AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The first prisoner to step forward to accept a sword was the blacksmith, Curl.
Another wagon had been brought up, this one stacked with standard scabbards of wood, bronze and leather, and after taking a Hust sword into his hands Curl was directed towards that one. The man unwrapped the blade as he made his way to the second wagon. When the cover fell away, he halted as if struck. His sword had begun laughing. Quickly the laughter rose into a manic cackle.
In shock, Curl flung the weapon to the ground.
The sword shrieked its glee, shivering on the half-frozen mud.
‘Pick it up!’
Galar Baras was not sure who had shouted that command, but Curl reached down and collected up the weapon. He seemed to struggle to hold on to it as he hurried over to the second wagon. Accepting a scabbard he quickly slammed the weapon home. Its terrible laughter was muted, but only by the scabbard itself.
Something is wrong. I have never heard—
Wareth moved up beside Galar Baras and said, ‘They have been driven mad, sir.’
‘That is ridiculous, Wareth. They are not sentient. There is nothing living within that iron.’
‘You still hold to that, sir?’
Galar Baras made no reply, stung by the disbelief in Wareth’s tone.
‘The others have lost their lust for power,’ Wareth then observed of the prisoners, who had all drawn back from the wagons. ‘And these are the officers, since you insist on calling them that. How will it be when we equip everyone else in this camp? Granted, more than a few will join in the laughter, being utterly mad already. But most, sir, well, they just made mistakes in their lives. And were busy paying for them.’
‘Wareth, make Rebble the next one.’
‘Commander, I doubt I can make Rebble do anything he’s not of a mind to do.’
‘Just convey my order.’
Nodding, Wareth walked over to the tall, bearded man. They began arguing in low tones.
Galar glanced over at Rance. ‘You after Rebble,’ he said.
‘I tried telling Wareth,’ she said in a brittle voice. ‘I don’t like blood. My … my first night of womanhood wasn’t … not a good memory, that is. Sir. I don’t want to be here. I can’t be a soldier, sir.’
‘It’s that, or the corps of cutters.’
‘But that would be—’
‘I’m sure it would,’ Galar snapped.
At last, Rebble moved, but instead of making his way to the weapons, he strode to the wagon bearing the scabbards. Collecting one, he faced the other wagon. Then, with an oath, he approached. Reaching the aide he snatched the wrapped sword from the woman’s hands. Tearing the hide away he raised the suddenly shrieking blade before his own face, and snarled, ‘Save it for the fucking enemy!’
The sword’s scream intensified, and from the wagon the moaning sharpened, rising in pitch, and then broke into gleeful laughter.
The prisoners were all backing away. Galar could see, beyond his officers, a crowd gathering from the main camp. The
air was taut now, on the very edge of panic.
Rebble sheathed the sword with shaking hands.
Galar could feel the situation slipping away. Even the weapons hanging at the sides of the few remaining regulars were crying out within their scabbards. His own sword’s voice reached him, frenetic and fractured.
Wareth returned to his side. ‘Commander, we’re making a mistake here.’
Galar turned to Rance. ‘Get in that line.’
‘Yes sir.’
