Author Topic: The Blood Oath  (Read 1435 times)

Haerthorne

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The Blood Oath
« Topic Start: August 09, 2014, 08:17:08 PM »
A blood moon hung over the clouded sky. The ritual was nearing its completion in a shadowy grove on the outskirts of Lasop, the first city to be rejoined with Remton when its reign over the Far East was in its ascendancy. On the stone he had dragged to where the lunar light shone brightest lay in wait the three items he had found in his travels which were lost to the courts of kings, queens, dukes and knights.

The ring of a king who had become an emperor.
The sword a duke who had slain a terrible traitor.
The idol of a false god who now held his enemy between his teeth.

Gadivald had found these in his journeys across the north in the deep caves and unworldly woods  men no longer trod for fear of where the animals laid down to die. For some reason objects which gathered the threads of fate to them were of special interest to the shadow beasts, perhaps hungry for the potent essence which had been given to these named artefacts. Maybe it was what gave them their power.

Now he had brought them to this place lacking in any worth or great note, a grove rich in only the seclusion it gave to his activities. No peasant came here, he knew from the lack of anything but animal tracks, and certainly no noble lady or knight would come across him here.

He picked up the sword, lying on the right of the other two items as it would be the first to be raised in defence, and held it hesitantly for a few awkward moments. Those who spoke the lay of the world to him had told him of Goffrey, the fourth of the Emperor’s companions. Children of Arcaea knew him as the one who had avenged Duke Aerywyn’s death and had been dubbed the Wyrmslayer in honour of his deed. The blade had needed sharpening to serve its new purpose, but it still demanded blood.

Odin had sacrificed his eye. Today Gadivald would start with his blood, though further sacrifices would need to be made. He pressed the blade against his palm. Deeper. Deeper still. A harsh spirit stunk on his breath. His eyes went wild, but his pulse slowed. When he began to feel the pain he pulled the steel across his hand and cut it deep enough to bleed. He clenched his hand into a fist and felt the blood come up and out between his fingers, down his wrist, dripping swiftly onto the sword first, then on the stone and ring and idol.

Finally it was complete. Taking the sword he lifted it above his head, steady for a few seconds, then swung it down and broke the silver idol upon the stone.

After putting the sword back in its place and wrapping his wounded hand, Gadivald sat. He waited and let the significance of what he had done sink in. The blood loss and spirits had thinned his corporeal being and drew the harrowed vestiges of his spirit forth close to the surface of his flesh. Flashes of light upon his darting blue eyes. A great shivering swarmed through his entire body until it bordered on convulsions and muttered words were coerced into a low, unintelligible chanting, speaking the language which had drowned within the matter of his life as a man until it could be brought out by the terrible fury which now wracked him with fever.

Then they appeared.
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