Akkeron's Honor Blade

Honor Blade

Written by: Abdel-Hamid Musleh

Prince Revik Kolar was sweating heavily. The heat from the forge was overbearing. He wondered how the ancient smith was able to continue to work for hours without so much as a water break. His body screamed for him to walk outside into the cool breeze and seek relief from the suffocating heat. His mind wouldn't give in to the cravings of his body however. Sweat glistened down his face as he shifted his massive frames weight on the work bench he was sitting on, hoping it would relieve some of the oppressive heat. He folded his arms and rested his back against the work table behind him, the cords of muscles in his forearms and biceps showing starkly against the sweat and glow of the forge. Revik was simply watching in mute fascination the smith creating his masterpiece.

The smith was a master. The greatest smith in generations revered not only for his superior skills as a weaponsmith, but also because he was the last known master of the art of enchanting weapons of power. It was impossible to tell the smith's age. For that matter, Revik could not even tell what race the smith was. All he knew was that the smith was considered old when his great-grandfather was a boy. Anything else about the smith was shrouded in secrecy, even his name.

As was tradition in the royal family, Revik was to receive his honor blade. The blade was considered the final rite of passage that declared the heir ready to rule when his father passed. It’s received after the prince completed his first victory as the Supreme Commander of the Royal Forces of Akkeron. At that time, the King would send for the smith, who would spend exactly one moon cycle crafting a blade that had no equal. And in exactly one cycle and one day, there would be a celebration during which the blade would be presented to the prince. From that day forward, the prince became the unquestionable heir to the throne. There could be no contenders and no one would question his authority. Only his father could countermand anything he said.

Revik had been watching the smith for over an hour, his fascination quashing his discomfort. The smith was bent and wrinkled, yet he moved with such speed and dexterity that Revik would have thought him a young man if not for his appearance. The care and attention to detail that the smith put into each miniscule etching in the blade was incredible. The blade itself a work of art, the shape of it, a doublewide broadsword that could cleave a man in two impossible for any man to wield, much less create, but there it lays, glowing in the smith’s hands. Now the smith was doing what no other could do, hammering tiny runes into the blade. Runes of power. Runes of protection. The blade itself will never dull or break. The runes of sharpness imbued into the metal will give it the power to cut through any armor as if it were lace. When the smith allowed, Revik held it, it felt as if it were an extension of his arm, truly a masterpiece, the balance was flawless, the weight insignificant. He was reluctant to hand it back but the smith’s work was far from finished.

The smith was working on the final rune now, the heart rune. That is the reason Revik was summoned. Otherwise he would never have been allowed to watch this fantastic work of art being created. The heart rune was unique for each blade. The smith looks deep into the soul of the person who is to receive the blade and then carves a rune which represents the whole of that persons being. No other will ever be able to wield the blade. Those who have tried to wield an Honor Blade that was not their own have always regretted it and none have ever spoken of what happened to them. The blade becomes a part of the owner. Such that on the death of the blade's owner, the blade itself would shatter into a thousand pieces that could never be reforged.

When the smith was done with his hammering, the blade would be heated a final time. Then the smith would present the white hot blade to Revik. Revik would have to run his sword hand along the searing blade cutting it along the entire length of the blade. If he could endure the pain, he would then press his bleeding hand on the heart rune. If he were worthy, the rune would glow red, the blade would cool instantly, and his hand would be healed. If he was not worthy, he would be burned and his bleeding and burned sword hand would be crippled for life from the ordeal and he would forever be removed from the line to the throne.

Silence. The hairs on Revik’s neck rose. His mind had wandered for what seemed like only a moment until he was brought back to the present by the terrible gripping sound of silence. The smith was done. The sword was in the coals. The time had come. The smith just sat there looking at Revik, waiting. Each prince had to step forward of his own will, when he was mentally ready. The pain was said to be excruciating. It was not something you stepped into lightly. So the smith would silently wait until Revik willed himself forward. He steeled his mind, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, though it was only a few seconds it felt like eternity. Preparing himself for the shock of the pain. Internally he gasped for breath, his heart hammering against his ribcage, but to an outsider, he was void of any expression or emotion, all they could see are the cords of his arms tightening across his slightly heaving chest. Finally he took a deep breath as he rose from the work bench and the smith nodded to him. Revik stepped forward. With a heavily gloved hand, the smith pulled the blade from the flames and held it horizontally in front of Revik. He pulled his dark brown hair back moving it away from his face and fastened it into a ponytail with a small cord of rope. Even at arm’s length, the heat from the blade made his skin feel as if it were about to burst into flame. How could he touch something so hot. It glowed bright enough to light the room, was it the heat...or something else. His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second and he saw the smith's piercing hazel eyes flash. One chance, never to be offered again. With all of his will the crowned Prince of the Kingdom of Akkeron forced his hand to touch the edge of the blade near its tip.

The shock was incredible. He screamed in mute silence all that escaped his lips was a small groan. The hot blade cut to the bone on contact, it was amazing that anyone accomplished this without cutting their hand off. For a blade of this size the task seemed daunting but no blade in history was its equal and that helped to fuel his determination. Pain shot up his arm like nothing he had ever imagined. His knees almost buckled. His light brown eyes showed all. It would have terrified anyone else to look at him. He thought he was going to pass out. The smith smiled as Revik forced his hand to slide down the blade. Revik was the first in many generations who didn't scream. He smelled the stench of his own flesh melting off and the hair on his arm, up to his elbow, singe off. Agony searing through his brain, finally, his hand reached the hilt of the blade. What was left of it anyway, bleeding and almost cut through the bone. The skin blackened and the muscle beneath it showing. He was on the verge of passing out.

Quickly the smith laid the massive blade out flat in front of Revik. In a haze of agonizing mind dulling pain, Revik reached out and placed his hand on the shallow square shaped heart rune at the base of the blade. His blood flowed into the rune, filling it. In that second there was a blinding flash of red light. Revik's whole body felt a jolt of energy and was left tingling, but he felt pain no more. Looking down, his hand was whole again and the blade no longer glowed. The massive broadsword looked to be cold hard steel but knowing that it was much more, much different than regular steel, a shiver went up his spine. It simply shined, reflecting the light of the room, polished like a mirror. It was perfect.

The whole ordeal had lasted less than ten seconds. It seemed like it had taken hours. Then Revik's mind caught up to reality. All of the mental barriers to the pain that he had built up were released. Those few seconds of pain, the smell, the sight of his mangled hand all registered in his brain at one time. His knees buckled and he vomited where he fell. His father's words came back to him at that moment, "it is what happens afterwards that will haunt you". The smith just laughed at Revik's convulsing form on the floor and pointed to the door. It was time for Revik to leave. He would receive the sword tomorrow night during the ceremony. For now, a bath, a very long bath.