Tales from Kalgachia - 36

Chlorocyphida Pan sat at the kitchen table in her cottage, her chin rested on her folded hands. Before her was a sword in varying shades of black.

She stared hard at it, and tried to avoid the feeling that it was returning her gaze.

Since acquiring it several months previously during her chance meeting with a lich who, against all probability, appeared to be her great-great-grandfather, Mors Nerrolar, she had had the sword in her possession, despite several half-hearted attempts on her part to part with it. These had taken place relatively recently; if the sword was, as she very much suspected, the legendary of Sword of Death, it was not the kind of object one ought to be comfortable with just anyone picking up, and she had taken it with her in that spirit - and, she'd thought, Mors might come back looking for it.

Her perspective had begun to change, however, when she realized that the sword seemed determined to haunt her, in a very literal sense. It followed her. Oh, if she just put it down somewhere nearby but remained in the general area, it would still be in the same spot when she got back - but if she attempted to actually leave it somewhere while herself going somewhere else, it didn't like that, not one bit. It would appear in a place where she would come across it, and would do so no matter how many times she changed direction at random.

She'd once actually taken the sword out to an old tree and, with all her strength, had embedded the blade in the wood. After satisfying herself that it couldn't easily be removed, she'd turned around and immediately seen it lying innocently on the ground. The tree, upon inspection, had been left with a vacant, blade-shaped hole.

The fact remained: she had found herself in possession of an artifact with arcane powers, and which, according to legend, was associated with one of the oldest and most powerful entities of the Archonic hosts. It was known for its attachment to her bloodline, and had now attached itself to her personally.

Chlorocyphida was accustomed to self-reliance. She'd found from an early age that other people were either not interested in her problems or had no greater capacity to deal with them than she herself did. But whatever was happening here showed every sign of being a problem that was either not entirely hers, or would eventually find a way to become not entirely hers. She was, manifestly, not equipped for this; she needed, at a minimum, advice from someone who was.

And where better to start in facing Archonic powers than the Church?

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As Chlorocyphida related her tale, Gnoma Kedyruk, Credent of Lyssansaevna Parish, listened with a certain amount of bemusement.

Had nearly anyone else in her parish come around with tales of a sword that followed them around after having been given to them by their lich great-great grandfather, she would have… not laughed, at least not to their face, but started nudging them, perhaps, in the direction of Karymovka Sanatorium, to help regain their peace of mind. But Chlorocyphida had rarely been disturbed about anything in the three years since she'd arrived, and she seemed perfectly calm now. It was hard not to take her seriously.

And then, of course, there was the fact of the sword itself, which lay on Gnoma's desk. There it was: clearly Chlorocyphida had got it from somewhere, and it didn't look like the sort of object you could just pick up from a shop. Not on a goatherd's income, anyway.

"And you said you think this is…?" she asked.

"The Sword of Death," the green-skinned young woman replied soberly.

The Credent leaned in to look more closely at the blade. It reflected no light, which made further examination difficult; the eye seemed to slide off it, no surface texture could be seen. It was straight and blade-shaped, but that was all one could say.

The air seemed slightly colder around it, but possibly it was just her imagination.

"The Great Swords of the Archons are known, of course," Gnoma said slowly, not taking her eyes off the sword. "The Empress Lyssansa had the Sword of Fire in her possession. One assumes that only Salvators and their ilk would have been capable of wielding them safely. Even this one, if it indeed is the Sword of Death, was kept locked away by Shyriath Farstrider, the Builder, when he owned it. But…" She looked up at her parishioner. "I must admit, it seems rather unlikely that this sword, here and now, should be it."

"If I were not a descendant of Mors Nerrolar," Chlorocyphida replied tightly, "it would be. But it's a hard conclusion to avoid, being who I am with a black sword following me around."

Gnoma hesitated, and returned her gaze to the sword. "Perhaps-" she began, and hesitated again. Her training hadn't really covered ancient artifacts of doom among the Archonic influences one should be looking out for. But one way or another, both for Chlorocyphida's peace of mind and for everyone else's, it seemed that the sword should be taken off the former's hands.

She reached out for the sword. Just before her fingers touched the hilt, she was vaguely aware of Chlorocyphida saying, "Credent, I don't think that-"

There was a flash of cold light, and the Credent found herself flat on her back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, and then at her worried parishioner's nose. Her hand felt cold and full of pins and needles, though the feeling started to fade gently away even as she became aware of it.

"Are you all right?"

"Nnnngh," she managed, as she was helped up into a sitting position. She flexed her fingers and winced. "I think so."

"I have the feeling," Chlorocyphida said resignedly, "that that was its idea of a friendly warning. I wouldn't try to touch it again, Credent, if I were you."

"No," Gnoma replied shakily, standing up with the other's aid. "No, I don't think so."

Chlorocyphida helped the Credent back into her chair at the desk, then picked up the sword. "If you think you'll be all right, Credent, I think I'm going to go."

Gnoma's gaze snapped upward. "Chlorocyphida… I really think you should stay here. It might be safer-"

"No more so than home, Credent," she replied, shaking her head. "I'll be there if anyone needs to look for me. And I imagine you have some people you're going to talk to." Without waiting for further comment, the green-skinned young woman withdrew.

The Credent stared after her, and then, shaking her head, reached for a phone. She had to pity the girl - she was bright enough to have an inkling of what was coming.

Within five minutes, before she had even arrived at her cottage, Chlorocyphida was being ushered into a black car. They treated her gently - because of the sword, perhaps - and she went quietly.

"Just ensure that someone looks after the goats, please," she murmured.