The Chaos Blade - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Dorn was a weaponsmith. Not only a weaponsmith, but he was also a dwarf. A dwarf with flaming red hair and beard and black eyes. Normally Dorn was an amiable guy, but today, he was in a hurry.

"What's yer hurry?" Dorn's best friend, Dolgen, called out after he had passed him with barely a nod.

Dorn yelled over his shoulder as he puffed along, "I've had me some inspiration!"

Dolgen snorted as he walked down to his own forge. As he passed Dorn's forge he stopped and watched Dorn fire it up. Dorn was working like a man - sorry - a dwarf, possessed. He got his forge up to a proper temperature as his apprentice, Roryn (Dolgen's son), showed up for work.

Dolgen snorted and continued on as Dorn began to work on his 'inspiration'. He hammered and shaped the iron until it began to take the shape of the sword he had dreamed of. The steel seemed to take the shape of its own volition, Dorn's hammer blows only providing the energy necessary for its transformation.

By the end of the day a long sword had been fashioned. Dorn knew it was time to quit for the day, but he could not leave it unfinished. He worked on it the whole night through. Roryn looked at Dorn strangely the next morning as he realized that he had worked the whole time.

Finally, Dorn had finished the metal work. He wrapped the hilt in griffin hide and held it up for inspection.

The sword was as long as Dorn stood tall, and Dorn was considered an average dwarf at four and a half feet. A sparkling ruby was set in the middle of the crosspiece, with a deep blue sapphire the color of the ocean's depths at each end of it. A diamond with a hint of emerald green in the middle graced the bottom of the hilt. Runes of power and decoration covered the length of the blade from tip to crosspiece.

Dorn had also put the usual dwarven incantations upon it, which consisted of preventing it from chipping, breaking, or dulling. But he had not prepared at all for what was soon to become of it.

"Master Dorn, Ye've made a great weapon!" Roryn breathed in awe.

Dorn looked up smiling. He held the blade up high above his head and walked out into the general smithy cavern of the Stoneshoulder clan.

A hushed silence started near him, then quickly spread as dwarves stopped talking to see the artifact held in the air. Dolgen came out of his armory and walked over to where Dorn was standing triumphantly.

"What be its name?" Dolgen asked as he stared up at the twinkling jewels in it.

Dorn pulled it down so he could look at it carefully. His trained eyes could distinguish no flaws within it.

"Other weapons can only strive to be this good," Dolgen prompted the silent dwarf.

"Only one name is fitting fer this blade, Glormindel, 'The Sword'," Dorn said after a moment of deep thought.

Dolgen slowly reached over and took the sword from Dorn, almost reverently he took it. He looked it up and down, studying for even the smallest imperfection. He was not surprised to find none. He also noted the perfect balance and potential energy the sword was yearning to use. The latter seemed to be something he himself was interpreting, not a characteristic of the blade.

"Ye've outdone yerself," Dolgen complimented as he handed Glormindel back to Dorn.

Dorn got little work done the next week, so content was he with showing off his work of art. Finally common sense returned to Dorn and he returned to work. His craft was lost to him now, however, for he had made the mightiest weapon he could ever make. He could not surpass perfection, though he did try in the first few days after the making of Glormindel.

Soon Dorn began wearing The Sword while he worked, trying to get it to inspire him. He soon came to realize that he was finished with his life as a weaponsmith, and that instead of being a blessed artifact, Glormindel had become a curse to him. But still he could not part himself from it.

One day, between mugs of ale, Dorn decided that he must be rid of the work of perfection he had designed. Everywhere he looked he saw someone looking at it with greed and jealousy in their eyes. He took it up to the market in the town of Rifton, which was situated near the crevice in the ground in which clan Stoneshoulder worked.

He set up a booth in the common market with Glormindel being the only item he had for sale. A tall, well endowed woman was the first one to see his booth. She came over to him after catching a gleam from one of The Swords many multi faceted gems.

"'Tis a fine blade you have their, friend dwarf. Would you be willing to part with such an item of beauty?" The blond haired scantily clad woman asked.

Doubt seized hold of Dorn. He suddenly wanted very much to keep blade for himself, even though it was to large for him to wield effectively.

"Ye could not afford it," Dorn scoffed halfheartedly.

"Do not judge me to hastily, my short friend," The woman replied, pulling her money purse off of her belt.

"Ten thousand gold," Dorn rashly said, quoting a price even the gods would have trouble meeting.

The woman's eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the exorbitant fee. "Surely you jest!"

Dorn looked at her harshly, "Ye asked fer a price, that's what it 'tis."

The woman swallowed and unhooked her leather bustenhalt, allowing it to slide down to the ground. "Perhaps we could make a deal, say lowering the price for services rendered?" She asked seductively.

"If ye've no money then get ye gone!" Dorn growled at her, beginning to get quite perturbed at the thought of someone taking Glormindel from him.

"I mean to have that sword dwarf, mark my words, it will be mine!" She hissed to Dorn.

Dorn ignored her warning and watched her turn and stalk off through the busy streets of Rifton. He looked down and noticed that she had left her skimpy upper body clothing on the ground. He shrugged and quickly closed up his little rented booth. He carried what little he had with him back to an inn and rented a room for the night. He would decide what to do on the morrow, after a nights sleep.

Dorn opened the door to his room and felt a sharp pain in his back. He turned around and saw the half-naked woman from before standing there with a malicious grin on her face. He reached down to grab a weapon. His instinct told him to go with the war hammer he had been trained with all of his life, but some other force made him reach for The Sword.

As his hand closed around the hilt of Glormindel the woman kicked him in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards into his room. Dorn fell on his back, ignoring the pain from the still imbedded dagger gouging deeper into his kidney. The woman drew another dirk from her boot and leaned over him.

"My sword now dwarf!" She hissed before thrusting the dagger into his throat.

Dwarves are sturdy, and Dorn was no exception. He knew his life was forfeit, but he planned on doing what he could. The burning pain in his throat was incredible, but he managed to bring Glormindel up as his consciousness was very rapidly fading. He thrust it at her and realized the sword had betrayed him as it slipped in his grip and fell beside him. He stared at it until the last sparkle of life faded from his unseeing eyes.

Zesstra looked around quickly, her wavy blond hair falling just past her shoulders. She pulled the dwarf fully into his room and shut the door. She took the sword from the floor and held it up before her. She felt a warmth spreading outwards from the grip into her hand, as though it were fusing itself to her.

She took the scabbard off of the dwarf's corpse and set it about her own waist. She retrieved her daggers, although something told her all that she needed now was the sword.

She smiled and left the inn, looking for someone to share her success with. She went to an inn on the other side of town and convinced a big burly man named Mithac to help entertain her.

---

Zesstra rolled over and looked at the man. He was one of those big, burly, mindless fighter types who are useful for only a few things. She had just discovered one of the things he did well.

Mithac stood up and pulled up his breeches. He drew on his boots and saw Zesstra's newly acquired sword.

"Nice sword you got there," He said admiringly while girding his own slicer-and-dicer on.

Zesstra smiled triumphantly and said, "Yes, it's a beautiful blade."

Mithac looked over to see her nod her acquiescence. He reached down carefully and drew it from its scabbard, studying it thoroughly. He felt a warmth spread into his hand from the hilt, as if it were glad he had found it.

"Has it a name?" He queried.

"Dwarfvain," Zesstra immediately responded, quite humored at her choice.

Mithac grunted, unsure of the cause for the strange smile in her eyes at the name. "Would you be willing to sell it?"

Zesstra immediately wanted her weapon back. "No! Give it back now! I had to slay a dwarf to get that sword, and I'll not be selling it to anyone!"

"A pity," Mithac said, ignoring her frantic commands that he return it to her.

He turned slowly to her as though he was going to give it back peacefully. Then he quickly thrust it forward into her side. Zesstra had very good reflexes, but she only managed to avoid a mortal wound by her failed attempt to spring away.

Mithac tried to pull the sword out of the shallow wound at her side and run her through more forcefully, but the blade would not be moved. The sword began to slowly grow warmer in Zesstra's side. The blade turned pink, lightly at first, then deepening to red. Zesstra screamed in pure agony. She felt pain as she had never felt before now.

She threw herself away and managed to get the tip out of her side, although it took a fair sized chunk of flesh with it. She turned to a window and threw herself through it. She picked herself up from the ground, one story below, and was not sure if she needed to cradle her wound, or her newly broken arm. She quickly discovered that her wound was not bleeding.

She went as quickly as she could to a temple. She had left all of her possessions behind at her room, thus she had no money, weapons, nor even clothing. The priests there bandaged her wounds, commenting upon how pale she looked, but they would cast no spells to heal her if she had no money with which to pay.

Back at the inn, Mithac held the sword up in front of his face, feeling the heat from the entire weapon on his face, yet none of it transferred through to his hand gripping it. He felt a sudden desire to find somebody and slaughter them in tribute for allowing Zesstra to escape with her life. He checked his strange desire and looked out the window from which she had fled.

Their was no sign of her on the street, he could tell nothing other than the startled expression from the one story leap from a window on the many people in the street.

"Which way'd she go?" He called out angrily.

None of them answered him, or even honestly were sure, she had moved off to quickly for anyone to follow her. Mithac turned away from the window in disgust. He grabbed up her possessions in order to search them later. Right then he had to leave the inn and the town. He headed north out of Rifton, managing to escape the irate innkeeper's wrath.

---

"Father," Dolgen heard someone call to him. He turned about and saw his first son, Roryn, enter his smithy.

"What're ye fer lad?" Dolgen asked.

"It's me master. He's not come back," Roryn explained quickly.

Dolgen looked at Roryn carefully, "Are ye sure, he's been gone fer two days now?"

Roryn nodded, "On me mother's beard, I swear it. He left with Glormindel and has not returned."

Dolgen nodded at that, his boy would not swear upon Dolgen's beloved wife if he were telling a lie. He frowned. The town of Rifton was only a few hours away from clan Stoneshoulder. Dorn should have returned quickly from there, after all, Dorn despised the way that other races lived far more than many dwarves in their clan.

Reaching a decision, Dolgen turned and shut his forge down early. He then turned and stalked off to the dwarven council.

---

Mithac walked up to the open gate of Oradin. He looked down at the sword he had named Vinuthain, and wondered how often he would need to use it here. In the many way points between Rifton and Oradin he had used the hypnotic powers the sword seemed to have over people to get him free food and lodging. A few of the people who set eyes upon his beloved sword decided that they must have it for themselves. He had slain all of those who had tried to take it from him, but eventually he knew he would run into someone better than he. He had also discovered that the sword had a fondness for blood, as though it were a living thing.

Mithac pondered the way people reacted when he held the sword aloft. They either sought to possess it for themselves, or became willing slaves to it to him. People seemed to have no mind of their own when it came to Vinuthain. Of course, he still had complete control over himself.

Mithac strode boldly through the gate, a few people gave him wary glances, but most simply considered him another warrior looking for somebody to bully around. He caught sight of an inn and veered towards it.

He entered the inn and passed the ogre bouncer on his way up to the bar. He eyed the ogre wearily, since their race was known for its unpredictable behavior. Mithac moved to the bar and ordered some ale. He then requested a room. The barkeep handed him a key and collected the gold Mithac handed him. Mithac slammed his mug on the bar after draining it and then went upstairs.

He locked the door behind him and looked down at his bed. He snarled at it and spat out a stream of curses. It was to short and probably louse ridden. He jerked the blankets off of the straw pallet and threw them on the floor. With another stream of curses, he joined them. His sword never left his side.

The next day he loudly thundered down the stairs and into the taproom. The barkeep and one serving maid kept those breaking their fast content with a steady stream of food. Mithac sat down at the bar and the barkeep approached him.

"My lord," He asked in a questioning tone.

"What do you want! I am sore from spending a night on the damn floor because your bed was not long enough. I will be taking my money back now. It would have been more comfortable sleeping on a nest of ants covered in honey!" Mithac growled loudly in his face.

"But milord, you chose to stay here. At least you were kept free from both the elements and the dangers of the wilderness," The barkeep countered.

"You speak of danger! I'll be scratching myself for a month from the lice I've inherited from your bed! I'd rather face the elements any time than the course floor and the splinters I pulled from my back!" Mithac retaliated.

"Please sir. If you wish no more of this inns hospitality, then I must ask you to leave," The barkeep said, signaling the ogre bouncer over to reinforce him.

Mithac looked at the approaching ogre, "By the gods! Do you never sleep?!"

The ogre was beginning to get annoyed, and an annoyed ogre is preferable only to a dragon with a sneezing fit.

"Bertrem, please escort our guest out of the inn," The barkeep said to the ogre.

Mithac sprang to his feet as Bertrem reached for his shoulder. He drew Vinuthain with barely a conscious thought. He lunged forward and slashed the edge of his weapon across the ogres midriff, opening it up and spilling out his guts. A sudden pain shot up from Mithac's hand straight to his head, causing him to lose his concentration as he stumbled back into the bar.

He turned and saw the terrified barkeep with his mouth hanging open. He managed to stumble out of the inn into the street. He resheathed his blade and the lancing pain gradually stopped. He knew he would have a headache for the rest of the day, however.

Mithac turned and walked back into the inn, remembering he had unfinished business there. The barkeep looked truly terrified to see him come back inn, he tried to hide it, though.

"M milord, is there something I can do for you?" He asked meekly.

Mithac drew Vinuthain and held it above him, so that it was just below the ceiling with its tip. The barkeep's eyes looked at the sword and glazed over for a moment before partially clearing.

"Yes, I would like my money back."

"Certainly milord!" The innkeeper enthusiastically agreed and gave him a pouch full of gold, at least twice as much as what he had paid.

Mithac kicked the ogres corpse and said, "You have a mess on your floor."

"Don't trouble yourself with that milord, I have been meaning to replace him anyhow, he was more trouble than he was worth," The barkeep hastily explained.

Mithac spit on the ogre and turned to leave.

"Please do not leave good sir," The barkeep said, on the verge of groveling.

"I refuse to stay in a place that is not even worthy of the lice that crawl through its sheets!" Mithac scoffed before storming out the door.

Unseen behind him, the innkeeper drew a dagger from his belt. If he could not keep a place clean enough for lice, he did not deserve to live. With that thought he plunged the dagger into his own heart.

---

As Mithac walked through the marketplace, contemplating a better place to stay, he saw a glint from something off to his side. He wandered over and saw a vendor selling scabbards. He decided that Vinuthain needed a much better scabbard, for a sword as fine as it was could not reside in something as plain and dull as it currently did.

The merchant began to show him his wares. Mithac inhaled sharply when he saw a jewel studded sheath that was fit for a king. Not just any king, but the king he would someday be with The Sword at his side. He was suddenly possessed of a strong desire to provide that scabbard for Vinuthain.

"How much for this?" Mithac asked the merchant.

"Ah, that tis a fine scabbard sir, nearly a work of art. I am doing a handsome amount of business today, I will let you have it for a mere five hundred gold," The merchant greedily replied.

Mithac growled, he had nowhere near that much money. "Why don't I take the scabbard and let you live. Is that not a fair price?"

"If the price is to high, we can barter for it, there is no need for threats good sir," The vendor stammered.

Mithac scowled and drew his sword. In a blink of an eye he sheathed it in the merchant's chest. His headache receded to nothing as the blade turn first pink, then red. Finally the merchant's corpse slid off the blade and hit the ground with a sound akin to that of a muffled hammer striking wood.

Mithac took hold of Vinuthain's new scabbard and fitted about his waist. He casually walked away from the booth, hoping that no one had noticed. Of course in a busy town at a busy time such as this, many people had, but all of them pretended they had not.

Continued in Chapter 7

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