Young Writers Society

eee...gads...I wrote this so long ago...eek I don't even know when, feel free to tear it apart. my take on a King Arthur story...

Chapter One

The Travelers Rest in Ragnoc was busy and bustling with people who had come in from the torrential downpour. The smells of the road and men filled the air with a stuffy, awful stench. Aethaemyr was leaning against his bar welcoming his guests, every room was full for tonight and he was very pleased with his tavern. Merivyan his young and fair wife was serving ale to their visitors. Her curly black hair hung down her neck and her smile could melt cold butter. A young girl, Gwinnyn came out from the back room to help her father with the guests. Her auburn hair swept to her shoulders and her jade green eyes shimmered in the dim light of the tavern. She was the pride of Ragnoc; her beauty spurred her to be the gossip around dinner tables for leagues around. But, her father Aethaemyr, even though she had many a suitor wasn’t going to marry his daughter off anytime soon and her mother, Merivyan loved her daughter very much. Even though they both had wanted a son, she was as good as any child could have been. Then upon the door came three knocks and Gwinnyn went to open the door, through the sheets of pouring she saw a lone traveler and she gestured for him to come inside. It was an old man in a gray cloak, a pointy hat, with a long gray beard and had one brown eye, one blue. He carried a grained staff and a sword in its scabbard. The rowdy crowed went silent as Gwinnyn led the old man in. The man took off his hat and cloak and handed them to Gwinnyn.

“Thank you girl.” The old man said in a deep voice.

Gwinnyn quickly put the hat and cloak down to see what the old man was doing here. Aethaemyr walked over as the man peered over the now murmuring crowd.

“May I get you something sir?”

“No thank you.”

The man circled the room and the inn went back to its normal gossiping ruckus, bumbling, mumbling, and grumbling. But Gwinnyn kept her placid green eyes on the old man; she was interested for they did not get many visitors. The old man reached for his scabbard and drew a most exquisite sword, which flourished in a white light. Even the scabbard glowed but a more purple hue and got brighter even more. The whole room was hushed in silence and even Merivyan was surprised that these men could be so rowdy yet so quiet. Gwinnyn was entranced but the sword, it called to her with mysterious voices, on a wind that was conjured from his hands, and encircled him. The old man’s gray hair flew outwards, as he rose off the ground and his eyes cleared. Then with a flash of luminous lightning, the old man sent the sword through the stone in the floor.

With a booming voice the old man exclaimed to the transfixed crowd.

“The person who pulls this sword free, it shall be thy friend and is granted this sword forever. Only one who is chosen by the sword and of noble…Noble…blood can pull it free.”

Every man and woman in the room laid a questioning eye on the old man, who had come to rest himself, safely, and surely, back on the floor. Obviously, next to the sword, which seemed to Gwinnyn to be magical. Maen, the butchers, redheaded steaming son, broke the silence and cried out rushing towards the sword, “I will be the one of carry this sword.” His head high and his fits clenched and ready. Gwinnyn could feel the anticipation of the waiting crowd. Maen poised himself stalwartly and then proceeded to tug and jerk at the sword, but it would not come free, not even budge one, single, solitary inch. And Maen screamed, more like a screech in astonishment, for through the high head he gave himself he could not see himself being not able to do something. One by one men came up to try to wrench the blade free and one by one they failed. Some had come to think that it was impossible. But Gwinnyn was still attracted the sword and he father was one of the few not to go tug on the sword. Finally Ragwyn, Gwinnyn’s cousin, apprentice to Vybryn the blacksmith and easily the strongest man in town raised himself to the occasion. He grasped the purple agate encrusted hilt and pulled, jerk and tried to jostle the blade free. But his heart fell, for he also soon knew not even his strength could compete with the swords strange will.

Murmurs in the crowd could be heard: “There is no one in this town who could do this”, “Go back old man where you came from and leave us alone!”, “It must be a trick!”, and “If Ragwyn couldn’t do it then no one.”

But the old man’s voiced towered about their voices, “This is no trick gentlemen, only that who must rightfully have it, can pull it out.”

Then Gwinnyn had the sudden urge to go look at the sword and as she moved closer to it, overwhelming cries of, “Gwinnyn” called to her. Mysteriously and not by her own consciousness her pale hands grasped the hilt and rested on its cool surface.

“What are you doing foolish girl?” A man yelled from the corner of her mind. Her green eyes rooted on the blade and her hands, blundering to the outside world.

“Shush…lets see what happens.” Ragwyn chimed in defending Gwinnyn.

Gwinnyn studied the blade, it was covered in unique carvings that glowed silver. It was angelic and Gwinnyn loved it, was ensnared by it. But she had never wielded a sword.

*So if I should pull it out how do I go about doing that or when I do pull it out, how will I be able to use it?* Questions flooded into Gwinnyn’s mind.

With no fault of her own her hands held the hilt even tighter and effortlessly pulled the sword from its stony sheath. The crowd was appalled and astonished, Gwinnyn could not tell which, she was just amazed.

*Why did the sword pick me?*

“You will know in time, girl.” The voice of the old man’s entered her confused mind.

Then the old man turned to her and smiled, “So this belongs to you, too.” Handing her the scabbard.

Then without out a word to goodbye the old man left and slipped away through the doors and out into the rain.

“Aye! A Woman! It can not, will not be!” shouted Carannyn, his dark eyes blazing.

He pulled the sword from Gwinnyn’s starry state and promptly held it his hands. Gwinnyn went to reach for it, but Carannyn being much bigger got away from her reach. Then as he turned his back on her to proudly show the beautiful weapon, his hands and arms burst into a deep purple flame and he screamed in pain and dropped the sword, which fell hollow upon the stone. Carannyn arms stopped blazing and all that was left was purple marks on his wrists. People moved about agitated and aghast.

“It is cursed!” He shouted storming out into the inevitable storm.

Grumbles of “Yes.” Weaved in and out of the crowd.

Old Carodoc exclaimed to the still miffed tavern, “Aethaemyr, you must disown your daughter for she is surely cursed with this wretched sword.”

Aethaemyr eyes glared at Carodoc and he stiffened walking over to his daughter. “Never, for she is still my daughter, I will still love her!”

There was such a glare of defiance in Aethaemyr’s deep brown eyes that no one dared to question him. Merivyan that went to stand beside her husband, to show that she still had some say in this. Aethaemyr then pulled his daughter to the back room.

“This is such as honor as it is a burden, Gwiny, my dear.” He said admiring the carvings.

“Yes papa. But why me?” Gwinnyn pleased for an answer from her father.

“I am not sure, but this is fate. We must not trifle with it; we must take it wherever it takes us. But be sure that your eyes are always one step ahead, because if they are not you may be swept off some place without ever knowing it.”

Aethaemyr’s eyes looked sadly upon his frightened daughter. He would right whatever fate befell her with this sword, he would see to that. And as he filled up some mugs, he tried to remember who the old man was, he had seen him somewhere years past, but he could not remember where. Gwinnyn wrapped up her sword and went to help her father.

*Who was that old man and why did the sword choose me. I am just but a girl?* Gwinnyn whispered to herself.

And that’s how Gwinnyn got her sword.