The Darkest Sword

cliff and with raised hands, he summoned lightning from the storm clouds above. It danced through the air and fried the flying fish, then up the water as well. The smell of cooked fish filled the air and Ashiyn glanced over the cliff to see them popping up dead on the surface of the water. “Darkness wants to consume this world,” Rhadamanthus said as he turned away in disgust. “No heroes want to come deal with man-eating fish.”
Ashiyn glanced away. The world had many heroes, so he had heard. But they never seemed to appear when they were needed and, if they did, they seemed inept at actually saving anyone, even themselves. Hero was just a name for an adventurer bold enough to try to hunt the black magic poisoning the land. He had his doubts that the fish were what kept the heroes away from Rhadamanthus’s lands though. Rhadamanthus was not known to be hospitable. In fact, the last one still hung impaled on the front gates when last he had noticed. “What is the source of the darkness?”
“That is what I am trying to determine,” Rhadamanthus said with a shake of his head, his long black dreadlocks flying with the movement. “Take a battalion over the ridge there and see if you can find anything.”
Ashiyn bit back a groan. His body still ached as it healed, and the last thing he wanted to do was ride one of those bumpy-gaited bulls that would jar him with every step. But there was nothing to be done for it; Illusion was far away, safe at the castle. “As you say, Master,” Ashiyn bowed to Rhadamanthus, though his Master didn’t even acknowledge it. Then he stalked over to one of the bulls and mounted while barking orders for the nearby soldiers to follow him.
It had taken many years and a lot of battle and bloodshed to get his Master’s armies to respect him as their commander. Now they followed him without question. Sure enough, the bull’s lopsided canter jarred everything that was healing in his body with every step and Ashiyn grimaced against the discomfort.
As they rode up over the ridge, it became quite clear what was causing the darkness in this section of the land. A broadsword made of black metal stuck out of a platform of black stone. It was surrounded with runes of obscene ritual magic, each complete with a sacrifice impaled on a stick. An entire town lay sacrificed in the field around the blade, including women and children.
The army balked behind him, superstitious and afraid of the magic. Ashiyn, could care less. What was the magic going to do? Kill him? What was another death today to add to the tally? He rode the bull as close as the beast would go and, when it balked and tried to unseat him, he dismounted and stalked through the field.
The magic bounced like lightning between the ritualistic circles and crackled through the air. The smell of burnt flesh might have deterred even bolder soldiers, but Ashiyn barely noticed it. He walked right up to the podium and the blade. He heard whispers as he got close to them. The blade was speaking. No, not aloud, he realized. He was not hearing it with his ears. The whispers were echoing through his mind. He could not understand what they were saying, but they were seductive, and they pulled him closer to the sword. Pick it up. They wanted him to pick up the sword. Claim its darkness for his own.
Just as he started to reach for it, his hand stung with pain, and he withdrew it with a hiss. Rhadamanthus stood between him and the sword. Luckily, it had only been the flat of his Master’s blade that rang against the bones in his hand. He hated having to grow new fingers.
“Fool of a boy,” Rhadamanthus chided, as he examined the sword with narrowed eyes. “If you had touched that thing you would have become its mindless slave.” With a fierce kick, Rhadamanthus shattered the blade where it met the stone, and it flew to the ground. The spell broken, the magic faded from the air and the land around them. Rhadamanthus started to walk around and disturb the runes in the circles and Ashiyn joined him. “What was it?” Ashiyn asked. Now the whispers had faded and blade looked dull and rusted as it lay in the dust.
“A weapon forged from the essence of a powerful enemy,” Rhadamanthus drew magic and started to set the impaled villagers on fire. “The heroes of this world, mostly those cursed celestials, created swords as prisons. There they trapped the immortal creatures of darkness that they could not kill. But, they misjudged how tempting a talking sword with cosmic power would be. Now they are the most common way people summon apocalyptic magic. The swords promise power to their bearers and most do not have the strength of will to resist it.”
Ashiyn glanced at the blade that Rhadamanthus carried. It was also made of black metal with similar runes and, now that he thought about it, black lightning periodically chased over it and through Rhadamanthus’s hands. “You carry one.”
“Now you notice?” Rhadamanthus snorted and waved the blade lazily in Ashiyn’s direction. “This is Sangli, the Lightreaver. It is the second to last blade the celestials made before their kind perished from this world.”
“What happened to them?” Ashiyn asked. He had heard of the mythical creatures known as the celestials, but he had never seen one. They were said to be humans born with powerful magic and gossamer wings, said to be granted cosmic power by the gods of light. As Ashiyn looked over the barren land around them, he doubted the existence of any gods, much less benevolent ones.
“They were all sacrificed to create the final blade prison. In it is housed the only creature more powerful than