Changing of the Guard, the Final Journey of the Eight

Prologue

It was often wondered if an inanimate object could attain sentience. Certain items, made famous through the actions or deeds of those who possessed them were thought to be granted a special place among the Gods or spirits of the world, and granted the equivalent of immortality. This particular item, a sword, sat in a hallowed place in the Earl's throne-room, encased in glass, resting against the finest green elven silk while suspended vertically by its cross-guard on two hooks made of pure gold. Beaten and battered, the blade still shone with the brilliance of a mirror regardless of the nicks, gouges and scars that marked it from point to hilt, and the oft-replaced leather that adorned the grip glistened with fresh oil. The pommel contained one green gem, a tribute to the house of the man who had commissioned her, and three strips of dyed leather, dark green, hunter green and ivory, draped in a thick braid along the hilt in tribute to the current owner's past and present families.

The aforementioned place of honor was a marble base, set between the two ornate, high-back thrones in the palace's great hall, and were it not for the display case's vertical placement, one might assume that the entire spectacle was an altar. Not that this blade deserved worship, but it was directly responsible for two of the most important acts in the province's history: relieving a dragon of its head, and deflecting a blow that would've surely killed the man would become the reigning Earl... a title that said man has held for the last twenty years. Besides the previous two instances, the massive blade held quite the storied history. In the thirty-three years since its creation in the barbarian forges of Alkanat, the sword has rendered several beings headless. Indeed, it was only a few months old when the man who owned it fell in battle, and his capable but untested daughter retrieved the blade and felled three larger adversaries in a fit of barbaric rage. She claimed it as her birthright, and multiple beings tasted its steel over the next three decades while her exploits became legend, and her pockets became heavy.

Were one to ask an imperial metallurgist about manufacturing such a blade, they would scoff and say that it was one of many swords, and the only thing retained from the original was the green jewel in its pommel. The average sword might last through a few battles, and an exceptional blade might serve its master for years, but this one had endured for decades... far beyond what any piece of forged steel should survive. Besides its longevity, the two-handed Claymore was also awkward and unwieldly. The blade itself was nearly four feet long, and from cross-guard to pommel measured the length of the owner's forearm. Most modern warriors had adopted the sword and shield technique, rendering Claymores nothing more than something to be carried in parades and utilized in knighting ceremonies. For this blade's owner, however, a parade was her charge into battle, and a ceremony was watching her opponent's heads roll off their shoulders.

Regardless of rumor, conjecture or professional opinion, the aged Claymore had weathered the years without breaking or bending, lending credence to the thought that the Gods themselves had enchanted it while still in the forge, and the day its owner dies would be the day the enchantment would finally break; allowing the sword to break as well.

"It's gonna be mine someday," the teenaged boy commented as he gazed upon the massive blade.

"In your dreams, squirt," his older sister snarled.

He glanced up at his sister, who stood nearly a head taller despite being only two years older. "I am heir, so it goes to me," he replied while clucking his tongue.

"I am older, so it goes to me. Besides, you couldn't swing it if you tried," she quipped.

"I will catch up to you someday," he lamented.