Chapter One

A shadow snaked across Rone’s face, giving his eyes a brief respite from the punishing rays of the sun. The tears welling up in his eyes only helped to focus the rays, stinging his eyes and forcing him to cover them with his bloody forearm. Rone lay on his back, cowering from the approaching owner of the shadow.

A fleeting question went through his befuddled mind: what had he tripped on? Rone lowered his thin forearm, peering out from behind it at his aggressor. Torg, the blacksmith’s son, towered over him, a half smirk, half snarl on his face.

Rone tried backing away, his arm still up, shielding his face, showing Torg how afraid he was. Something poked Rone in the backside as he tried to scramble away.

“My dad said he knows you stole his tools,” Torg growled. “Where are they?” Torg advanced, kicking at Rone’s legs.

“I didn’t take anything. I was just walking by, on my way home. Honest,” he pleaded.

Rone turned over on his stomach to avoid another kick. He curled up his legs and tried to crawl away from Torg, back in the direction they had come from. He only got a few feet before he felt a hard grasp on the back of his neck, fingers tightening almost all the way around his neck. He was trying to yank Rone back up.

That’s when Rone saw what he had tripped on. A blue stone, like a jewel, stuck out of the ground. Claws or talons of some sort gripped it tightly, but the rest was buried in the dirt.

“Look what I found, Torg,” said Rone, despite the tight grip on the back of his neck, hoping any type of distraction would help him escape.

Torg wasn’t falling for any tricks. He continued to pull Rone upwards, and also grabbed him under his arm with his other hand. Rone was on his feet quickly, testimony to Torg’s strength. He pointed to the ground, at the blue gem, but Torg was already loosening his grip on Rone. For a moment, the two boys stared at the ground, as if they were seeing a spirit rise from its grave.

Torg soon gathered himself, and reached for the item. He pulled on it and Rone thought he would soon see what it was that had tripped him and prevented his escape. But, the gem held firm. Torg tried again, with obvious strain, to retrieve the item. No luck. It did not even appear to have been moved at all by the force of Torg’s pull. Torg mumbled to himself, bent over once more, put both hands around the blue gem, and heaved upwards. He promptly let go and fell over backwards, looking up at Rone with a glare that dared him to laugh, or even grin just the slightest bit.

But Rone had other ideas. He bent over, reached for the gem, and grasped it in his right hand. Immediately, Rone felt something, like a burning sensation on the palm of his hand. He quickly let go, and examined his hand. There was no visible burn.

Torg, scrambling to his feet, shoved Rone aside.

“There is no way you can pull it out if I can’t, dummy.”

Torg bent over again and with great effort and grunting, yanked on the blue gem. He let go, cursing, his hand bleeding, apparently scraped by the claws. Rone worked up his nerve and reached down again. The burning returned as he put his fingers around the gem and the claws that gripped it. But, it seemed not so bad as the last time. Slowly, Rone pulled back on the item, and felt it begin to give way, slightly.

Torg saw it begin to slide upwards, too. He advanced intent on claiming it. Suddenly, with a brilliant flash and a sharp crack, a blade appeared in Rone’s hand, and glowed so brightly, it was difficult to look directly at, even in broad daylight.

Rone gasped, stepped back, and the blade seemed to dance at the end of his arm, as if he were a master swordsman. The gleam of the blade faded, but the blue gemstone in the hilt still glowed, and Torg stared alternately at Rone and the dagger in disbelief.

“Give me that,” he finally growled. “My old man will take that as payment for all the tools you stole.”

“But, I…I didn’t steal anything from your dad, or anyone else,” said Rone.

Torg advanced again, and Rone instinctively stepped backwards. He heard a quiet voice in his head.

“Swing.”

Rone didn’t have much time to think before his hand holding the dagger quickly swept from his right side to his left in a smooth, downward angle. Again, he must have looked to Torg like an expert fighter, perfectly balanced, relaxed and certainly able to defend himself now that he had a weapon. Torg thought a moment, and then remembered with whom he was dealing: this was Rone Hargrin, an amazingly clumsy, malnourished orphan, who had been taken in by the town’s drunk as slave labor, and rented out to pay for more ale.

He quickly advanced on Rone again, certain he could disarm him and take the brilliant dagger (which looked incredibly clean for having been buried in the dirt). Torg lunged.

“Parry...riposte.” The voice in Rone’s head again.

Without much time for either boy to think, Rone had rebuffed Torg’s advance by moving his reaching hand out of the way with the forte of his blade. But it caught Torg perfectly flat and did no damage, just effectively blocked the attack. Then, as if in a dance, Rone thrust the blade forward between Torg’s left arm and body, cleanly entering his shirt and the tip of the blade exiting it on the other side. Torg looked down, checking to see if he was hurt, but he saw that Rone had missed.

Torg saw an opportunity. He quickly clamped his arm down, capturing the blade between his torso and his strong arm, hoping to wrench it free of Rone’s grasp.

“Retreat,” the voice insisted. Immediately, Rone stepped back, the blade easily exiting Torg’s awkward hold on the dagger. Torg was angered, almost to the point of exploding, when Rone pointed to his side.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’m sorry, the blade must be very sharp. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Torg felt his side and did feel something wet. He pulled his hand back up to his face and saw a smear of red across his fingers.

“Oh, you will get it for this!” he screamed. Rone predicted he would attack him savagely now. But instead, Torg turned and ran back towards their village, holding his side and cursing loudly until he was out of earshot.

Rone felt exhausted. He moved to a fallen tree trunk nearby and sat on the ground with his back to it. He could not believe what had just happened. He looked at the dagger in his hand. It was too big for him, almost the length of a sword. It must have been a great warrior’s dagger at some point in its past.

He wondered how it came to be buried in the earth near his small village. He also wondered how no one else had found it before if it had been there very long. He and the other children often played and explored in this lightly wooded area just south of the village. Maybe it had been hidden under some rock or plant that was recently removed.

Rone looked again at the sparkling blade. The blue gem still shown a bright blue, giving off enough light to see in the dark, he imagined. He put the blade down gently. A brief, but noticeable rush left his body, as if he had just exhaled all of the breaths he had ever taken in his entire life. He looked at the hilt; the gem no longer glowed. In fact, the entire dagger looked much more worn. It showed its age now. There were nicks in the blade and the handle was scuffed.

Rone picked it up again. Immediately, he felt another rush, only inwards this time. He felt empowered. Nothing could stop him with this dagger in his hand!

He looked at the blade; there were no nicks. He looked at the blue gem and saw that it glowed fiercely again. Clearly, it was a magical weapon, Rone determined. It would fetch a lot of money at auction. But, before he finished his thought, Rone knew he would never willingly part with such a powerful ally. He would hide it, and use it to someday go out on his own and leave behind the old man and his terrible friends, and this village of accusers and bullies. Rone quickly tucked the blade into his pants, and under his shirt. He noticed he didn’t feel the exiting rush he had before, possibly because he didn’t really put it down; it still was near him.

Rone had one more thought as he briskly walked home: where had that voice come from that seemed to guide him, or instruct him, during his confrontation with Torg?