The Scorchio blacksmith accepted the bag of gold from the haggard fellow and glanced at the rusty sword. It was old and scratched, nothing special, but the handle seemed to be exquisitely tooled. Troph carried it into the forge and placed it gently on the anvil, lest it shatter from the lack of proper care.

He wasn't used to poor-looking folks coming in with heavy gold purses: he was a professional blacksmith who made efficient blades for the generals of Shenkuu. But the payment was good, and he couldn't complain. Lots of money for easy work, 'tis a job I shall not shirk, Troph repeated his old master's favourite adage to himself with a smile.

The Kyrii had already left for the local tavern, leaving the red-scaled blacksmith to his art. He took out a hammer and tongs, refreshed the flames in the forge with his bellows, and prepared his toolkit of chisels for more delicate work. When the fire was white-hot and ready, Troph placed the metal into the forge.

Almost instantly, a mental scream singed his mind.

"Get me out of here!"

The Scorchio dropped his hammer and clutched his skull. In the forge, the coals around the blade burst in waves of heat. Troph reached for the anvil for support, wincing as the cry died down to a murmur, like hot coals bereft of fresh air.

For a precious heartbeat there was total silence, and then the disembodied voice spoke again, this time softly.

"You will do everything I say, blacksmith, or else..."

Editor's Note: This week's Storytelling beginning was written by dragonstorm_75. For the entire month of August, user-written beginnings will kick off each week's Storytelling Contest, so send in your opening entries! If yours didn't make it this week, be sure to check back next week!

The Scorchio got slowly to his feet.

"I dislike bullies," he said, quiet but firm. Still, he pulled the blade out of the forge. The metal glowed with heat, but it cooled quickly -- too quickly.

"I am not a bully," said the mental voice, still soft. "It is simply fact. It is my nature to destroy. The last one to own me knew this. I do not think you will see that Kyrii again."

Troph opened his mouth to answer, but closed it as the full import of his situation struck him.

He was having a conversation with a sword.

"The heat must be getting to me," he muttered. "Too much time indoors. No fresh air."

He went to open a window, breathing in the fresh autumn air.

He turned back to the blade. "Anything to say for yourself now?"

The Scorchio heard something like a sigh echo in his mind. "You are not the first to think my voice a figment of your own mind. For better or worse, I am your blade now, and you must wield me."

Troph snorted. "I've no skill in swinging a blade. I make them -- I have no need to use them."

"That may be so. You must wield me nonetheless."

"And why is that?" Troph asked gruffly.

"Because there are four Neopets outside who do know how to swing a blade. The largest is about to kick the door down. Like it or not..."

The door to the blacksmith's door flew off its hinges, battered down by a scarred Elephante.

"...you must fight or perish," the sword finished. "I recommend you fight..."

Once the door was down, a Buzz flew over the Elephante's shoulder and into the room. A Kyrii slipped in next, followed by a Hissi. The giant Elephante stood in the doorway, not only blocking escape, Troph thought, but discouraging rescue.

The sword was unsteady in Troph's hand and brought him little comfort, but at least it was a weapon.

A talking weapon, at that.

"Ah, 'tiss a blacksmith thiss time," hissed the Hissi, slithering toward Troph. The Buzz, hovering to the right of the Elephante, snickered.

Troph slowly spun, keeping his sword pointed at the Hissi as it circled him. "What do you want?" the blacksmith said, proud that his fear couldn't be heard in his voice.

"That's what they all say, ain't it, Sal?" said the Buzz.

The Hissi looked amused. "Indeed," he said. "Let us keep thiss simple, blacksmith, so as to not waste valuable time." He was at the back of the room now, so to face him Troph had to put his back to the other three Neopets.

"Just tell 'im like it is for once, Salazar." It was the Buzz again. He flew over Troph and hovered next to the Hissi. "You got somethin' of ours, Scorch," he said to Troph, eyeing the sword.

"Be silent, Viktor," said Salazar. "But indeed, blacksmith, it hass been our goal for quite some time now to retrieve the weapon you are holding at thiss exact moment."

Troph opened his mouth to say something but looked down at the sword instead. They wanted this old thing? Surely he should just give it to them... why should he care, after all? The sword itself had said it was dangerous; wouldn't it be best to get rid of it as soon as possible?

"I will take it from you now," said Salazar, extending an expectant hand.

Troph knew he should just hand it over, but somehow... he couldn't. Somehow it seemed like a bad idea...

"Yes, it would be a bad idea," said the voice in Troph's mind. "You turn me over to them and they'll kill you."

"I will tell you, the trouble of thiss ssword is much greater than itss worth. I am doing you a favour, taking it from you before it can use itss power againsst you. You, blacksmith, would not stand long againsst its power."

Now Troph had to fight to keep his voice steady. "Why do you want it then, if it's so much trouble?"

"That is no busssiness of yours," hissed Salazar. His eyes narrowed, and he drew his own sword. "But I can see we are already too late." The Buzz, Viktor, suddenly held a dagger in each hand, and Troph tensed as he heard two more weapons being drawn behind him. Well, he thought as the four Neopets came at him, this was the end...

Then his grip on the sword tightened, and it seemed like the muscles in his right arm tensed of their own accord. The sword burned in his hand.

"Close your eyes," the sword said. Troph did.

Almost at once his sword crossed with another, and he gasped. It was all he could do to keep the sword in his hand, and yet... he was fighting.

He heard a great hiss of pain following by the sound of metal clattering to the stone floor and opened his eyes to see Salazar backing away, disarmed and injured. Viktor and the Kyrii took his place, but Troph kept fighting. He was hardly aware of what he was doing, but soon both the Buzz and the Kyrii were down.

Then the Elephante charged at him, giant club aloft.

"Run," advised the sword, and Troph did just that, darting past the Elephante and out the door.

He ran through the streets and bridges of Shenkuu until he couldn't run anymore, and when he stopped he was on the outcrop of a mountain overlooking a misty valley. He stood there, hunched over and panting, with the sword still clutched in his hand.

"Did you do that?" he asked the weapon -- or whatever it was.

It seemed to sigh. "Of course," it said. "There is, you see, something you should know about me..."

"There's no need to be sarcastic."

Troph drew a deep breath, as steady as he could make it, of the cool, moist air. "Cursed?"

The sword sighed again; at least, it carried the feeling of a sigh, though if Troph listened closely the 'sound' was more like the faint brush of edge on sheath. "Yes."

The Scorchio blacksmith sat down abruptly and stared at the weapon, then gingerly, to make sure he could, set it down and unwrapped his hand from the hilt.

"Must you do that?" the sword asked, sounding annoyed. "I'll rust."

Troph laughed shakily. "Have you looked at yourself? There's a reason it was plausible that Kyrii wanted you reforged. Your blade is a mess."

"There's no need to rush things."

Troph sighed, hesitated, then took off his heavy apron, laid it on the grass, and put the sword on it. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

Surprisingly polite for a cursed sword. "So. That curse? Something about doing what you say or everything I care about will be destroyed?" Troph's eyes narrowed. "What did those other Neopets mean about you influencing me?"

Another metallic sigh, this one a bit grating. "I told you, destruction is my nature. I was made to perform it; I inspire it in those who wield me and in those who pursue me. A warrior who holds me is invincible."

Troph raised his eyebrows. "Invincible? You told me to run."

The sword snickered, a noise like chipping metal. "You are not a warrior."

"Very funny."

"I am not joking. When you said you had no skill in swinging a blade, I had no idea how plainly you were telling the truth. Still, I could have kept you from being defeated. That doesn't mean you'd have survived."

That was a point. Troph might not fight himself, but he knew there was a difference between not losing and coming away safe. "Did you influence me to pick you up and fight instead of just turning you over?"

"I told you to fight or perish, did I not?"

"Yes...." Troph frowned. Could it be that simple? Words? "Was there magic?" The sword was silent. "What would have happened if I'd let them take you?"

"They would have killed you, destroyed your forge, and gone on to attack the palace."

Troph stared. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"How do you know anyone isn't lying to you? You asked. I answered."

"Are they pursuing?"

"I do not know. The Elephante is slower than you. And he may have stopped to aid his injured comrades. They are dangerous, blacksmith, and they are enemies of the Emperor of Shenkuu, but they are not monsters."

Troph looked back along his path. He wasn't sure how easy he would be to track; he was pretty sure he remembered flying part of the way, and his wings were tired, but he'd been on foot most of the way. He wasn't much of a flier. "Sword," he said slowly, turning the memories over in his mind, "that Kyrii with them...."

"I was wrong. I thought you would not see him again when I said so."

"So it was the same one. He was with them?" Troph's eyes narrowed. Do everything I say, or... "Sword. What did you tell him to do?"

"I told him to bring me to you...."

"But why?" he spluttered. "Why drag me into this? You said so yourself, I'm not a warrior. What made me so special?"

The sword snickered -- it sounded more like tapping against something hollow, but it got the point across. "Don't flatter yourself. There's nothing really special about you, per se. I told him to bring me to a blacksmith because it was the easiest way to get him off my back. Even then, there were plenty others I could have picked. Consider yourself lucky or unlucky. It makes no difference to me."

For some reason, this struck a nerve with the Scorchio. He'd never harboured any desire to live a life of danger as an adventurer, a knight. But the way the sword was writing him off was kindling fury in him just as he would have tended a fire in the coals.

"What matters," continued the sword, "is that the Kyrii seemed to have been expecting it, and so here we are."

"Why did you want to get away from him and his group, Sword?"

"I am created for the glory of war. Assassination and trickery are an insult to my abilities -- agents like him turn my pommel. That Kyrii was arrogant. He did not wish to listen to me. He tried to turn me to his will, and as unsuccessfully as his attempts may have been, it was quite... demeaning. Also, he had absolutely no idea how to take care of a blade of my calibre. If there is anything you can do for me without shoving me inside an inferno, I would be gratified."

Troph lifted the sword almost automatically and started checking it for rust, taking out a handkerchief. Underneath the scratches and age, the sword shone in the light of the rising moon. It really was quite beautiful, and the power that it radiated -- its ability to decide anyone's life or death within the heat of battle...

He couldn't remember why he ever had even half a mind to relinquish it now.

"My original warrior was a Scorchio," the sword started unexpectedly as Troph carefully wiped off bits of rust. "I have been passed down through the ages through the hands of both knights and infidels, but never did anyone equal our prowess. I feel power within you, though, buried deep under the nonconfrontational lifestyle you have chosen. Perhaps, in time, you would be able to bring me to a shadow of my old majesty."

And a grin spread across Troph's face like parting clouds.

Yes, he would like that very much indeed...

But in the next instant, both he and the sword became aware of a rustling in the bushes behind them. And this time, the Scorchio's blood was singing with the desire not to run, but to stand and let the heat of battle carry him away. He wanted to fight...

The group had caught up to him, albeit without the Buzz, and they circled him warily. The Elephante was breathing hard, and the club in his hands shook, but his eyes were bright with determination.

Or they were until Troph had cleaved the club clean through, the blade singing through the air with the speed behind it.

The Kyrii was just as fast, though, landing a glancing blow on Troph's left knee with his own sword. With a growl, the Scorchio was brought to the ground, and the sword buzzed angrily as it slashed a line from shoulder to hip on its previous owner.

Gasping, the Kyrii crumpled to the ground even as Troph dispatched the Hissi without even looking.

"Ah, I'm pleased with you. I suppose you bring out my full power," the sword crowed in his mind, as the Scorchio staggered to his feet.

"I'm sorry," came a weak voice from the ground. The Kyrii peered up at him.

"What?"

"I'm sorry... I brought the sword to you... I had hoped that you could have freed..." Then he sighed and lapsed into an exhausted silence.

Troph eyed the sword in his hand, then his vanquished enemies on the ground. Something in his mind was beginning to emerge, something long buried...

"I think I could get used to working with you," the sword cut in quickly. "Now, let's get out of here before they wake up."

Obediently, the Scorchio started off again, his mind buzzing with the Kyrii's words.

I hoped you could have freed...

So lost was Troph within his mantra that he did not realise his destination until he arrived at a rocky outcropping that overhung the courtyard of a tall and imposing building. His eye was drawn upward to movement at the building's sky-piercing heights: the red and gold imperial banners that snapped in the mountain air and announced the Emperor was in residence.

"The Palace?" Troph asked in disbelief. "I thought you said that assassination is beneath you? I thought I fought the Elephante and his gang to prevent them from coming here and..."

"Assassination is beneath me. But destruction is not. Power is not." The sword trembled in the Scorchio's hand, suddenly feeling warm and alive. "We are not here for the Emperor; my destiny, your destiny, is larger than any one individual. We are here to start a war, a glorious and beautiful war, which will last for generations."

Troph shook his head with dismay. "There is nothing beautiful about war."

"You are wrong there." The sword vibrated with excitement, starting to hum like a tuning fork. "War is beautiful. It is the ultimate expression of mental and physical prowess. It is the proving ground for youth, like the tempering of a blade in fire."

"I'll have no part of it."

The sword laughed, both mockingly within Troph's mind, and aloud like the tinkling of a bell. "You have been a part of this for your entire life. What did you think that the swords you made, not to mention the countless swords you mended and refitted, what did you think they were being used for all these years? For peeling Bluchard Roots? Every blacksmith, every knight and squire and soldier, is implicated in the promulgation of war by the very act of preparing for it. You are not the first to wield me who thought himself morally superior to my mission, but you are already as much a part of me as I am of you. Let's call it your personal curse."

As the grip grew ever warmer in the Scorchio's hand, becoming uncomfortably hot, he attempted to drop it, to rid himself of the sword's foul intent. But he could not. Try as he might, Troph could not uncurl his fingers, could not relieve himself of its mounting heat and energy. Beyond his own volition, Troph raised the blade high above his head, now gripping it with two firm and work-strengthened hands, and could feel the blade's power surge along its length and down through his sinewy arms, twitching down through the muscles of his broad back; the sword felt both like a powerful thing alive in itself and an extension of his own body. It felt like the natural conclusion to his life's work so far. As when he had dispatched his foes earlier, Troph discovered that he did, unbelievably, savour this experience. That, in the end, the feeling was more reward than curse; that, perhaps, there was no difference between the concepts.

"If we're not here to assassinate the Emperor, then what is the plan?"

"We will rob the Treasury and plant evidence that will implicate the Kingdom of Brightvale. We will start the most magnificent of wars, and keep the treasure for ourselves."

"War. Treasure." Troph spoke the words and allowed them to roll on his tongue like hard candies, like treats long denied, but once tasted, never to be denied again. "Where do I start?"

"Just close your eyes and jump."

Troph did as instructed, allowing himself to be propelled along on faith alone. As he sailed down from the overhang, the sword encouraged him with the words: "Lots of money for easy work, 'tis a job I shall not shirk."

The Scorchio's eyes snapped open in time to see the Kougra guards who were crossing the courtyard, weapons drawn, to intercept his path. Drawing the blade to eye level, Troph sputtered, "M-m-master...?"

As the guards closed in, the sword jerked away of its own will to meet their blades in turn, clashing and darting. Troph was yanked along in its wake at first, but then he found his balance, a moving one, and began to feel again like the sword's partner in battle.

"That was something Master Shen always used to say!"

"Pff. Proverbs are quoted by everyone. Nice to hear your Master Shen had some sense, even if you didn't think you wanted to fight."

Troph stumbled at that. He had thought that, hadn't he? He couldn't quite remember why. He was gleefully going through a second set of guards now, and was significantly closer to the palace. "You do sound like him."

A metallic sigh, or maybe just the scrape along another blade. "Oh, very well. You've caught me."

Someone's spearpoint slipped past his guard -- his name was Roven, and Troph recognised the spearhead as it slid past his blade; he had made it himself two weeks ago, and this might be its first earnest use -- and he felt it part his scales, and the bright hot shock of pain.

Pain and betrayal: but the sword had said he was invincible. And it was his master!

Pain and fear: but the sword had said invincible didn't mean he would survive.

Troph staggered, recovered, kept fighting, won free. "But how in Neopia are you a sword? Especially a cursed sword?"

"I travelled to Brightvale and fell afoul of a corrupt wizard there. I've been trying to make my way home ever since."

"And start a war between Shenkuu and Brightvale?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Oh, right. Of course." Troph raced into the palace, part of him eager and yearning for bright gold and bright wet red, part of him less enthusiastic, pained and confused. "Wait, not of course. How does that help? Wait, is that the curse?"

"Yes, yes." The sword sounded a bit annoyed. "Probably. He inscribed it on my blade, it went like this:

By silver blade and red flame
Cut with thy edge and draw after
The greed for gold and high name.
Heart's dearest desire you will shatter,
And blade calls to blood as you choose;
The will to protect, thee will loose."

"That's pretty bad grammar for a Brightvale wizard," Troph observed. "If you're losing the will to protect, it should be 'thou wilt lose.' Saying 'thee will loose' looks like it rhymes better, but it would mean something's turning you loose. Oh, I see, it means the will to protect looses your curse on someone... thanks a lot..."

The sword huffed again. "I don't want you harmed, lad, I'm trying to bring you riches and glory!"

"Don't say that! You're a cursed sword. That goes after what you or your wielder wants to protect. You're not acting like yourself. I'm not acting like myself!"

"Of course you are. What you could be. We're finally living up to our potential, Troph! Don't lose your nerve now. With me, you're invincible!"

Troph clashed blades with the Elephante guards outside the treasury, knocked them aside, bashed and broke the lock with his sword's ornate hilt. "You told me yourself," he said, "invincible doesn't mean I survive."

"You always did worry too much, Troph."

He seized a bag and began pouring gold and jewels into it, awkwardly clutching the sword. Evidence implicating Brightvale might be tricky, considering he hadn't brought anything. "Invincible," he said, "also doesn't mean this is going to work. They know me, you realise. I've lived here all my life. I made many of the guards' weapons myself. How in the world are you expecting me to implicate Brightvale? Write a note? They're not exactly stupid enough to leave one!"

The sword gave its chipping-metal chuckle again. "Why, by leaving behind a sword of Brightvale make, with a Brightvale verse on the blade."

Troph went cold. Leave the sword? Lose the joy of battle he'd just found... leave himself unprotected?

As the Kyrii had done? I hoped you could have freed...

Wait.

To loose could mean to free...

The treasury doors slammed open again, and guards poured in...

"You're doing pretty well, blacksmith. Much better a job than that Kyrii ever did."

"What do you mean?"

"He was a coward. He never wanted to fight. All he cared about was to break the curse and free..." Then the sword paused.

"Free what? Please tell me!" Troph demanded.

The sword kept silent. "I cannot tell you. That you will have to figure out yourself through the inscription on my blade."

"By silver blade and red flame
Cut with thy edge and draw after
The greed for gold and high name.
Heart's dearest desire you will shatter,
And blade calls to blood as you choose;
The will to protect, thee will loose."

By silver blade and red flame... was it part of the clue? Was it why the Kyrii wanted him to place the sword within the red-hot flames?

Cut with thy edge and draw after/The greed for gold and high name... The sword did make him injure a great number of Neopets -- and all for treasure.

Heart's dearest desire you will shatter,
And blade calls to blood as you choose;
The will to protect, thee will loose...

And then, Troph understood. He had to destroy the sword and reject the desire for wealth and power. He must choose between fighting for good or evil. And to free... whatever needed to be freed, and to protect Shenkuu and Brightvale from war he must...

No! Almost his entire being howled in protest; his muscles tensed, his back arched, his blood throbbed in his ears. No, he would not be shamed, he would not be defeated! He was invincible and he would take the gold, take the sword -- he need not leave it behind, only leave someone to report as he gave cry for Brightvale and made off with some of Shenkuu's most symbolic jewels and --

-- and used his old master as a tool, and robbed the country he loved, and sent it to war against Neopets who mostly hadn't done anything to get revenge on one corrupt wizard who would probably get away anyway.

Brilliance danced before his eyes, gold and luxury, glory and fame as he became a war hero --

--to whom? Brightvale was hardly going to appreciate him, and Shenkuu would rightly see him as a traitor.

Troph knocked aside a spear and retreated as hard as he could, to get room, and then he laid down the sword and raised his hands. "I surrender!" he cried.

It was the most wrenching thing he'd ever done. It hurt, physically; his muscles cramped and he thought his heart might have stopped for a moment. But then it jolted, and he could breathe again, and he felt...

...he felt free.

Hard hands closed on his arms, guards whose weapons he'd forged seizing him with looks of suspicion. One of them bent down to pick up the blade.

"Stop," Troph said. "Please. It's a cursed blade. It sounds crazy, I know, but it says an evil wizard in Brightvale cursed it and it's been trying to get here and start a war ever since."

"How dare you," said the sword in his mind. "HOW DARE YOU--" Its voice rose to a shriek and cracked --

--and the blade cracked too, shattering, screaming, falling to shards.

Troph tried to back away. The guards, unnerved, took a few steps back, though their training kept them closer than Troph wanted to be.

Red fire erupted from the ornate hilt, and silver smoke rose from it, filling the treasury room, choking them. Someone opened the door again, which helped a little. Troph's watering eyes began to make out shapes in the fumes, at least he thought so. Something... maybe....

Then the something solidified, gave a hacking cough, and stumbled forward to grab him. The Scorchio screamed, but then he heard the words, not in the sword's voice, but in an old familiar one.

His master's.

"The will to protect," Master Shen rasped, "freed both of us. Good job, lad. Good job."

The End