The Sword-Warden Pt. 1

Hello everyone!! I hope you are having a great day! Today’s snippet is an epic-inspired piece in two parts. (since I went to edit it this morning and ended up expanding it to twice its size) I set out to capture the feeling of a story, turn it into a legend, and tell it as history.

I hope you enjoy!

The fire beneath the mantle sputters to life, throwing dark shadows across the close walls, painting golden flecks of light across the ancient stones with which the house was built.

A voice beckons.

“Come in.”

Stooping, I entered the low door. My hands meet the cool frame, and tingles rippled through my fingertips.

Even in the shadow, I knew the wrinkled face of the woman would be smiling.

“Sit by the fire,” She whispered from the recesses of her shawl. “Winter’s icy breath rages outside.”

I sat, and while the cold of the stones sunk into my bones, the warmth of the fire filled me. 

The old woman leaned forward, her eyes glittering like sparks set off to dance in the velvet night air.

“What story this time, lad?”

I find my tongue, and my small voice is freed. “The one about the boy, the sword-warden.”

“Tis a sad tale.”

“But it is a true one.”

“Aye, that it is.”

I waited.

Then she began, her voice lifting and lowering softly, the crackle of the fire faded, and the world transformed around me…

* * *

The blade of Vengonlanth.

The legendary weapon said to be forged out of the blood of the stars and the heart of a crystal stone. Long have men searched for it. To use its fabled power, the sword of the fae king.

The keeper of the ancient forest. The sword-warden.

But, it cannot be found by any mortal wish or beheld by mortal eyes. For after the reign of the fae king was brought to ruin by the dark nar-wolves of the south. A curse was placed over the blade.

A curse that turned any mortal that so much as grasped the hilt into stone.

Thus, centuries past. And the noble blade, with its dark secret, was forgotten. Hidden in some distant grotto in the moldering forest of the fae. Hidden so deep, even the ones who had forged it could not remember it.

For it was magic.

But a heavy darkness was in the air. The nar-wolves had brought it when they came, and now it swirled like smoke. A murder of ravens was seen by Sirens Island.

A pack of nar-wolves invaded Mov-Therne, the great city.

Darkness crept over the land like a shadow. The air turned sour, and evil crawled from its pit and began its work. Death struck the land, plagues and creatures ravaged farms and villages. The woods began to twist, and the trees forgot their names. The rivers became but trickles of brackish, green liquid, drizzling down moss-covered stones and black pebbles.

A time of pirates, robbers, and strife. Petty wars and burnt villages.

Now, no one could remember magic.

Nor would they care.

And fae began to fade.

But, there was hope, even when the fae had lost it. Even when the earth had forgotten it.

A boy named Asher Selig-kah.

When he was very young, his village was attacked by pirates, and he was captured and taken aboard one of their many ships to serve as a slave. After two years, he escaped and landed on the shores of the old land, one of the very oldest places in the kingdom of Fae.

But he did not know this. He only knew by the knotted scars on his wrists that his chains were finally gone and by his foot against firm land that he was once again free.

Free!

He set up a small camp on that rugged coast, and even though they were few, his meager skills to provide for himself were strengthened by his will to survive.

But then, one night, as he laid his head down to sleep, a flash of yellow-green fire lit up in the black rocky cliffs by the sea.

Then another.

And another.

All floating in the air, like the fire of spirits. The air became ablaze and illuminated what were men in long black robes, each carrying a twisted obsidian staff, with a flaming serpent coiled by their hand.

He ran into the woods in search of some weapon.

The air hissed as the flaming serpents slid towards them, transforming into winged dragons. The black raiders were coming.

Asher reached out and broke an old branch off a tree. Lifting it up, he faced the nightmare, his thin arms still and sure.

He would go down fighting.

As the first breath of the dragon’s seared the soft earth, a tremble ran through the forest.

The raiders paused and stared at the earth.

A tremble ran over it again. Trees and plants swayed under the quaking feet of Asher.

Then, in his hands, the tree branch began to twist.

Forming a sword.

The story continues here.

Excited for more? Drop your thoughts in the comments below!

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