500: An Anthology of Short Stories

The sword slid smoothly from its scabbard, making only the tiniest of snicks as the tip of the blade scraped against the inside of the sheath. Templeton held the sword up against the radiance of the mid-afternoon sun blazing high above the scorching desert.

“The legendary Lyre, so named for the song it sings when it cuts down its foes,” Templeton said to the lad at his side. The young prince had eyes only for the shimmering blade, his mouth opened in an O of astonishment.

“It’s beautiful! Is that a raised image of a lyre bird on the blade, just under the hilt?” Muzaffer asked Templeton.

“It is indeed. I remember the sword maker proudly etching it on at my behest. I had to pay the man five extra gold coins for it!”

Muzaffer reverentially ran a finger over the etching, marveling at the detailed image. “Does it afford any special powers to the blade, Templeton?” he inquired eagerly.

“None that I know of, no. But it seemed fitting to me at the time when I had the sword commissioned to request that sword maker Tahona add the embellishment.”

From behind the two men, a redhead stepped out of the tent.

“Don’t be so deluded, Templeton. As I recall, the idea for the engraving came not from you, but from my father, Nahum,” she claimed, facing the tall, bearded man. For a split second, his hazel eyes smoldered with something akin to fury. As if nothing untoward had happened though, he turned a bright smile upon the woman.

“Rashmaïna,” he said with a slightly sarcastic twist to the name, “always looking to sour sweet moments.”

“Not if the moment has already been made so by your presence,” Rashmaïna was quick to riposte.

Muzaffer felt as if he were floundering between two forces, but he cleared his throat to try and defuse the tension.

“If I were to conjecture,” he ventured, “I would say this sword has magical powers.”

As if in answer to Muzaffer’s guess, the Lyre was abruptly enveloped by a cold, blue, pulsing light.

“Now would you look at that,” Rashmaïna remarked, an eyebrow arched in delight.

“Are you making it glow like that?” Muzaffer asked in awe. He saw the answer on Templeton’s face though before the man replied.

“No! It has never done this before.”

“Probably because the sword was never meant for one as duplicitous as you, Regent!” Rashmaïna exclaimed before she kicked the blade out of Templeton’s grip.

It went soaring through the burning sky to bury itself, hilt up, in the sand in front of Muzaffer.

Instinctively, the young man reached out to withdraw the Lyre. As his hand touched the hilt, the image of the bird on the blade flashed crimson.

Unexpectedly, the sword started to hum, as if it were singing.

Turning his green-eyed gaze to Templeton, Muzaffer said, “I guess you were right, Rashmaïna. The real foe has always been staring me in the face.”

Templeton’s head went flying.