“Varlet!” cried the rastaknight as he placed his hempen boot upon the sword boy’s proffered forehead and drew the enormous broadsword which wavered in moonlight like opalescent smoke. Its wielder reeled backwards under the sheer weight of its legend, his bones leaden with the burden of contending with the valorous knights of lore who carried the very same blade to become, for their greatness, immortal in the tales of men. The sword flickered into the air, relinquished from the knight’s grasp as he slipped on a lump of manure his mule had just ejected and fell onto his back with a clatter of clamorous clangs. The weapon seemed to hover in mid-air for a moment before orienting its lethal point towards earth. “No!” the Knight had time to gasp before it penetrated cleanly his armor and sprayed the poor sword boy with hot blood. Laughter wheezed harshly from the knight’s challenger, who then turned a dark eye upon the boy and made to stride towards with murderous intent. The sword began to shimmer, a multitude of unearthly whispers gibbering from the spaces between its atoms, coagulating into a moaning, protoplasmic voice dribbling syllables that throbbed with smoky consonants and tinkling vowels. The boy’s frightened eyes widened as the it said, “Draw the sword from the stoner…and realize your destiny, boy.”
The moon poured its light onto the clearing where the knight, death clenched in hand, stalked across the moss towards the boy and the corpse’s sword.