The Legend of the Wightblade

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From Wormgar to the Fledgling Fjord. Over the Hill of Scars to the Mourning Meadows. The Thanes and the Lords of War unleashed their fury across the land. Oh, Ephaleon! Once such a pretty mistress; now torn, ripped and crumpled. You were a delicate flower, ravaged by a gauntlet of leather and iron. None are safe, from the young to the old. Why, even new-borns breaths are stilled before their first suckling on a willing breast.

 

But then, a mage arose, as if a dawning sun, freeing the shackles of a world long-held fast in the blackest, starless night. From where no-one knows; a mystery deeper than any mine in the mountains of Loracaneth. Some say he, or she, hailed from the land where the dragons fire once blew.

This nameless mage understood the pointlessness of killing a thousand, when their place would simply be taken by two-thousand more. A weapon was needed; one that could strike off the head and destroy the heart of any army. To be able to kill was not enough. It had to guarantee all would be achieved with a single thrust. Even that would not be sufficient. It must have such power, that when used, the recipient of the attack would vanish without trace. In doing so, this weapon would also release a wave of fear and confusion cascading through the ranks.

 

One strike. One slain commander. One army left without the cohesive ability to fight.

 

These lines below, were written anonymously, when ancientology was young and the Temples of Herrandhimm stood in all their magnificence. 

 

See droplets of metals precious, worked in the magic forge,

Now hardened and with jewels adorned

 

The blade was folded a hundred times,

An edge, so sharp, through armour it would scythe

 

Each fold with a spell bequeathed,

Inserted, whispering and interleaved

 

Fire and ice, light and dark,

Earth, wind and air, all played their part

 

A star plucked from the heavens was thrown inside,

Along with mystic moonbeams and a unicorn’s hide

 

A soul of the living and a ghost of the dead,

Were infused within it, a lacquer of dread

 

The blood of Succubus and a viper’s poison,

Strong ox, cunning fox, wise owl were added thereon

 

Feelings and emotions were mixed in too,

In a special way that only this mage knew

 

A core of evil, bound up with good,

All held tight in a straightjacket of truth

 

Strands of magic were laced throughout,

Tightening. Binding. Strong and stout

 

Words and inscriptions into the surface were pressed,

Mixed with vile curses and exhortations blessed

 

Even the Threads of Destiny were wound around,

Dipped in water from where the Gods can be found

 

It was hammered with lightning and soaked with thunder,

Thus made, it could break all asunder

 

 

It came to have a name in several forms, this unique blade, this harbinger of revenge:

 

VICTUS – WICTUS – WIGTUZ – WIGHT. All had the same meaning – ‘VICTORY’

 

The mage travelled the land. The Thanes died. One-by-one the Lords of War were slain. Ephaleon lived. Of the mage, the Wightblade and the spells that made it, there is nothing. The poem was written long after the legend began. Most believe it was never anything other than a legend; a story so powerful that it gave citizens the courage to overthrow the tyrants, despots and dictators.

 

However, there is another version. When the mage knew all was done, he or she destroyed the Wightblade. The mage became a book with the spell inside. It can only be found by one of virtue that it will recognise and accept. It is waiting somewhere, in case it is ever needed again...

 

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©2019 L. Philipp Naughton (Author of the Wightblade Chronicles)