The Sword

A short story I wrote a few years ago for my brother. It is not perfect, but I like it.

She watched him approach, hidden behind the tangle of bittersweet and virgin’s bower that spread like a disease over the balcony. A tiny breeze slid through her hair, barely stirring the black strands. It was streaked with red, as if stained with blood. Her mismatched eyes were emotionless as more men emerged from the trees. One glowed red, as red as a man’s lifeblood; the other was a well of black, like the abyss. A black cloak draped her shoulders, spilling around her feet in a pool of ebony. Her black dress was slit on both sides to her thighs, revealing the red interior. The edges were ragged and uneven so that it swirled around her legs in black and crimson flames. In contrast, her skin was white, like bleached bone. She blinked slowly, golden lashes veiling her eyes. The man was drawing near the door. Tall, brawny, with an arrogant swing in his stride. She stepped out from behind the veil of poison. Men gasped, and their leader stopped, looking to the balcony. She stared down at him dispassionately.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice like wind in dry reeds. She knew the answer; there was no other reason for a proud, rich man to be wandering in diseased forest.

“I am here for the Sword, witch,” the man called, “Take me to it.”

“There is a test. If you fail this test, you die. If you succeed-”

“I get the sword, I know,”

“Yes, but you still die,” she murmured so lowly he could not hear. The man was a fool, convinced he knew everything from the diluted whispers that trickled from the shadows of the forest. “Only a man who-”

“Who is a true hero can wield the sword. Pure, honest, good, valiant. Spare me the sermon,” Once again he interrupted as she gave the warning.

She gazed at him, feeling faintly confused, something she had not felt in a long time. Pure, good? These things had nothing to do with it. The Sword may not have been entirely evil, but it was definitely not a creation of good. Only a man who had been to Gonaala’s Plain* and back had a chance of passing the test. But he had lost his opportunity to know. She was only required to explain once. She had tried.

“Are you prepared?” she asked.

“Yes. Now take me to the Sword,”

She nodded silently, turning slowly into the murky darkness past the threshold. She glided down the stairs to admit the man into the House. The door swung open at the brush of her fingers. There stood the man, his guards gathered at his back. She held up her black gloved hand, one pale finger raised.

“You may have one witness,” she said, twirling to once more fade into the blackness. She could hear him grab some poor guard, could feel their heavy steps as they fumbled after her. Their hot breaths rasped in her ears. She knew that the journey felt like eternity to the men who followed, but it was only a few moments to her. She had followed this path many times. Emerging into the inner courtyard, she stepped aside to let the men enter. The courtyard was entirely made of a dull corroded grey stone. No scraggly weed graced even the largest crack. It was bare, no statues, no fountains. The entrance they had exited was the only one.

But there hung the Sword in the exact center, point down about a foot off the ground. Hanging there in the grey air, waiting. The blade was notched and dull, flecked with darker metal. One side of guard looked as if had once been broken off, but was now smooth. The black leather grip was worn almost wholly away in places. The pommel was a rugged, jagged stone held in place with leather strips. The man looked at it skeptically.

“This is the Sword?”

“That is the Sword,”

The man shrugged, and strutted forward. He stopped before the Sword, sizing it up. Then he reached up, turning his hand to grasp the hilt. Something flashed, blinding all of them. When it cleared, everything looked just the same, but she knew that the world had changed. She knew that it was happening again. Abruptly the Sword bucked, throwing the man to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, barely managing to sidestep the blade as it swung towards him. Shock was evident on his face. He fumbled for his own sword, dodging another swipe. He finally managed to draw his blade and brought it up to block the Sword’s next attack. The Sword slid through his blade as if it were insubstantial. For it was, in this new world. The Sword plunged into his chest, blood bursting around it. But only one drop ever reached the ground. The blood clung to the Sword, running down the blade to soak into the guard. As the Sword drank his blood, a silvery black mist rose from the man, spiraling up the blade to seep into the pommel. Finally, no more mist came and the Sword twisted savagely to free itself. The man crumpled, his corpse collapsing into grey ash that swirled away on a breeze. The Sword drifted until it came once more to the center and there it hung itself, exactly as it had been before. The other man, the guard, stared at it in horror, his eyes wide. He took a slow step back, then turned and fled into the darkness. She gazed at the Sword awhile longer, knowing that the story would not reach the outside world. None of the men would make it out of the forest. Slowly, she too turned into the blackness.

She looked down from the balcony, eyes drawn to movement on the edge of the trees. She watched a man step forward, his stride easy and open. His appearance was ragged and rough, roguish. A broad blade hung on his back and three knives decorated his belt. He stopped halfway between the forest and the House, gazing up at her through timeless blue eyes, waiting for her to speak. She stared back for a moment, memory tugging gently at her. Shaking her head, she dismissed it.

“Why are you here?” she asked as she had countless times before. She waited for the answer she knew already, the answer she’d heard every time she asked.

“I am here to free you, Nyriva,” he replied, clearly, confidently. She stared at him, shocked. No one had spoken her name in over a hundred years. It had begun to fade even from her mind. And then she remembered. How could she have forgotten those eyes? Her lips curved into a smile. It had been so long since she smiled. She twirled around and raced from the balcony, hurrying down the stairs to open the door for him. It swung open and she stepped out to meet him. He smiled down at her.

“Zicane,” she whispered, “You came back,”

“I promised you I would return,”

“But no one willingly leaves the Gonaala’s Plain, once entering,”

“I had reason enough. I had to come back for you,” he said simply. She stared at him, not sure she understood. “Lead me to the Sword. It is time for you to be at peace,”

“No,” she murmured, almost forgetting herself, almost touching him, “I can not watch it take your soul. Not you…” He smiled again at her, sadly this time.

“Come, Nyriva. It is my choice. Do not worry,” She turned, unwillingly, and led him into the darkness. She walked slowly, trying to fight time, to still it. She could feel every moment pass as a caress on her cheek. Nothing could stop it, and she stepped once more into the courtyard. There was the Sword, the same as always, waiting in the center. He strode past her, never hesitating. He stopped and reached up, but instead of grabbing the hilt, he gently brushed his fingers against the pommel. The blinding flash came and the world changed. The Sword came alive in an instant, thrusting for his heart. He dodged it swiftly. It swept around to point once more at him. It swung. An off-key clang like a bell sounded and sparks scattered. Zicane held a knife up, its blade pressed against the blade of the Sword. It was made of the same flecked metal, wrapped with the same black leather. Slowly Zicane reached out and grasped the hilt of the Sword, still holding the knife against it. The world changed again and she could feel that finally this was how it was supposed to be.

She looked at him, and knew that he was dead. But so was she. He still had his soul. And had freed hers. He held the Sword loosely in his left hand, and sheathed the knife. He held out his hand, offering it to her. She stepped forward slowly, and hesitantly placed her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers and he drew her close. She smiled. Her touch had not poisoned him. She was free. Faint light gathered around them and they faded, leaving nothing but the Sword to show they had been there, and it was just a sword, lying in a forgotten courtyard. No longer waiting.

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_{*Gonaala’s Plain is the Afterlife, Gonaala being Death. Afterlife is a deceptive term, though, for it is a physical place that occupies a space on maps. No one, upon entering ever feels the desire to leave, making the afore mentioned requirement nearly impossible}.