Anno Domini 1300
Mountains of Romania
"Two more on the left flank!"
"I see them. No need to yell."
"Habit."
No more words were exchanged. Now was the time for steel and silent prayers. Two men, wearing plain-looking armor and bearing simple brown cloaks on their shoulders stood against a dozen toothed beasts that looked like a demented child's idea of a big, scary wolf. Hounds of Hell, it seemed. Or at least one breed of them. The man who had yelled was young, his eyes twinkling with determination and energy; the one who'd chastised him was a bit older, and seemed as steady as a rock. The young warrior bore a strong shield on his left arm, and a well-balanced sword in his right. The older warrior was tucking a bow away even as he drew a large, two-handed sword from his side.
For long moments, man and beast watched each other. Then, suddenly, the Hounds struck. Swords flashed. And beasts fell.
Within seconds, the Hounds were down by three, and two more received laming wounds that saw some of their fellows turn and tear their throats out. The knights focused on the immediate threats. The young one held a Hound off with his shield before tearing its belly open with his sword; instead of blood, ash and smoke poured out as the creature collapsed. The older knight just let one of the beasts impale itself on his large blade, freeing the sword by way of slicing out of the creature's body as if it was nothing but water.
By the time ten minutes had passed, none of the hounds so much as twiched, and the two men wiped ash from their blades, the younger one frowning at a couple of scratches on his shield before shrugging them off. He turned to the older knight and spoke up, curious.
"William..?"
"Yes, Hector?"
"Is that one of the Three?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"The squires I trained with before we were apprenticed out to you and the others. They said they heard two of the trainers discussing it. Which I would have dismissed, except that just a month ago I overheard two of the newer Paladins talking about watching you wield it in battle against...against one of the Fallen."
The older Paladin is silent for long moments, cleaning his sturdy, simple blade before stowing it once more.
"And so instead of rumor-mongering, you came to me to ask, albeit after spending weeks working up the courage?"
"Uh...yes?"
"Hmph. Well. Better than some instincts, anyways."
The older Paladin begins walking back down the trail, the younger Paladin following behind.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Well, at least now you're stating. And no, I didn't."
"Will you?"
"Persistence. A virtue, even. One passed down-"
"From Camelot and beyond, yes."
The experienced warrior laughs softly.
"Fine. Yes, I have been designated as bearer of one of the Three. But it's not something I do every day; those Blades are meant for specific purposes. They allow a Paladin to be more than he was, but power tempts. After all, the-"
"The Devil was once an Angel, yes. That....hm."
The young man is thoughtful as the get to their horses and mount up, getting a steady pace going before they continue.
"What's it like?"
"Bearing one of the Three?"
"Hm. It is awesome: it fills you and others with awe. It is marvelous: you can work marvels. It is purifying."
"Purifying?"
"Like fire is to silver and gold."
"...That's not exactly pleasant."
A harsh bark of laughter.
"Bearing a weapon meant only to hurt and kill, bearing an artifact we believe to be deeply connected to an act of non-violent self-sacrifice to save others isn't pleasant? You're right, Hector. It isn't pleasant. It isn't safe. But...it is good. When you go in with the right heart and mind, you feel...certain. You feel...strengthened. And you feel driven. Protecting others is one of our codes, but with the Three, it becomes part of you like your lifesblood."
"Wow."
"Indeed. And don't mistake my words; there's no drain or addiction in using the Three. We just consider them to be terrible enough to use only in specific circumstances."
Suddenly, a voice cuts in from their right.
"Which just shows how weak you all are. Weak, short-sighted, and stuck in a dead end. You're not worthy of any of the Three."
William's face goes pale as he turns.
"Anthony? What are you saying, brother."
The man, in polished armor of blackened steel with gold highlights, his helmet's visor raised to show his sneering face framed by well-groomed hair, turns and spits on the ground.
"We are brothers no longer, William. I'm done listening to the old fools, or bowing to some arbitrary set of rules. If I didn't need you to get your Blade, I would not be bothering with this."
That was when William noticed the blade at Anthony's side. His face became as hard as stone.
"You would wield the blade of Faith and Trust against your sworn brothers? You would break faith with us, with your creed, and God? You would turn Tanglas against me?"
Anthony laughed, long and cruel, as he drew the sword, his hand wielding it expertly without even looking.
"Yes! I break 'faith' with all of you!' I don't need you or the others or this petty 'god', I just need my mind, and power!"
There was a sound like glass breaking. The broadsword he had drawn, one short enough to easily wield in one hand, went from a shining, polished steel with just a hint of blue, to a dull, pitted grey in the blink of an eye. Anthony stopped and stared, slack-jawed. He grit his teeth.
"No matter! This relic will still serve me well! It may not have been the equal of other artifacts but it holds no small signifi-AGH!"
Hector, despite wearing plate armor, had snuck around and struck Anthony unawares. The fallen Paladin lost his grip on Tanglas, the tarnished weapon beginning to fall from his fingers. His other hand reached and grabbed the point of the blad, his other grabbing near the hilt...
"No."
And then William's hand was on the hilt, and he simply twisted. The blade broke, though it was so weakened that Anthony was barely scratched.
"Damn you, William!"
"Be cautious your curse does not turn upon you, my friend."
"We are not friends! No more!"
"So mote it be."
William's own sword flashed, and Anthony's life was spared only by putting the hiltless blade in his hand between he and William. It was split in two, with a single shard flying back and striking Anthony's exposed cheek, drawing blood and sinking into his cheek. Anthony swiped the two blade fragments frantically as he backed up a few feet. He spat a phrase in some harsh tongue, and in a swirl of foul smoke he was gone.
William sighed, sheathed his blade, and took off his cloak to wrap the hilt of Tanglas up like a sculpture of glass. Hector, wide-eyed, came over.
"What happened? I thought the Three couldn't be broken?"
"Not by a foe. But if the wielder breaks the principle of the blade, it becomes worthless junk. Tanglas, the blue-fire-sword, is the Blade of Faith. Anthony abandoned the very concept, and the sword paid the price. I shudder to think what he could do with even that segment. But we have the hilt, which holds the Nail. The blade can be remade."
"Well. If it can be fixed, that's all that matters, right? Everything will be okay!"
William smiled as faint red light only he could see shone from Hector. It seemed Skoldbrann would soon have a new bearer. Then again, was not youth an eternal source of Hope?
His face fell as he thought of Peter, bearer of Tineorga. The leader of the Paladins, bearer of the shining sword of Love, would be heartbroken. Bad enough when a brother fell to the machinations of their enemies. To have a brother, a friend, and a fellow wielder of one of the Blades, turn so completely? It was tragedy of the worst sort.
"Come on, Hector. Let's go home."
"That...sounds like a good idea."
