55th Day of Frost, 339th Year of the Age of Sundering
The sword lay the sand of the fighting pit, ominous and dark. A cold, unfeeling thing. Masagh had been so eager to receive the Rune that he was just now thinking about what it would mean to house a piece of his soul in such an inhospitable host for the rest of time.
Then again, his soul had always thrived in a cold and unfeeling host. He glanced down at the palm of his hand. Cynfael was almost finished etching the Cardinal Rune of Reaving into his flesh there. Some may think it harsh to handicap an initiate in this way, but the Creth believed to put the rune in the hand that would forever wield the sword made a stronger bond. Or so Sabrione had assured him. She stood now on the sidelines with his mother and the rest, watching.
Cynfael’s broad shoulders hunched in concentration as Masagh felt the edge of the Weaponmaster’s smallest sword cut into him yet again. The glistening golden ink Cynfael had spread across the tip of his blade sunk into the flesh. Only a pact weapon could give the Reaving Rune. Once Cynfael deemed the rune complete, Masagh would pick up his claymore and begin a duel that could result in the loss of his very soul. He will also contend with the sapping of his soul while fighting the best swordsman he had ever known.
His focus drifted back up to the Weaponmaster. Cynfael’s gaze was focused and calm. It looked as though any concern over the impending duel was far from his thoughts now. The decay and undeath of his visage did not hide the warrior’s thick neck and shoulders, or the twined root-like muscles in his arms.
Perhaps he would trip and Masagh would get a lucky hit.
“Is it finished yet?”
Cynfael glanced up at him and smiled softly. He saw through the question. Of course he did. “Don’t worry about the duel, just remember your training and you will be fine.” He reassured Masagh, reading the false eagerness correctly.
“I’m not worried.” Masagh lied.
“A brave face may be admirable in social settings, Masagh.” Cynfael leaned in to carve a finer bit of detail into his palm. “But in combat you should never lie to yourself about such things. Better to face a challenge with truth in your heart.”
Masagh was still trying to formulate a response when Cynfael straightened and stepped away from him.
“Done. Take up your blade, Creth.” The calmness in the voice carried a weight of authority that could not be denied. Cynfael had spent a thousand years commanding warriors. A thousand years swinging a blade. How could Masagh even touch him?
Masagh stood and flexed his hand, eyes drifting back to the claymore laying on the ground. He walked over to it.
“I really hope you are worth all this.” He muttered as he bent to pick it up with his already healing hand.
The moment he wrapped his fingers around the familiar hilt he could feel it. Like sand sifting through his fingers, his mind and soul seemed to be sapped. Energy tugged towards the blade. It pulled from him some indescribable piece of himself through his own flesh and into the cold hilt of the blade. Later he would come to call this piece of himself aether, as most wizards do. But for now he called it nothing, for Cynfael the Scourgeblade was hefting the short sword in his hand.
Some may say this was hardly a fair bout, with Masagh carrying a claymore nearly his own height in length and the Weaponmaster carrying the shortest of his pact weapons, a short sword. But Sabrione had confirmed with Masagh that the Weaponmaster had used the same weapon when initiating her. It had been, she assured him with a grin, the scariest fight of her existence so far.
Cynfael met his eyes. “Remember, do not drop the blade, do not let the blade take you.” Cynfael rolled his shoulder and swiped the short sword through the air a few times. “Remember the training you have received, you will do fine.”
He let out a long breath.
“Begin.”
