Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

They cut through the thorn bushes and carved a path deeper into the forest, and just as Romulus was starting to wonder if this Wokable was leading him astray, finally, the path opened up into a small circular clearing.

There sat a small, circular grass knoll, perhaps ten feet high, a mound of earth really. In its center was a low, arched door, covered in grass, almost imperceptible. There were no windows and was no other entryway. It looked like a dome of earth.

Romulus paused, sensing the evil behind that door.

The Wokable turned and looked at him, with its flat, yellow face and four eyes, making an odd purring noise of satisfaction that set Romulus on edge. It smiled, baring its hundreds of tiny, sharp teeth.

“Your precious weapon lies within that knoll.”

Romulus stepped forward to go to it, but the Wokable reached out with its long, bony fingers and laid them on his chest, stopping him. It was surprisingly strong.

“You must wait until you are summoned.”

Romulus sneered. He was not one to wait for anyone.

“And if I don’t?” Romulus demanded.

The Wokable opened its mouth again and again, flashing its rows of teeth, expressing displeasure.

“Then your endeavor will be cursed.”

Romulus glowered. He was not one to cower to signs and omens; he went whenever and however he wanted, on his own terms.

Romulus strutted across the clearing, grabbed the small door and yanked it open with such strength that he tore it off its hinges. He stepped fearlessly into the blackness of the hollowed-out grassy knoll, ducking as he went.

The inside was dark, an evil residue hanging in the air, clinging to his skin. The place was lit by a small candle, flickering at the far end, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

As he walked into the center, he spotted a small, circular table. Seated before it was an old man, bald, long strands of white hair dangling down the sides of his head, wearing a green velvet cloak, the collar pulled high. His back was to him and he hummed a strange tune.

Romulus waited, unsure what to make of it all. He hoped this wasn’t another dead end, as he saw no weapon in this place.

“I have no time to waste,” Romulus said. “Give me what I have come for.”

There came a long silence.

“You come before I summon you,” the old man said, his ancient voice raspy.

Romulus sneered.

“I wait for no one,” he said.

“That will be your downfall,” the man said.

Romulus glowered.

“Give me what I came for. If not, you will suffer the wrath of the great Romulus.”

There came a low chuckle, like a rumble, and Romulus felt he was being mocked.

In a rage, Romulus rushed forward, knocked over the table, came around and confronted the old man. He drew his sword and stabbed him, but he looked down and saw the sword was only going through air, harmless.

He looked at the man’s face and he stood back, aghast. The man’s cheeks were long and bony, his face drawn, and in place of eyes were two empty sockets.

The old man smiled, his face crinkling into a million lines, and Romulus, despite himself, shivered.

“You look death in the face,” the old man said. “How does it look?”

Romulus stood there, speechless. Finally, he gathered enough courage to say: “I come for the weapon. The weapon that will lower the Shield.”

The old man smiled.

“It can only be wielded by the worthy. Are you worthy?”

“I am second only to Andronicus in the entire Empire. I am the Great Romulus.”

“Yes…” the man said slowly. “For now, anyway. Soon, you will be first.”

Romulus’ heart soared at the words.

“Tell me more,” he demanded.

“Your fate has yet to be determined. The weapon may change it. But the price will be great.”

“I will pay your price,” Romulus said hastily. “Give it to me!”

The man rose and walked past Romulus, crossing the room to the far wall as he reached into the blackness. Romulus’s heart pounded as he waited in anticipation to see what the weapon could be. Was it a sword? A javelin? Some other weapon?

Romulus was confused as the man returned holding a simple, black velvet cloak. He held it up, and lay it in Romulus’ hands.

“What is this?” Romulus asked, annoyed.

“Your sacred weapon,” came the reply.

Romulus looked at it, confused, wondering if he were being mocked.

“This is no weapon,” he said. “It is a cloak.”

“Not all weapons have blades,” the old man said. “This weapon is more powerful than any you have ever known.”

“I will try it on,” Romulus said, preparing to wear it.

The old man reached out and grabbed his arm. Romulus was surprised by the strength of his grip, his bony hand so strong he could not even free himself of it. He realized this encounter was magical, of a strength he did not understand, and for the first time in his life, he felt afraid.

“Put that cloak on now, and you will die,” the old man said.

Romulus examined it in wonder.

“Wear it only when you cross the bridge to the Canyon. It will make you invisible and allow you to penetrate the Shield, to enter the Ring. You must cross by yourself. In order to destroy the Shield for good, you will need to bring a MacGil with you back across the Canyon, while wearing the cloak. When a MacGil sets foot on land outside the Canyon, together with you, wearing this cloak, then the Shield will come down for good.”

Romulus surveyed the cloak in awe. He sensed it was the truth.

Finally, after all these years, he held in his hand the key to bringing down the Shield, to taking the Ring. There was no obstacle left in his path. Finally, power would be his.

Thor sat on the upper parapets of the castle, the Destiny Sword in his lap, twisting and turning it, examining it in the early morning light. The Sword sparkled, illuminated in all different colors, long and smooth, nearly translucent, made of a metal he could not understand. The hilt, solid gold, felt like butter in his palm, making his hand mold to it completely, as if he had always held it, as if he and the Sword were one. Along the edge of the hilt were embedded small rubies, and the blade was engraved with an ancient inscription he did not understand.

As he studied it, Thor wondered. The Sword felt positively ancient, and he wondered who had forged it, who had wielded it in the past, how it had gotten here. He wondered about its history. He wondered about its future. He wondered about his own future. He reflected on all they had gone through to get the Sword, on their quest, crossing the Canyon, crossing the Tartuvian, the hostile Empire, its jungles and deserts and mountains and slave cities and dragons…

All for this. This blade, this piece of metal that he held in his hand. He thought of the lives lost, and saw the faces of his friends, floating in the water. He thought of all the dead in the Ring, of Andronicus’ invasion…all for this Sword. What was it about this singular weapon?

Thor thought of all the Empire warriors he had killed with it since his return. As he had wielded it, it had felt more like it had been wielding him. He did not understand it. And Thor feared things he did not understand.

Most of all, he contemplated Aberthol’s ominous words, which rang in his head, which had kept him up all night, which had drawn him back up here, to these parapets, before dawn, to find solace, time to reflect: the legend that the wielding of the Sword would be short-lived.

Did that mean he would be defeated? That he would die soon? Without the Sword, who would he be? What would become of the Shield? Of the Ring?

Thor knew he had powers in his own right. Yet none of his powers matched those of the Sword. Already, he felt one and the same with it. He felt invincible now. What could possibly bring him down?