Chapter 4: The rusty old sword

The man, or creature, was a Fork-tongue. It had to be. I had been taught over and over again at the Keep that Fork-tongues are demons that look just like men and women. Charming men and women, trustworthy, kind, your best friends until they stab you in the back. Many more realms and cities have fallen to the work of lies and treachery than to the swords of more war-like demons. Only the most devout can see them for what they really are, see that all the nobility is just a thin layer over a core of treachery and malice. And we of the Legion are supposed to be the epitome of devoutness.

He was a brown-haired man of about my height with a pleasant smile, wearing sensible if somewhat old-fashioned clothes. He stood at ease a few paces behind the pedestal on which the Sword rested, looking so much like a gracious host waiting for an important, and cherished, guest. He reminded me very much of the most skilled, most eager, most popular of my fellow Pages. The ones who ingratiated themselves with the masters and the older Pages, while kicking viciously downwards with hidden malice in their eyes.

"Please enter," the Fork-tongue said his voice warm and friendly. "I wont harm you, unless you ask for it."

"W-What do you mean?" I replied, not feeling very comforted at all. "Who are you?"

"Well, this seems to be my lucky day." The demon smiled a happy little smile.

"In what way?"

"Oh, just by having someone like you stroll by here. You seem to be the kind of person who leaves a poor, innocent woman tied up while you go ... exploring. Am I right, noble Questor?"

I nodded mutely, my mouth dry.

"'How does this man know?' you ask yourself? Better yet, you can ask yourself if I can do more to her than just knowing about her. Better ask yourself if I can make her hang in pain by her aching hands if that rope is tightened. Or have some deadly loops encircle her pretty golden neck, and then ... jerk!, if you should decide to run back there and free her. Maybe I can do that. What would you do to stop me?"

"Kill you," I growled, trying to turn my fear and shame into anger. What an short-sighted idiot I had been, what a selfish fool.

"Using this, you mean?," the Fork-tongue smirked, then pointed to the Sword on the pedestal. "Oh no. I am afraid I am too good for you. No, I want to ask you: Will you die for her? Die on the off-chance that I might actually have the power to harm her? Die on the flimsy hope that I might let her live if you give up your life?"

I looked at the sword. It looked like it was fashioned of dark bronze. It was long, heavy, and thoroughly rusty. Was it really a powerful, magic weapon? The Fork-tongue smiled openly at me, his blue eyes full of sympathy. He knew. He knew I would take his offer. And then he would betray me. Even when I did the right thing. Fork-tongues reveled on that, using the good in people for evil.