A Sword Called Woe

Woe came and the rain came with it.

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Daevas watched from his position at the very top of the fortress men called the Lance as the stormfront approached Ehld from the west, a colossal, darkening wall of grey and black, broken frequently by jagged cracks of lightning.

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The storm rolled inexorably forward, moving unnaturally slowly for one so large, like a glacier of wind and rain. Yet it was only a matter of time before it arrived. Already, the wind whipped at Daevas' shoulder-length golden hair and chased away the heat radiating from the huge bonfire blazing behind him. The first hints of rain settled gently onto his face and misted the golden pauldrons of his majestic plate mail.

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'It's just a storm, Bladelord,' said Firstspear Neten from over his left shoulder. Yet his voice, normally as hard and solid as the man himself, belied a hint of anxiety.

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'Never seen a storm like that in all of my days,' Secondspear Petya said from her customary position on his right.

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Neten spoke firmly. 'Big or little, it's still just a storm. We should be preparing for the attack. We can use it. The Akashkz hate the rain.'

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He was wrong, of course, about the storm. Daevas drew Glory from its sheath, marvelling at her splendour, as he did each and every time he drew her, even after all of these years. The most beautiful weapon in all of creation, Glory was a greatsword almost as tall as most men, with a crossguard shaped like the sun breaking on the horizon. It was a deep, rich gold from tip to pommel and bathed in a flaming golden halo.

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Petya and Neten gasped softly, no doubt immediately feeling the dawnblade's embrace, enhanced by their close proximity. Each of Aetal's gifts had an effect on those around them. This was Glory's. A flood of self-confidence, optimism and invincibility. The promise of great deeds to come, of battles to be won, of legends to be born.

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She brought other gifts, too. Strength, speed, durability far beyond that of normal men. Some of the memories of Glory's weilders who had come before him - Yresar, Quelle and the rest. His ageing had slowed considerably, whilst most wounds healed in the space of a few heartbeats. He was not sure he could get sick if he tried.

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But as he looked at the oncoming storm with glowing honey-gold eyes, only one gift mattered - the Call. Once, the seven blades had been one, part of Salvation, the Heavenblade, sent to earth by Aeton above, wielded by his son Aetal to fight back the demon host from beyond the Dark Veil.