Chapter One: Scouring the Field of Battle
When Roubris Chor picked up the corroded battleaxe, it didn’t tell him its name. Even when he asked. In fact, it didn’t speak at all. So he dropped it carelessly to the ground and walked on, his eyes resuming their scan of the field. He saw broken bits of armor and bones picked clean amid the tall grass, but he ignored them. He needed weapons. Specifically, a weapon that had taken a life or two.
The open field of green grass and wildflowers hid the fact that he stood upon the site of a furious battle from just a year earlier. Such battlefields covered the land of Lastwall like a pox, but it was a pox of which Roubris could make very good use with his unique talent.
A glint of metal caught the man’s eye and he stooped low to get a better look. A short sword lay amid weeds and grass. Its blade bore a significant notch. If it were to ever be used in combat again, it would certainly snap in two. The hilt was simple, and the leather strips bound around it were frayed and rotten after likely spending a winter there on the ground. A semiprecious stone sat loosely within a rusted setting in the pommel. He though it likely jasper, but Roubris didn’t care about much about it, for the weapon might hold a far greater value. The crossguard bore an inscription: “Never again.”
Smiths were always putting meaningless nonsense on weapons. Roubris ignored the inscription and the pommel stone and instead whispered, “Hello?”
“Who? Who is there?” The voice was only in Roubris’s mind, but it was clearly not his own. Though a profound baritone, the voice’s female characteristics were unmistakable. As usual, it seemed far away at first, and confused, as though the speaker had awakened from a long and deep slumber.
“My name is Roubris Chor,” Roubris said aloud. He didn’t need to speak aloud for the spirit inhabiting the blade to hear him, but it was easier for him to manage the conversation if at least one of them was truly audible. An entire conversation in one’s own head could quickly become confusing, he had found. This was certainly not his first time doing this. “I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” The voice seemed closer now. Clearly coming from the sword. The weapon, in fact, almost thrummed with its words. As always.
“Yes. I can help put you to rest.”
A pause in the conversation suggested that the voice from the blade spent some time considering.
“You may not realize your situation,” Roubris said. “Many of you don’t. You’re confused. It’s understandable. You’re the spirit of someone who died in battle. Do you remember your name?”
Again a pause. Then, “Nivua. Nivua Aranash.” She said it as though Roubris should have heard of her. He hadn’t. He never did.
“All right, Nivua. Pleasure to meet you. Here’s the short version of the story, just so you know what’s going on. You need to know that you died here wielding this sword. Probably about a year ago. I know, that’s not easy to hear. It may not even make a lot of sense to you. You see, your weapon was primed to store a part of your soul because you used it to kill one or more of your foes before you yourself fell in battle. Now you’re trapped in the sword. It doesn’t happen a lot, of course, but maybe more often than you’d think.
“Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I can get you out of there.”
“I remember the battle,” the voice said, tentatively. “I felled several of the savage orcs. They were monstrous and many, but unskilled. I remember.”
“I’m sure you do,” Roubris soothed. “It’s the last thing that happened to you.”
“Is my… is my body around here somewhere?”
Roubris looked around. “Doubtful. Sorry. The battle was a year ago. A lot can happen to a body in a year.” Eaten by bugs and worms, devoured by wild dogs… “It’s likely that you were pulled from the field after it was all over by your comrades or loved ones or
When Roubris Chor picked up the corroded battleaxe, it didn’t tell him its name. Even when he asked. In fact, it didn’t speak at all. So he dropped it carelessly to the ground and walked on, his eyes resuming their scan of the field. He saw broken bits of armor and bones picked clean amid the tall grass, but he ignored them. He needed weapons. Specifically, a weapon that had taken a life or two.
The open field of green grass and wildflowers hid the fact that he stood upon the site of a furious battle from just a year earlier. Such battlefields covered the land of Lastwall like a pox, but it was a pox of which Roubris could make very good use with his unique talent.
A glint of metal caught the man’s eye and he stooped low to get a better look. A short sword lay amid weeds and grass. Its blade bore a significant notch. If it were to ever be used in combat again, it would certainly snap in two. The hilt was simple, and the leather strips bound around it were frayed and rotten after likely spending a winter there on the ground. A semiprecious stone sat loosely within a rusted setting in the pommel. He though it likely jasper, but Roubris didn’t care about much about it, for the weapon might hold a far greater value. The crossguard bore an inscription: “Never again.”
Smiths were always putting meaningless nonsense on weapons. Roubris ignored the inscription and the pommel stone and instead whispered, “Hello?”
“Who? Who is there?” The voice was only in Roubris’s mind, but it was clearly not his own. Though a profound baritone, the voice’s female characteristics were unmistakable. As usual, it seemed far away at first, and confused, as though the speaker had awakened from a long and deep slumber.
“My name is Roubris Chor,” Roubris said aloud. He didn’t need to speak aloud for the spirit inhabiting the blade to hear him, but it was easier for him to manage the conversation if at least one of them was truly audible. An entire conversation in one’s own head could quickly become confusing, he had found. This was certainly not his first time doing this. “I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” The voice seemed closer now. Clearly coming from the sword. The weapon, in fact, almost thrummed with its words. As always.
“Yes. I can help put you to rest.”
A pause in the conversation suggested that the voice from the blade spent some time considering.
“You may not realize your situation,” Roubris said. “Many of you don’t. You’re confused. It’s understandable. You’re the spirit of someone who died in battle. Do you remember your name?”
Again a pause. Then, “Nivua. Nivua Aranash.” She said it as though Roubris should have heard of her. He hadn’t. He never did.
“All right, Nivua. Pleasure to meet you. Here’s the short version of the story, just so you know what’s going on. You need to know that you died here wielding this sword. Probably about a year ago. I know, that’s not easy to hear. It may not even make a lot of sense to you. You see, your weapon was primed to store a part of your soul because you used it to kill one or more of your foes before you yourself fell in battle. Now you’re trapped in the sword. It doesn’t happen a lot, of course, but maybe more often than you’d think.
“Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I can get you out of there.”
“I remember the battle,” the voice said, tentatively. “I felled several of the savage orcs. They were monstrous and many, but unskilled. I remember.”
“I’m sure you do,” Roubris soothed. “It’s the last thing that happened to you.”
“Is my… is my body around here somewhere?”
Roubris looked around. “Doubtful. Sorry. The battle was a year ago. A lot can happen to a body in a year.” Eaten by bugs and worms, devoured by wild dogs… “It’s likely that you were pulled from the field after it was all over by your comrades or loved ones or
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