The Blood-Stained Blade Ch. 63-65

Ch. 63 - Endless Conquest

After Holmen, there were a dozen towns and villages in as many nights. The first couple were as empty as the lands that separated them. They’d managed to escape with their lives, at least for now. The Ebon Blade did not attempt to direct its army to run them down. Instead, it curved ever more northward, away from the most likely paths of commerce and flight. 

+2124 Life Force.
+187 Human Souls.
+14 Greater Monster Souls. 

Everyone down the main trade road would be warned by now. The knowledge that such a large city had been sacked would soon proceed them by weeks, which meant that their prey existed in the hinterlands, blissfully ignorant of the danger that awaited them. 

These hinterlands were vast, open spaces, and though not quite as desolate as the eastern steppes it had started its life in, they were still too dry for agriculture in most places. So, small herding villages were spaces far apart in the rolling hills, and smaller towns clung to streams and the tributaries of the two rivers they’d just bypassed. 

These hamlets were so small that no real strategy was required. They were defeated before half the army even heard the screams over the sounds of booted feet and battle cries. Still, the blade forced its wielder to force them to wait until night to assault and to spread out before each battle in a wide, crescent shape that would fully envelop the town. This wasn’t to make the combat faster or more survivable for the orcs, though. It didn’t care who survived and died so long as they did the dying near it. 

+1954 Life Force.
+121 Human Souls.
+9 Greater Monster Souls.

What it cared about on these small, soft targets was that no one got away. While there were never enough people to recreate the overwhelming bliss it had achieved in the courtyard of Holmen’s keep as men had died by the score all around it, the deaths of hundreds were enough to keep it fed as it moved closer to the real prize, though it was forced to spend 4,000 Life Force on Lesser Life Storage 3 and Lesser Soul Storage 3 just to keep from overflowing with the energy it was gaining from their near nightly raids. 

Each of these battles pitted an unready and inexperienced populous against a hungry horde, so each cost it less than a dozen lives of its own men. In time, those losses would add up, but for now, they were acceptable, and in Var’gar’s hand, the blade rampaged across the countryside, killing hundreds. 

From each town and village, it selected a few souls to tell it more about the region, but the rest it consumed. Those deaths gave it a chance for significant upgrades, but even the council of spirits was almost never wasted. Traders told it the fastest ways to get places or which of the nearby villages, and shepherds told it about shortcuts or holes in the walls of towns that actually had walls. Everyone knew some secret, and it used those to speed their journey as it learned about the area one death at a time. 

The landscape seemed far from dangerous. Sometimes, tucked away in quiet corners, they even found little, half underground halfling villages. They were hidden in plain sight beneath hills well enough that the orcs would have missed several of them entirely if not for the whispers of the dead.

+1449 Life Force.
+107 Human Souls.
+44 Halfling Souls. 
+28 Greater Monster Souls.

The vast plains were currently held by treaty by the Principality of Markhem, but the locals didn’t seem to care about that. It was just a distant name attached to a city-state on the sea. The whole area changed hands a couple of times each generation as it was sold, traded, or conquered by someone else. That earned it the title of the Contested Lands from the people who didn’t really care who they paid their taxes to, only that they had to pay them. 

Only once in all of those occasions did they encounter any real resistance. A band of would-be heroes that included a mage and a priest tried and failed to defend a village of nearly five hundred souls before they realized the size of the orc band they faced. They tried to run, but by then, it was too late. 

The group reminded it a bit of Ivarr and his little band as the orcs slaughtered him. There were other, vaguer memories too, though, that it shied uncomfortably away from, too. Baraga had been a mercenary, hadn’t he? Did he engage in heroics like this with friends who shared his death wish? It didn’t remember. 

The blade could have saved and repaired its soul again, but at least for now, it decided against that, too. It had too many other powers to consider. Connection, control, senses, and soul were all its lowest scores, and while it could spend 5,000 Life Force to repair its soul further, it could increase all three of the others for only slightly more. 

Even that was only one of many options. It was very cheap to increase the magics that would upgrade its wielder, but those seemed to come with a heavy burden that was only offset by its Parasitic Link ability, and it did not like to think about how quickly it would burn through its reserves should it find itself stranded again. The forest that Ivarr had left it in had been full of things to kill, but if it were high in the mountains when it was abandoned or left on these plains, it would have a tougher time.

The Ebon Blade 

Life Force: 3398/7800
Siphon: 28-40
Souls: 41/58

Path: Death, Level 5 - complete
Blood, Level 2 - 8/18 offerings. 

Reserves: 10 - Your gemstone is perfect.
Siphon: 7 - Your blade is long and sharp.
Connection: 3 - Moderate - Your hilt is tight but tarnished.
Control: 3 - Moderate - Your runes are clear.
Senses: 3 - Dim - Your hilt is tarnished.
Soul: 3 - Cracked - You are starting to understand your past.

There was also its Aura of Hunger to consider. Though it had worked hard to finish that ability so that one more loose thread was tied up, its thoughts lingered on it. It wasn’t finished. Apparently, it would never be. The real question was just how it should use it. 

For 5,000 Life Force, it could apparently double one trait at the cost of halving another. At first glance, that seemed like a very expensive zero-sum game, but was it? Would halving the number of targets to increase the speed at which it devoured them be worth it? Perhaps it wasn’t speed it should be concerned with, but the amount it drained from them instead. One thing it knew, though, was that at least as long as it was engaging in the wholesale slaughter, what it was really missing out on was range. 

Both its Path of Death and Path of Blood abilities used its Aura of Hunger as their own range as well. Which meant that on a crowded battlefield, it was possible to claim more of those souls. Surely, it would be worth it to halve the number of targets or even the amount that it drained to increase the range, wouldn’t it? Increasing the range once would increase it from twenty feet to thirty, and increasing it twice would increase it from thirty feet to forty-five feet. 

The blade could definitely see the value in that. When it had been trapped in the dragon’s lair, an extra five feet had made all the difference in the world. The only thing that prevented it from doing just that was that it hadn’t done it in the past. In fact, it was fairly certain it had the same range then as it did now, based on the spacing between the bars of its cell and the altar where it had been placed. 

If it’s such a good idea to do now, why didn’t I do it then? It wondered. Did I focus on pure power? Is that somehow better?

If the blade increased the rate at which it siphoned life away by reducing targets and range and increasing the speed, it could see how that would be helpful, too. Focusing that sort of hunger on a single human and devouring them whole would be a way to kill almost anyone within a few seconds. Still, if it did, would it ever be able to engage in meaningful combat again, or would the desire to simply consume its enemies be too strong? 

The blade spent days considering all of those possible choices. It considered everything from having the lightest of touches on things over a hundred feet away to having the strongest of grips on a single soul within arms reach, but in the end, it decided to go another way altogether. 

As its army crossed the rolling, arid plains, sacking villages as they went, it eventually decided to increase its senses. It had planned to increase its connection after that. But after it saw what Increase Senses 4 revealed, it decided that Increase Senses 5 had to be the next step, even though it was another 3,000 Life Force. 

Increase Senses 4: The world dims, even as your sight grows sharper. You can see further than ever before, but now you can see within your opponents as well.

You have gained the ability to detect magic and mana flows. 

Increase Senses 5: All this time you have seen more than a weapon ever should, but now that your senses have been perfected you can see more than should even be possible. The world has been stripped of any beauty it might have held in your gaze, but now, at the cost of Life Force you can drill deeper into anyone or anything you focus on, gaining the ability to see unseen traits like their strengths, abilities, or even their motivations and morality. 

As the blade read each of those messages, it was confused by how something could become dimmer as the world became sharper, but it was true. It could see clearly to the horizon now, and if it focused on the souls of any of the orcs in its army, it could see their dark souls and sluggish mana flows, but it couldn’t concentrate on the mundane details that one of its wielders might care about. Instead of looking at a tree on a hill with the sun setting behind it and noting how lovely it was, all it could see was the potential for ambush. 

In a sense, it was like a caged beast that had reached the edge of its cage and could see the world clearly, but it could only see that the world held nothing for it. It was a sword, after all. It existed to kill, not to appreciate. 

That metaphor of the caged beast haunted it through the next several days. No matter how many people they killed, it kept coming to mind, even though it didn’t know why. It wasn’t caged. In this metaphor, it was the cage. Does that mean my powers are the beast? It wondered idly as the orcish army marched on in the background. 

+2469 Life Force.
+88 Human Souls.
+11 Greater Monster Souls.

Was it afraid that its power was growing too quickly? It didn’t think so. Still, it was unable to pin down why that image should even occur to it in the first place. 

Ch. 64 - Just Like Old Times

The days began to blur together in much the same way the villages that it slaughtered after that. One dying farmer looked much like another, and they spent weeks hacking their way across the region. Would it have paid more attention to what was happening if it had been held in human hands or if it had listened to humans chat around the campfire at night? Probably, but it was hard to say. It only had two modes now, boredom and bloodlust, and neither required much thought. 

+1149 Life Force.
+54 Human Souls.
+6 Greater Monster Souls.

While it still enjoyed the fights, there was only so much orc it could take. Their bestial ways did not sit well with it, and though it admired the killing rage of its wielder, it could only watch them devour the corpses of so many humans before even it turned away in disgust; animals existed to feed, but that did not mean it had to watch. 

The weapon mostly tuned out of the world when he was awake unless enemies had been spotted or they were getting ready to assault a village. That, combined with, or perhaps because of its recent changes in senses left it somewhat disassociated from the world. It would focus on some detail of its system interface or its interrogation of a halfling soul as it tried to learn more about the strange people, and suddenly, when it looked outside again, the army be a dozen miles or more from where it had last seen them, and nothing would look the same. 

Still, despite its increasing inattention and growing knowledge of the region, the blade wasn’t sure it had been here before. Well, it knew that it had to have been at least once. It had been carried across the area by someone to be hidden away in the temple that had been freed from so recently. It wasn’t until it asked the soul of an elderly weaver woman about the largest settlements in the area that it saw something it recognized again: the Dwarfs’ Fist.

The fortress had been on its mind more than once during its bloody campaign, but the idea that it was somewhere close by had never occurred to it. The soul that he devoured seemed to think that it was riddled with orcs, which wouldn’t surprise it. It had fought such monsters there long ago in Baraga’s hand. It had assumed that it had been part of some desperate military campaign, but it was hard to glean much from glimpses. 

That didn’t matter, though. The idea that they might get reinforcements there did, and even though there were no humans to kill in the area, it still forced its wielder to turn his army east to the ancient fortress just the same. 

This might be the last time we are able to reinforce our numbers before we face the inner kingdom, the blade explained. We will seize whatever warring tribes there are to find and make them join our assault. 

The chieftain complained but gave no serious resistance. The orcs of their army had eaten well for nearly a month, and the blade had no doubt they could comfortably starve for nearly as long without dying, even if it didn’t think that would be necessary. 

The trip across the scrublands was long but uneventful, and though they saw a human patrol once, the men on horseback fled as soon as they realized just how many orcs were arrayed against them. That annoyed the blade. It would have loved to consume them, of course, but it would have loved even more to keep their location a surprise as long as possible. 

There was no way to hide the location of an army, but facing a real army with heavy horse, archers, and mages instead of the paltry defenses they’d seen to date would cost the orcs hundreds or even thousands of lives, and the blade would prefer to spend those lives in battle in the Inner Kingdoms rather than far from them. 

Despite its concerns, the orcs continued untroubled until the tall grasses were replaced by patchy yellow weeds, and the rolling hills gradually faded away in favor of irregular sandstone outcroppings. 

That was where they finally found the Dwarfs’ Fist. As a fortress, it was imposing, but only from a distance. Built atop a stone plateau, its yellow stone walls toward a hundred feet above the ground, and its towers stretched even higher. 

Up close, it was easy to see the damage it had suffered in successive sieges over the centuries. If it had even held a strategic location, that was no longer the case. Now, it was mostly a navigational landmark for passing caravans and a lair for orcs and goblins. As they approached, it saw the bones and the spoor of both. The place might look deserted by daylight, but by night, it was no doubt a very dangerous playground for all manner of nasty predators. 

Fortunately, none of that scared it. They weren’t there to fight over scraps. They were there to pillage the strength of the orcs that dwelled in the decaying village, and they wanted to fight first, so much the better. 

Var’gar made it deep into the tunnels before the first fight, but even then, it was only goblins. He never even saw half of the vermin that were lurking in the shadows because the Ebon Blade sucked them dry as the orcs marched forward, and they cowered in the crevices. 

+422 Life Force.
+135 Lesser Monster Souls.

The goblins made for a fine appetizer, but it wasn’t until the orcs had actually entered the lower levels of the fortress proper that they met real resistance. The corridors were narrow enough that they were clearly never made for an orc, so Var’gar had to fight the bellowing, dark-skinned orcs that came at him, one at a time. He slew half a dozen brutes without even bothering to pull his weapon. 

+268 Life Force.
+6 Greater Monster Souls. 

It was only when they entered into the heavily shaded lower courtyard that they found anything approaching a leader. “You aim to beat me in my own lair?” the big orc demanded, pointing at Var’gar with his oversized club. “Or maybe you’ve just come to bring me dinner as tribute.”

That caused a round of laughs. They only intensified when Var’gar shot back, “If you beg for your life, then maybe I’ll settle for just breaking yer knees.”

In any normal circumstance, the orcs that its wielder was facing down would be able to see the thousands of orcs backing him up and respond appropriately. Unfortunately, the chief of these ruins was denied that advantage. Though orcs were still coming up through the tunnels to join Var’gar, he was still badly outnumbered, and, in a rare instance, he wasn’t even the biggest orc here. 

Huge as he was, the chieftain he was facing down had at least a foot on him. Its wielder didn’t care about mere size, though. An ogre might not be as strong as him at this point. Still, they didn’t start to fight yet. The blade had long since learned that wasn’t how these things worked. First, they needed to stack up enough boasts and insults. Only then did they switch to brutal, one-on-one combat. 

Just like all the other orcs that Var’gar had fought in the past, the chief of this tribe tossed away his weapon before they grappled. Amidst two orcs of similar strength, such a match could go on for a long time, but with its magical strength flowing through its wielder, the only reason it wasn’t faster to kill the chieftain of the Dark Fort tribe was because Var’gar was a sadist, and he liked to take his time. 

Its wielder broke both of the wrists of his opponents in moments, but he let the fight linger on for several minutes, and the blade did nothing to speed it up as he mocked the larger orc and urged him to surrender. Surrender was not forthcoming, though after enough body blows, he called for help, ordering his warband to come to his aid. 

+72 Life Force. 

What a waste, the blade thought bitterly, as Var’gar finally drew his black blade and started to cut down those that sought to interfere. As much as it enjoyed drinking the lifeblood of these fools, every orc that its wielder struck down in a fit of pique and pride was one less that they would have in the battles ahead. 

+484 Life Force.
+9 Greater Monster Souls. 

Fortunately, orcs were slow but not entirely oblivious when it came to self-preservation. Once they saw how easily Var’gar was dispatching them, they surrendered. By that point, the Ebon Blade tuned out completely, studying the walls of the fortress and the layout, even as its wielder ordered another feast in his honor. 

Increasingly, that seemed to be its wielder’s favorite thing to do. More than even killing, he was growing drunk on the power of lording over so many other warriors and making them worship his own personal god. The blade rarely imposed on him outside of battle, but tonight, as the fires began to build, the dead were gutted and secured to large spits, it commanded its wielder to climb higher. 

Go to the top of the fort, it commanded. I wish to see the best way forward when we continue our conquest tomorrow.

In the very back of Var’gar’s mind, it could hear discontent. It was clear that the orc would love nothing more than to claim this place in his own name and rule over it. It would be a fitting end for an orc, but the blade had not come all this way to be the god of cannibalistic dung heap. It was more than halfway to its destination, and as its wielder grudgingly climbed higher and higher, that destination came into view. 

From the foot of the rocky outcropping that Dwarfs’ Fist was carved into, there was nothing but plains in every direction. However, from the ramparts, four stories above the bloody courtyard, which was, in turn, fifty feet above the ground, they were just high enough for the blade to see the Adrenii Mountains, which were a low, heavily forested range that separated the inner kingdoms from the outlands they were currently in. That was promising, of course, but it was not the reason the blade had forced its wielder to come up here. 

The truth was that it was overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia at being back in a place that it remembered. It would have expected anger to accompany such a feeling, but as it looked around and recalled a half-remembered battle, it felt only a vague sense of sadness, which was an uncommon emotion for it. 

The blade looked down at the crowded courtyard below, and the bodies of the dead orcs gave it the strangest sense of déjà vu. It had been here before. It knew that. That certainty didn’t stop the weight of memories from becoming overwhelming. So, even though it hadn’t been its plan, it burned enough souls to boost its Life Force above 5,000, and then it purchased Repair Soul 4, and its mind was consumed by the rising tide of images and pain. 

Ch. 65 - Missing Pieces

He’s not wielding me. That was the blade’s first thought as Baraga’s desperate fight replayed through its mind with more clarity than ever. Even as it watched the warrior dance a brutal dance with the orcs, cleaving them left and right with more skill than strength as he fought beside his friends on the parapet of the weather fortress, he did so with a sword that flashed silver in the sunlight. 

It was not a black sword. It was silver, and no runes glowed along it. That upset the blade for reasons it had trouble putting into words. It wasn’t even that the man was using a different weapon. It was the fact that it was impossible for it to remember something that it wasn’t there for. 

With growing dread, the blade scanned the scene, looking from Baraga’s back to his companion's hands and even the ground around all of them. Perhaps I was knocked out of his hand, the blade thought, even though it knew that was impossible. Perhaps he’s using his second weapon until he can retrieve me. 

There was no secondary weapon, though.  There was just a dwarf wielding a battleaxe, a halfling woman, and a couple of men in armor with Baraga fighting for their lives. 

A realization was slowly dawning on the Ebon Blade, and it fought it with everything it had. It couldn’t accept it. There was only one common thread in most of its memories, including this one, and as it considered that, its mind began to seize as if something was gripping its heart and twisting. 

But I don’t have a heart, it thought, as the scene began to twist and blur. “I’m a sword, not a…

The scene shifted. It was sometime after the battle at Dwarfs’ Fist, but not too long after because its wielder was wearing the same clothes, and it could see the half-healed wounds. 

“You understand that no matter how you bring the beast down and slay it, this must be the weapon to deal the final blow,” the King said, handing Baraga the matte black blade to the kneeling warrior. “My mages tell me only that will be enough to power the spells inside this thing.”

Until that moment, its old wielder had been quiet and respectful, but as he examined the blade, he flashed the older man a cocky grin and said, “With a weapon like this, it would be easier to kill anything than let it live. This thing is a monster.”

As he spoke, he addressed the King, but his eyes wandered to the beautiful princess who sat on a stool near the throne. The blade wasn’t looking at her, though, or even its wielder. Despite the fact that they were in one of the grandest halls it had ever seen, it could only look at itself. 

It wasn’t itself, though, not yet. It was that blade, but that blade was not it. There was no light in the ruby. There were no runes on the flat of the blade. There was no hint of magic. It was just a weapon. 

This meant that it wasn’t here any more than it had been at the previous battle, and these weren’t its memories. As the King blessed the man’s mission and wished him luck, Baraga moved to speak with the princess, but the blade couldn’t hear a word they were saying. 

Blood that it didn’t have thundered through its ears that didn’t exist to blot out the sound of conversation and flirtation. If it was remembering someone else’s memories, then what did that mean? It knew, but it didn’t want to know. Still, that dread certainty could only be suppressed for so many seconds. 

How could I? I can’t… It can’t be. Its mind warred against itself as it struggled with all of this.

While not quite emotionless, the blade was rarely subject to such emotional extremes. If it had a heart, it would have been as hard and as sharp as its edge. It had no defense against the realization that it might have once been something besides a blade, though, and it was only when its memories reorganized to the fight with the dragon that it was able to push away those conclusions a few seconds longer. 

The Ebon Blade couldn’t lose itself in the ebb and flow of battle, though, not when its eyes were locked on the sword. Baraga’s plan to lure the thing with a flock of sheep so that he could fight it in a rocky meadow with boulders for cover might have been a good idea, but it wasn’t half as interesting as the dead, blank sword he was using to fight it. His friends were tucked away here and there, with bows and wands to fight it, but they were just there to distract it. None of those weapons could hope to penetrate the behemoth’s rusty armor. 

The blade watched the fight progress just as it had in its other memories. This time, the details were more vivid, and the action more brutal. It saw Baraga charge his left hand to the bone just to strike the killing blow through the beast’s giant eye socket. Even then, though, the blade’s ruby did not light up for more than a moment. The events offered it no hope that this could be a fluke somehow, and it was increasingly forced to believe that it might have once been the man that it had thought of this whole time as its first wielder. 

The celebration that followed and the wedding feast did nothing to change any of that. It knew the betrayal was coming. Whether it was the Ebon Blade or Baraga, it knew what was going to happen next, and it made the weapon feel sick as the hero went through the motions of being rewarded and turning the blade back over to the King, only to be beaten and bound a few hours later after he’d been allowed to get good and drunk. 

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Baraga shouted. “We’ve done everything you asked! We saved the city!”

“You did,” the King answered as his men wrestled the warrior into submission and bound him in heavy chains. “But there’s a special sort of magic in your soul, Baraga, and we can’t have that falling into the wrong hands.” 

“Bastard!” Baraga yelled. The blade felt his rage echoing inside of him as he spoke. “At least let my friends go. They’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You’re right,” the King nodded as the warrior and his friends were dragged from the room, “But that’s not the way magic works.”

The blade barely heard him. It was still coming to grips with the things it was learning, and once Baraga was dragged to forge he’d seen so many times before, and the blade was heated up so that the runes could be applied, well, it couldn’t hear anything at all. There was too much screaming. 

It only occurred to it belatedly that those screams weren’t coming from it or from the made it had once been. They were coming from the other people who had been dragged into this, Baraga’s friends. I don’t know them. The blade told itself. I never knew them. They aren’t my friends. 

While all of that was true, it was, it didn’t change the fact that every one of those people that was being magically tortured to death in some nearby room was as much a part of it as the wielder. It wasn’t the soul of a single man. It was a composite thing made up of a dozen dead heroes, but not one of those heroes could stop what was coming as the terrible ritual took shape. The thought made it sick as echoes of those torments coiled through it from dimly remembered parts of its mind, but none of that could alter a single detail about what was coming. 

People died, souls were captured, and the runes on its blade lit up one at a time. That was enough to make it roar in outrage as its red-hot blade was finally quenched in the hero’s heart. That was what finally made its ruby come to brilliant life, as the dark magics that powered its very existence sprang into life for the first time. That was a horrifying look in the mirror, and as it thought of the metaphor, it suddenly remembered the horrible mirror it had shattered so recently. 

Those witches were surprised I was fighting through those people because I should have cared about them, it realized dimly. They were my… Baraga’s friends. They’re part of me, but I don’t remember them at all.

They should have known. Their souls had been sliced and diced the same way that its had. Still, the fact that it didn't was the trigger that caused its nauseous, churning emotions to finally explode. The blade's soul, broken as it was, began to vomit then. Even as the memories tried to turn toward other events, the magic that held it in this fugue state shattered, and for a moment, it could feel fragments of the people that it might have once been before it had become the weapon that it was now. It could feel Ral’en’s regret that he’d never said goodbye to his sister and Marana’s sadness that she’d never told Baraga how she really felt. Names and sometimes the faces associated with them swirled through the very center of its being as it tried to look at who it really was from a dozen different perspectives at once. 

All of those were washed away by the pain of as many deaths, though. Each time the Ebon Blade used this ability, it could feel the jagged pieces of its soul grinding painfully together as it sought to reform, but this time, that didn’t happen, as it broke what was trying to reform apart again. 

The idea was simply too repulsive, and being borne in the grip of another was too much for it to bear. That was how it found itself lying on the stone of the fortress where Var’gar had collapsed, but after a quick check didn’t appear to be dead. 

Did he see any of that? The blade wondered, or was my anguish simply too much for him to bear?

The orc was strong, but the pain of being tortured to death a dozen different times at once was more than anyone could hope to bear. The blade couldn’t, and it was made of metal. Metal quenched in the blood of heroes, it spat. 

It took Var’gar several minutes to recover, but the blade appreciated the solitude. It wasn’t enough time to come to grips with any of this, but it would be enough to gather its wits and try to figure out what it was supposed to do with this new information.