The spirit of Boric tried slamming the corpse’s fist against the stone, stomping on his fingers, even biting his knuckles in an attempt to get it to release the sword, all to no avail. The corpse simply wouldn’t let go.
Voices could be heard from the stairwell leading to the tower. The men had evidently figured out something was wrong and were making their way up to Boric. If they were to emerge from the stairwell now, they would be greeted with the bizarre sight of Boric the Implacable’s otherwise flaccid corpse waving a sword wildly in the air with its outstretched right arm.
“Boric! Let go of the sword!” growled the Eytrith. “This is your last chance! Come now or remain here, cursed to roam the plains of Dis as a wraith!”
“Fine,” muttered Boric, and released his grip on the hilt. But the sword remained in his hand.
“Boric!” growled the Eytrith again.
“I’m trying!” Boric snapped, beginning to feel the slightest inkling of something like fear. His fingers seemed to be stuck to the sword, as if they were frozen in a block of ice. He had no more luck prying his immaterial fingers off the hilt than he had with the corpse’s.
“It’s stuck!” he cried to the Eytrith. “I can’t get my hand off the sword!”
“Well, thou canst not take it with thee,” announced the Eytrith. “Perhaps,” she added after a moment, “the sword is cursed?”
“Oh,” said Boric, remembering something that he had very nearly succeeded in forgetting over the past twenty years. “Oh, shit.”
[1] All of them, at last count.
[2] It is also said that history is written by the victors. This was particularly true in the Old Realm, where the official historians at the Library of Avaress had been required for centuries to be named Victor.
[3] This actually only happened once, and isn’t as impressive as it sounds. When you’ve got a dozen bored archers at the top of a tower overlooking a pasture occupied by some six thousand sheep, it’s only a matter of time before a sheep gets skewered. Additionally, one witness claimed that the sheep deliberately moved into the path of the arrow.
[4] This last didn’t add any value to the sword, but Boric had been in the area and the Gnomes of Swarnholme liked to bless things.
TWO
When the Old Realm finally collapsed under the weight of its own superlative wondrousness, it left behind a ragtag collection of city-states and quasi-independent fiefdoms that fought like wild dogs over the scraps of the Realm’s bloated carcass. For the average peasant, the end of the Realm was just another reason for things to go to shit. The marauding bandits that had been kept more or less in check by the vague threat of being drawn and quartered by Soldiers of the Realm now roamed freely, raping and pillaging whomever and whatever there was to rape and pillage. Many of the Soldiers of the Realm, who were no longer getting paid on a regular basis, joined in the raping and pillaging as well.
For a brave, resourceful young man like Boric, the chaos presented an opportunity. His father, Toric, had been a wealthy landowner who had begrudgingly paid tribute to the Overlord of the Realm in the distant capital of Avaressa, but when it became clear that Avaressa had become preoccupied with defending itself from the goblins to the east, he withheld his tribute and focused on building an alliance with the petty chieftains in Ytrisk. Toric became the Duke of Ytrisk in defiance of the weakened Realm. After the Realm fell, he had himself crowned King of Ytrisk. Other provinces in the region reacted to the threat of a united Ytrisk by forming their own ad hoc realms — the Peraltians to the east and the Skaal to the south, the Blinskians to the southeast, and beyond Blinsk the Quirini. Avaressa itself was reduced to being the capital of Avaress — now just another of the Six Kingdoms of Dis.
In retrospect, Boric’s ascension to King of Ytrisk may seem to have been assured by his circumstances, but that is far from the truth. For one thing, Boric was the youngest of the three sons of Toric, which doomed him to a tertiary role in the Dukedom of Ytrisk. In fact, his father had it in his head to send Boric to the dismal, rocky island of Bjill, some three miles off Ytrisk’s western coast, to oversee the lucrative pumice mines there. Overseeing Ytrisk’s pumice supply was a vital task in the Kingdom of Ytrisk, but it wasn’t a job with a lot of potential for upward mobility. Additionally, most inhabitants of Bjill succumbed within a few years to a form of gradual, creeping pneumonia known simply as the “Bjills.” Bjill’s low-grade volcanic activity, combined with its location smack in the middle of a ringlet of tall, uninhabitable atolls that arrested nearly all air movement, gave it an atmosphere that was simply too cool, damp, and filled with microscopic crud for mammalian lungs to operate for any extended period of time. Bjill had a single, eternal season characterized by temperatures that lingered halfway between brisk and freezing, and a featureless sky that alternated between dismal gray and black. Only suicide killed more Bjillians than the Bjills.
Boric’s opportunity to escape a death sentence on Bjill came in the form of a wild ogre[5] who wandered down from the Chathain Mountains one day to wreak havoc in southern Ytrisk.
Now the problem with ogres is that they are bullies, and despite being notoriously dim, they have an uncanny ability to know when they are outclassed. An ogre isn’t going to attack a garrison of soldiers or, for that matter, a troll or even a bugbear. Ogres pick their victims carefully, and they are masters of the hit-and-run. Ogres like to hide in caves and drop rocks on passing merchants or feast on errant goats. After the attack, the ogre will skedaddle out of the area and find a new place with easy pickings. He isn’t going to hang around waiting for somebody to be a hero.
This particular ogre, who went by the name Skoorn, was (by ogreish standards) exceedingly clever, and he had developed a taste for what ogres call “screech melons.” Screech melons were small, juicy, pinkish fruits that could often be found in the dwellings of humans. The humans loved their screech melons, taking great pains to keep them from spoiling or being bruised. The humans kept the melons wrapped in cloths and generally stored them in little padded cages, taking them out only occasionally to clean them or perform other screech melon maintenance that was beyond the understanding of ogres. Despite the humans’ devotion to their melons, it was often a simple matter for an ogre to reach through an open window, pluck the melon from a cage, and pop it into its mouth before the humans even knew it was missing. Of course, you could only do this once or twice in a given town before the humans got wise to what was happening and started taking greater precautions to protect their melons. Then you’d have to go back to goats for a while.
Most ogres stayed in the mountains and subsisted on wild animals and the occasional intrepid adventurer, but Skoorn had happened upon a caravan from which he could hear shrieks that he supposed indicated the presence of the much-coveted screech melons. He had as of this point never tasted screech melon himself, but decided it was worth the risk to see what all the fuss was about. He gradually dispatched all the humans by dropping rocks on their heads and then feasted on the three (three!) screech melons they had been transporting. They were sweet and juicy, and their texture was unlike anything he had experienced. After that, Skoorn knew that he couldn’t go back to eating goats.
Skoorn tore up and down southern Ytrisk, plucking screech melons whenever the opportunity arose. At first it was easy: he would wait until dark, sneak into town to grab a melon or two, and then move on to the next town. But after a few towns, it seemed like the humans were on to him. They were posting guards and barring their windows; he often had to pass several towns before finding one that had any easy-to-pluck screech melons. Being a particularly clever ogre, sometimes he would backtrack and return to a town he had bypassed earlier, so that the humans could never figure out where he was headed next. Gathering the screech melons was starting to be a bit of a hassle, but Skoorn wasn’t about to go back to eating those dry, crunchy goats.
After a few weeks of this, the people of southern Ytrisk were getting pretty fed up with Skoorn (although they didn’t know
his name). They made it clear to King Toric that if he couldn’t protect them from ogres, then they would appeal to the King of Skaal. King Toric knew something had to be done.
Toric, who wasn’t overly fond of his eldest son, Yoric, decided that whichever of his sons could slay the ogre would be his heir. Goric, the middle child, figured he’d wait for Yoric to be killed by the ogre and then receive the monarchy by default. Goric underestimated Yoric’s cowardice, however; Yoric’s only response was to attempt to assassinate Boric, the only one of Toric’s sons who was actually brave and motivated enough to take on an ogre. Boric anticipated this move, escaped the assassination attempt, and made his way south to find the ogre.
Boric, who was only eighteen years old at the time, left on his horse early one morning and traveled south along the main road until nightfall, stopping at the village of Kreigsdun for the night. Not wanting to be pestered by peasants who had some grievance against his father, he wore the uniform of the Ytriskian Messenger Corps. He traveled alone because he knew that he’d never catch the ogre if he had a whole retinue with him. The messengers were known to be surly and secretive, so it was a good cover.
As he sat in the Kreigsdun Tavern, however, he was approached by a strange man, wearing a dark cloak that concealed his features.
“Hail, Messenger,” said the man. “Would you permit me to sit here with you?” His speech was colored with the aristocratic accent of the East.
Boric shrugged. “Sit if you like. I’ll be off to bed soon. A messenger’s day starts early.”
“I won’t need much time,” said the man. He waved for the innkeeper to bring two mugs of beer. “My name is Brand. I hail from Avaress, on some business for the Realm. Which way are you headed?”
Boric raised an eyebrow at the man called Brand.
“Of course, of course,” said Brand hurriedly, realizing his faux pas. A messenger would never reveal his destination to a stranger in a tavern. “I only asked because I meant to warn you, in case you’re heading south. Things have gotten dicey down there.”
“You speak of the ogre,” said Boric.
The innkeeper arrived with the mugs of beer. The stranger drank, and Boric sipped slowly at his own mug, keeping an eye on the stranger.
Brand continued, “The ogre, aye. But also the townspeople. The south has lost confidence in the king. They aren’t likely to welcome one of his messengers.”
“I don’t require a welcome,” Boric said. “I will dispatch my message and be on my way.”
Brand smiled. “Dispatching this particular…message…may be more difficult than you expect. It’s a wily one, and you’ll have to watch your back. And don’t forget, after this message there will be others. I believe your elder brother has a message for you that remains undelivered. In fact, he may still be trying to deliver it as we speak.”
Boric’s hand went to his sword. “Let’s drop the pretense, stranger,” he said coldly. “Are you here to kill me?”
Brand laughed. “Of course not! If I were an assassin, you’d be on the back of a Wyndbahr right now, rather than enjoying a pleasant discussion of current events. I come, Boric of Ytrisk, to give you a gift.”
Boric’s palm remained hovering a hair’s distance from the pommel of his sword. “What sort of gift?”
Brand moved his hands toward his left hip, releasing a buckle. He produced a plain-looking leather scabbard, from which protruded the hilt of a sword. He placed the sword on the table between them.
“It is called Brakslaagt,” said Brand. “There are only seven of its kind. It is said that the very sight of it causes pain to ogres and others of their ilk. The slightest cut with this blade feels like the sting of a thousand scorpions to an ogre. Not only that, but it is said that the sword increases the wielder’s perception of threats — that is, it allows the wielder to sense danger.”
Boric snorted. “Sounds like nonsense,” he said. “Wishful thinking or a sales pitch from a desperate and overly imaginative blacksmith. Keep your novelty sword. I trust my own more than I trust this one — or you, for that matter.”
Brand shrugged. He finished his beer and got up from his chair. “The sword is yours,” he said. “Take it or leave it. I ask nothing in return.”
“I find that hard to believe,” said Boric. “Clearly you want something.”
“True,” admitted the man. “What I want is for you to become King of Ytrisk.” He turned to leave, taking a step toward the door. Then he turned, as if remembering something, and said, “I must warn you, though: once you pick up the sword, you may never want to let go of it.”
Boric frowned. “If it’s such a wonderful sword, why would I want to get rid of it?”
“That’s the spirit!” said Brand, and walked out of the tavern.
[5] The designation of this particular ogre as “wild” should not be taken to mean that most ogres are tame. In fact, nearly all attempts to domesticate the ogre have failed. The use of “wild” here is more akin to its use in the phrase “a wild hair,” i.e., one that has appeared where you’d rather not have one.
THREE
Footsteps were coming up the stairs. Any second now, a gaggle of soldiers would burst from the stairwell to see Boric’s corpse being dragged around the top of the tower by the hilt of his sword.
“Can I get some help here?” he cried desperately to the Eytrith.
“Alas, Boric of Ytrisk,” said the Eytrith. “Thou art on thy own with this one. Thou must break this enchantment before I can transport thee to the Hall of Avandoor. I shall return in one week. Good luck!” The Eytrith slapped the neck of the Wyndbahr and it crouched and then used its powerful haunches to launch into the air. With a few flaps of its wings, they were gone.
Break the enchantment? thought Boric. How would he go about doing that? Perhaps by destroying his physical body? Or would that simply trap him in this form forever? His men would certainly oblige him if he gave them a chance — they would most likely burn him on a pyre right here. Would he feel the flames? And would the pyre release his spirit or imprison him on Dis for all eternity?
He decided he couldn’t take the chance. Somehow he needed to find out more about this enchantment before he did anything rash — or allowed anything rash to be done to him. He needed to get his body off the tower before his men got any bright ideas. He dragged his corpse to the rear of the tower, hoisting it onto the top of the parapet. He didn’t have much time to plot his next course of action, but he had a vague idea that no longer being subject to gravity he could sort of float over the edge of the parapet and lower his body to the ground. He dragged the limp corpse to the edge of the parapet and leapt from the tower. It didn’t quite work out the way he planned.
His corpse slipped over the edge, jerking him downward as it fell. For a few seconds, he trailed after his own body like the tail of a kite, and then the two of them smacked into the sharply angled, rocky slope below. Spirit and flesh rolled over and over, finally coming to rest some two hundred feet farther down the slope.
Boric raised his head and was surprised to find that it was both his head — that is, the head of his disembodied spirit — and the head of the corpse. Somehow the fall had rejoined the two, so that his spirit once again occupied his body. But the body was not him — it was as if he were a ghost wearing a Boric suit. And he was certain that another jolt could just as easily knock him free of his body once again. For now, though, Boric the spirit and Boric the corpse were united in an uneasy alliance. Since he seemed to be inseparable from his body in any case, this seemed like a more sensible arrangement than dragging his corpse around as he had been.
Far above him, he heard the confused shouts of his men. They must have assumed that he had fallen and were probably looking for his body from the tower — but it was doubtful they would recognize him at this distance. It would be best for him to get out of there before they started spreading out from the tower’s base to find him. He got to his feet.
He was badly injured — blood leake
d from wounds on his head, his shoulder, his knees, and of course his chest, where he had been run through by that coward Randor — but he felt no pain. One of the advantages of being a wraith, he supposed. He shuddered as he noticed that he was not breathing and his heart no longer beat. Well, he tried to shudder. He had sort of a creepy, shuddery feeling but his body didn’t seem to know what to do with it. That bastard, Brand — if that was really his name — was going to answer for this. He trudged along the slope, away from the tower and toward the foothills.
As he clambered over the uneven ground, he realized that having a sword permanently attached to his hand was going to pose some practical problems. He slid the sword into the scabbard, thinking that with it at his side he would at least be less likely to accidentally stab himself. To his surprise, he found that once the sword was fully in the scabbard, he could remove his hand. Withdrawing the sword, he found that his palm was once again adhered to it. He replaced the sword once again and removed the scabbard belt, only to find that now the belt had adhered to his hand. Boric sighed and put the belt back on. One way or another, the sword was determined to stick with him.
There was only one place to go: he must find the Witch of Twyllic, who lived in a hut about a day’s walk to the south. The Witch of Twyllic would know how to break the sword’s spell if anyone did. Boric did his best to exorcise the thought that perhaps she wouldn’t want to break the spell. Even the witch wasn’t totally devoid of compassion, was she? And it wasn’t like Boric had ever done anything to offend her personally. Clearly he was not to blame for her situation; she would see that, wouldn’t she?
He would have to head southwest along the edge of the Dagspaal Mountains, cross a tributary of the Ytrisk River, and then continue south to the Twyllic Forest. But first he needed to get out of sight — it wouldn’t do to be spotted by one of his men in this condition. Rather than taking the road south to the Brobdingdon Bridge, which joined Ytrisk and Skaal, he made his way into the foothills to the east. The way was challenging but not overly arduous, and by staying in the valleys he could avoid being seen by any sharp-eyed border sentries on either side of the river. Also, it was a relief to be facing away from the sun, which seemed to be about ten times as bright as usual. Even though the sky was mostly overcast, the glare off the rocks was nearly blinding; and whenever sunlight struck his bare skin, it burned like a branding iron. He would be greatly relieved when the sun went down.
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