Bloodstained Blade
Chapter 88 - At Any Moment

Over the next few days, nothing happened. Evelyn kept the Ebon Blade’s new wielder abreast of the latest developments, but it was not moved from its hiding place. She was informed by the captain of the guard as to all the places his men had searched, and members of both her husband's family and her own sent messengers offering her condolences.

Once, she was even visited by one of her older brothers. That conversation occurred in the room where it lay so it could listen to it.

“People are saying it was the Black Blade,” he told her. “The King has forbidden such talk, but… is that true?”

“I hardly think the black blade would have spared my life,” she answered, “It was some cursed orcish thing. Why my late husband even allowed that greasy man to bring it into our home, I will never know.”

“Is there any way we could be sure?” her brother repeated.

“I think our house priest might have made a sketch of it,” she answered, knowing that wasn’t the case. “I seem to recall it had a setting for a gemstone, but it was missing. There were some runes on the blade, too, but there were crude, ugly things.”

“No ruby?” he asked, obviously relieved. “Are you sure about that? All the illustrations speak of a fist-sized ruby that houses its evil magic.”

“I think I would remember a fist-sized ruby, Donavan,” she answered. “Tell Father that his seat is safe. It's only I and the people of the region that will suffer whatever has made its way into the kingdom.”

“They have yet to find any other victims,” he answered. “Perhaps this is over.”

“Over?” she suppressed a laugh, realizing at the last moment that such a thing would not have been in character for a grieving widow. The blade could see that she was enjoying toying with the man who she clearly didn’t like, which made the family situation all the more interesting to it. “Find is the keyword in that statement, I’m afraid. From the viciousness of the attacks, I’m certain that any day now, we will find whole villages massacred. Mark my words. Something evil has been unleashed on the land.”

Though the blade was on edge the entire time he was there, Donavan Palaron eventually left without incident. It was only after that that it started to learn the truth about all of this, which was so much stranger than it could have imagined.

“My father is nearly three hundred years old,” she started, “And in that time, he’s had over two hundred children with fifteen different wives.” As a statement, it was bizarre since he clearly wasn’t an elf, but the whole thing got stranger from there.

It turned out that King Rogal Palaron the Second really was the man who had lured Baraga into slaying a dragon and forging the blade before killing him and adding his very soul to the project. That infuriated the blade, but that feeling was mixed with a terrible joy. I will get to kill the man responsible for all of this, it thought to itself. Even after all this time, he will know justice!

As the story went, though, that need for revenge grew. “The reason he’s lived so long is because of his throne,” its wielder explained in a whisper as they lay there in the dark. “Officially, it's a blessing of the gods, meant to grant a just ruler a long life. The reality couldn’t be further from that truth.”

Apparently, the lessons that had been learned from its own creation had led to the creation of the golden throne in the years that followed. It had required the sacrifice of a hundred different farmers and peasants from all over the country to give it the proper connection it needed to the Inner Kingdoms, but as long as the King sat on the throne, he drank from the deep well of his own people and would not know aging or death.

“Apparently, before I was born, he used to leave the throne often enough to hunt, feast, fuck, and whatever else it is that kings do,” she said, “But he’s grown older and more frail since then. He rarely leaves the magical monstrosity for longer than a few minutes now.”

In a way, it’s similar to my own ability, Parasitic Link, it decided, though it didn’t tell its wielder that. If anything, it was far kinder than its own power. The King stole seconds from everyone to power years of his life, while the blade stole 5 days every day just to fuel itself. Evelyn was a young woman; she probably had 50 years of life in her yet, but as its wielder, she would live for less than a decade.

Probably much less, the blade decided. Living for more than a few months was unlikely because those who lived by the sword often died the same way.

Still, now that it knew she was related to Baraga’s paramour, it was impossible not to see it. They weren’t the same woman, but Evelyn could have easily been that long-dead princess’ granddaughter. It would have believed that, and somehow, that tenuous connection made it feel closer to its first wielder.

Stolen novel; please report.

Less fortunate was the fact that the King had apparently become completely corrupted by the passage of time. There was nothing physically wrong with him. He didn’t look like a monster. He appeared to be a benevolent old king. It was apparently the social consequences of having one man and one family in power for so long. Every family of any power had married in with the Palarons at some point.

“That’s half the reason I was married to the late Lord Gilles,” she complained. “Of all of my near sisters, I was the only one that had to stoop to a Baron. All of the rest of them are married to much more prestigious partners, but as of right now, there’s not a single eligible count or duke in the country that I’m not related to on some level. Can you imagine?”

The blade found the prospect almost as disgusting as her vanity. It wondered how it would handle that in the long term, but for now, it didn’t chastise her. She had too much to tell it, and it wanted to know everything.

She explained years of corruption and favor networks. There were still organizations beyond the power of the crown, such as the Aetherarchy, and even rival nations of some power to the north, but otherwise, everyone throughout the Inner Kingdoms was a slave to the power of that throne.

Not in the literal sense, it couldn’t read minds or control people, but it could summon rain to combat droughts and dissipate plagues, among other powers. Apparently, those were tightly guarded secrets.

Does it have offensive abilities? It asked.

“Some,” she agreed. “No one knows all of them, but it controls the castle golems and has some countermeasures against assassination. Truthfully, I never really cared about it. The throne is the least interesting abomination in the black book. I always much preferred you.”

The blade was tempted to ask about that, but it did not need to. The feelings she felt toward a legendary boogie man that came back time and time again in an attempt to kill her father were so intense that it quickly decided there was something wrong with Evelyn on an emotional level. It wasn’t in any place to judge, of course; all it wanted was to kill her father and raze his kingdom to ashes. Instead, it asked about the times it had attacked before.

“You’d know better than me,” she explained. “Why wouldn’t you remember attacking the throne?”

I don’t remember anything from before I woke up, the blade admitted. Well, not nothing. I'm starting to remember a few things about Barga, my first wielder, and your father, but beyond that—

“But you are Baraga, aren’t you?” she asked in a disappointed tone. “That’s what the legends say. That you are Baraga, trapped in the blade.”

Sort of, it agreed. But it’s more complicated than that. Why don’t you tell me what the legends say about me?

That was a much longer topic than the crown had been. It was so long, in fact, that Evelyn saved it for the following day after she came home from her husband’s funeral. The moment her servants left her, she peeled off her thick veil to reveal a wide smile. Then, she sat down until dinner and told it its own history, according to the storybooks.

“You didn’t actually go mad, or come to life or whatever, for years after your creation. You were just a sword,” she explained. “With every victory, you grew more powerful until one day, when the Prince that held you went to hang you on the wall after a campaign, you refused to let go. Instead, you slew everyone that approached you and painted the walls red with blood.”

The Ebon Blade was forced to concede that those events did sound like it, but as much as it might have wished to learn what had triggered its awakening, its wielder had no answers. “We could explore the ruins if you want on our way to the capital. No one has lived in that manor in a long, long time,” she volunteered.

The blade considered that but asked, If I was considered to be so dangerous, then why was I locked in a temple and simply forgotten about?

“A temple? Is that where they hid you?” she asked. “No one knew; it was a big secret, but that’s hardly the first time people tried to hide you. You’ve been buried in bottomless mineshafts and thrown into the sea, but somehow, you always return like a bad copper.”

Apparently, the first time it slipped its leash was less than a year after it went berserk. It was sent south under guard and then thrown off a ship three days out to see. It returned then, leading a tide of aquatic monstrosities, devastating three port cities that were so devastated that two of them were never rebuilt. “Only Stebara exists today, but I’m told you can still see the damage you wrought on the old sea wall,” she said with a smile.

The Ebon Blade was happy to know that it had always fought to get free. It was less happy to know how long it had taken. The second time, it was buried in a tapped-out iron mine that was then detonated shut with magic. Though the legends don’t know precisely who found it in the dark, it was said that a dwarf found it, but the troll that ate the dwarf, the monster everyone remembered when it came to the surface almost eighty years after the first time it had been locked away.

“People called it Baraga the Berserker,” she claimed, “and it just wouldn’t die. It set half of the inner kingdoms on fire that an avatar had to descend on wings of fire to smite you herself.”

Avatars? The blade did not like the sound of that. It had plenty of mortal enemies without engaging those of the divine sort.

This last time, it had been gone for nearly a century, which was enough to spawn a series of popular bardic ballads claiming that it was no more. Some said it was thrown into a volcano, and others said that it was hammered into a celestial plowshare on the force of a dwarven god. Others insisted the Black Blade of Baraga was swallowed by a dragon and digested.

Unfortunately for them, none of those things were true. It had returned, and this time, forearmed with all the ways it had been defeated before, it would ensure that it was victorious. The weapon didn’t even care what happened to it after all of that. It only cared that those who had created it were reduced to ruins.

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