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Library: Rimistad


Author: markuz
Date:Jul 23 2005

Frustrated, Lars stroke his sword at a tree stump, though the blade barely
touched the bark and hit the nearest rock with a loud clang. The rock split
into three equal parts and then crumbled to dust. Lars stared at the sword
furiously for a moment. He glanced back towards his pursuers and plunged the
sword into the metallic case that he had reserved for it. After looking for a
good direction, Lars noticed a spruce thicket nearby, which seemed to offer
the best hiding possibilities.

He painfully jogged towards the thickness of the forest and found a mound of
rocks in the midst of the woods, which offered at least some kind of shelter.
Lars pushed the sword with its casing before him to a narrow hollow and
laboriously crawled in, too. The running had made his throat burn, but he
didn't dare to even pant, but just quietly pressed his head on a stone and
waited. Behind him the sword glowed with a diabolic, dim blue glow, waiting
for the right moment.

Lars woke up to the pain that troubled all of his limbs and listened. Silence.
The night had come. He squeezed himself out of the little hollow dragging the
sword behind him. He opened the case and pulled the sword out. Without any
kind of change on its appearance the sword looked at him mockingly. The
colours around the blade blazed from blue to violet and it fumed. Lars
examined the engravings at the hilt of the sword and tried to read the text
that changed all the time. Then he grasped the sword and swung it hard towards
the nearest tree. The sword effectively dodged the tree, changed direction and
headed powerfully towards Lars' left knee. Lars cried out and released his
hands from the sword, which fell to the ground without making a sound.

The sword examined Lars from the ground. It knew that it had power. It was
stained by the blood of three lambkins and it was forged by seven great
smiths. The owner of the sword, the general of the army of Nhaga, had died to
the blade of the sword. The sword had no intention of staying in the hands of
Lars, and it was not going to obey the blows done by Lars. However, it
couldn't do anything without a human hand, and alone it had no true power. The
sword pondered this carefully and finally ended up plating its hilt with an
illusion of gold.

Lars grabbed the glittering, golden handle and lifted the sword carefully into
its casing. He roped the case on his back and started to head towards nearest
village. He stopped only to drink from a small stream, but otherwise just
headed onwards waving aside his fatigue and hunger. By the morning light Lars
had finally reached the village of Sheredon and found his way straight to a
tavern. The hostess approached her dryly and with her papery voice asked Lars
what did he want. Lars felt for coins inside his pocket and decided to order
beer and an omelet. He didn't notice, that the case he had placed on the bench
was dripping with bright red blood.

Niamad was following all of this with deep interest just a few tables away. He
gulped his tankard empty and approached Lars. Lars saw him coming, but still
he didn't notice, that the sword was now singing a praising song to the Gods.
Maybe he couldn't here it, or maybe he wasn't listening, but Niamad surely
heard. Niamad had to get that case.

Niamad pushed himself at the table, piled all of his money on the table and
nodded towards the case. Lars hesitated, because when glancing at the case he
saw that the case around the sword had turned to gold. In turn he watched the
money, in turn the case and finally turned his eyes to the greedy face of the
man that was sitting before him. Niamad was listening to the singing of the
sword, mesmerized. The sword was singing of the glory of war and battle, it
was praising brave warriors and sang of great victories. But all that Lars was
seeing was the glistening gold.

Suddenly at the same time, both Lars and Niamad jumped up and reached for the
case. Being closer, Lars was faster and he slashed at Niamad with the sword he
had managed to grab from the case. The edge of the blade just hit the table
and Lars lost his grip. Now Niamad was fast and seized the hilt in turn. He
swiftly swung towards Lars, who dropped down to his knees on the floor. The
edge of the blade just trailed over his scalp cutting only few hairs. Niamad
hadn't anticipated Lars' move and he couldn't stop the motion controlled by
the sword. The sword struck Niamad to his left side and deadly sliced through
his thin tunica. Other people inside the tavern were hiding behind the counter
and fearfully peeking at Lars, who now feverishly tried to reach the sword. 

The sword was standing upwards in the hands of shocked, dying Niamad, who was
lying on the ground, bleeding. But there, where Lars saw the hilt of the
sword, was now the blade. Lars lunged to grab the sword, but the
razorblade-sharp edge cut through his fingers and palms. Unable to stop his
movement Lars fell down, the tip of the blade piercing his heart.

There, on top of each other, now laid the master thief Lars Proude and a great
warrior Niamad Northeling. Bloody all over, face to face. Right beside them,
shining clean of all blood, was Rimistad. It was stained by the blood of three
lambkins and it was forged by seven great smiths, and it was now utterly