Chapter 4— The Scorched Blade
Prison is a hell
which breaks the spirits of men.
And yet I am safe.
Returning from Bristhölm, Lord Sar regrouped at the northern fortress of Hæstæd, seated upon a mound at the centre of Lake Wye. He organised his men and rounded up the remaining northerners, the scorched blade never leaving his hand.
The weapon was like nothing anyone had ever seen or even imagined; legends told by people of the Særnt are full of the deeds of inconceivably capable heroes, but devoid of magic and the supernatural. He had in his grasp the most wondrous weapon ever encountered, and he could feel a new age dawning for the Særnt. How could he fail?
Sar’s curiosity about the power he held was untameable— he mobilised his scouts, sending them out to track down the mysterious blacksmith who had gifted him the blade. He had to know everything about it’s creation; perhaps more could be crafted.
It was almost winter again by the time Ækyl was discovered. For months Sar’s men scoured village after village, searching for any sign of the mysterious man. Eventually the blacksmith was found and politely invited to Sar’s hall, Sarstæd, where his son Lorest governed. Ækyl remained under his watch whilst his father stabilised the northern villages, restoring defences and raising a militia strong enough to ensure the region’s safety after Sar’s departure.
To Lorest’s surprise, Ækyl seemed the perfect prisoner. I made no complaints, nor tried to leave and return home. As long as he had access to a forge he was happy, working away in silence broken only by the beating of his hammer. Lorest often came to watch his captive.
The blacksmith never seemed to rest — Lorest had never even seen Ækyl stop to eat or drink, though the meals the guards brought three times a day miraculously disappeared. Ækyl would spend days at a time slaving over intricate metal sculptures like nothing Lorest had ever seen before: strange tools with no apparent purpose; statues of unimaginable creatures; twisting organic shapes as if spewed from the earth’s core.
As the days passed, these objects piled up in the corner of his workshop, seemingly unaware they were even there. He hated the creations — they were unnatural and their silhouettes haunted his dreams.
One day Lorest intruded upon the silence and questioned the prisoner:
“What is that weapon you gifted my father?”
“I will speak only to my Lord.”
After that Lorest stayed away from the forge and its metallic menagerie. And the silence resumed.
