Swordcery

By Lynne Pleau

I hacked at a vine as it snaked around my feet. It recoiled. I shook the old tarnished sword at the enchanted forest and shouted, “I am Ariella!” I let the name roll off my tongue. It thrilled me.

The only other name I’d ever known was Girl. And usually Master Tarren spat it as he offered me a backhand. The way he did that morning.

“Girl!” Smack. “Take this tankard to the old man in the corner.”

I saw stars halfway across the room but managed not to spill the mead. Plunk. I set the tankard down and turned to walk away.

“Thank you, Ariella.” The old man said it so quietly I barely heard him over the noise of the tavern.

Ariella? I turned back to peer at him. From under the cowl of his cloak, his dark eyes bored into mine. I shivered, but for once not in fear.

“Girl!”

I hurried back to my master. Smack.

When I looked again, the old man had gone. The next time I saw him, he was dying.

“Ariella,” he whispered as I tossed slop to the pigs behind the tavern. I nearly jumped out of my shoes. He sat with his back to the pig house, his left hand to his stomach, blood oozing between his fingers. His old sword lay at his side.

I knelt beside him. “Who has done this to you?”

“Take the sword”—he gasped for breath—“to the princess… at Arwyn Castle… in the forest.”

“The enchanted forest?” Everyone knew about the castle. No one with a pinch of sanity would dare go into the forest.

“The sword,” he rasped, pushing it toward me, “will protect you.”

I thought the pain had put him off his chump. I moved to stand, but he gripped the ragged hem of my skirt. “Promise me…” I had to lean in to hear the rest of what he said. I chose to believe him. When he breathed his last, I took the sword and ran—never looking back.

That morning I had no name or sword to protect me. Now I had both and felt emboldened as I hacked my way through the forest. How much farther did I have to go? As two giant flowers lunged at me, I hefted the sword over my head and swung. They collapsed in a puff of poisonous pollen. I held my breath and stumbled forward, landing on a pile of stones.

I blinked. There before me lay the castle ruins. I struggled to my feet.

“Hello? Princess? … Anyone?”

A figure emerged from within the ruins.

I brandished the sword. “Who are you?”

As the man stepped forward, the sword glowed an unearthly blue. I nearly dropped it.

“I am Pallitan,” he said, circling me, “guardian of the castle.”

“I am…” I straightened my shoulders and held the sword higher. “I’m looking for the princess.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “She’s here.”

I spun. Nothing but broken walls. “I don’t see her.”

Pallitan motioned to where I stood.

I looked at my feet. Wait. Did he think…? “Oh no. No, no, no. I’m just the plank who made a promise to a dying man.”

“And yet, you are here.”

“I keep my promises.”

Pallitan raised an eyebrow.

“He was dying.”

Silence.

I inhaled deeply. “Okay, okay. He said that if I took the sword to the castle ruins, the lost princess would return, restore the castle, and heal the land. And I thought… maybe I could come here and not be a slave anymore.”

I studied the celestial glow of the sword and bit my lip. Had I been wrong? Would he send me back to Master Tarren?

Pallitan chuckled. “Ariella…” I glanced up. His eyes burned with a depth of kindness I couldn’t fathom. “Turn around.”

I turned and stumbled backward. The castle gleamed like a flaming sunrise, whole as the day it was built.

“Welcome home, princess.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lynne Pleau has published more than a half-dozen flash fiction pieces in publications like Havok, Spark, Splickety, and War Cry Magazine. She is a three-time flash fiction award finalist.

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