The Emerald Knife
A squeak in the doorway alerted Davik, the tavern owner, to the newcomer’s entrance. Based on the man’s chainmail and the sword sheathed on his belt, Davik knew the man to be a knight, but he didn’t recognize this one’s face, which was disguised by a mane of unkempt facial hair. The man eyed Davik and walked straight towards him.
As he pushed by several tables, the bulky shield on his back bumped several merrymakers and spilled multiple drinks, the clay goblets shattering on the ground.
Davik sighed. Why do these out-of-towners insist on causin’ trouble?
When the man finally reached the bar, Davik asked, “What’ll it be? Ale?”
“No, just information.” The man drew his sword. “I need to find the enchanter of Elsanstrance. I know he resides somewhere here in this village.”
“If ye knew anything about Enchanter, it’s that he doesn’t take appointments.”
The knight tapped the blade to Davik’s chest. “You think I jest? What do you know?”
Davik laughed. “D’ye think yer the first person in this tavern to put his weapon on me? Ha. Please, take a drink, on me, and we talk. I don’t know where Enchanter is, but he eats here most nights. Maybe you’ll catch ‘im!”
Davik poured a goblet of ale. The man sheathed his sword and took a swig.
“What’s yer name, anyway? Folk try findin’ Enchanter for many reasons.”
“I am Sir Kalmin of Tambrose. I’ve heard the enchanter can help me find a certain sorcerer, Count Zaddwin.”
“In my experience, Sir Kalmin, it rarely be wise, seekin’ help from a sorcerer. Usually don’t end well.”
“I don’t seek help from Zaddwin. I seek to kill him.” Kalmin’s bloodshot eyes appeared to rarely blink, and he seemed to be staring at nothing.
“Ye confident y’can defeat the sorcerer?”
“Yes, if only I find his dwelling. What do you know of the count?”
Davik let the question linger for a few moments. “I may know more than y’ do. What I don’t know is why ye so hell-bent on findin’ ‘im.”
“He killed my wife, Jewlina.” Sir Kalmin trembled for a moment and turned his head downward. “He took her life and burned my home to the ground.”
Davik brought a hand to his chin. “Take some more ale, lad. The goblet has been known to temper many a man’s sharpest sorrows.”
Kalmin’s upper lip rose, almost a smile. “I’ll drink to that. I do need to find the enchanter soon.”
“I hear sorcerers such as th’ count are much dangerous. I s’pose there’s no way t’ talk ye out of it? Any way for ye to move on with yer life?”
Kalmin drank the entire cup and wiped his arm across his mouth before answering. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her pale face, the very moment her spirit slipped away. When I’m awake, I carry her picture with me.” He pointed to the shield on his back. “She’s leading me. Jewlina needs this. So no, I can’t move on. Not while that murderer is loose.”
David said, “Ye nor she, Sir Kalmin, be the arbiter of justice. Drink the ale, yes, drown the sorrow for a bit, perhaps, but neither the drink nor the sword will move ye onward. I suggest you stay away. Start anew. Let the King mete justice when the time is due.”
“I can’t…” Sir Kalmin leaned over his goblet, covered his face, and started sobbing. He looked up at Davik and sniffed, eyes bloodshot. “She haunts me so. Yes, it’s pain, pain, all I have is sorrow, but it’s her. It may be lifeless but it’s HER!”
He slammed his goblet on the table, splattering the remaining drink.
Davik pursed his lips for a second, thinking of anything to say, in comfort or rebuke. He shook his head. “Sir, ye don't know what yer getting into. Frankly, I’m not sure I understand it. Yes, your bride needeth justice. Such is certain. But see yerself, lad! She’s gone. Ye may be better moving on. Maybe I can leave a message for the Enchanter and he could take care of it for you. What say you?”
“No. I know she’s with me. I feel her in the portrait, and I feel rage. She needs justice. I need to get it for her. I needs to be me, but it would seem I’m not getting any closer here. Goodnight, good sir.”
Sir Kalmin stood and turned towards the door. On his back wasn’t a shield, as Davik had assumed. I was a large portrait of a woman, every detail painted in precision. Solid, strong, unscathed…indestructible? Davik felt invisible tendrils of magic emanating from the picture. He began to understand.
“She’s beautiful, lad.”
Kalmin didn’t acknowledge the comment or seem to notice the other patrons had all departed the tavern. Davik reached under the bar counter, picked up an object, and threw it at the door. A green blur flew past Sir Kalmin’s face and stuck in the door frame. A knife made from solid emerald.
Sir Kalmin spun and drew his sword, the picture on his back knocking down a chair. “What is that? Who are you?”
Davik donned a cloak and hood that obstructed his face. Kalmin’s eyes gaped.
“I am the Enchanter of Elsanstrance. I can help you find that which you truly seek.”
“Will you help me find vengeance?”
“I know you think you seek vengeance. And indeed, justice will be distributed on the brutish warlock. But it isn’t vengeance you seek. Not truly.”
“If you won’t help me get my revenge, you are wasting my time.”
“Sir Kalmin, I believe ye are able to dispense justice. But what you truly seek is peace.”
“Peace is impossible. Not without forgetting her.” Kalmin pointed to the picture on his back.
“Time will tell. I do know of the sorcerer’s keep. I will give you direction, and you will find it. You will be able to apprehend him, if you destroy your enemy.”
“What do you mean by this, Enchanter? He is my enemy.”
Davik strode to the doorframe, removed the knife, and placed it in Kalmin’s hand, and he whispered. “This weapon has been enchanted. It will destroy your true enemy. If you don’t destroy your true enemy, you will not be able to defeat the sorcerer.”
Davik the Enchanter summoned a gust of wind, spun in his cloak, and disappeared from Sir Kalmin’s sight.
~~~~~~~~
For awhile, Sir Kalmin quaked in the tavern at the Enchanter’s sudden disappearance.
On the bar where the Enchanter had been standing, there was a scroll and a key. With the key, he found a furnished room in the inn adjoined to the tavern. The scroll included direction on where to direct his search for Count Zaddwin.
Sir Kalmin left the village at first light. He followed the secluded road to a forest. As he walked, he reread the scroll with a smirk. The Enchanter had requested the count be brought back to the King of Elsanstrance to face judgement, but Kalmin perished the thought.
Zaddwin will die by hand, I swear it.
Sir Kalmin hiked deep into the woods, until the tree canopy created a false night, a morning darkness.
Kalmin breathed deeply and panted heavily.
Indeed, Kalmin continued but much slower than his usual pace. I used to be able to jog twenty kilometers in my armor without slowing. The wind chilled him thoroughly, and it wore on his nerves.
He was grateful for the enchanter. If the instructions on the scroll were correct, Kalmin knew he should be able to find the sorcerer’s keep by nightfall. He wondered how the man could build a castle so deep into the woods, and how he could keep such construction a secret.
Turning around the next bend, Kalmin had to push through a narrow opening between two trees. Beyond the trees, the path led to a small tunnel burrowed centuries ago. He crawled through the tunnel, crunching the foliage. Stray branches snagged his chain mail, and the portrait on his back scraped against stone.
He pushed through the tunnel’s narrow opening, grunting while pressing, wincing at the picture’s scratching. Once through, he looked ahead and saw his next obstacle.
“The Marsh-Bridge,” he muttered, remembering the myths surrounding it.
The Marsh-Bridge was a natural rock cluster that formed a five meter wide walkway through the forest’s cursed swampland. The swamp began mere meters from the burrow’s opening where he stood. He gazed at the water, and saw the trees poking through, maintaining the canopy above. The marsh extended beyond his eyesight through the dark haze. Legend said that the Marsh-Bridge lead to an island where supposed dark-magic rituals took place.
He took the portrait off his back and looked at his wife’s face, her soft, red lips, her loving smile.
Good. No scratches, no dents. Perfect, as always. He spoke. “The sorcerer’s keep is ahead. I need to do this. Can you help me?” Both the picture of Jewlina and the thought of gaining his revenge energized him to step forward.
He could feel her magic, remnants of her reaching through painting from beyond the grave. He hugged the cold painting. Every so often, a spark of a memory of love would shake him and remind him even more deeply of what he and Jewlina once had, but more often than not, the lifeless visage tormented him.
“I will never leave you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, but I’ll make this right.”
He stepped to the rocks and started into the marshland. Bubbling water flanked both of his sides, but the rocks stayed steady and he was safely above the water. All of the sudden, splash, splash, splash!
Three creatures leapt out of the water, and Sir Kalmin could barely make out their forms in the dusky light. Spideons—part spider, part scorpion, and part chameleon.
I can kill a hundred of these in my sleep!
While he skewered the three, more jumped from the marsh, and the creatures surrounded him. Between stomping with his feet and slicing and stabbing with his sword, he still flayed them quickly, but they didn’t seem to be dying as quickly as they did on the Wesroenii front, when a hive ambushed his squadron in a desert cave.
“It’s the rocks, I know it is,” he muttered. He stepped form rock to rock, keeping his balance.
The creatures had stopped coming, and the rocks evened out in spacing, and within a few minutes the Marsh-Bridge looked more like a cobblestone road. Sir Kalmin quickened his pace. His back ached in protest, but he persisted.
I can’t slow down. I won’t stop for camp. I must find the sorcerer and kill him tonight.
Kalmin jogged forward, and four shadows sprung from the two trees flanking the pathway, and landed a mere thirty yards ahead of him. He gripped his sword with both hands, ignored his fatigue, and sprinted at them.
Shadowmaces. My favorite.
Shadowmaces were monkey-like creatures that appeared to be made of darkness. With liquified organs, the lithe beings attack with two arms which form solid, mace-like fists—cannonball-hard spheres dotted with venomous spikes. They didn’t scare Sir Kalmin; he’d faced many during his training as a squire.
Kalmin slashed and sliced. He ducked under the swinging of multiple maces, and blocked one with his sword. He cut one off at its wrist, and it spurted black blood from its stump. He backed up more, then charged with more swings, severing limbs and opening torsos. Soon, all four were dead, their innards coating the road with a layer of sludge.
A fifth one jumped out of another tree ahead of him. Not again. Kalmin sighed.
He started to charge, but then he coughed and paused to catch his breath.
The shadowmace arrived quicker than Kalmin anticipated, and he had to throw himself to the ground to dodge the mace. Both arms swung down at him, and he rolled away from the blow. The mace-hands stuck into the rock, temporarily immobilizing the shadowmace.
Kalmin jerked his sword at its arms, but he only sliced off one of the limbs and scratched the other arm.
He jerked up his sword at the other mace, but the creature’s blow knocked the sword from Kalmin’s hands and his blade clattered and splashed into the water left of the path. Meanwhile, the mace landed mere inches from Kalmin’s face.
The shadowmace lifted its weapon and aimed at Kalmin. He tried shifting to either side, but the creature followed his movements, waiting for him to stop. Kalmin jerked all of his energy into a roll and tumbled off to the right of the path into the water.
Beneath the water, Sir Kalmin found himself without strength. He couldn’t lift his arms or paddle his feet, and he began to sink, back first.
What’s wrong with me? I’ve beat these things before, and now I’ve lost my sword.
He felt a lump on the right side of his belt.
The emerald knife! I do have a weapon…but no. Enchanter said I must use it to destroy my ‘true enemy.’ Surely the shadowmaces aren’t my true enemy? They can’t be any fiercer than the sorcerer himself, can they be? I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. I can’t drown. I need vengeance. I need justice. I need peace.
Kalmin kept sinking until his back touched the soft marsh floor. His lungs started to burn.
Jewlina, will you give me the strength to avenge you? Can you help me see justice for you? He could see her face in his mind’s eye, but no help came. Kalmin tried twisting, swimming, moving, but the weight on his back held him still. His mouth trembled.
Kalmin removed the knife from his belt, grabbed the cord around his left shoulder that held the picture to his back. He sliced that rope and the other on his right shoulder.
The weight gone, he felt light enough to fly. Kalmin used all of his effort to put his feet to the ground, leap upwards and paddle his arms and feet to reach the surface. His head broke through and his lungs heaved. He coughed and treaded water for a few moments, then swam back towards the bridge. The shadowmace faced him as he approached the road’s edge.
Sir Kalmin grabbed the rock, pulled up, rolled onto the road, and kept rolling past the shadowmace’s blow until he found its severed arm from before Kalmin lost his sword. Still rolling, he scooped up the mace hand by the severed elbow. Kalmin flung it at his off-guard attacker, lacerating its skin in several spots, and the shadowmace collapsed and oozed to death in a matter of seconds.
Kalmin hopped to his feet, heart racing. He examined the emerald knife and threw it to the ground. Tears filled his eyes.
“The picture! Oh, Jewlina, what have I done? I just wanted to fight for you, avenge you, live for you, never let you go…”
“Find me…” spoke a whisper in the wind. “Avenge me, my love…Let me strengthen you…”
Bubbles and a churning whirlpool appeared in the deep marsh water where he’s left the painting. A scarlet glow emanated below the surface, and the painting burst out from beneath the surface.
The weight of the painting returned to Kalmin’s shoulders, and his knees almost buckled under the pressure. He gripped the knife in front of him.
“Jewlina…”
“My love,” spoke the lips of the painting. A band of shadow twisted and sprung from the painting’s lips, and the shadows landed on the ground in front of Kalmin and formed into Jewlina’s silhouette. “Embrace me, my love. Let me strengthen you to do what needs to be done. Always carry me with you, and you will see your revenge.”
Jewlina’s shadow reached out to touch him, and the weight on his shoulders pressed down heavily, suddenly, forcefully, and in a moment Kalmin slammed to the ground, barely catching himself with his left hand, his face nearly smacking the cobblestone.
He could hear the Enchanter’s words repeating in his mind: “If you don’t destroy your true enemy, you will not be able to defeat the sorcerer.”
Kalmin whispered, “Jewlina is not my true enemy. I can’t forget her. I can’t lose her.”
The knife hummed, and it spoke words directly to his thoughts, an echoey whisper: “Jewlina is not your enemy. But this burden is. Reject the curse. Reject the shadow.”
Jewlina’s voice spoke once more: “My dear Kalmin, take me upon your shoulders once more. Let us never be apart. Never forget me. Hold me forever.”
“I want to,” Kalmin whispered.
The knife’s voice once again: “Jewlina is dead. Your enemy is not.”
Sir Kalmin screamed, deep and guttural, and he swung the emerald knife in front of him, taking the shadow’s legs from under her.
The weight retreated from his back, so Kalmin jumped to his feet. What had once looked like Jewlina now flailed on the ground like a bundle of snakes, connected in strands to the painting.
He slashed at the mass several more times and then turned to the picture. What was once beautiful now was lifeless, and dark red blood oozed from the visage’s eyes and lips.
“You’re not Jewlina!”
Kalmin hacked at the frame, and once the knife connected, the picture disintegrated into tiny shards of metal, most of which fell off the walkway into the marsh.
He stopped to breathe and began to weep.
“All that remained of her is gone. I’ll never see her face again.”
He screamed and threw the emerald knife on the ground.
After a while, Kalmin wiped away his tears and looked forward. Far in the distance, he could see the outline of a castle. But before that, were more shadowmaces, waiting, standing guard, daring him to approach.
“My sweet Jewlina, shall I even continue, now that you’re gone?”
He closed his eyes. To his surprise, he didn’t see her blood-drained face. He could picture her, alive, vibrant, laughing. He knew she was gone, but her image no longer taunted him. His eyes flicked open to the sound of humming.
The enchanter’s words whispered through the breeze. “This weapon has been enchanted. It will destroy your true enemy. If you don’t destroy your true enemy, you will not be able to defeat the sorcerer.”
In the dirt, the knife glowed. And with the glow, surges of a light magic. Kalmin picked up the knife. It vibrated, and he gripped it with both hands. The Emerald Knife grew to a sword. A scroll materialized around blade, and Kalmin removed it and read:
“The sorcerer’s curse is broken, and your true enemy is vanquished.
Now go forth with the justice you seek, for other adventures await you.
Beyond this path is another.—The Enchanter of Elsanstrance.”
A wave of understanding washed over Sir Kalmin.
“The sorcerer cursed Jewlina’s painting. He used my love of her against me to weigh me down. How could I be so blind…”
He gripped the emerald sword and smiled, free and weightless.
At midnight, Sir Kalmin entered the sorcerer’s castle.
At dawn, he returned to the king with the sorcerer bound and immobilized.
