The Soulsword

The Font barely held any power. I should have known when I entered the facility and the place had been leeched of all colour. That was the tell, the most obvious sign of all and I had let my excitement get the better of me.

Art by Manuel Castañón

The Six Bitches had left Fonts across the galaxy, each one a monument to their failed experiments at creating life, at imitating the Gods who had made them – and then left them behind. Chasing them like the dogs they were.

Only one of the Firstborn had been successful. Had succeeded at creating life. My master had done what his brethren could not. But they did not praise his glory, or celebrate his achievement.

Instead they had been outraged at his methods. At his use of chaos instead of order. At is refusal to follow their strictures that had failed time and time again. So they had cast him out. Imprisoned him in the Void and abandoned us, his children, to grow and flourish on a godless world, watched over by their ‘Keepers’.

But my Lord had not been idle in his exile. He had called from darkness to darkness and those of us with the ears to hear, heard his call and vowed to set him free.

The energy that was left within the Font coruscated down my arm, quickening the soulsword as I forged it in the energies of order and chaos, a feat that had not been accomplished since before my Master had been exiled.

Behind me came the mewling cry of Romelda. She had lost her toy crystal when my fury at the state of the Font had got the best of me. The portal had closed too but no matter. Once the soulsword was quenched I would be able to use it to open my own portals, tears in the fabric of space time that would lead me anywhere I wanted to go.

I raised the sword, it’s violet glow blazing, almost blue. I turned to Romelda and she began to scream. A soulsword had not been created in millennia but she knew what I was going to do.

After all, it wouldn’t be a soulsword without a soul.

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