Rise of the Blade - Charles Moffat [18]
Pierce cursed Marque Draque mentally for this embarrassment but supposed he deserved it. He could have waited a while longer to tighten the bandage better but he hadn't. One of his weaknesses of not being able to foresee anything beyond the near future he supposed.
He did however foresee the dinner bell ringing and the students racing out of the room like a stampede of minotaurs towards the dining hall. Thank the gods everyone likes my father's cooking, he reminisced. He was about to grin up at Draque when he foresaw intense pain and looked down at the cleric sharpening a scalpel with a spell.
A moment later he passed out from the sheer pain.
"Well, its certainly turned into a favourite topic for gossiping," Hiram grinned and wiped his thick hands on his apron. He jocked a finger towards a group of serving girls who had stopped to talk with several students about last night's excitement. "Strange how rumours of a fight can get around so quick even though there were only a few people involved, eh?"
Draque smiled briefly and sat down at his table in the corner of the packed dining hall. "Did I mention that Martinez was a bard before he started to lose his hair?" He motioned the ex-boxer to join him as he popped the cork off a bottle of drow vodka. "No doubt he went out, got drunk and wandered from every inn and tavern in Waterdeep spreading the tale."
"Wasn't he injured too?" The broad man sat down and studied the clear liquid that poured from the bottle. The smell alone made him thirsty.
"Aye, Chev seems to like aiming for the legs. Doesn't matter to Martinez though. He's built like stone and even tougher when it comes to pain. He'll be healed up in no time." The elf smiled fondly. "There is a persistant rumour that when he was in his youth, at a mage school, of course, he developed and fermerted a wine that worked as a healing potion."
Hiram grinned and did his best imitation of a drunken sailor's drawl: "And any sailor worth his weight in whiskey will tell ye he didn't stop drinkin' when he was all heal'd up!"
Draque laughed heartily and drew stares from several nearby students. It was rare that the elf ever broke a smile let alone laughed. Reminding himself of his reputation, he frowned and drew out two halves of a black adamantite sword and laid them on the table in front of Hiram.
The longsword was flawlessly smooth and well crafted, the crosspiece was etched with ruins while the handle was bound in gold chain for extra grip. Hiram stared at the skull-shaped pommel most of all and it stared back at him with ruby eyes that seemed to follow his every movement.
Pierce's father pursed his lips and picked up the hilt. He dropped it immediately and it fell with a hollow clunk. He could feel the evil in the blade. With a look of wonder, he stared up at Draque.
"It's Chev's magical sword, Gravebringer. When Brek's blade exploded, one end went flying across the amphitheatre and broke the marble sword of Chev's statue. That was what released him from the spell. Now," Draque said, lifting the two-foot long piece of black adamantite. He sighed. "This was a magnificient sword. Evil, yes, but a magnificient sword nevertheless."
"And you want to fix it?" Hiram said, eyeing the evil blade.
"It was crafted by a master drow craftsman. Unlike other drow blades it hasn't rusted away on the surface. Perhaps because of the special way it was forged-"
"How do you know all this?" Hiram demanded abruptly.
"I asked it."
"Oh! And I suppose it answered you eh?"
"As a matter of fact it did. The blade is sentient. Alive and quite aware that we are talking about it." Draque looked down at Gravebringer, studying it speculatively. "And it knows I'm going