simon stood well clear as Arnidon swung it back and forth experimentally. The weight should have made the blade awkward, but somehow it added to the power of his strokes. Taking aim at the already ruined anvil, he effortlessly sliced another chunk from the solid slab of iron. He could almost feel the power of the weapon warming his hand and arm.

Deep within the blade, he sensed its mind. It didn’t speak to him as the holy blade had done, but Aridon could feel it lurking beneath the surface of the metal, eagerly combining its own skill and power with his own. The old man must be daft, he decided. The sword wanted only to serve, to aid him. Aridon flashed a glare at Simon. How dare he demand a duke’s word of honor as if he could not be trusted? He should have killed the smith right then for insulting him with such a request. He briefly considered killing him anyway, but he’d given his word and wouldn’t give weight to the old fool’s insults by breaking it now.

“All right,” Aridon growled angrily. “How much do you want for it?”

“Ye must put it down first,” Simon said calmly.

Aridon was instantly on guard, ready for any sign of treachery. “Why, so you can kill me now that you know I’ve got money?”

“There’s a scabbard for it. Ye don’t want it hanging loose on yer belt, do ye?”

“Maybe I do.” Aridon dropped the sword on the tabletop just the same, letting the blade carve a chunk out of the wood. “Well? Where is it?” he asked when Simon remained still.

“I lied,” the smith said. “To get ye t’ put the sword down.”

Aridon half reached to snatch up the sword again, but the dark anger had already faded from his mind. He looked at the blade in confusion. “What happened?”

Simon finally stepped forward and picked up the blade. “It tried to convince ye to kill me. Magic swords get intent from their actions. Dragonslayers want t’ kill dragons, an’ assassins’ blades want t’ assassinate. This sword’s killed nothin’ but people. It just wants t’ kill more people.” He glared at the blade. “It’s tryin’ to get me to kill ye for yer money, like ye said.”

Aridon’s hand moved toward the hilt of his own sword, but suddenly found himself looking down at the point of the scarred blade as Simon held it level with his nose. “Don’t do it no favors, Duke.” Aridon let his hand fall to his side again, and Simon laid the sword back down on the table.

“Ten thousand coins an’ a life somewhere else,” Simon said. “That’s what I want.”

Aridon chuckled. “No wonder your message didn’t give your price. I wouldn’t have bothered riding up here.”

“An’ now?”

Aridon was silent for a moment. “The money is not a problem, and I have a cousin who has a sizable barony along the coast. I’m sure I can convince him to accept the fealty of a master smith.”

The smith smiled and bowed. “Thank ye, Duke.”

“How long have you hidden this sword?”

“More’n ten winters, since I built this forge here myself. Figured I’d keep it safe, but with all the fightin’ an’ killin’ lately... An honorable man like yerself might do better t’ have it ‘stead o’ me.”

Aridon picked up the blade and wondered if it was worth all the trouble when it would be easy enough to just kill the old man now and leave. He pushed the thoughts away.

“Ye must only carry it in battle,” Simon said severely as Aridon tied the heavy blade to his belt. “Don’t draw it nowhere else, or ye’ll soon see liars an’ betrayers everywhere, all deservin’ death.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll more than likely just gather dust in my collection.” Aridon produced a heavy purse and handed it to the smith. “Five hundred is all I brought, but just send word if you need more before you leave. The rest will wait with my cousin.” He gathered his cloak around himself and ducked back out into the bitter cold. White snowflakes were just beginning to drift down as he and Rydour mounted their horses.

“I see you’ve managed to find another knife for your collection,” the captain said. He looked back up the path at the forge. The sound of hammering had resumed almost at once. “Let’s get out of here. That old man ought to know it’s bad luck to live so close to a graveyard.” He spurred his horse back down the path. “I hope it was worth the grief you’ll catch when we get back.”

Aridon grinned darkly as he followed. “Let them gripe. It’s not as if they would’ve done anything different if we’d been there listenin’ to ‘em.”