Nyakil.
Ancient weapon of the immortals.
It was a beautiful blade.
Rand stood before the Wall of Swords in the great gathering hall of Hearthside. He looked up at the latest sword that had been returned to the wall after a Knight of The Realm had fallen in battle. Here it would remain until the next person from that clan was knighted, to take up the fallen sword.
How badly he wanted it to be him.
The sword’s hilt was of a dark bluish steel, with the quillion and grip completely covered by a finely scrolled silver filigree. The rounded pommel contrasted the intricate patterns fashioned on the rest of the hilt and was adorned rather simply, with only an embossed silver star. Extending beyond the cross-piece was the blade itself, and it was the reason the Nyakil was worshiped and revered by all in The Realm.
The blade was almost five feet in length and was forged from the molten ore of a fallen star. The weight itself was astonishing because it was almost weightless. The pommel was surely hollow, for there was no need to counterbalance the blade. The entire weapon was as light as a feather, and tireless was the wielder of such a finely crafted blade. But even more striking was the color of the blade itself. It was black. But more than black, it was really the absence of all color, indeed the absence of light itself. While the silver pommel might glint in Tiela’s noonday glare, the blade instead seemed almost to absorb any and all light. Ever sharp down both edges of the blade, with a groove running nearly to the tip that was outlined in silver filigree that scrolled where it joined the hilt, the rest of the blade was, simply, black. Dull. Lifeless. Yet utter death to those who felt her kiss.
It was true they were rare blades, for in all The Realm only seven score and four Nyakils were known to exist. Discovered in a cache in the deep catacombs of Hearthside in 2012 AI, they were, like the castle itself, just about all that was left behind by the immortal illuminar, whose disappearance two thousand years earlier had left the avanyar alone in the fight against the Demon Lord.
The art in crafting such a weapon was known only to the gnomes, and even if they could dust off that ancient knowledge and attempt anew to create such arms, no ore remained of that fallen star with which to forge such a striking blade.
Rand desired more than anything in the world to become a Knight of The Realm, to follow in his father’s footsteps. Power, prestige, schooled in the ancient knowledge of the illuminar, all these things he gained with knighthood, but more than anything he just wanted to wield the sword. In the purple raiment of a Knight of The Realm, with a Nyakil scabbarded at his side, people would finally take him seriously. Look up to him. Worship him. Befriend him. With a Nyakil, he knew, people would finally stop taunting him, stop teasing him, and stop cursing him with that sickening name: Seer.
He just had to get his hands on a Nyakil. There was only one small problem. Maybe more than small, you see, for anyone other than a Knight caught wielding a Nyakil was guilty of a crime punishable by death. It was a harsh judgement, but necessary in a land that lay on the edge of chaos, for their realm bordered the dreaded lands of the Demon Lord.
But even the threat of death did not deter Rand. If he couldn’t win to Knighthood, he’d just have to steal a blade!