“What I’m trying to point out,” said Maelstrom, “is that you could at least wear me.”
“My thought on that,” said Erling, “is no, no, no thank you, certainly not, please, no, definitely not, absolutely not, under no possible circumstances and possibilities, no, no, no, no, also, just in case I am not clear, no.”
“You’re going to hurt my feelings,” the blade said. Its numerous and surprisingly unholy runes wiggled in a manner not quite insectile, not quite Draconic, and painful to human eyes. “I’m a sword, I want to be helpful.”
Erling kept his eyes on the road. It encouraged him to avoid smiting his forehead overmuch with his overburdened and blistered palm, which had been gripping the reins for hours, possibly a wee tiny bit more tightly than was helpful for anyone who wanted to be able to use their hands later. But all Erling really wanted was to finish this trip and be done with everything.
“You’re a sentient sword which has belonged to a long line of famous heroes who have all died tragically. I don’t want to hear it.”
(Dear Reader:
There was a version of this story where the Sword (it really ought to be capitalized, but I don’t think Erling’s in the mood)—where the Sword gets into communication with a tribe of, oh, probably Orcs, although part of me thinks maybe Elves) and essentially arranges, how shall I put this?
The Sword gets in contact with a bunch of, perhaps, Orcs. I’m pretty sure any wandering Bard would be delighted to carry a story on behalf of a magic sword. And, well, they, oh, slaughter Erling’s village, making him a tragic hero. There’s sort-of a sly little bit in there, where one implies that this is how quite a lot of fantasy heroes got started. I might write that up sometime, either here, or as an alternate version of the story.
But that’s not how it actually happened.)
“I thought you were in a hurry,” said Maelstrom.
“I am,” said Erling. “That’s why it makes sense to stop and relax.”
At first, Maelstrom thought this was an elaborate joke; it’s not as if swords can drink. The most they can do is get beer spilled on them, which happened in the first five minutes or so. But Erling seemed utterly serious. If slightly tipsy.
And then more tipsy, and more tipsy. Maelstrom stayed sober, but as was normal with soul-based weaponry, it was rather in touch with the morale and spirits of those around it. They were…what was it? Something that didn’t happen often in demon-controlled social systems.
Sword and Hobbit spent the night
Discussing nothing of wrong and right;
Making toasts, companionizing
Talking, storytelling, theorizing.
And in the end, the Sword realized:
There’s more than tragic heroism prized.
Sometimes all you really need
Are friends, and thievery,
and maybe pipe-weed.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
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