By L. A. Thornhill
“Of course it’s genuine.” I rub my sweaty palms together in a vain attempt to relieve my tension. “This is a worthy trade.”
This is the one. Surely this old farmer will deliver me from my burden.
“Burden, am I?”
Orc fumes! Not a moment’s peace.
“This isn’t a jolly jaunt for me either, Master.”
I’m not your master. At least, I won’t be in a few minutes.
The voice in my head chuckles. Oaths and curses! He mocks me.
The old farmer cradles the sword in his muddy hands, feeling its weight. His eyes run over the hilt once more, eager for the sapphires and rubies encrusted within. The jewels alone are probably worth more than his farm. Even without the jewels, the Sword of Jol’Sen is breathtaking, the blade shining in the sun and declaring its glory…
“Why thank you. I am rather lovely.”
…inside my head.
“’Tis magic you say?” the old man asks.
I take a deep breath. “It is magic, indeed, my elder. I recovered it in my grand quest to the Hol’um Mountains. I climbed sheer cliffs to find the ancient cavern of Samuel the Strong-Jawed. Inside, I uncovered the—”
“Aye, aye. So you said. But if your quest was so grand and perilous, and the sword is all that you claim, then why trade it to me for a mere donkey and a sack of flour?”
Because a donkey won’t sing off-key inside my head.
“I’ll have you know, my last master loved my voice.”
Which is why he buried you in that blasted tomb I dug you out of.
“He was drunk when he did that.”
He only became a drunk after finding you!
I had met Jol’Sen’s last master, Maxwell Red-Tooth, two years ago at a tavern that was little more than a stable with a few tables and ale barrels. Ol’ Max had been so full of ale that he was practically a barrel himself. I thought the gods had granted me a boon when the ruffian told me the story of Jol’Sen, the Singing Warrior, and waved his withered map drunkenly in my face. One year of searching for the right mountains, six months traversing every inch of them, and four days in the spider-infested tomb awarded me a sword that was everything the drunk had said it would be and more.
Too much more.
“It’s not my fault that you don’t like perfection.”
Shut up and let me talk to this farmer!
The old man eyes me as he awaits my reply. I need to regain control. My fiancée had given me a similar look before she ended our betrothal. Jol’Sen’s cursed voice is a constant distraction.
“She left you because you’re a terrible listener.”
I can barely hear a word because of you!
“Hard times have fallen upon me, elder,” I force myself to say past the sword’s echoing laughter. “I have no choice.”
“A donkey and flour?”
“I lost my horse! And… I need nourishment or I shall perish.”
The old man’s face contorts, and I wince at my terrible explanation. I can’t sound too eager or I’ll never be rid of the sword, but I can’t arrange my thoughts.
“She was a maid of the land of Bors, grand in stature and wider than the shores…”
I rub my temples. This was the twentieth time in two days the sword had sung “The Maiden of Bors.”
“Tell you what,” I add, no longer caring about caution, “I’ll throw in the sheath and you can keep the flour. I can afford to lose some weight.”
“She sang like a glorious sparrow, and had a nose sharper than an arrow…”
“Talking sword, though,” the old man muses, his thumb tracing the outline of a sapphire. “Seems awfully quiet.”
“Only its master can hear it, elder. Once it passes to you, its voice and—”
“My heart did shudder for her, and her dance moved the mighty Earth…”
“—wisdom will be yours.” I choke.
The sword had to have a new master to free my mind. I learned that the hard way when I threw it into a river. I wasn’t permitted any sleep until I found it three days later. That’s probably why Maxwell gave me that tale of grand adventure and pretended to lose the map to me. I was his hope as much as this farmer is mine.
The old man sighs. “It’s said there are as many cursed swords as there are enchanted—”
“Not this one!”
“Sorry, lad.” He hands the sword back to me, Jol’Sen chuckling the entire time. “I need my donkey for the harvest.”
“But you could sell the sword for some oxen.”
The old man shakes his head and walks away, taking his donkey with him.
“…the maiden of Bors!”
My head droops. Another missed opportunity. How much longer will I be able to hear the sword and still keep my wits?
I sigh and reach my hand into my satchel.
“What are you doing?”
I smile. There was one thing I could do to relieve my pain, if only for a moment. One thing to make Jol’Sen feel about me the same way I feel about him. I had learned to relish it to a shameful degree. “You have a chip in your blade.”
“Not the whetstone! It stings!”
I remove the whetstone and show it to the sword. “I must make sure you look good for your next master.”
“No! Don’t do it! I’ll laugh at you less next time! What about a different song?”
I laugh in mad triumph, bring the whetstone to the blade, and scrub vigorously. “She was a maid of the land of Bors…”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Very captivating, loved the ending.
Ah, be careful what you wish for….. Very enjoyable.
This is hilarious XD I love it. Awesome job. I think I’ll pass on magical swords. ;)
How fun! I loved the twist at the end.
Awesome! Great job, Lauren!
Haha so cute!
Very funny. I want him to get rid of the sword, but then I’d feel bad for the new master. Great story.
Lol, this was hilarious! I love the concept of the the long sought for magical sword being something everyone wants to get rid of X’D