Faithful

The weight of immovable earth lifted and a cold rush filled all the loose spaces around the Soul Smite’s blade. It had been several decades since sunbeams had warmed its metal. Faithfully had it remained at the side of the fallen chieftain, and faithfully it would have remained had the Joakim clan not needed it to rally morale. The grandson of the dead chief knelt beside the open grave and placed his hand over the empty tomb of the corpse’s heart.

“Jarl,” he said, “son of Jesper, warrior king of the Joakimites and slayer of the six thousand. I, Jens, son of Jørgen, thy son, beseech thee and thy ancestors to grant me the blessing of thy weapon, that I may wield it in battle and claim victory over our assailants. Grant me the strength and wisdom needed to secure the safety of thy people, of whom the gods have entrusted me. Let your spirit guide this blade, and give me the humility required to follow.”

Jens then bent low and kissed the forehead of his grandfather’s skull. He then removed the sword from the web-entombed bones and stood to his feet in one movement. His attendants covered the skeleton once more, as Jens ran his fingers over the browned blade. “We have searched all of the island for you,” he said. “We knew the battle my grandfather had perished in, but we knew not where his body lay. Now, if my prayer has been heard, then we shall be victorious once more.”

The Soul Smite was committed to the silversmith and his apprentice to restore the weapon to its former glory. They were careful to follow the etchings, carvings, and paintings made of the weapon’s appearance throughout its history. The tradition of the Joakimite chieftains spanned nearly two millennia, and each chief added his mark to the blade or its hilt. But its time spent in the earth had caused deterioration.

“We must melt it down and recast it,” said the silversmith.
“We can’t!” cried the young chief. “So much history will be lost, and its essence destroyed.”
“We can make sure it looks exactly as it once had, but it will be of no use in battle as it is.”

Jens took a turn through the room, one hand on his hip, another on his chin. It was clear to all that he was thinking desperately. “Let me see it,” he finally said.

Jens followed the silversmith to his forge. The weapon had been cleaned of its dirt casing, but it was not the shining silver depicted in the portraits. Jens lifted it with both hands and examined the carvings in the blade’s sides. He ran his fingers over the letters, shapes, and animals. They were hard to see, worn almost flat with age. Jens closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Jens’s reverie was interrupted by the apprentice who said with his voice faltering, “Sir!”
Jens turned to face the youth, no more than a few years younger than himself. “Yes, my son?” he said.
“Might I suggest a new tradition?”
“A new one?”
“Yes, sir. One that honors the past and brings hope for the future.”
“Proceed.”

The youth ran his hands across the portraits and said, “The life of the Soul Smite is far from constant. It has changed with each generation that wielded it. The changes were subtle, such as the various carvings you now see. However, after studying the portraits, I found that the hilt was replaced more than once. The blade itself contains sealed cracks, meaning some of the metal is not original to the blade.

“The sword will always possess its essence, but for it to maintain vitality, it must be reborn from its own ashes. I propose that, to keep it alive for as long as Joakim exists, the sword be melted down and recast with enough new material to stabilize it for every new chieftain, both to strengthen it and as a symbol of the chief’s reign. There will be motifs preserved, the images of our clan, but the overall design will always reflect the character of its current wielder. Thus, the blade will preserve our heritage and perpetuate our legacy.”

Jens looked at each of the portraits, following the apprentice’s every word. He closed his eyes once again, still holding the Soul Smite. Peace came over his troubled soul as if the weapon whispered to him that all would be well.  When the young man finished his discourse, Jens opened his eyes and turned to the silversmith. He placed the sword back into his hands and said, “Your apprentice does you credit, sir. Do as he says. Make up some sketches and I will tell you which I want for the new life of the weapon.”

“Y-y-yes, sir!” said the silversmith.

The silversmith and his apprentice made sketch after sketch, changing the designs ever so subtly, slowly approaching the ideal design of the young chieftain, to the point that the elders worried the young ruler’s pride would get the better of him and the sword would not be ready to liberate their clan. To their relief, Jens decided on a design, and the craftsmen were allowed to work.

They were careful to give the sword all the reverence it deserved, making it their best piece. When it was complete, the apprentice was the first to hold it, swing it, and admire it. He could feel its past life through the vibrations it made as it cut through the air, and when it was still, something deep down inside him said this would not be the last time he would melt it down and recast it.

The accession ceremony was delayed until the sword was ready for battle. The elders came to the forge to retrieve the weapon, and the apprentice reluctantly handed it over to the master, who carefully passed it to the elders.

Jens never saw the sword until the ceremony. It had been a generation since the sword was missing from the proceedings, and this occasion brought tears to many a stoned eye. Jens himself was overcome with emotion, wishing his father could have known where the sword had been, and in consequence, where his father lay. Now, all would be restored, and Joakim would be independent once more.

When the elders approached with the Soul Smite, Jens might have believed his own soul had been cut down by its majesty. He hesitated in taking the weapon, feeling as though he was unworthy of its legacy.

That is the reason you are worthy.

Jens knew not from whence the thoughts came—he felt as though the sword had said it. Nevertheless, he took up the weapon and held it high over his head as his warriors cheered for Chief Jens. He felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for his clan, and again he feared he was not ready. But the sword… he had the sword. Surely it would not fail him.

The clan celebrated that night with a feast that had not been seen since the Great Fall, and Jens worried at the recollection. The sword had failed his grandfather and hid from his father. How much help would it be to him against the very foe that had struck his family to shame? Would it really be the weapon that restored his honor?

The sword, resting against his seat at the magnificent banquet table, seemed to call to him. For a moment, all else faded away, and Jens was alone with the Soul Smite. There were no words to hear, no magic thoughts entered his mind. All he felt was the desire to trust. Trust that his prayers would be answered. Trust that he had everything he needed to defeat his foe.