 Posted:
Mon Aug 09, 2004 4:11 am |
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She was a magnificent thing; fearsomely wicked even lying harmlessly on the desk. Harmlessly, as harmless as the bloodiest blade ever known could ever be, the merchant thought. Made of some shimmering dark material that no one could name and sharp as could be she seemed to cut the light. He often lost himself in her curves. She stole life. No other blade was her peer. Even a kitchen knife or a tree branch could bring death. Shadow Fang stole life.
Countless times he had felt the life of his enemies leeched into the boundless depths of the Fang and then passed onto him. The merchant looked at his hands, lying open on the desk in front of him, and pondered it all. From their hearts and lungs, from their minds and souls the life was passed into his hands. He would have shuddered if it was not all such a part of him. He remembered the first time he had held Shadow Fang in his fist, the struggle he fought as the blade accepted him, as he accepted her.
The merchant picked up the blade and felt the familiar surge as she connected, kissing him with shadow. She was so ancient, older than anyone knew, he was sure. There were stories, of course, many of them. But the merchant didn’t think any of them were wholly true. No one knows the story of Shadow Fang’s birth, only stories of her rediscovery.
He twisted the dagger slowly in his hand, watching in admiration as the gleaming blade didn’t catch the light. There were other artifacts in the realm similar to Shadow Fang, some older and some younger. Few were as powerful, maybe none. It was tough to tell with objects of such power, all with different aspects. She stole life.
The merchant’s thoughts drifted back to his earliest memories, back to the days when he was just a young, fatherless half-elf in a simple elven village. He passed slowly over his childhood years, his years on his own, the day he killed his first man, the day he walked through the gates of Tyr. Every step had seemed so simple, so logical and in some ways beyond his control. The aggregate of all those tiny, seemingly meaningless steps had led him to command the most powerful institution to ever exist in the memory of modern man, to wield the deadliest blade ever known. He looked at the luxurious study in which he now sat, knowing it was a modest show of his wealth, an insufficient example of his power and thought back to the small wooden table with two rickety chairs where he once loved to help his mother knead dough. Life was fickle.
He turned his attention back to the blade. He knew of maybe a dozen men who had held her. Centuries and only a dozen. He wondered how many had ever wielded her back through thousands and thousands of years. How long had she lain hidden? He didn’t think for long, not this blade. How long had she lain trapped? Maybe locked up in some ancient time by men too primitive to control her, men too afraid to use her. She stole life.
Of course, it was possible that one of those creation myths was actually true. None of them agreed on anything except that power beyond belief and sacrifice that shatters understanding must have brought her forth. At that, the merchant shifted his attention to the line of small runes running along the edge of the blade. They meant things, things deep and dark and beyond even his understanding. They all had their shapes and their pronunciations, he knew them all, but there was more to them than that. The history of those runes stretched back even further than Shadow Fang’s origins. They stood for a force beyond any that could be grasped, and they stole life.
It was then that the merchant heard footsteps pounding on the hard stone floors outside his chamber. His gaze continued to trace the lines, follow the intricacies, of Shadow Fang, the Runed Dagger of Life Stealing. Many feet came nearer, making their way in his direction, carrying with them men, and those men carrying weapons. The merchant knew.
Even still, the merchant just looked at the dagger in his fist. It fit his palm as if it were the only thing his hand had been designed to grip. His fingers curled around the hilt, grasping firmly but delicately. The slightest motion and the blade went in a spinning blur across his fingertips until it stopped on the instant in that same perfect grasp. Footfall upon footfall rained down on the cold stone outside his chamber, coming ever closer. Finally, as he heard them begin to scrape to a halt outside his closed door, the merchant stood.
A Master’s Apprentice was now gripped in his left hand, a weapon worthier than most any man, but not the merchant. His right hand gripped Shadow Fang, a blade beyond men. His dark leather was of the finest make, and too supple to make a sound as he stood. The door was open now, the first man in the act of stepping through and the merchant still moved like he was a man alone, his eyes focused on the dagger in his right hand. The blade gleamed without catching the light, the runes seemed to shift as battle grew near, and she was thirsty. The merchant looked up.
A handful of men stood in the room and a dozen more were ready in the hallway behind them. They were all heavily armed; they were all well-trained, young, and strong. They were all terrified. The merchant was over seventy and had seen more than any man should see, he was armed with only two daggers. The men advanced and the merchant waited. The merchant had been waiting longer than any of them knew. Shadow Fang had been waiting longer than any man knew. She gave a high-pitched whine as the first attacker made his move. They had planned to take him by surprise in the dead of night. That was only one of their mistakes.
The fight was a flash and a crash. It was instantaneous and lasted for time immeasurable. Thrust and parry, dodge, riposte, counter-attack, spin, twirl, and dive. It was all one fluid motion running from position to position. After it all, the quiet was resounding, sacred. With one last look around, the merchant stepped slowly over bodies to make his exit. The room was a shambles, his desk overturned, things strewn all about, ripped and torn. Eighteen corpses littered the floor and the merchant left them. He looked nearly untouched. She stole life.
~
Written by: Kaid Evershade
Modified as per request by: Dhe |
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Anonymous
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