* * * * *
"What in bloody Hell is that?"
In this case, that was a thirty-foot broadsword transfixed in the earth, just beyond the border of Myrkentown proper.
* * * * *
Whence it came -- that was the mystery. What it was, however, was obvious; the previous fellow's exclamation had spawned from shocked surprise, and it is not uncommon for personages in such a state to temporarily lose their sensibilities. The number of curious on-lookers increased; the volume of conversation soon reached that of an understandably bewildered yet awed din. Despite their recent hardships, the townsfolk of Myrken clearly were not easily dissuaded from an item of potential interest, whether for one or for all, and to a town whose hardships ran the gamut -- Councilors vanishing, reappearing, and now vanishing again; fearsome, ferocious dragons; a plague the likes of which had never been seen before; and more, if one were inclined to travel Memory Lane some years -- to them, a thirty-foot broadsword stuck in the ground was an occurrence bordering on a miracle and may as well have been named Answered Prayer.
Regardless, where the sword came from and what purpose it served were, for the moment, unclear.
* * * * *
The broadsword was, as mentioned previously, thirty feet in length -- or so the townsfolk assumed, after a lengthy study and several arguments. A clever fellow suggested viewing it with a farsight from a faraway rooftop, an idea many people found superb and, indeed, worth their while; and thus they endeavored to comply, selecting a building of reasonable distance and height and, after a brief discussion over who would actually look at the object -- after all, not everyone could; they would be here all bloody day and night, if not longer -- they took to the roof and proceeded to scrutinize. What they saw, however, may not have been what they were expecting.
The hilt was simple and unadorned, designed for endurance rather than show; it was a rude rectangle that, to the townsfolk, did not suit the immense scope of the sword, and was not befitting something that inspired such a sudden stir. The haft was wrapped in huge strips of sun-baked and well-worn leather, though what titanic hands might wield such a majestically crude weapon they did not care to imagine -- they did not dare plumb the depths of curiosity so far as to explore the inky, pressurized realm of the macabre.
The pommel was a dull sphere presumedly comprised of the same alien metal as the hilt and, as far as they could tell, identical in its stark lack of decoration. There were no rare exquisite gems embedded anywhere; were no meticulous engravings on the hilt, pommel, or blade.
Oh, the blade...
* * * * *
The blade was a different story.
The blade -- half of which was not visible, or so they once more assumed; the townsfolk began to wonder if the sword might be longer than they initially thought, after hypothesizing that -- was, as implied by the weapon's name, broad and thick; it was intended for slashing and cutting rather than thrusting. There was a wide blood groove that, were one so inclined, a man could stand in the concave embrace of with his arms outstretched and not touch either side -- but no man -- nor woman -- had ventured to attempt such a feat. The mysterious sword's business end possessed a lustrous surface that could be likened to a mirror but simultaneously could not; its beauty was beguiling, its deadliness apparent. Initially the townsfolk stood well clear of the perplexing giant broadsword, but one brave, foolhardy soul, a drunkard by the name of Graeg -- who was acknowledged as a complete idiot by the portion of Myrken that knew him even in the slightest -- decided it would be a thoroughly splendid idea to saunter up to the blade and touch it.
When Graeg laid his palm on the flat of the blade, the sword began to sing.
When the sword began to sing, every man within a hundred paces went horribly, irrevocably, murderously mad.
* * * * *
Fists punched, fragmenting jaws and noses; feet kicked, fracturing ribs and legs; steel flashed, and then there was an awful screaming, a wailing, a frenzy of bloodthirsty men begetting their equally frenzied victims. A woman, dragged to her knees by two men, had her arms dislocated by those same two and then her throat cut by one of the pair -- who then turned on his partner in crime, bared his blood-stained teeth from behind split lips, and tackled the other man to the ground, where, with wild abandon, he stabbed his new plaything thirty-two times and carved the first initial of his name in its forehead. That man's head was then smashed in by another man's studded cudgel -- and that man's groin was impaled by, of all things, a pitchfork. The resultant scream was indescribable; it was ended when the pitchfork-wielding madman twisted his weapon of choice free and then hurled it into his prey's back. The tines pierced the other maniac's heart, and when he fell dead those very same tines halted his fresh corpse an inch from the ground.
This -- and more, so bloody (literally) much more -- was the scene that lay before Graeg, whose very wide eyes could barely contain the carnage in front of him, and whose trousers felt very warm and damp from the piss running down his legs.
* * * * *
When all was screamed and done, there were thirty-one dead and thrice as many wounded, with injuries varying from a nick on the shoulder to missing limbs. One older gentleman had had both his eyes gouged out; he was stumbling about the charnel field, presumedly searching for the eyes he -- or, more accurately, his madness-driven grandson -- had misplaced. The ground around the sword was drenched in carmine, and--
"Look!" someone shouted hoarsely, somehow managing to be heard above the shrieks and moans filling the air until it felt confining, felt suffocated by the overpowering stench of blood and the sounds of the dying. When more voices joined that first voice in a raw chorus, more heads turned, more eyes saw.
Letters -- no, words -- had appeared on the previously immaculate blade. Words engraved into the alien steel with blood ... the very blood that had but moments ago drowned the enlivened spring soil, had painted every blade of grass around that enigmatic broadsword in the entirely too-vivid scarlet of lifeblood. The very blood that was nowhere in sight, save for in the raiment and on the skin of those gathered.
Those words were:
THE ABSENCE OF WAR DOES NOT MEAN PEACE
