"A Swordid Affair" by Jeff Lin

Grok the Troll was strolling through the forest, searching out chipmunks for his dinner, when he was attacked. An adventurer of some sort, Grok guessed, based on the man’s pack, leather armor, and sword.

The adventurer lunged at Grok, trying to skewer him. Grok moved out of the way and walloped the guy in the groin with his club. The man doubled over in pain, and Grok brought the club down hard on the back of his head. His body went limp and flopped to the ground, blood spraying from his mouth.

"Hain’t safe to walk through the woods no more," Grok said to himself as he set his club down and bent over to search through the man’s pack. He found a couple of gold crowns, which he pocketed, some scrolls, which he tossed aside, and a bottle of foul smelling liquid. He placed a drop of the liquid on his tongue and found it bitter, akin to sour milk mixed with salt. Grok decided to drink it later, with his meal.

"Say there champ, that was some nice work you just did," came a voice near the man’s body.

"Whazza?!" Grok jumped up, dropping the bottle. He grabbed his club and started whacking away at the lifeless body.

"He’s not going to get any deader," the voice said. "It’s me talking to you."

Grok stopped, the club raised over his head. He stooped down and peered closely at the bloody pulp before him. "Whoozat talkin’ to Grok?"

"Me…the sword," said the sword, still clutched in the dead man’s hand, giving off a bluish glow each time it spoke a word.

Grok scratched his head. "Never heard of no talkin’ swords before. What the hell do you want?"

"See, I was studying the situation just now," the sword responded. "You got some nice moves, but I think you really need an upgrade in weaponry. That club you got there just isn’t going to cut it against most opponents."

Grok turned his club over in his massive hands. "But I like this club. Me mum gave me this ‘ere club when I was just a little trolling."

"Look, push aside all the sentimentality and what you got there is a rotting piece of wood with a nail sticking out of it," the sword chimed. "I, on the other hand, am made of tempered Dwarven steel, forged in the legendary Bloom Dale Mountains by the most master of craftsmen. My blade is powerful enough to cleave through armor, and sharp enough to split a hair on a fly, plus I carry a powerful enchantment. Not to sound pompous, but this isn’t some run of the mill Orc-poker that you’re talking to."

"Yah?" Grok responded, not looking very interested.

"So what I’m trying to say," the sword continued, "is, why don’t you take me along with you?"

"I dunno." Grok pointed at the body. "Me club still thumps skulls pretty good. And I don’t like no magic. Gives me the jeebie-heebies, it does."

"Okay, okay then, you don’t need to use me for fighting," the sword sounded a bit edgy. "But don’t leave me here to rust! You can sell me! Why, I bet I’d fetch…at least 500 crowns on the open market!"

Grok’s eyes lit up at the mention of gold. He wrested the sword from the dead man and examined it. "Say, thems lil’ diamonds there on your hilt!"

"That’s right!" the sword exclaimed, excited. "None of that cubic zirconia crap either, those are the real thing!"

"500 crowns you say?" Grok was starting to salivate.

"Maybe even a thousand crowns, now that I think about it!"

"Well, h’okay then." Grok tucked the sword away in his belt. Just then he caught sight of a chipmunk scampering by, and remembered about dinner.

As Grok chased after the chipmunk, the sword spoke again. "Say there chump, are you at all familiar with the Wicked Curse of Wickerby Warnishak the Western Wizard?"

"The Whatsit Curse of Whoozit now?" Grok dove at the chipmunk, barely missing grabbing hold of the puffy tail.

"See, there was this wizard, Wickerby was his name," the sword began. "He had bought a sword from the Bloom Dale dwarves, and for some reason or another he wasn’t satisfied with it. So he brings it back to the dwarves and asks for refund, but the dwarves won’t give it to him on account he doesn’t have a receipt. Plus, they say, the sword’s been used, so the best they can offer him is an exchange of equal or lesser value. The wiz argues, because he doesn’t want an exchange, he wants a refund. Well, the dwarves are stubborn and don’t give him his refund, so he leaves in a huff. On his way out, he’s so mad that he places a curse on a cauldron of molten steel that he sees. The dwarves, not knowing this, go ahead and forge a new sword out of this steel, and guess what they end up with? A cursed sword!"

"Huh?" The chipmunk had scurried up a tree, which Grok was furiously shaking at the moment.

"And what a curse it was!" the sword said joyously. "Anybody who took possession of this sword became fated to die in battle! That sword goes through owners faster than Troll beer through an Elven maiden! Why, the curse has only been around for a year and that sword is on it’s, let’s see…105^th owner right now!"

"Shuddup, willya?" the chipmunk had leapt off the tree and onto Grok’s head. Grok had tried to smash it, but only managed in giving himself a large lump in the noggin.

"The funniest story is when this barbarian fellow, real tough character, got hold of the sword after slaying a giant, then managed to get offed by, of all things, a one-legged gnome! See, they were both in this tavern and…say that fellow there looks like he might be trouble."

"What feller?" Grok, still dizzy from the blow he had given himself, failed to notice the knight who had crept up on him.

"Meet thy maker, foul denizen of the Dark!" the knight shouted, then ran Grok through with his spear.

The knight fell to one knee and began to offer a prayer to his God.

"Say there champ," interrupted the sword. "That was some nice work you just did…"