A gift from the High King

"My dear Iskrin," he read, sitting down at his desk, the package resting on the table before him with the opened envelope lying on top. "I read your report of the Battle of the Burning Chylde with interest. Malekith seems capable and the warriors you spoke of effective, though their loyalty remains to be properly tested. Yet, if demi-Gods are taking an interest in our crystal kingdom, then you must have the tools to meet them. Enclosed you will find the blade we have spoken of many times. I have decided to grant your request and relinquish it from my armory. Put it to good use. Your friend and master."

Iskrin placed the note to one side for further study later. The High King always wrote in the friendliest of tones, but much could be gleaned from what he didn't say, or how he phrased what he did. Yet that analysis could wait. It was the package now that took the elf's full attention.

Given the note, he already knew what the contents would be. A blade he had long sought to possess. A blade that Ven-Vyzran and he had retrieved many years ago and delivered to the High King. A blade that he would now wield in defense of the city and the High Kingdom: Ke'ntor, the spirit blade of Askamran.

Carefully, he unwrapped the leather bands, the leather wrapping, the cotton wadding, and the silk wrap that held the hilt of the blade. He let the unwrapped package sit in front of him for a moment, noting the familiarly ornate yet angry-looking hilt of the sword. There was - at least for now - no blade. "Yes," he whispered in reverie. "You have returned to me."

The voice of the sword was a cold, metallic sound in his mind. "Oh, it's you again," the spirit blade said with a mix of confusion and anticipation. "Long have I lain dormant in some infernal chamber. I thirst for the fight. Are we to paint the world red together again?"

Iskrin smiled. "Aye," he said. He could feel a wash of pleasure and violence emanating from the sword in his mind.

He reached down and picked up the hilt, then pushed his chair back from the desk and stood in the middle of the small chamber he kept at the Palace of the Falls. Holding the handle ready, he spoke the word that few in the world knew to kindle the blade. There was a bright flash and a sound like burning embers crackling in the air, and then a shimmering blue blade sprung to life. It was long and ended in two vicious hooks perpendicular to the blade itself; not a sword for elegant stabbing and graceful blade play, but a sword for vicious hacking and slashing in the heart of the melee.

He smiled again. "There you are," he said quietly, allowing his eyes to move hungrily over the sword and its shimmering runes. The light that the ephemeral blade cast was soft and cool and blue, and the sword sang in his mind: "Here we go, here we go, hack and slash and to and fro, cut and maim and break and kill, 'til the sword has had its fill."

Iskrin swayed on his feet, the rhythm of the song compelling him to action. Each beat of the chant was a call to hack and slash, like the rhythm of a war drum or a marching song. He listened to the sword for a few moments, feeling his muscles and sinews desperate to respond, but he drew himself back from the brink of frenzy with some effort and shook his head. "Not now, Ke'ntor," he said with some difficulty, and then spoke the word that dismissed the spirit blade from the world. He could feel the sword's resentment as he slung it on his belt. "Fear not, old friend, there will be time enough for work."