Cemetery of Swords

This poem was made using the solo RPG: Cemetery of Swords, by Efarrisgames.

The following is one of the Songs of the Thousand Thousand, a series of epic poems detailing the histories of the many blades surrendered at the end of the Great Battle.

During the Era of Conflict, the Great Battle was fought in the three-square league fields outside the town of Radivale. While the instigation of the battle is lost to history, knights, warriors, and mercenaries from all over the world came to take part as multiple factions, kingdoms, and armies sought to test both their opponents mettle and their own. Heroes and legends were born and killed in equal measure as new troops constantly joined the fray.

The Great Battle ended when one of the greatest heroes of the era, the Blade-maiden and Bearer of the Seven Star Fulcrum, Ell Kidarkhi, thrust her sword into the earth and walked through the surrounding conflict untouched, surrendering the battle to her fellows. She was the first of many, as each of the thousands of warriors in turn thrust their own sword into the earth and quit the field. The Great Battle, having lasted for five-hundred and twenty-three days, ended that very hour.

The swords themselves remained on the field for generations until memories of the Great Battle began to fade. Then, eager sellswords and ambitious warlords claimed these relics for their own, imbued as they were with the indomitable spirits of battle. These cursed swords brought victory and suffering to their wielders, until all who claimed the weapons either perished or renounced their bloodthirsty ways.

The Songs of the Thousand Thousand detail the journey of each of these stolen swords, and how they returned to their rightful place in the field known as The Cemetery of Swords.

Sing, you children of women!

Sing, you harvesters of grain, you plowers of field! Sing, you stirrers of pots and washers of cloth! Sing, you teachers of children and lovers of friends! Sing the song of one of the Thousand Thousand!

Sing the song of Denn Tinador, Last of the Thousand Thousand!

It was a bleak and wintry night in Eidonvell, When the Errant walked through the southern gate, head bent, Metal chipped and dented from years of bloody work. Scars adorned her arms and legs like curs’ed medals, Thin her limbs from hunger and from thirst; oh, Wretched!

Fell her face and fall she did through evening’s dark fog, Humbled Hero huddling at my feet, a poor thief. Gasping pleas befit a fool who stole a cursed blade. Spoke she of the path she seeped in blood and bright hope, That a better morrow might be born from her war.

Never would that better day appear while Cursed Steel stained the palms and fingers of her thieving red hands. Death was near, she felt her limbs grow weak with ill age. Brandished she the Fell dark steel to my unmeet chest, Quoted she the Cleansing Oath and I became bound.

Sing! Sing the Blade of the Thousand Thousand, Sing its name! Sing Denn Tinador, Last of the Thousand Thousand!

I did take the sword, so dark and cold, my arms ached Weighted down by this, the ancient angry sword soul. I did feel the fury hiding tempered sorrow. Knew I then I was no more a thief and ruin’d whore, Sweeping steel and jeweled hilt twas mine, and foul curse.

Bloody are our mortal thoughts, I no lessor soul. Yet I knew the curs’ed blade would bring me foul fate. Humble thief and coward, me, I took the ill charge. Swore I on the three times channeled blade to be true, Thus the bloody spirit of the sword did know me.

Swore I did to bring the blade back to the dark field, Swore I did to thrust the sword into the chill earth, Swordbearer, return the steel to its holy grave, Wear the curse that none can bear and bring it back home. This I swore to do as all who are so cursed, must.

Long I walked the winding road from fair Eidonvell, Wails I heard approaching from ahead, the road nigh. Rattling carriages broke through the darkened night air, Refugees from broken home and hearth, a sad sight. Families cried out for respite from their ill fate.

Woe and grief flowed from my heart for my sad future. I had also lost a home, a humble sad life, True, but mine it was, and now twas lost by heart’s vow. Home and hearth was lost to me for e’er, my Oath’s price, By the blade my life twas cleanly cut from my hands.

Deep the spirit of the sword wept too, a deep sorrow. Mourning in its levity, demonic sad joys. Felt the feelings in my sorry weak bones, I did. Joy did fill the spirit, that it so deeply cut, Sorrow only that my hands were still; I’d not wield it.

From the forest sprang a bandit, cruel and blood-sot. Eyes of red, the villain claimed the last fell curs’d blade. Cried he of conquest and a world bent to his iron will, Swung he a cudgel of oak and iron towards my pate, Sorrow and grief, for by my life did I wield death.

Pulled I the sword from its place on my back, Woes mine, Swung I the steel with all my humble might, poor soul. None could deny the might of the Thousand Thousandth, So did the Bandit lie dying, cleft whole in twain. Spake he through blooded lips his last breath on this earth.

“Lo, to wield the spirit of steel was not my fate, But to suffer sharp its edge, and die here, unmourned. Now thy life will be naught but heroic slaughter.” So afeard was I, I ran from fallen doom’d foe, leaving death unwitnessed despite the blade’s fell urging.

So far I ran, to ‘scape my ghostly fate; alack! Met I a truer ghost, the Slayer of Sab-Rehn! “Slave,” the villain spake, “Oh pit’ous soul of muddy dirt! You do hold a lever to bend the world, fool slave! Yet you run in fear, oh eager worm, you happy slave!”

Felt I my soul as tempered steel harden, cried I: “Yes, I hold a sword of future making, but lo, Future made by blade shall ne’er be better for it! I be naught but thief and whore, and seek I nothing more. Curse my ‘bitious self, E’en a worm may give up the sword!”

Shrieking hell, the ghost did chill me to my poor soul, Yet it fled and left me to my winding journey. Alone with naught but hopes of my own worthiness, Wondered I if I deserved sung songs of my quest, Along the often winding path to the swords true home.

There upon the twisted road, I saw a Woed Soul, Ghostly garb did hang across naught but bare white bone. “Howl with me, and share my pain,” the ghost did reach out, “Slain was I by soldiers dark and gruesome, my sons!” “Poisoned were their hearts by evil kings and warlords!”

Heavy hung the blade upon my back, so eager. Yet I did not swear my soul to vengeance, nor death. “Weep I shall for thy ill fate,” I spoke to the grieving, “I have too been once betrayed by those I loved true.” “I did find my peace through time and grieving, like thee.”

Wailing sobs did echo in my ears as she faded, Leaving me alone with the steel upon my back. Heav’ir still it weighed my shoulders down to despair, Coldly did the spirit hear my words, for it knew, Bloody men shall only stay their hand if’s cut off.

Forests dark did crowd and encircle my long trek. Brooding oak and weeping pine did halt my soft steps. Soon I saw a corpse of trees, well named, the dead corpse, Ashen bark and charcoal root did meet my sad eyes. Leagues of dark and blackened wood become a burnt sea.

How the embered trees did echo burnt and razed town, Home and hearth for living soul was lost to fed flames. No more food nor shelter to be found in ashes, Starving soul and battered body the only harvest. Yet, beneath the ash, a shoot of green still did grow.

Dark the blade, Denn Tinador, sat cold and still quiet. Life would grow in fields of pain, and silence even death. Endless was its power o’er we who took the blade up, Nothing was immune from the sharpened edge of hard steel, Yet did e’en the bloody spirit see its own end.

On the road I walked, a shrine did rise in my path. Hanging on the cross’ed steel, a banner waved proud. Blazing bright the emblem shone, a circled red hart. This the sigil of the Battle Maiden, Grand Knight, Ell Kidarkhi, greatest of all heroes, all praise!

She was she who first did act to end the Battle, Thrust her sword, the great Thrice Scarred, into the cold dirt. She did end the fight unending, then to walk free. Courage had no one true home, save in her strong breast, None of us could dare compare with her sound soul’s steel.

While Denn Tinador remembered e’er more for death, So shall all swords be remembered, for their gifted pain. I for my part shall not be remembered, I hope, Stories told do polish bright the tarnished meek soul, ‘Til the truth and lies are naught but ‘membered tall tales.

While I walked upon my way, I saw a Specter, Standing in the middle of the road, eyes a-flame. “Fool and slave of fortune’s dance, and ne’er ‘gain to smile! You did lift the fell curs’d blade, and now, oh base cad, Your own future is forever more by blade claimed!”

“Songs be sung, statues bright, a famous Swordbearer, Known to all as all must be who pick up the blade!” Ghastly howls and wails did flow around my poor head, Claw-like hands did reach for me, and so I ran away. I, a humble thief, did not seek such bright fame.

Yet the truth hung heavy on my back by the sword. All would know my name, I who found joy in shadows. Surely who I was would die, replaced with Bard’s song. Dark the blade mourned too, as it felt so clear my fear, Evil blade! It wept that I so hid from death.

Twice the specter rose in front of my hasty steps, Shrieking loudly at my poor attempt to escape. “Tied to fate your soul is now,” the wraith did loud cry. “No more joy in your small life, the blade has your soul. Cut from your humanity, you now shall walk alone!”

I did sob at t’truth of this, and fell to my knees. Heroes born and died in song, a thousand poor lives, How could I, a humble thief, survive such passion? Lo, the blade’s own spirit wailed full in woe at me, Running as I did escape the ghostly shadow.

“Heroes, kings, and lovers too, they are all chosen, Not by fate nor fortune’s gift, but by their own self.” Such a plea it gave that I did feel its cold soul, Begging me to claim my right and act out my will Knew I then the sharpened blade had ne’er been of want.

Walked I long on the winding path to my quest’s end, When I saw the torn up flag of Dark Lord Carchain, Butcher of children and drinker of blood, foul beast! Lord of death and wielder of the sword Dusk Needle. His full tale came to naught but death and ill sorrow.

But before his foul profanes, he was a hero, King of justice, keeper of the peace some tenfold. Dusk Needle, the blessed sword of noble mercy. I did wonder, When did he become the villain Lord Carchain, the monster of hellish appetites?

Never had I had the reason to ponder villains’ Reasons for their bloody songs, their lives of purpose. I would never be an evil monster like him, But I held a sword, the same as he once wielded. Feared I was, I’d not avoid his horrific fate?

Upon the Winding road on which I placed my feet, I saw the Keep of Malgath Doon atop a hill. Fabled home of Lady Mane, she of charity Compassion and a shared hearth for all who met her. O’er her door she hung the blade called Seven Maidens.

Now the Keep of Malgath Doon is all but sour ash. Fallen down to disrepair, the rotting keep sat Silent on the misty hill, only memory keeping watch and protecting the land of Malgath. Burned to the foundations by a band of peasants.

Still her songs are sung today, Hero and Villain. To the north, a lady fair who gave her own blood. To the south, a tyrant true who stole all she had. Songs may be what all lives on after we pass away, Yet our truth of our own lives is not the songs’ truth.

Then upon the path I saw a maid all in white. Gasped at me she did when I came tired and worn at her side. A plea she spoke with lips dry and sore. “Bearer of the blade, I beg you grant me the sword! I am hungry and thirsty, and have no hope left.”

Reaching for my blade, she cried and wailed a sad tale. Though the sword did urge my hand, I did but turn and run. Far from she who sought my curse’d blade, to wield it. Thought I did that I could spare her my ill fortune, Or the fate of those whose remnants I had passed by.

Lo, Denn Tinador did spite me for my char’ty, Coward and slave, it called my name, both foul and base. Peasant, thief, and whore, a slave to the whole wide world. Scared of strength. Still I paid it no mind and ran fast, ‘Til the air had fled my lungs and deep my chest ached.

She was not the only one. A band of poor souls did surround my humble form, and cried they for aid. “Give the blade,” they swung their fists and feet with eyes red. “Have we no hope, no gain but out lives and sour chains. With thy sword we will cut ourselves from our ill fate!”

“No,” I cried to them and the blade, who ached for blood. “I am bound to bear this sword back to its forest, Field of sorrow, Cemetery of Swords, poor souls! I cannot e’en spare myself this fate, but you all, You I can protect from horrid death and ruin

Knew they all the tales of woe and death from the swords, So they let me pass with full tongues of gratitude. Lo, I thought the blade Denn Tinador would spite me, And my words, yet lo the blade did sit in silence. It too must have known its fate was bound to poor me.

Long I wandered down the road, my legs sore aching, ’til I saw an aged man who sat on a stump. Thin his limbs and long his face, I sat down beside. “Who are thou, oh aged soul, who sits so heavy?” He did look at me and sighed a sigh of great grief.

“I was once the squire of she who was named Green Wind, Hero of the battle great, and true blade wielder, Owner of the Seven Maidens, She of pure heart. I was there when she the blade did pierce the field’s earth, Never more to kiss the air with sharpened steel edge.”

“Now I sit and tell those who would seek the kind blade, Honor it with prayers and garlands fine, the true path. Seek you this, the Cemetery of Swords, Poor soul?” So he told me of the right true path to the field, Know this true path I will take to my grave, Amen!

On the road I then was set upon by soldiers, Garbed in red and clean their armor, bright and fulsome. At their head, a man of bloody mind, who stood tall, Holding up a lance of polished cold steel. “Hold Sword Bearer,” said the knight of red and metal.

“Give to me the sword Denn Tinador, or face death. Long have I marched on the winding path to claim it. By all right the silver blade is mine, relinquish!” Alas, alas, I was a poor and tired fool. Took I the sword from off my back, but not to yield.

By my soul a thousand men did die that ill night. Nay, add one, for I did die as well, a poor fool. By the blade I lived and so the sword did sing loud, Cutting through the wheat as evil men must do oft.

That was that, I’m sad to say. The field was quite near. Lo the glitt’ring blades did shine in moonlight silver. Naught but seven lengths between my hand and freedom. But the blade had stained my hand full red and gorey, Cold the steel and heavy in my grip it shone bright.

I would never place the sword in the holy earth Of the Cemetery of swords. I had sure failed. By the blade is tyranny and injustice fell’d, By the blade is justice turned to righteous slaughter. By the blade are all good things turned to ash and dust.

Twas not my fate to free the world from this fell blade, I had fallen ’neith the granite wheel that grinds fine. So the blade fell from my tired grasp to the earth At the feet of a surprise’d youth, a pilgrim, Who had come to honor and to pray to wars past.

“Pilgrim,” I did gasp, “I beg. Pray take this foul steel, Plunge it deep into the holy field and right quick! Do not listen to its promises of kind fate, Nor believe the blade is aught but tainting evil. Be thou brave and strong enough to do what I can’t!”

Turned I then away, I could not bear to linger. Know I not what happened next, nor shall I e’er know. I heard the poor soul promise to meet my charg’d quest, Just as I had promised so many days ago. Maybe they succeeded, or perhaps they failed too.

All I know is this, my friends, who list’ to my song, All the Heroes of the Great Battle were none such, Save the souls who thrust their blades into the soft earth. Touch no steel nor fire, you gentle souls, I beg you; We’ll ne’er be freed from war by wielding warrior’s tools.