For a thousand years, the training games were performed on these fields, in honour of the Felerorián king that had brought ruin to the dark mage, Ethrigar. Even though Feleroriá had long since passed into history. Even though peace had reigned for centuries. Still the warriors of the Five Kingdoms came to these fields to test their mettle against each other, in anticipation of a day of darkness that had never come.

Until this day.

As night had fallen, the minions of the reborn Ethrigar, the goblins and orcs, the kobolds and the ogres, the trolls and the demon children, all poured upon the fields and attacked without mercy. Their corrupted blades bit deep into human and elven flesh alike. Towers of stone and soil erupted from the very ground, dragons wheeled in the sky, diving to devour great swathes of warriors in single bites.

The young squire, Penethir, ran. Not through fear, or cowardice, but in search of a weapon, any weapon with which he could take up arms against the fell beasts that threatened to overwhelm the combined armies of five, noble nations. The sounds of battle threatened to deafen his young ears, screams of pain, the clash of metal upon metal, bones breaking. Still he sought a way to join the fight, cursing the laws that forbade him taking arms until the day of his knighting.

He ran so hard and fast, his feet could bare keep up the pace, forcing him to stumble and fall more than once, until, up ahead, he saw a blade that he knew how to wield. Though he had only trained with wooden swords, he knew he could raise that sword as well as any and many a beast would feel its bite.

Were it not for fated chance. The ground rippled beneath Penethir's feet, sending him toppling to the ground, except the ground where he would have fallen no longer existed, a great crack had opened beneath him and Penethir fell into darkness.

Hands scraped upon crumbling walls, feet attempted to find purchase, but Penethir could not arrest his fall. Tumbling, bouncing against outcroppings and lips of stone, he seemed to fall to the very bowels of the world itself until, after what felt like an age, he came to a crashing stop.

He almost laughed as he realised he had suffered no more than bruising after the relentless fall, but he had little else in which to find such joy. Up above, his comrades, his kin, his fellow squires and his beloved knights were fighting for their very lives, while he had found safety. A safety he had not wished for himself.

In the darkness, he could not see where he had fallen. No light could penetrate here and, as he stared upwards, the world above seemed so very far away. Seeing no other option, he decided to attempt to clamber back to the surface, hands searching before him to find the nearest wall and any hand and footholds upon it.

It was then that he saw the light. Faint, flickering, but a light nonetheless. A light that Penethir found compelling. His hands fell from the wall, all thoughts of climbing back to the surface, to rejoin his comrades, were now gone. All he could think of was that light. That enticing light.

With trepidatious steps, Penethir made his way towards that light. Cautious steps, testing the way forward through fear of falling into yet another hole, until he realised that he could see. He rubbed his eyes, blinking once, twice, but it changed nothing. There was no light here, save for that dim will-o-the-wisp that seemed to call to him, yet he could see as well as though he stood in broad daylight.

And what he saw brought a gasp to his lips. Great statues rose up on either side of him. An avenue of marble warriors, their hands raised, pointing towards where that seductive light gleamed. Hands in praise. A dozen statues, a hundred statues. Penethir could not count their number as he looked behind him to see the avenue stretching far into the distance.

But it was forward, led by those raised, dust covered hands, that Penethir moved. He had to find the source of that light. Desired it. It called. Without a sound, it called to him in the most beautiful voice. It wanted him to find it and Penethir could not ignore that call. He ran once more, this time towards something. Something of such great value, no amount of coin could turn his head from it. And, upon reaching the light, it was as though the gods had guided his steps.

A sword.

The most beautiful sword Penethir had ever seen. Shining and powerful. Straight and sharp and true. He knew all this before he even touched it and he knew the sword was meant for him. His fingers reached out and then pulled back. There, clutching the hilt of the sword, were two hands. Perfectly preserved hands that looked as fresh as though they were still attached to a body and that body sat upon a throne that only now did Penethir see, so entranced by the sword had he become.

"It is a thing of beauty, is it not?" The voice flittered around him. A voice from a great distance. A voice from a long lost past. "And powerful? Oh, indeed! So very, very powerful."

"Who speaks?" Penethir's head whipped this way and that, seeing nothing and no-one. He moved closer to the sword, intending to fight any that would attempt to take it from him. "You shall not have it. It is mine!"

"Is it, now?" Another light appeared, though this came from elsewhere. Elsewhen. "And what would you do with a sword of such unimaginable power?"

The voice spoke from the new light, a vibrant, cold blue light that burned Penethir's eyes, though it paled in comparison to the warmth and comfort of the light from the sword. The cold blue light became more distinct, taking the form of a man. Tall and regal, the man held out arms that had no hands and Penethir's eyes fell to the preserved hands that grasped the sword.

"I would take it. I would take it and return to the surface." Dry lips became moistened by a flicking tongue. Eyes flickered between the noble apparition and that most beautiful of swords. "I would use it to slay all the fell beasts that even now fight my kin and comrades above. I would lay waste to the beasts and see them fall before my sword."

"And so you would. You would bring ruin to all that stood before you and none would survive. All would look upon you and tremble at your power." Only now did Penethir see the features upon the spirit. Worn and emaciated. Eyes devoid of any emotion, though tears streamed down drawn cheeks. "And then? After you have fought and won your battle? After you have driven your enemies from the land and brought about their doom? What then?"

"Then we shall have peace." Penethir looked towards the sword and his heart ached to hold it in his hands, to feel it bite into flesh. To sever the heads of his enemies. "For a thousand years we shall have peace."

The spirit let out a low moan and only after a long moment did Penethir realise the apparition laughed at his words, though that laughter did not reach the creature's face. It raised its arms and stared at the stumps where its hands should be and Penethir could almost feel sadness emanate from the noble spirit.

"As I thought so very long ago." The spirit shook its head and Penethir saw that it wore a crown. A crown that still sat upon the head of the corpse that adorned the nearby throne. "But it hungers. Cá Etherûn, the devourer of souls. Sword of swords. There can be no peace while that blade hungers and its hunger is never sated. Even as it bit deep and drank upon the souls of my wife and children, Cá Etherûn wanted more. Demanded more. So it will demand of you."

"Your wife and children?" Penethir felt a wave of pity for the spirit, but that pity did nothing to stop him from wanting that sword. "No. No! I can wield it. I can control it! I can ..."

"... do nothing against the hunger of the blade. It will devour your very essence and you will become a greater threat, a greater monster than anything this world has seen for an age." A handless arm pointed toward the sword. "Only by severing my own hands could I vanquish the desire to kill and keep killing. Only by destroying my own kingdom, by devastating it and letting the world swallow my city could I stop my darkness from spreading. Do not take the sword. Peace cannot come from it, only an eternity of torment. I urge this of you, Penethir of the Cloven Lands. Turn aside from its evil, for evil is what this sword is and ever will be."

As though speaking had drained the phantom, it let out a mournful sigh that sounded like the dying breath of an ancient world. The spirit wavered and diminished. It turned towards the throne and the mummified body upon it and disappeared, swallowed by the desiccated flesh.

Penethir thought upon the words of the apparition. He had heard the spirit's testimony and felt a great sadness for the lost king. But the sword remained. The beautiful sword and no amount of words could compare to the celestial wonder of it.

Without a second thought, Penethir reached down, brushing away the severed hands from the hilt, and grasped the sword that was rightfully his. As soon as his fingers touched the sword, he could feel its power, its divine strength, and he knew nothing could stand in his way. Not even the combined hordes of the beasts of nightmare that now ravaged the world above. Not even the foul mage, the reborn Ethrigar could stand before Cá Etherûn's might.

He would find a way back to the surface. He would carry Cá Etherûn to war and he would bring peace to the Five Kingdoms and if any tried to take what was rightfully his, they would suffer for their arrogance. They would all suffer.

-+-

(If you enjoyed this Fantasy story, why not check out my full, novel-length Fantasy stories over on my main profile (Kymeraent ).

"Ice-Bound Promise" - https://www.wattpad.com/story/301181204-ice-bound-promise
"Ankūro" - https://www.wattpad.com/story/269819378-ankro
"These Old Bones" - https://www.wattpad.com/story/256895861-these-old-bones
"When The Petal Fell" - https://www.wattpad.com/story/248244989-when-the-petal-fell
"The Road After" - https://www.wattpad.com/story/234410055-the-road-after )