Crimson Blade

Morohtar drew his blade. The three-foot sabre slid out with a steely hiss as the rogue held it out in front of him. Silver moonlight through the window slates glinted along its length, the blood-red grip and guard glowed faintly.

A dark aura lingered around the blade, and a macabre history it held within. Among the dark circle of thieves, assassins, and cutthroats of the Undercity, this blade was spoken in hushed whispers. Many a name it has been coined – Assasin’s Edge, The Final Shadow, and The Swansong – but the true name was indeed, the Crimson Sabre.

* * * *

It was told that the sword was forged by the elves for a grand mage, and the hilt, guard, and handle was ornately inlaid with the finest rubies cut by the dwarves of Brimholt. The sword was meant as a gift from the elves for service repayment the mage was engaged on.

Upon ownership, the mage has enchanted the sabre with his magic. No one knew what exactly has been enchanted upon the sword, but something went terribly wrong. One night, an aide crept to the quarters of the mage, on the top floor of an ivory tower. The sable doors were ajar, and beyond it the aide saw his master working furiously on the blade. He waited for awhile, and watched as his master entered a deep channeling trance, drawing mana for the enchantment. Silently, the aide drew a silver stiletto, and crept towards his master from behind. The enchantment was violently interrupted as the blade plunged deep into the neck of the mage, thus the mana channeled burned within. A hearbeat later, the mage imploded violently, showering the aide, the quarters, and the sword with a crimson bath.

Blood-soaked, and with the blade in his hand, the aide descended the tower one floor at a time. At every floor, he slew other mages and students of magic with the blade of his fallen master. Many were caught by surprise, but those few who stood and fought for their lives has been fighting in vain. The Crimson Blade was enchanted to be a weapon of anti-magic. Spells were broken, and mana bolts hurled by the desperate mages were drawn to blade, and the sabre consumed it all. That night, the pristine ivory tower was soaked with blood. Every life within has been extinguished, save for the crazed aide with the deadly sabre in his hand. He stepped out of the tower into the cool night. He sets his eyes on the City of Magi. With a weapon crafted to defeat magic, he would be invincible. He would force the mages to bow down to him. He is young, and eager to take over those greasy ancients, and he would–

His thoughts were interrupted as a wave of nausea consumed him. His vision swam, and he staggered. The hand clenching the bloody blade was trembling. He felt a dull throb at the base of his skull. Reaching his other hand at the back of his neck, he felt the cold steel of a tiny dart. He pulled it out, and tossed it to the ground.

His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees on the ground, bracing the earth with his trembling arm. A cloaked figure stepped around him.

“Even among thieves, what you did was dishonourable,” whispered the figure.

With a bout of rage and desperation, the aide launched himself up and lunged at the figure, swinging the sabre wildly. With a fluid move, the cloaked figure merely stepped aside. The aide was stopped dead upon the tip of a dagger impaling his chest. His vision darkened, and he crumbled to a heap on the grass.

The figure drew back his cloak, revealing pointy ears. He bent over and withdrew his dagger from the dead man’s chest. He wiped the dagger across the aide’s shirt and returned it to a sheath on his boots.

He picked up the bloody sabre and cleaned it as well. He knew that the Magis were watching and was satisfied with his work. As per their dark dealings with him, he can keep the sabre as the payment for his dark service.

* * * *

Morohtar held the Crimson Blade as it was but an extension of his arm.

The glowing orb of Shierra’s staff waned slightly. Morohtar muttered under his breath, and the orb of the mage’s staff shone brightly again.

“Listen, don’t get too close to me, or my sword will suck your mana!” the rogue told the girl. Shierra nodded.

“I’ll skin you alive, Kraevan!” Morohtar shouted at the goblin.

The doors burst open, and a band of men wearing green dragonhide armour swarmed in. Morohtar immediately launched himself in the air above the man. His feet landed on the shoulder armour of one of the warrior, while the Crimson Blade landed through his helm and into his skull. Vaulting off the crumpling warrior, Morohtar swept the sabre in a wide arc, slitting the throats of two warriors in mid air, and parrying several sword blows as he landed.

Shierra was casting a firebolt spell as a throwing axe spun her way. Losing focus as she ducked, the firebolt was shot wide, and blasted the wooden walls beside them. Fighting in retreat, Morohtar yanked the girl’s arm and headed to the newly-formed exit.

He took out a vial from his bandolier and smashed it to the floor between him and the advancing warriors. A bright flash flowed by a loud bang dazed the warriors, awarding the two momentary seconds to egress the battle. Outside, men on horseback were torching the wooden houses and shops of Fieri.

The night broke into chaos.