Story #59 - A New Blade

A New Blade

The glimmering steel length made a small “shhht” sound as it slipped into the scabbard at his waist. Along with a pair of patched leather breeches, a food-stained shirt and gloves that would have been appropriate on a street beggar, Tarq Cheemo looked like a man who had no business holding the Blade of Many Kings, let alone sheathing it in the jeweled prison that sat around his waist.

Of course, that was exactly what Tarq wanted. Merchants and nobles alike mistook him for far less dangerous than he was, something his employers always found to be of great use.

He was fortunate, after a fashion, to have been born ugly. Larger than normal eyes only served to highlight a too-small nose and thin lipped mouth, one that turned up at the left corner, giving Tarq the look a man always smiling – an oily, slippery smile that most glanced away from. In short, he was the perfect assassin.

Master Yoano hadn’t thought so at first, given that he’d tried to rob Tarq as he lay begging on one of the side streets of Undal. Even then, Tarq had been in good health but without a noble linage or family to rely on, he’d been forced to beg for his food and steal what he could. Yoano’s light touch had brought him out of the half-daze he commonly operated in and he’d managed to graze the man’s wrist before the master assassin had pulled away in shock.

He hadn’t had any choice in the matter – though he wouldn’t have chosen otherwise for himself. The training had been difficult, but Tarq had taken to it with a skill and ferocity that surprised even the eldest in the Order. On several occasions he had to be brought up just short of killing a fellow prospect, limbs straining and face caught in a snarl as his trainers held him back. Weakness was death as far as Tarq was concerned and should be punished as such. Losing a battle meant you were weak, unprepared, and if you died than so much the better; the world was removed of one more piece of useless chaff.

Glancing down at the still-twitching body of King Menos the Third, Tarq suppressed a small surge of pleasure at killing such a well-known figure. Much of what Yoano and the other Masters taught him he already knew – mercy was foolish, compassion was useless and fear was death – but control was something they were able to give him that he had never been able to manage on his own. A combination of meditation, physical disciple and repeated beatings for the slightest failure had given him the ability to calm himself almost instantly, to retreat to a flat grey place where only the mission remained.

A small sound outside the King’s chambers told him the guards had finally arrived, alerted by the two well-hidden bodies he had left behind. They were slow and lazy, even for the best in the Kingdom, but could not fail to notice that two of their number had gone missing as the night wore on. Their search had given him the time he needed to slip in and meet with the King.

He smiled; “meet” was perhaps not the best term to use as he was not one to speak to his prey before they met their end. They were no more than pawns in a game, orders from above that Tarq was responsible for carrying out. Gripping the hilt now at his hip, Tarq had to admit that this job had proven to be more attractive than most. The Order always specified that anything on the body of the dead was property of the killer, and once he had seen the sword sheathed at the King’s bedside he knew he had to possess it. It was a simple matter; he had simply made the King think he had a chance, given him a moment of warning to jump up and pull the sword from its resting place, and then killed him in one swift strike.

Sprinting out the open doorway, Tarq took a running jump from the King’s balcony and gracefully descended the five stories to the ground, landing solidly in a large pile of hay he had arranged for just this purpose. Distant shouts could be heard from above as he disappeared into the alleyway; cries for a King that had been murdered in cold blood.

…

The Blade had moved. Tarq was sure of it.

His hovel contained only three items, each of which had a specific function. He ate at the table, slept in the bed and urinated in the chamber pot. Nothing else was necessary; anything else could be tied to him. Under the floorboards lay riches uncounted, gold coins and gems he’d been paid for ten years of service to the Order. None of it mattered.

The Blade had been left on the table, rather than stuffed under the boards with everything else. There was something about it; its bluesteel length, its silvered handle, that made it impossible to put away, impossible to ignore.

Now, it was moving.

He had placed it directly in the center of the table, hilt outward, three days ago. In that time, Tarq had done nothing but sleep, replenishing his body after an intense two weeks. Now, the Blade lay partly over the edge of the table, sliding dangerously toward its own tipping point.

He’d moved it several times, always setting it back to the exact center of the table but each time he looked it had shifted, always getting closer. Closer to him.

Finally, Tarq reached his limit.

“Blade, stop!” He cried out; it was foolish, but it worked. The legendary artifact quivered and seemed to root itself to the table, a fact he confirmed by stepping forward and trying to lift it away with no success.

“Blade, come free!” Tarq shouted and it did, swinging easily off the table as if it had no weight.

The legends were true; whispered stories of souls trapped within the Blade, answering the bearer’s call. Their origin was unknown – a dark power, perhaps, or a bargain brokered with demons themselves?

Tarq knew, now, what they were: the souls of Kings themselves.


- D