Sword Story

The man with the dark eyes started moving. His legs moved deftly and with purpose, avoiding branches and plants. His entire body seemed to move as one, like a prowling panther, fully focused on silent and effective movement. He wore a tight fitted black gambeson, matching long tightened boots. Wyllam thought there may be a knife hidden in a secret pocket on the side of his boot. On his side there hung a sword within a scabbard, connected by two straps to his belt. The weapon seemed well used. When the man was about 5 meters away, he stopped. The dark-eyed man adopted a seemingly relaxed pose, yet he continued staring.

Wyllam decided it was time to speak up. “I wish to pass through this place,” Wyllam stated firmly, meeting the dark-eyed man's gaze head-on. The man continued looking at Wyllam, saying nothing. His face was blank. Yet in his eyes, there was a calmness and confidence that spoke of something fierce. They were the eyes of one who had taken many lives, and would not care at taking one more. Wyllam accepted that he would not solve this conflict through talking. He started humming an old song.

Wyllam had been told about bound objects when he was just a child. The idea that someone may bind their soul to an object after they died had fascinated him like nothing else. The first one he had seen himself had been a quill used by the local master of mail. While using that specific quill, the man could write with an efficiency and attention to detail that seemed almost inhuman. When Wyllam, only a boy at that time, had gawked at the tool, the old man had laughed and told him about how it was his grandfather's soul that was bound to the quill. He had also been a mailman, and so they were able to combine their skill and intention to do the job more efficiently. Many bound objects were like this. Simple tools passed down in a family, passing on skills from generation to generation. If the items were sold away, the souls would often choose to leave the objects, leaving them as common as they were before. 

To awake something bound, you had to attract forth the soul, using something familiar. The easiest way was a name, but lacking that, it may be a poem or piece of music that was dear to the soul within the object. When Wyllam had first found his sword, he had no idea how to awaken it. He knew nothing of the soul that was bound within it. For months he had tried different poems, songs and names, to no avail. When he finally cracked the puzzle, it was completely by accident. He had been exploring an old ruin when he had discovered the notes for a lost tune. Humming the rhythm, the sword had finally sprung to life. He had felt the energy surge through his body. And it did the same now. As if a wave of instincts rolled over him. His right arm started flexing and unflexing, readying itself. It was not as if it took over his body, but rather as if it could nudge him, and Wyllam could choose to fight back or move with the nudges.

A flicker of recognition passed through the dark eyes of the man as he suddenly eyed the sword and then looked back up at wyllam. His face went from confusion to surprise, and then a smirk. The expression seemed to say “What an interesting surprise… Let’s see what you can do.” Then he made a short bird sound with his voice and glanced to the right. Out of a nearby bush another man rushed out. He had a wild expression and swung his sword against Wyllam. Wyllam was not prepared, but his sword was. Like a pouncing beast his arm launched out and then to the hilt on his left side. In one arching stroke he unsheathed the blade and slammed away the attackers blade. Wyllam was as surprised as the now disarmed man, but he relaxed his mind and let the urges control him. The sword did not hesitate. Wyllam felt his feet do a swift shuffle forward, pushing the advantage on his foe. Then with a quick slash and stab, the man was dead. 

Dark eyes had lost his composition. A shock painted his face, and for the first time he spoke. “Where did you get that blade, boy? It fights like a southern dog,” he spat out, slowly starting to move forward. The last statement seemed to have meant something to the sword. Wyllam now felt a more gentle nudge. Accepting it, his body moved into a ready stance, with his blade above him, pointing towards the approaching man. Yet something about the move did not feel as practical as how the sword acted before. It almost felt theatrical. Is the blade taunting the man? Wyllam wondered, surprised. The stance seemed to have angered the man, and he moved in for an attack. Wyllam was bracing himself for a counterattack or block, but instead he felt his whole body move into a low dodge under the swinging sword. His movements then lead seamlessly into a jumping flip, kicking the man in the face. The surprise jump was too much for Wyllam's body and it instinctively took back control of his body, making a clumsy landing after the kick, somewhat ruining the elegance. The move was like nothing the sword had made him do before, and he was surprised that he was even able to do it.

The dark-eyed man now grinned, wiping a bloody nose. “Struck a nerve, did? You want to show off those Alarish dancing tricks? Show offs get killed,” the man sneered, his gaze fixed not on Wyllam, but on the blade at his side. He seemed to pull himself together. He was no longer playing around, he would go in for the kill. Wyllam breathed deep and let his body back into the control of his weapon. Instantly his entire body jumped to life. Moving forward, leading the attack towards the man. His sword was entirely focused on the offensive now, landing a flurry of blows that left the other man entirely occupied, slowly being pushed back. Even his eyes were being nudged around, focusing on each small movement in the other man. Something about his own movements still felt different to Wyllam though, like the blade was still “showing off”, as the man had said. 

Yet he trusted his sword, and followed the movements. He now went in for a risky stab, managing to make a small cut on the other man’s cheek. The man cursed at this, fire burning his eyes. With a furious roar, he discarded his weapon and lunged at Wyllam, his massive fist closing around Wyllam's sword arm before delivering a punishing blow to his stomach.. Wyllam coughed blood, dropping his blade. The man was much bigger than Wyllam, and he pushed him to the ground, putting Wyllam in a lethal choke. The sword made him fight like a wild animal, but skill was no use when facing an opponent so superior in strength. Gasping for air, Wyllam managed to force out a hoarse whisper, “Knife... in his... Boot.” The moment he said it the sword seemed to understand and his arm instantly slapped the man holding him, darted down to his boot, pulled out the hidden knife and cut the man’s throat. Blood sprayed Wyllam’s face, but the choking arms let loose. Wyllam rolled over on his back and finally could draw in air again. For a while he just laid there, breathing.

After a while he walked over to his blade and picked it up. “No more showing off… Please." His right hand, holding the sword, moved up to his chest. It seemed to knock twice, where his heart was, before settling down there. It seemed to have agreed. Wyllam was relieved. He was not sure the sword would care what he wished for. Most bound objects would only serve their only family and loved ones. And more than that, bound weapons were extremely rare. It seemed that most souls were repulsed, or otherwise in disagreement with ever being used to take lives. But his sword had chosen to serve him willingly, and even seemed to care about his preferences. Wyllam silently thanked the blade. This thing would save his life.