The undead were here. Perenolde knew it. Somehow he just knew. The walking
corpses and hulking remains he had faced - and fled - in Lordaeron were
here. He could tell from the blight that covered the land where they were
now. The horrid, black dirt spread like disease over every area, choking
the plants and chasing away the creatures, leaving the area dead to the
eye.
More than that however, he was sure he had caught glimpses of them from time to time - brief slices of some familiar monstrosity on the other side of a boulder as they passed, or a snatch of a black-robed-wizard's cackle, carried over the winds, or perhaps a faint mechanical creaking, which he attributed to the horrific, lurching meat wagons.
He saw nothing, but he saw everything. They once passed the skeleton of a small, lizard-like creature, its skull laying separate from the rest of is body. In his mind, Perenolde entertained the thought of the creature doddering about without its head, eventually laying down to die without it since, with no eyes, it would be unable to find the missing part.
He had rubbed his eyes then, and shaken his head. No. The winds had more likely tossed the skull about until it landed apart from the rest of the skeleton. Perenolde's mind was playing tricks on him, he assured himself, a result of the fatigue - for sleep continued to bring no rest, their nights kept long by horrid nightmares and the inhuman screams of the dead land.
***
It was by sheer luck that they discovered the armory. They had been moving vaguely north and east for two days since leaving the beach, and they were down some weapons; between Perenolde's handling of the wolf attack and Lawdron's marksmanship against the ogre, they had spent all of the ammunition for the rifles. Furthermore, Frederick's warhammer had been shattered by the great beast before his companions could come to his rescue, although Lawdron allowed him use of the younger knight's hammer, preferring, himself, to swat at any enemies they might encounter with the butt of the now-empty rifle.
They had come upon a narrow bluff, upon which they had decided to rest. It was about four in the afternoon. They were seated atop the bluff, eying the surrounding area, when Perenolde gasped suddenly.
"It's a building!" he said. They turned to look. Sure enough, a small stone structure was protruding slightly from the side of a snow bank. It was quite tiny and unremarkable, and had they not stopped in front of it to rest, they never would have seen it; such was the obscurity by the snows that framed the building.
Excitedly, the paladins jumped to their feet and ran to the structure. They set about smoothing snow off the front of it, soon unearthing hinges, then a knob, and then a whole door. Removing the last of the snow from the door frame, Perenolde reached for the knob and pulled. It turned, and the door swung open.
Inside was as unremarkable as out. A musty smell permeated the single room of the structure, indicating it had not been opened in some time. Dust covered the floor, which was wooden, and scraps of metal were strewn seemingly at random throughout the room. A fireplace, though long extinguished, existed in one corner, and an anvil with a blacksmith's hammer sat forgotten nearby.
"This was a smithy," Lawdron said.
"I wonder where the smith is, then," Morte returned.
"Look!" exclaimed Frederick, pointing. On the far wall, four swords hung neatly from tiny hooks. The paladins approached them. The sword hilts where decorated with hideous, snarling faces, and the blades were adorned with scores of ornately carved symbols. The very metal seemed to glow an eerie, faint blue. Frederick, who reached them first, lifted the nearest one from the wall and held it at arm's length, examining it.
"Good balance, excellent craftsmanship," he remarked. "I don't know if I've seen a more perfect blade anywhere."
"I don't know what your talking about," Morte said, pulling out a second blade. "Mine's just wonderful - I can't see how yours would be any better."
"Shut up, both of you," said Lawdron, who was staring at yet a third blade. "Can't you see this one's the best? Here," he exclaimed, grabbing Morte by the shoulder, "have a look!"
"Why, that's nothing, boy," Morte replied, holding his blade over his head. "This one's far better make."
"As if you knew anything, Morte!" piped up Frederick again. "I dueled with swords for five years before I became a paladin, I should think I could tell the better sword when I look at them!"
"Ha!" Morte retorted. "I dueled for seven years! So I should I could tell the better one!"
"I worked as a blacksmith," said Lawdron, "and I can assure you that this one here is lighter and quicker."
"Yes," Frederick admitted, "but who cares about that if you've no power? That sword you've got couldn't break a block of wood, much less a real live enemy. This blade, here, now it's got power!"
"What good's power if you can't hit a damn thing?" Lawdron sniffed.
"What's with you two? Can't you see mine's got both?"
"I can see yours has got neither," Frederick said.
"I can't a bloody thing yours has got, Morte," agreed Lawdron.
"Care to test?" Morte challenged. "I reckon with this thing I could take you both!"
"No, I can take you both!" Frederick said.
"Not with that measly club, you can't," exclaimed Lawdron.
"'Club', you call it?" Fredrick raged.
"Yes, I did!" yelled Lawdron. "Now, here's a sword!" He held his high.
"No, here's a sword!" Morte bellowed.
"Here's a sword!" Frederick shrieked.
"Yes," Perenolde interrupted. "Here are three swords. I'm glad we agree on that. Can we please move along, now?" They blinked and stared at him.
"Aren't you taking one?" Frederick asked after a pause. "There was a fourth, you know."
"I know," Perenolde said, "I can see it on the wall."
"Why don't you take it, Captain?" Lawdron asked.
"Oh, come on, boy," interjected Morte, "you don't have to call him Captain anymore. We're not his crew anymore - not that we ever were, since it wasn't his ship."
"I won't take it," Perenolde said to Lawdron, ignoring Morte, "because it belongs to someone. Someone made it, someone left it here, and someone will be wanting it back."
"You can't be serious!" accused Frederick. "This place has been abandoned for ages! I doubt the smith will ever come back."
"I don't think these were forged by the same smith who lived here," Perenolde said quietly. "They're of different metal than the scraps on the floor. Plus, there's hardly any rust or dirt on the blades, and quite a bit on everything else. I think they were put here by someone else - and recently."
"Then they were foolish to leave them unguarded, and they'll pay for that now," said Morte grimly.
"Besides," Lawdron offered, "we know that there's other people here already - well, there was one ogre, at least. If we don't take them, someone else will, undoubtedly."
"Then take them," Perenolde conceded, "but I won't. I don't care for them, anyway. They just have a strange feel to them. Besides," he added, "I rather prefer my hammer."
"Oh, hang your hammer!" Morte said. "Can't you see these are far superior weapons that the paladins' crude mauls?"
"The warhammers bear the holy blessings of the Silver Hand," Perenolde said resolutely.
"There is no Silver Hand!" said Lawdron. "Arthas disbanded it, remember? There is no Silver Hand, there is no blessing, and there are no paladins!"
"No," said Perenolde with finality, "there is one."
There was a pause; awkward silence filled the room for a moment. Then Morte broke it.
"Fine." He took his blade, and exited the room.
"Suit yourself," said Frederick. He followed Morte out.
"If a fool wants to stay a fool..." trailed Lawdron. He went past Perenolde, leaving him alone.
Alone... with the final sword.
Perenolde stared at it for many moments. Outside, the others might have left; he didn't care. Time seemed to stand still as he stared across the room at the lonely blade. The face on the hilt suddenly seemed very real. Its nostrils flared, releasing a cloud of frozen breath. Its jaws and teeth gnashed.
Its eyes stared into his soul.
He approached it slowly - now extending a finger towards it; now an arm; now two. He reached it finally, and he cautiously moved his fingers over the metallic beauty before him. It felt so smooth in his hands, so light; so perfect. No mere mortal smith could have crafted it; of that he was sure. He ran his hands over the hilt, the shaft, the tip...
Suddenly, he felt a sharp stab. He looked at his hand; it was bleeding. He had cut his finger on the tip of the blade. Suddenly doubt returned, and with it, the strange, eerie feeling he had earlier sensed. Something was very wrong with this weapon, he suddenly realized. Something was very wrong, indeed.
He set the blade back on its stand and back away from it slowly, as if it was some great beast, poised to strike at him. He tripped on something; it was his warhammer, lying where he had dropped it, forgetfully, as he had approached the sinister sword. He bent and picked it up. Somehow, it comforted him to grasp the holy weapon. It would protect him, he knew from the evil of the sword.
Hardening himself, he turned to leave the blade behind, but one last thing caught his eye. A small plate he had not noticed before hung neatly beneath the stand that had housed each blade. He ran his eyes across the text on the first three plaques, but it was no use; the symbols on them were not ones he recognized. His eyes reached the final plate, and he gasped. These symbols were easily read. He stared at them, their shapes impressing themselves into his memory.
Frostmourne, the plate said. Frostmourne. Frostmourne.
The blade's name is Frostmourne, said a voice in his mind. It is yours...
No, he said forcefully. No, it is not mine. This, he said, grasping the warhammer, is mine.
He turned and exited the room. The blade remained.
***
More than that however, he was sure he had caught glimpses of them from time to time - brief slices of some familiar monstrosity on the other side of a boulder as they passed, or a snatch of a black-robed-wizard's cackle, carried over the winds, or perhaps a faint mechanical creaking, which he attributed to the horrific, lurching meat wagons.
He saw nothing, but he saw everything. They once passed the skeleton of a small, lizard-like creature, its skull laying separate from the rest of is body. In his mind, Perenolde entertained the thought of the creature doddering about without its head, eventually laying down to die without it since, with no eyes, it would be unable to find the missing part.
He had rubbed his eyes then, and shaken his head. No. The winds had more likely tossed the skull about until it landed apart from the rest of the skeleton. Perenolde's mind was playing tricks on him, he assured himself, a result of the fatigue - for sleep continued to bring no rest, their nights kept long by horrid nightmares and the inhuman screams of the dead land.
***
It was by sheer luck that they discovered the armory. They had been moving vaguely north and east for two days since leaving the beach, and they were down some weapons; between Perenolde's handling of the wolf attack and Lawdron's marksmanship against the ogre, they had spent all of the ammunition for the rifles. Furthermore, Frederick's warhammer had been shattered by the great beast before his companions could come to his rescue, although Lawdron allowed him use of the younger knight's hammer, preferring, himself, to swat at any enemies they might encounter with the butt of the now-empty rifle.
They had come upon a narrow bluff, upon which they had decided to rest. It was about four in the afternoon. They were seated atop the bluff, eying the surrounding area, when Perenolde gasped suddenly.
"It's a building!" he said. They turned to look. Sure enough, a small stone structure was protruding slightly from the side of a snow bank. It was quite tiny and unremarkable, and had they not stopped in front of it to rest, they never would have seen it; such was the obscurity by the snows that framed the building.
Excitedly, the paladins jumped to their feet and ran to the structure. They set about smoothing snow off the front of it, soon unearthing hinges, then a knob, and then a whole door. Removing the last of the snow from the door frame, Perenolde reached for the knob and pulled. It turned, and the door swung open.
Inside was as unremarkable as out. A musty smell permeated the single room of the structure, indicating it had not been opened in some time. Dust covered the floor, which was wooden, and scraps of metal were strewn seemingly at random throughout the room. A fireplace, though long extinguished, existed in one corner, and an anvil with a blacksmith's hammer sat forgotten nearby.
"This was a smithy," Lawdron said.
"I wonder where the smith is, then," Morte returned.
"Look!" exclaimed Frederick, pointing. On the far wall, four swords hung neatly from tiny hooks. The paladins approached them. The sword hilts where decorated with hideous, snarling faces, and the blades were adorned with scores of ornately carved symbols. The very metal seemed to glow an eerie, faint blue. Frederick, who reached them first, lifted the nearest one from the wall and held it at arm's length, examining it.
"Good balance, excellent craftsmanship," he remarked. "I don't know if I've seen a more perfect blade anywhere."
"I don't know what your talking about," Morte said, pulling out a second blade. "Mine's just wonderful - I can't see how yours would be any better."
"Shut up, both of you," said Lawdron, who was staring at yet a third blade. "Can't you see this one's the best? Here," he exclaimed, grabbing Morte by the shoulder, "have a look!"
"Why, that's nothing, boy," Morte replied, holding his blade over his head. "This one's far better make."
"As if you knew anything, Morte!" piped up Frederick again. "I dueled with swords for five years before I became a paladin, I should think I could tell the better sword when I look at them!"
"Ha!" Morte retorted. "I dueled for seven years! So I should I could tell the better one!"
"I worked as a blacksmith," said Lawdron, "and I can assure you that this one here is lighter and quicker."
"Yes," Frederick admitted, "but who cares about that if you've no power? That sword you've got couldn't break a block of wood, much less a real live enemy. This blade, here, now it's got power!"
"What good's power if you can't hit a damn thing?" Lawdron sniffed.
"What's with you two? Can't you see mine's got both?"
"I can see yours has got neither," Frederick said.
"I can't a bloody thing yours has got, Morte," agreed Lawdron.
"Care to test?" Morte challenged. "I reckon with this thing I could take you both!"
"No, I can take you both!" Frederick said.
"Not with that measly club, you can't," exclaimed Lawdron.
"'Club', you call it?" Fredrick raged.
"Yes, I did!" yelled Lawdron. "Now, here's a sword!" He held his high.
"No, here's a sword!" Morte bellowed.
"Here's a sword!" Frederick shrieked.
"Yes," Perenolde interrupted. "Here are three swords. I'm glad we agree on that. Can we please move along, now?" They blinked and stared at him.
"Aren't you taking one?" Frederick asked after a pause. "There was a fourth, you know."
"I know," Perenolde said, "I can see it on the wall."
"Why don't you take it, Captain?" Lawdron asked.
"Oh, come on, boy," interjected Morte, "you don't have to call him Captain anymore. We're not his crew anymore - not that we ever were, since it wasn't his ship."
"I won't take it," Perenolde said to Lawdron, ignoring Morte, "because it belongs to someone. Someone made it, someone left it here, and someone will be wanting it back."
"You can't be serious!" accused Frederick. "This place has been abandoned for ages! I doubt the smith will ever come back."
"I don't think these were forged by the same smith who lived here," Perenolde said quietly. "They're of different metal than the scraps on the floor. Plus, there's hardly any rust or dirt on the blades, and quite a bit on everything else. I think they were put here by someone else - and recently."
"Then they were foolish to leave them unguarded, and they'll pay for that now," said Morte grimly.
"Besides," Lawdron offered, "we know that there's other people here already - well, there was one ogre, at least. If we don't take them, someone else will, undoubtedly."
"Then take them," Perenolde conceded, "but I won't. I don't care for them, anyway. They just have a strange feel to them. Besides," he added, "I rather prefer my hammer."
"Oh, hang your hammer!" Morte said. "Can't you see these are far superior weapons that the paladins' crude mauls?"
"The warhammers bear the holy blessings of the Silver Hand," Perenolde said resolutely.
"There is no Silver Hand!" said Lawdron. "Arthas disbanded it, remember? There is no Silver Hand, there is no blessing, and there are no paladins!"
"No," said Perenolde with finality, "there is one."
There was a pause; awkward silence filled the room for a moment. Then Morte broke it.
"Fine." He took his blade, and exited the room.
"Suit yourself," said Frederick. He followed Morte out.
"If a fool wants to stay a fool..." trailed Lawdron. He went past Perenolde, leaving him alone.
Alone... with the final sword.
Perenolde stared at it for many moments. Outside, the others might have left; he didn't care. Time seemed to stand still as he stared across the room at the lonely blade. The face on the hilt suddenly seemed very real. Its nostrils flared, releasing a cloud of frozen breath. Its jaws and teeth gnashed.
Its eyes stared into his soul.
He approached it slowly - now extending a finger towards it; now an arm; now two. He reached it finally, and he cautiously moved his fingers over the metallic beauty before him. It felt so smooth in his hands, so light; so perfect. No mere mortal smith could have crafted it; of that he was sure. He ran his hands over the hilt, the shaft, the tip...
Suddenly, he felt a sharp stab. He looked at his hand; it was bleeding. He had cut his finger on the tip of the blade. Suddenly doubt returned, and with it, the strange, eerie feeling he had earlier sensed. Something was very wrong with this weapon, he suddenly realized. Something was very wrong, indeed.
He set the blade back on its stand and back away from it slowly, as if it was some great beast, poised to strike at him. He tripped on something; it was his warhammer, lying where he had dropped it, forgetfully, as he had approached the sinister sword. He bent and picked it up. Somehow, it comforted him to grasp the holy weapon. It would protect him, he knew from the evil of the sword.
Hardening himself, he turned to leave the blade behind, but one last thing caught his eye. A small plate he had not noticed before hung neatly beneath the stand that had housed each blade. He ran his eyes across the text on the first three plaques, but it was no use; the symbols on them were not ones he recognized. His eyes reached the final plate, and he gasped. These symbols were easily read. He stared at them, their shapes impressing themselves into his memory.
Frostmourne, the plate said. Frostmourne. Frostmourne.
The blade's name is Frostmourne, said a voice in his mind. It is yours...
No, he said forcefully. No, it is not mine. This, he said, grasping the warhammer, is mine.
He turned and exited the room. The blade remained.
***