Story #170 - The Blade

The Blade

The blade felt good in his hands. Too good.

A world of images sped by his eyes – the faces of men and women he had killed over the course of lifetimes, men and women that had been both deserving and innocent, evil and pure. His blade and its thirst had known no bounds, and after ten years under its sway, he had realized that it was the blade that had begun to own him, rather than the other way around, and he had set it down.

He knew exactly where it was buried, though no other living soul could say the same.

“Larth?” His wife asked softly. “Is everything alright?”

Shaking his head, Larth Al’Den placed the butter knife back onto the wooden block next to the large, warm bread loaf that had come out of the oven.

“I’m fine.” He said shortly.

“No,” Drany said, standing, “you’re not.” She moved to his side, and placed a small hand over his own. “It’s the knife, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes.”

He nodded. “I see them again, Dran,” he said softly. “All of them.”

She knew about his past – there was no way he could have married her in good conscience without telling her the truth – but she could never understand it, never know how much suffering he had caused.

He could claim that it was the fault of a poor king, or a nation under siege, but the truth was that he had made his own decisions, chosen to enter the King’s army of his own accord. His skill with a sword had quickly won him fame, and a chance meeting with the King’s Appizer had led to a quest for the Ancient Blade – a meeting that, upon examination, had turned out to be not such a chance at all. He had been led down a path that the Appizer and monarch believed he was destined to walk, and at their urging had become a weapon of supposedly righteous vengeance.

When the bodies had fallen and the blood had stained the ground, it became apparent that the cause of the King had been like many others: focused upon his own success.

The freedom and truth that Larth had fought for were quickly replaced with oppression and lies under the guise of “control”, at least until the King felt his realm was once again stable. Five years later, Larth and the people of the land were still waiting for such stability, and he decided the time had come to give up the blade.

Drany had been a servant in the King’s palace at that time, and had seen only the tag end of his storm, only the edge of his anger. She was a good woman, but had little idea about the brutality of war, and even less of an idea about the brutality of men who waged it. Larth knew she believed he was a good man at heart, and he didn’t have the strength to tell her just how wrong she was.

“Sit,” she said, “I will take care of the rest of dinner. You have done enough.”

That was hardly true. Drany did most of the work around the house, and though he spent most days away, those were often in the woods around their property, and not in the city as he told her. She believed that he was working for a master carpenter in town, but he had abandoned that job months ago after the small planer he had been given to use began giving him the nightmares again. He needed no money; the spoils of war were enough for both he and Drany to live well for the rest of their days, but he wanted something to keep his hands and mind occupied.

The trouble, as far as he could tell, was that almost any work which kept his hands occupied meant his mind went exactly where he didn’t want it. He could keep his mind clear, but that meant doing nothing of any use, and he could feel his soul withering away as he sat in silence.

Wandering aimlessly in the woods was his new plan. Pushing himself hard as he slipped through the trees and over the rocks meant he came home exhausted, and most of the thoughts in his head were silenced.

He moved from the counter and took his seat at the table. Drany wanted nothing more than to take care of him, something he was eternally grateful for and knew he did not deserve.

Their dinner passed in silence, though he knew his wife wanted him to speak. There was nothing to say, nothing that could make her understand, and he had no desire to inflict his pain on her. Soon enough, he found himself in bed next to her, their bodies cooling from the sweat of connection. He was gentle and she was fierce; their chemistry had always been undeniable.

“Larth,” she began, “I –“ A sound at the window caught his attention. Others would be sure it was a branch tapping. Others would be wrong, and dead.

“Silence!” He hissed. Someone had found him – he had known this was coming from the moment he left the King’s service, but had hoped it would take more time. The Appizer and his tamed monarch had not taken kindly to his leaving, and men filled with power did not let slights pass easily by.

Larth pushed Drany hard out of bed as the first strike came, slicing deep into their mattress. She cried out, but better that she bruise then that that she die. He rolled more gracefully off the side of the bed and came to his feet, keeping his head low to avoid the next swipe he knew was coming.

Driving forward, he felt himself make contact with the other’s form, and went immediately for the blade in the other’s hand. He had no desire to let the thirst wash over him again, but he would not allow a King’s man to kill his wife. His own life had been forfeit long ago, but she deserved far better.

A single thrust in the dark found the heart of the man in front of him.

He could hear Drany stirring next to the bed, even as the bloodlust rose within him. “My love,” he grated, holding himself rigid and still, “run!”

More were coming.

- D