Curse of the Black Blade

I write these words of warning on the 18th of Rot in the 467th year of Rebirth. My name is Otto Wahl, and I record here, in brief, my story so that they may deter any who in spite of my precautions may come upon my remains. It is with a hardened heart and forged resolution I prepare to surrender my mortal body to the Gods of the Mist by my own hand. It is written that your deeds in life determine the worth of your soul, and I can but pray that the fate of my impending immortality is weighed not by the actions of my hand but of the fury with which I fought to stop the curse which had taken hold of my heart so many years ago, and now my final attempt at ending its long reign once and for all.

I was born in 432, in a small town near Leipnow in the northeastern part of the Serrene Empire. My family I think of with great fondness, though I have not seen them in over a decade. We were farmers, like so many other families in the countryside. Although we did not have much, we had enough and of this we made do. My father was an honest and upstanding man, my mother was principled and kind, and my sister was quick of wit and strong of will. I cannot fault my upbringing for what I was to become, as I was provided for well and of familiar love knew no bounds.

As a child, I would play with the neighboring children, as one does. Many of our games revolved around physical activities such as running, wrestling, and exploration of the nearby woods. I was ten years of age when my friend’s two siblings were drafted and sent to war in one of the many ducal conflicts that plague the internal politics of the Empire. I recall with such clarity the day which the two left, dressed in armor of padded cloth and leather, carrying shield and spear and bow. We had all gathered to say our farewells in the courtyard of my friend’s farm. There, his elderly grandfather presented the eldest of the two young warriors with a sword that he himself had used in a similar situation many years before. I was mesmerized. The steel glistened in the light of the rising sun, the pommel in the shape of a griffin’s head with its beak open in a piercing war cry seemed to carry the weight of the howling wind, and the edge of the blade so sharp it could cleave a leaf falling from the tree without ever disturbing its path.

From that moment on, my mind was upon games of soldiering and nothing else. We would play, with sticks and stones, fight and wrestle, pretend to be might warriors of legend and myth. Today I wish my parents had stopped these senseless antics, though I cannot blame them for they saw only children being children.

Only when as I grew older and my obsession with these matters appeared not to fade, did my family begin to worry. I am a competent shaper of wood and in my youth would whittle and carve swords of all kinds, both large and small, and with these spar with my friends. At fourteen I declared I wished to join the ducal guard when I turned seventeen. My parents were, naturally, not pleased with this and discouraged me. I was still but a child though, and they did perhaps not take my desires as seriously as they should have. Only when I turned sixteen and my appetite for wargames had not yet been sated did they begin to realize that their eldest child may seek to make reality of his wishes. At this time, my father began working me day and night, performing naught but the heaviest labors, in an effort to both exhaust my body so that I would not seek to spar with my friends, but also force my mind off such games. And perhaps this would have succeeded had it not been for that cursed blade.

At the end of my sixteenth year, on a night where the howling winter winds appeared as loud and as violent as the wail of a banshee, we received a man wrapped in heavy furs, arriving by horse. He had come as an agent of my father’s brother, my uncle – a man of whom I knew little beyond his existence. Rarely had my father spoken of the man named Brandt with which he had shared a childhood. All I knew was that my uncle at a young age had left the family to seek his own fortunes.

The man who now stood at our doorstep, shivering in the cold, had come to deliver the last will and testament of Brandt ver Rotenstain, Count of Rotenstain, Knight of the Empire, and my uncle. He gave to my parents a pouch of Imperial gold sovereign coins, enough to ensure my family could afford repairs and even an expansion of the farm. In addition, he gave to my father a carved wooden figure which he looked upon very fondly, a memory of their childhood. The estate would, of course, go to the ver Rotenstain family – his widow and children. To everyone’s surprise, I too had been named in the will with the motivation that as the eldest child of the lineage I was to inherent that which had allowed for a humble farmer’s son to rise through the ranks and become a count and knight of the Empire. Had I known what I know now, I would have refused this inheritance and sent the agent back into the night.

My inheritance was a box made from fine rosewood, about five feet in length, a foot in width, and four inches in thickness, sealed with fine brass clasps. I opened it in the presence of my curious family to reveal a sword in its leather sheath. It was a humble weapon with few adornments and little frill. The pommel was of steel, about half an inch thick, and the diameter and shape of a silver mark whose surface had been embossed with the image of serpent coiled around a heart. Its handle was perhaps just shy of a foot in length, wrapped in fine but worn leather, and its guard was slightly curved though also of simple but well-forged steel. Drawing the blade from its scabbard I found it lighter than I would have thought, only a few pounds, and the hilt sat well in my hand. The blade itself was about three feet in length, perhaps two inches in width with a shallow furrow running from its sharp apex down to he guard. While both pommel and guard were polished to shine like silver, the blade was dull and dark, as if burnt in the forging process.

I recall my mother gasping in shock and my father barking angrily at the man who had delivered this evil to our family. The man reiterated that he was but a messenger, but soon left as his task had been completed and the hospitality shown upon his arrival had seemingly expired. I was enthralled, and for many a long moment could see nothing but the perfect blade as I twisted and turned the handle in my hand so that the gentle light of candle and fireplace might play on the blackened steel. I could hear it whisper to me, calling me its master, pledging its fealty to my desires.

What followed was a period of great tension and frustration in the household. My parents were furious at this gift and would repeatedly urge me to dispose of the sword, but their words fell upon deaf ears. To me, my inheritance had cemented my future and surely the Gods themselves wished for me to follow the path of the warrior. I could not join the ducal guard until the summer due to my age, and I knew now how strongly my parents would object. So, I hid the blade under my mattress, out of sight and out of the mind of family. I made no mention of it, ceased all games of swordplay, and focused on my work. This seemed to placate my father and mother, and over the next few months I had convinced them that I had abandoned my plans and had bored with the sword, as such was the fickle of youth. But in the night, I would draw the blade, listen to it sing to me in the voice of the tempest. I confess, I thought all could hear its song, but even as it howled its clean notes so loudly I could feel the walls around me reverberate, none in the household awoke.

In secret, I would slip out of the house and I would swing the swords in the fields, defeating air and grass and brambles. In my hand, the sword felt not like an item, a tool, but as if it were part of me. Together we were one. Soon the blade would whisper to me of more challenging opponents than the foliage around the farm. That summer, once more in the shroud of the night, I slipped from my bed with a pack on my shoulders and headed to the ducal castle some miles to the east. On the kitchen table I had left a note declaring my intentions, but also my love for family and farm, and that I would return a count so that my family may live the remainder of their lives in luxury and leisure.

Joining the ducal guard was no great challenge as I was young, strong, and in good health. Life as a soldier is harsh and unforgiving. Though it is also filled with camaraderie and shared joy. The particularities of my time as a soldier in the service of Duchess Magdalin ver Memmen are not important to the story, nor are the names of the friends I obtained or the adversaries I earned. What matters is that it was in her service I first tasted blood.

It was in the late Spring of 449 when word reached us that the Duchess was mobilizing her troops in response to perceived aggression at the hands of agents representing the neighboring duchy of Torneur. Memmen and Torneur had a long history of conflict over a relatively humble piece of land about a square mile in size. Locals referred to it simply as ‘the moors’ though in the treatise of old it was named as River’s End owing to its proximity to Larrecin’s Pond. There was no river of worth nearby, merely a small stream which meandered its way a few miles east into the Alardain forest in Torneur, near the sizeable village Aurissey of the county Neunfeld. Duke Gilo ver Torneur was the descendant of the fabled Hubertus ver Torneur, the man said to have tamed these northern reaches of the Empire some three hundred years ago. The ver Torneur family took great pride in their ancestry and were quick to remind any who would listen of their storied past. To the ver Memmen, however, the exploits of Hubertus ver Torneur were greatly exaggerated. According to ver Memmen family history, Hubertus achieved what he did only because of the support his most trusted lieutenant Aunda ver Memmen who was credited with having saved his life on numerous occasions while also compensating for the many flaws of character these stories attributed to the more famous ver Torneur grand patriarch.

History remains unclear as to the role of either family in these matters, but it cannot be denied that both Aunda and Hubertus were awarded for services to the Empire with land and titles and as such some truth must be ascribed to these stories – though to what extent the particularities as told by either family were factual I will make no judgment. What mattered is that the duchy of Memmen and the duchy of Torneur had a long and strained history. As a result, representatives of either state would frequently butt heads, whether it be in a social setting, a border skirmish, or in the halls of the Elector Prince of Leipnow. On occasion, these tensions would grow into military conflicts over matters such as the claim to River’s End.

In this particular instant, a complaint had been filed to the magistrate of county Neufeld on behalf of a farmer who resided on the border between Memmen and Torneur. This farmer claimed ancestry as far reaching as those of either of the ducal families, her kin having lived in the very same spot her farm occupied continuously since the time before this land knew of either Memmen or Torneur. Her herd of sheep, which were central to the conflict, could in fact trace their own lineage to a ram and ewe grazing these pastures before the Empire was but a gleam in the eye of the Rosheim nobility.

The farmer was technically a subject of ver Memmen, but her sheep knew no borders and would spend part of the year grazing on either side of the invisible line that divided these two states. And this was what the complaint fielded by the farmer to the court of Neufeld concerned; a farm on the Torneur side of the border had laid claim to the pasture lands of River’s End this Spring and would see no encroachment upon their territory. The Memmen farm wanted for the return of the grazing right of River’s End, using their lineage and history of having had this right for centuries as the basis of their complaint. The Torneur farm, meanwhile, claimed that they had legally and lawfully rented the land from the Count of Neufeld – to which they had documentation proving this was no lie. In the humble town hall of Aurissey, the magistrate ruled that the Torneur defendants had the legal right to the lands as current treatise superseded historical claims. Naturally, the Memmen farmer was outraged and lodged a complaint to the court of Duchess ver Memmen.

This in turn resulted in some diplomatic dispatches, though to little avail as the Duke ver Torneur backed the ruling of the court. Ver Memmen would not stand for such a slight in the face of historic fact, especially not from the ver Torneur whose whole lineage was based on the perversion of history. As such, the Ducal Guard was mobilized with the instructions to reclaim River’s End for the benefits of the herd that had so long known the delights of the succulent grasses of this small piece of land.

As is clear, I put greater importance on understanding these, what might seem as relatively minor, political disagreement than I do on the life of a soldier, or my training with the spear and sword, or the bonds I formed or broke, or even the fate of my own family and my relationship to them. I do this because to understand the curse that ails me, one must understand the pettiness and futility upon which it is all built. How the meaningless wants and desires of a handful of men and women with the power of command can lead to horrors so unspeakable the very people in whose name and to whose whims blood is shed will never learn of. After all, what servant would offer their master a true and full account of what I am to describe here.

These ducal conflicts were, as I noted, not uncommon in the Empire. Mostly, they would consist of some rattling of shields, perhaps a few skirmishes with no or few deaths, some bruised egos, and an eventual diplomatic solution and a new treaty that would last a decade or two before the next generation made the perceived slights of their ancestors the podium upon which they reiterated their true and lawful demands for justice. But this conflict was to differ. And it was because of my actions.

Spring was rapidly turning to Summer, though this far north the difference was unlikely to have been noticed had it not been for the trees and bushes now bearing green, and the fields sprinkled with splotches of wild flower color. I was sent ahead alongside three others, of the bulk of the three-hundred strong army fielded by Duchess ver Memmen in the protection of the ancient grazing rights of her people. Our job was to scout River’s End to offer the Captain in charge a comprehensive list of options for where to set camp and where to pitch our formidable force, as well as to learn if the enemy had already come to occupy the land.

On swift horses, we arrived at River’s End at dusk, the sun having just barely crept behind the western horizon, its fading light still a bright fire into the heavens to illuminate our path. We saw no signs of enemy movement, and were able to accomplish our task in relatively short order. After some hours, now in darkness, we had planned to retreat an hour or two south, rest, and then meet up with the main force come the next day. My comrades were mounted and waiting for me to finish returning our plans, notes, and drawings in my satchel. In the light of the lantern mounted on my horse, I caught a glimpse of an object on the ground perhaps thirty feet from where I stood. The item was small, but stood out only because it reflected a flash of light in my direction. I took the lantern and walked toward the object, finding it was a dagger in its sheath – its round pommel of steel, polished to a high shine, being what had deflected the rays of my lantern. I then heard rustling further down the gentle slope atop whose crest we stood, and I followed the noise.

I had walked perhaps a hundred or hundred and fifty feet from where I had found the errant dagger, belonging to none of us, when the noise of leather squeaking – like it would if a person was clad in it and moved – and the rustling of bushes. My shield I had left by my horse, in my left hand I held my lantern and in my right my spear. Approaching a bramble of bushes and dense grass that had been allowed to grow high in the absence of the Memmen sheep, a figure leapt. As it moved, I caught a glimpse of enemy colors as it figure sought to escape the devastating light I shone in its direction. He was fleeing from me, a scout of Torneur undoubtedly here on the same assignment as us, likely returning to retrieve his lost dagger and then jumping into hiding as he heard us. For some reason, the running man angered me. As if his flight was an offense to my sense of honorable combat and struggle in the righteous name of your master. How dare this man try to escape when he had in fact taken me by surprise. Of course, any sensible person would recognize that the man knew he was outnumbered – and even so, with the history of these conflicts so rarely ending in true casualties, why would he risk becoming one?

I shifted the grip on my spear, extended it behind me and hurled the five foot length of wood and steel. The enemy scout had not had time to run far, struggling to make his way out of the brambles in which he had hid. My spear struck the fleeing man in the back with a wet thud, and the man cried out in pain as he collapsed beyond the reach of my lantern. The sound alerted my comrades who hurried in its direction. But I was atop the enemy before my brothers-in-arms had made it to my side. He was young, like me, his hair brown and tousled, a faint and scraggly beard on his chin, terror in his eyes. My spear had struck his lower back, causing damage but nothing close to life-threatening. With ease, I could have taken the man prisoners and claimed our first victory in this war. Instead, I drew my blade and the howl that followed as it emerged from its scabbard filled my ears with songs of victory and glory. The man was begging for his life, pleading that he had a wife and… I learnt nothing more of his story for I plunged my sword through his chest before he could finish delivering his final words. The sound is hard to describe, wet, sticky, crunchy, but the expression on my enemy’s face as he expired before my eyes I will never forget. Pleading, replaced with fear of the highest magnitude, then his eyes bulging in shock and his words drowning in blood and spit and the air expelling from his lungs. How a person responds in the moments leading up to their impending and certain death may differ, but the final look is always the same. Surprise, shock, confusion, as if they knew they were about to die yet could not fathom that it was truly happening, experiencing hope up until the very final moment when it would dissipate, and the person was no more.

My comrades, young and inexperienced like myself, born and raised in the region, were shocked and horrified. I recall the sound of one emptying their stomach contents off to the side. It was but a muffled pick at my attention though, for my ears were filled with the song of the bloodied sword in my hands. A wave of satisfaction washed over me, I felt empowered and bold, as if I could win this way all on my own, and no enemy would avoid my justified wrath.

The death of their young scout became a rallying cry around which the enemy mustered. In one fell swoop, I had emboldened and enraged those men and women gathering on the other side of River’s End. The situation could likely have been saved and the conflict returned to one of posturing and brawling had it not been for the rumors which came to spread across our camp and soon to the ears of the enemy. I had mocked my foe, tortured him, humiliated him, and executed him only when he begged for death. An exaggeration to be sure, yet somehow it felt like the truth to me.

Who won this war is irrelevant, for a new one would brew over the same, or some similar, issue soon enough. What mattered was my role in it, and the blood that I shed in the name of a pasture. There was only one real battle where both sides had gathered on opposite ends of the field. Trumpets sounded and we charged our enemy and they us. It was not like a real war, but it was what the commanders of either side felt a real war should look like. And none of us knew better nor did we care. I recall my comrades being displeased with me after what I had done, and I was in a sense ostracized. Our leadership, however, praised me – not because they wanted to, but because they had no choice. They could not be seen as discouraging a soldier under their command for doing his utmost duty, putting his life at risk, and defeating the enemy. I knew they were as frustrated by the situation as most of my comrades. A handful were, like me, seemingly bred for war and we became fast friends, fighting shoulder to shoulder in the Battle for River’s End. My punishment for escalating this conflict was to stand in the center of the front line to lead the charge. To me, this was a reward, and I made the most of it.

As the two armies fell upon one another, I hurled my spear into the mass that came towards me, tossed my shield aside to the anger of the Bannerman who commanded my unit of bloodthirsty young men. I drew my sword and leapt into the fray with no hesitation, gripping the singing blade with both hands. The first man I encountered tried to run me through with his spear but I avoided him with ease, pushing my shoulder into the man next to me and sending him, my comrade, tumbling into the enemy. Who it was or what happened to him I did not see, nor did I care. Avoiding the spear, I swung my sword above my head. He raised his shield, but not quick enough, and like a knife through lukewarm butter I clove through his leather helmet and split his skull down to his nose. Yanking my sword from my slain enemy’s falling corpse, I thrust the edge to my right, sticking another man in his side, then swung to the left where I caught a third enemy underneath his arm and deep into his armpit. On this battlefield, there was no blade sharper than the one I wielded, and the armor – whether it was the leather and cloth of the regulars or the mail of the professionals – offered no hinderance as I carved a path ahead.

I cannot say how many I killed, for to my eyes all was red. My movements were guided by the song of the sword, the howl of its piercing cry, the joyous cries of triumph as bodies fell around me. When the battle had ended, my reputation in Memmen had been cemented as that of a formidable warrior. Those by whose side I had stood in this battle looked upon me as a great and powerful man, and a bond was formed. But the bond was one where they had tied themselves to me, yet I did not bind myself to them. At the time I did not realize this, only in time had I come to see just how little I cared for those who shared my side of the battlefield.

--

A year I stayed with the Ducal Guard of Memmen before the boredom drove me to desert. After having known the exhilaration of battle, I could not live a life consisting of training, eating, and patrolling. I slunk away into the night, and with came the group of soldiers who had come to worship my skill with the blade and the drive with which I had killed. We headed east into Altmeer, following the Imperial Trade Way north to the city of Gorhurn where we quickly found work as mercenaries, in spite of possessing no charter. Gorhurn was separated from Dreadfen with but a small bay across which the cold-blooded raiders and killers of the swamps would row as they thirsted for violence and loot. It was a perfect place to sate the hunger which the blade at my side had awoken in me.

In the first few months myself and the Bladesworn, as my comrades had come to call themselves, patrolled the shores around Gorhurn, encountering raiding parties on more than one occasion. Quickly our reputation grew as we never backed down from a fight, nor did we ever end one but in complete victory. As word of our exploits spread, adventurous and bold men and women would flock to our banner and the Bladesworn grew. Some of them might refer to me as their friend and confidant, someone who watched over them and cared for them. I would agree when such claims reached me, but in truth I do not think I took a single name of my comrades to memory. Certainly, as I write now, I cannot remember a single one of their faces. I cared not who they were or what they did. Nor did I care for the silver that had begun filling our coffers, or the pleasures we were offered or took. They were a tool that allowed for me to continue mastering the formidable force that hung in its scabbard at my side.

This was all years before the Storm of the Gods had struck our shores and the lands of Ryleth had been pulled from the sea. Life, at this time, made sense. At least, so I thought. I did not realize just how dulled my mind had become, how the colors of the world had faded into shades of red and black before my eyes, how cruel and heartless I had come to be. Although I did not admit this to myself at the time, it was here in Gorhurn where the first seeds of doubt and introspection began to take hold of my subconscious. It would be years longer before I came to see myself as I do now. But it was here the boy I had once been, kind and generous, who would have shied away from blood and gore, began stirring.

Emboldened by our victories, my mind singular in its focus, I declared that the Bladesworn would invade Dreadfen to strike a pre-emptive blow against the nearby settlement of Cramlak from which many of the raiding parties that haunted the coast of Altmeer and Vilberg came. The burghers of Gorhurn demanded we cease all such talk as a direct assault on Cramlak, should it fail, would bring the wrath of the marsh born upon them. Of course, I ignored them. I do in fact believe I may also have mocked them openly. Regardless, in the dark of night sometime late in winter of 452 we boarded small vessels taken from the fishermen that plied their trade along the coast, and without sound we rowed across the bay.

I recall the settlement well, for it stood upon the highest point of the landscape, a small town surrounded by wooden walls upon which were mounted large torches that could be seen from the shores of Gorhurn. The people of Cramlak would never have imagined the citizens of Gorhurn bold enough to attempt a violent overtaking of the town. And even if the Emperor would send an army across the bay, there would be ample notice and the people who have time to disappear into the dark marshes that surrounded the settlement – setting the scene for violent retaliation once the invaders had dispersed. The idea that a group of Imperial citizens whose thirst for blood was greater than even that of the Dreadfen raiders would simply never occur to the rulers of Cramlak. As such, landing our boats at the shores beneath the town attracted no notice from the few sentries who patrolled the palisades above. Scaling the walls in silence, and disposing of the complacent fighters who was charged with guarding the city at night proved just as easy.

My warriors unlocked the town gates and as they opened, so too did the very maws of hell. We fell upon the city with such a howl it was later told to us that in Gorhurn there were those that had heard the wail of a banshee.

We were vastly outnumbered, and among the people of Dreadfen martial play is common from a young age and most households have at least one weapon of war. But it did not matter, for we struck with such ferocity and speed that resistance in any meaningful sense never had the chance to form.

I have little recollection of the orders I gave, before or during the assault, but within moments of having breached the gates out of control flames begun rising from the thatched roofs of the buildings around us. It was in the dancing lights of these flames that I made my way down the muddy main street toward the longhouse at the center of the town. To us, anyone not wearing the red and black armband of the Bladesworn was an enemy. Whether they had taken up arms or not was of no consequence; they were cut down where they stood. I recall my warriors firing arrows from bows and crossbows at those who tried fleeing, more often than not hitting true.

The song from my drawn blade was celestial to my ears, and I moved in perfect unison with the unworldly notes that seemed to make the very air around me tremble. When I raised the sword to strike, a piercing howl of furious anger would nearly deafen me, only to be replaced with a cry of joyous celebration as my foe fell dead in the mud. I was invincible, and I could stay as such for as long as I kept shedding blood.

With ease, I slew the hird of the chief of Cramlak as they came pouring from the longhouse ahead of me. I carved for myself a path of gore, stepping over the corpses of the fighters I had splayed open on my journey to the center of town. The chieftain of Cramlak came to face me at the town square just before his home. Disposing of the few warriors that flanked him was of no concern, and killing him was done with the same ease. I recall so vividly the sorrow and surprise at the carnage that was taking place all around him. The man felt strongly for his people, and to see what we were doing to him broke his heart. Some were burnt alive as we trapped them in their homes. Others were forced to watch as we took our time cutting the throats or ripping the guts of their loved ones, then released to experience the futility of trying to piece together someone who was already dead though their body had not yet surrendered to this fact. I recall vividly a large barn upon whose walls children were nailed, living or dead – but only those light enough so that only one or two nails would be enough to ensure their weight did not cause them to fall down. If one of the defenders had managed to wound one of us, their hands and feet of both them and their loved ones would be cut off and they would be left to crawl through the mud in a futile attempt at- well, I do not know what goes through the mind of a person in such a situation, all I know is that they flop around on the ground like a fish out of water, their goals unknown.

When the chieftain lay eyes on me, the shock and horror in his eyes was replaced with righteous fury. He fell upon me like the barbarian he was, and as such stood no chance against myself and the sword in my hands. I did not kill him outright. I drove my sword through his belly and twisted, ensuring his guts would begin to trickle out of the wound. He was surprised at having been defeated with such ease. Disarmed, he instinctively came to grip at the hole in his body, desperate to not lose his entrails. It is not easy to keep ones innards in their place when the gut has been pierced in such a way, but most who experience this will attempt to do just so. It is a survival instinct, I suppose. Hope truly is the last to leave a person.

I dragged the now panicked chieftain into his home, flanked by nameless comrades who laughed and mocked the man in his attempts at gut wrangling. Only when my raiders dragged the chieftains family from their hiding places and threw them onto the ground before him could we see his attention being divided between keeping himself alive and fear for his loved ones. He was brave, tried to console them, to assure his weeping children that all would be well, his wife, whose belly was bloated with a child, that they would live.

My Bladesworn held the panicked woman down as I carved the fetus from her stomach and threw into the fire that burnt in the chimney. The youngest of the children we placed on the ground and upon her head we laid a shield onto which one of us jumped so as to crush her skull like it was a melon. Never will I forget the cries of the woman who lay bleeding as her daughter was murdered in such a cruel fashion. His two sons we dismembered, removing legs and arms, then placing in a large pot of water which was then set on the grills above the fire. We left husband and wife, still alive, without doubt maddened with grief at the senseless atrocities they had just been subjected to. The longhouse we boarded up and also set on fire, letting the rulers of Cramlak and any servants still hiding within burn alive.

The blade in my hand spoke to me through its song. It called me master, professed its undying loyalty, made promises of all that we would accomplish, swore to me that I was the greatest warrior to have ever walked these lands. We returned to Gorhurn ladened with silver and other riches, every man and woman drenched in the blood of their victims and with a song of celebration in their throats.

--

While the citizens of Gorhurn celebrated with us, the leadership of the city were silently outraged and we soon found ourselves shunned by those with power. I leveraged a charter from the council of Gorhurn with the promise that we would leave after receiving it. They begrudgingly accepted, having little choice but also recognizing that giving such a bloodthirsty band the blessings of the Empire to conduct their business legally would undoubtedly result in suffering for many. Leaving Gorhurn behind, this was the start of a journey that was to last nearly two decades. As word of the Sacking of Cramlak spread throughout the northern states of the Empire, we found further work with little issue.

I cannot even begin to count the number of times we were hired as a deterrence owing to our fearsome reputation, to take part in one of these Ducal Conflicts that had started my career and where no true bloodshed was expected. Or to oversee some transaction, protect some messenger or cargo, jobs of a nature where our name was what was wanted in the hopes that it alone would discourage anyone from attempting what they should not. Similarly, I cannot begin to count the number of times we ensured that such simple jobs would end in bloodshed. We craved the thrill of violence, the satisfaction of seeing our enemies – perceived or otherwise – crumble into the mud beneath our feet.

We grew, not only in reputation, but in number and wealth as well. The promises that my sword made upon the conclusion of being sated with the blood it craved were to come true, for there was no end to the conflicts ahead. Within a few years the entire Empire was our place of work, and where we went death followed.

Our tactics and customs became only more cruel as time passed, and we would frequently divert from our stated task in order to obtain further wealth from the unwilling or trophies which we used as currency within the Company. Teeth, ears, fingers, bloodied items of clothing, tufts of hair, my fighters were ceaseless and savage but I did not care. I led the Company more in direction than in practice. It was by my command we moved camp, we found new employers, new targets. But I had nothing to do with the practicalities of running the Company, and I cared for nothing else but the next man or woman who could slake the lusts of my blade.

At this time, we greatly preferred conflicts where we were given free reign. Under the legal authority of the noble houses we served, we were free to set the villages of their enemies alight, free to slay their cattle and burn their fields, to plunder their homes, poison their wells, and most importantly slaughter their people. The more cruelty we applied to our methods of execution of the defeated, helpless, or weak, the louder the song rang in my ears and the greater the lure of my sword. I craved its thrilling notes of encouragement and promise, and in time nothing but its voice would grant me any pleasure.

Eventually, we made enemies of a woman whose connections were far greater than our reputation. The exact details are of no consequence, but it is important to recognize that our bloody crusade was accepted, often lauded, by the higher nobility of the Empire for years. Only when I gutted a boy – far from the first one – tied his entrails around a pole and hurled him from the height of his family’ manor house did we attract the ire of the true powers-that-be. The manor house was on the way to our destination and a mere distraction to entertain ourselves. I do not recall the name of the family that owned it and the surrounding lands. I merely remember that my mercenaries rounded up all servants and had them fight to the death for our entertainment, using nothing but stick and stones as weapons. I also recall us killing the youngest of the manor, and forcing their mothers to carry their mutilated corpses in their arms for the days that we spent entertaining ourselves. The lesser noble who owned the manor, we had stripped naked and nailed to the front of the house, above the door, so that they may witness the ways in which we fulfilled our need for fun. I cannot recall what we did with most of his immediate family, I believe we may have thrown them into one of the wells on the property. But his oldest son, perhaps ten years of age, I gutted in a drunken fit of laughter and threw from the top window of the mansion attic, his intestines tied to a beam. It was to settle a discussion as to whether or not human entrails were sufficiently strong to hang a person from.

Eventually, we left the property and, we thought, no survivors. Somehow, the noble whose family and servants we had murdered so cruelly survived their crucifixion. They were related in one way or another to the Elector-Princess of Elterschau, and when word reached her of these events she obtained a warrant for our arrest.

We had entertained ourselves in this same manner many times in our services to various nobles and people of power. Eventually word reached us of an army assembled by some Duke who sought to raise his favor with the Elector-Princess who had issued the warrant. As much as it pained me, we could not fight this army as it was one composed of veteran Imperial troops, and one which outnumbered us significantly. Thus, we resorted to fleeing the Empire and headed west.

The sword at my side was furious at my choice to shy from this fight. In the years since I obtained it, this was the first time I had rejected their request. It demanded I turn my troops and return to face our pursuers, promising that I would live, that no mortal could kill me while it was in my hands. The song it sang was as violent as the thunderstorms that haunt the highest peaks of the Dragonspine Mountains. It was lying to me. I cannot say how I knew, but I knew. The promises it made, had made, were empty. It sought merely bloodshed, and it did not care in whose hands it was sated. If I died, a new set of hands would carry it into battle and its reaping of lives would continue until the very end of time. I was not its master, I was its slave.

--

Having fled the Empire, we soon found further work in Stonemere, making our way south to Olvir. As before, death followed in our wake, and there was never a shortage of people that needed killing. When I lay dead the first enemy since leaving the Empire – a brigand somewhere in eastern Stonemere – the blade sang once again. The way it always had. A song of promise and joy and glory and honor. Gone was its demands and threats. We were one once more.

For a time, as we ravaged our way down the coast of the Mirecoast, things were as they had been in the Empire. Instead of Counts and Dukes we now served Politarchs and Probuloi, but the work remained the same. The customs of the Mirecoast were different than those of Empire, and the people of Olvir and Ivoryguard were far less concerned with appearances. They did not hide their bloodthirst when they felt someone or something had wronged them. We altered our methods some, growing more particular about how we entertained the wants for which only cruelty would do. We had been forced to leave much of our wealth in the Empire, but the Mirecoast was brimming with new riches of which we obtained plenty.

Eventually, we caught the eye of the Tyrant family of Olvir and came to earn a Royal Charter. This meant we not only had direct access to work from the very wealthiest and most powerful families in Olvir, but we had legal standing. We operated in the service of the Tyrant for years, growing fat but never complacent. The blade was happy. Yet I was not.

As much as I pretended we had returned to normal, I found that the song of the blade no longer filled me with the overflowing sense of immortality it once had, nor did I long for its howling cries like before. It took time, but I came to realize that my lust for blood had dulled, and as such the promises of the sword simply did not appeal as strongly to me any longer. With the years passing, the realization that I had come to when fleeing the Empire – that I was the slave, not the master – came to gradually cement itself in my mind even as I had tried to push it away.

I came to look upon our actions with trepidation, no longer with lust and excitement. When I looked at myself in the mirror I no longer saw a warrior seeking glory and honor, but a cruel and small man whose sanguine hands were stained with lifeblood of the defenseless and young. I was not a hero, I would feature in no legends, no mother would read the story of my life to their child, no bored youngster would daydream of being me or fighting by my side. I was a bloody stain on the pages of history, a disgrace to my name, the very evil I had once imagined facing and defeating.

The sword at my side was my undoing, and I now knew that it must be destroyed. Yet, I could not for the sword would stop me. Nor could I give it to someone else to destroy on my behalf for the blade would poison their mind and they would refuse. How could I rid the world of this evil that would not allow for mortal hands to end its existence?

I spent many nights awake, considering this question, making plans in my mind only to see them ruined by the influence of the sword. One night I left my chambers and rode several hours through the darkness to the coast where I stole a boat and rowed to sea. Once I was above sufficiently deep waters I drew the blade, its song filling my mind with thoughts of violence and bloodshed. I tried to appease it by hurling myself onto its deadly point, to let my lifeless body sink into the ocean with the sword clutched in my hand so that none may retrieve us. It would not let me. I tried to throw it into the sea but it would not let me. I sunk the boat so that I would be forced to swim, thinking I did not have the strength to make it to land and would drown with the sword at my side. Somehow, I made the journey with my life intact, surely aided by the cursed weapon.

At this time, days, weeks and months merged to one as I carried out the wicked desires of the sword while my mind was yet occupied with thoughts of its destruction. I cannot say what we did, what horrors we performed in the name of patrons who wanted no details of our crimes only the results stemming from our actions. By chance, one of our employers was a Politarch of considerable influence and contacts across the continent. Knowing of our forced exile from the Empire, she had suggested she may be able to help in absolving us of our legal sins. While the Mirecoast had treated the Company well, I longed to return home after these many years. Perhaps there I could find the help I needed to rid the world of my curse.

I paid to our patron a significant sum of silver and within months she had obtained an Imperial Pardon for our offenses, though our Charter had been revoked and we would be unable to ply our trade within the Empire. My followers, now hundreds in number, had no interest in returning to a place where they could not satisfy their lusts for bloodshed and silver. They considered the very idea treasonous to the many years of service and friendship they had provided. Of course, to me they were nameless and faceless, and their belief that I was not only their leader but also a treasured companion who cared for them was wholly untrue. Yet, it was clear that I could not leave them without them seeking violent reprisal for this perceived betrayal. I had, in a sense, created a second curse that hung around my neck. This one was far easier to deal with, however.

Through further dealings with the Politarch, I arranged an agreement. The Company was wealthy enough to rival many of the Politarch throughout Olvir, and the only thing that had kept the ruling classes from outlawing this unpredictable new power in their lands was our ties to the Tyrant, and the fact that if paid we could prove useful. But these factors were only marginally in our favor as we had made enemies of many people of influence due to the actions we had undertaken on behalf of their political adversaries.

With the help of the Politarch, I convinced the Tyrant to release us from our service. I then petitioned several neighboring Politarchs for their aid. In exchange, they would not only rid their home of this unpredictable stain upon their lands, but also fill their own coffers with all the wealth in our camp. Their greed and righteous desire for vengeance made such an agreement easy to barter.

One night, after having plyed my comrades with many barrels of the finest Olviran wine, when the haze of drunkenness blotted out all sense of reason, I signaled my new and temporary allies. A rain of flaming arrows was released upon the unsuspecting mercenaries, resulting in great death and howls of pain. The storm was followed by horseborn men and women with curved blades descending upon the surprised and drunken Bladesworn. No mercy was shown by the Olviran attackers as they carved their way through the stumbling ranks of mercenaries, desperately trying to fight back but to little avail. I walked among this bloody inferno, my blade wailing its song as it sliced through flesh and bone and drank its fill of the lives of those that had followed me for so long.

I snuck away from the massacre before the bloodraged Olvirans inevitably turned their attention to me. There was little doubt in my mind that the Politarchs had seen to ensure that an unfortunate accident were to befall me, a friendly casualty. I had already made my plans and preparations though, and Olvir would soon be but a faded memory. Only miles from the camp I had gathered supplies, horses, and a cart to carry the extensive treasures which I had obtained. I was personally a very wealthy man at this point, wealth I largely had kept in banks and vaults but now gathered in this one place. In addition, the Company had never once kept all of its riches in one place, but rather scattered it throughout the area in hiding to ensure we could not be robbed of it all. This share of the wealth I had too gathered, making me a man of extreme wealth. The Politarchs had obtained perhaps half of our riches, I disappeared into the dark night with an Imperial pardon and the rest of the wealth.

Although the journey home was not uneventful, the details are of no consequence. By this point in my tale you will have gathered that where I went, bloodshed followed. This journey was no different. What matters is that the Imperial pardon was worth what it stated and I was now a free man of considerable means. I could not bear to return to the family farm knowing what I was and what I had done. Instead I resolved to ridding the world of sword which had caused such untold horrors to so many. Though I did obtain the services of an investigator to learn the fate of my family. My sister had married a good man and had many children and now ran the farm successfully. They dutifully tended to my ailing mother in her twilight years, though my father had passed only a year prior to my return. What had become of their errant son, there was no word and none would speak of me. Though the investigator reported that displayed prominently on the mantle was a series of the many whittled miniature swords I had once carved in my youth.

I cannot say what exactly motivated me, but I returned to the ruined husk of the manor house where our fall from Imperial grace had occurred. It was overgrown, reclaimed by the forests around it, yet the scars of our onslaught was unmistakable once vines and grass had been cleared. The noble that had survived to petition to brand us as criminals had eventually succumbed by the irreparable damage we had caused to him and the land was abandoned. I procured it from the distance relative of the family we had so brutally murdered, without revealing my role in their fate, for a generous sum. Over the next year I had laborers and master crafters restore the place to its former glory, though with some alterations.

The main house was reinforced with heavy blocks of stone, and a deep and extensive cellars was constructed also out of unyielding stone. The cellar doors were of steel and constructed with masterwork locks, for which I had paid a locksmith of great renown a considerable sum to come and engineer. I also equipped the cellar with a hidden door in the wall, behind a series of shelves. Here I stored most of my wealth, displaying it clearly and proudly for anyone who entered to see. Beyond this secret chamber, I had a second room constructed. This one was smaller, containing merely a cot. There was no door to this second hidden space, only a gap in the stonework just large enough for a person to crawl through.

I had ensured that the workers building the secret chambers were as few as possible, four in total. While I prepared to set my plan into motion, I ensured these four remained on the property and all others discharged – a healthy severance in their pockets. I then had legal documents drafted which passed ownership of the land and all things on it to my sister and her family. Of my treasures, I placed much in a safe on the second floor, decorated the manor with items of remarkable beauty and value, and ensured that further wealth was placed in the main cellar to be easily found.

I gave the deed to a messenger alongside a brief letter. In the letter I did not explain my motivations nor the life I had lived away from her and my parents. I instructed her to never look into my disappearance or the life I had lived as only sorrow would come from it. Further, I begged her forgiveness for my abandonment of them all, and asked her to remember me as her brother. Keeping in mind the travels of the messenger and then the preparations to come here, I would have weeks to finalize my plans before my sister and her family would arrive.

During this time, I paid my workers a wage of ten times their annual wages and ensured they had the money sent to their families as I required their services for some time longer. I then led the four back into the secret chamber in the basement under the pretense that we must finish blocking of the final room. Once there, I locked the secret door behind us, drew my sword and slaid them all. The song was heavenly, filling me with the comfort and safety of an old friend. For some moments I resolved to abandon my plans, for the blade and I were one and we must continue our work. Truly, this was the very greatest test of my strength. Having not used the sword for a year, its hold over me had weakened some, though not much. Now, fueled by the taste of blood once more, and knowing of my plans, it sank its claws deeper into my soul than ever before. With every ounce of its malicious powers, it sought to dissuade me from chosen path and take to the road again so that we may live a life of joy and death together as before.

When it became clear that I would not relent, the sword shrieked, tried to deafen me, shatter my soul in a million pieces. Alas, to my relief, I held strong and after having performed my gruesome deed I was able to return the blade to its scabbard, the hellish song it screamed disappearing as the steel was covered. Although I knew I should regret the killing of these four innocent men, my senses remained dulled and I felt nothing. In a sense, I saw this as a victory for in the past I would relish the act of killing, but now I felt nothing but empty.

I arranged the bodies carefully among the treasures still held in the chamber. The bodies were wrapped in cloth and positioned to appear as if they were the remains of people of importance. I then gathered the tools of the craftsmen and moved them into the second hidden chamber and crawled inside. I applied the mortar, which I had mixed with a cement glue – a powerful alchemical compound which made it virtually impossible to free the stone – and with great effort I pulled the stone into place, sealing the chamber to the very best of my abilities, hoping it would remain so until the end of time.

The secret chamber behind the shelves I constructed as a distraction. Should I have built this second room immediately adjacent to the main cellar, a simple expansion or even an accident could have revealed it. But in such an instance, the secret chamber with the treasures will be revealed and any curious minds will be satisfied that this was the one secret this mansion held. And what person in their right minds would wish to destroy a secret chamber? It would become a place to hide the treasures of the occupants.

I will die here, locked away behind stone, long before anyone discovers the treasures outside. Already now I can feel the air growing stale and my lungs struggling to catch their breath. Soon, I will suffocate and there is not a thing I, nor the sword, can do to stop it. Death in this manner is a mercy I do not deserve, but I can think of no other way to lock the curse away. I hope that as I die, and as the blade finds no new hand to wield it, the evil it holds too dies. Though I cannot be certain of that.

In these last moments I wonder why my uncle willed me the sword which had caused such terrors. Had the sword such a grip on his mind that he did not recognize what it was? Did he die as a result of the sword? Who would create an item of such malice? Was it my uncle? How did he obtain it? It does not matter now, I suppose, yet I fear I have few answers. All I have is the tale I have now told.

If you are reading these words, it means that my hopes of never being discovered have been shattered and somehow you have made your way into my prison and final resting place. It is a possibility I could never discount, and why I recorded my story. I urge you to leave this chamber and seal it once more. Do not touch the blade which rests by side, for if you do you will fall under its spell and in your wake unimaginable horrors will follow. Seal the chamber and forget of its existence. Let us rest here until the end of days so that we may face the Gods and demand justice for their complacency in this curse.