FantasyPieces 022 The Dead Kings Sword

The Dead Kings Sword

Nobody touched the sword for three hundred years.

Not after the king died.

Not after the screams.

The throne hall of Valdyr Keep remained sealed through famine, plague, and civil war. Dust gathered on the banners. Rats nested beneath the long banquet tables. Rain leaked through the broken cathedral ceiling and ran black down the ancient stones.

But still the dead king remained there.

Still the sword stood buried in his chest.

Glowing.

Waiting.

Children in the nearby villages used to dare each other to climb the hill and peer through the shattered doors. Most came back pale and shaking. Some claimed they heard whispering from inside the hall.

Others said the corpse moved.

Old Mara, the innkeeper, would spit into the fire whenever the subject came up.

“The sword ain’t pinning him down,” she’d mutter. “It’s keeping him asleep.”

Most people laughed when she said it.

Most people were fools.

On the first night of winter, the bells of Valdyr began ringing by themselves.

Not loudly.

Slowly.

One hollow note at a time drifting across the dead forests.

Dong.

Silence.

Dong.

The villagers barred their doors. Nobody slept.

At dawn, a rider came down from the hill screaming about green fire in the windows of the keep.

By noon, six men were missing.

By evening, the crows had gathered.

Father Oric finally climbed the hill with four torchbearers and a hunting spear trembling in his hands. Snow fell softly through the ruined ceiling as they entered the throne hall.

The king still lay there.

Ancient armor eaten black with rot.

Crown crooked upon his skull.

The sword still thrust through his chest.

Green smoke curled from the wound.

One of the torchbearers whispered, “Sweet gods…”

The floor around the corpse was wet.

Not with blood.

With footprints.

Bare human footprints leading away from the throne.

Fresh.

Father Oric felt cold spread through his stomach.

Then the corpse opened its eyes.

Not quickly.

Slowly.

Like something remembering how.

Green light leaked from the king’s mouth as he inhaled for the first time in centuries. Armor groaned. Dust slid from his bones.

And the sword—

The sword began to move deeper.

Pushing itself further into the dead king’s chest.

As if trying desperately to hold him down.

The corpse smiled.

That was when the torchbearers ran.

Father Oric stumbled backward as the dead king’s fingers wrapped around the sword hilt. Rotten flesh cracked. Ancient rings scraped metal.

The whispering filled the hall.

Hundreds of voices.

Thousands.

All speaking beneath each other.

All saying the same words.

He is waking.

The king pulled the sword free.

Every torch in the hall died instantly.

Darkness swallowed everything except the sick green glow spilling from the blade and the corpse now standing beside the throne.

Tall.

Crowned.

Dead for three hundred years.

And somehow still angry.

Father Oric would later remember only one thing clearly before he fled into the snow:

The king’s body had rotted.

But the hatred in its eyes had not.