Cannivone followed the whim of the sword, saying goodbye to the temple and thanking them for the hospitality. Head Priestess Bekka kissed his cheek and wished him well. His journey took him west toward the small town of Belton. His uncle once mentioned it as the place of his birth and he decided it was as good a place as any to start his search for the foul man who had raised him.
He entered the village, glancing at the snow covered humps of huts, smoke drifting lazily to the sky. The streets were a quagmire of mud and ice that threatened to send him sprawling.
“What a shit hole,” the voice spoke to him. He grabbed the hilt to ease his depredation.
“You wanted blood,” Cannivone replied. “This is as good a place to start as any.”
“There is nobody here,” the sword complained. “What good will it do me? I can’t believe I have been reduced to feeding on blood like a….”
“Please shut up,” the boy grumbled. “I’m trying to think.”
“I wish I could let you experience the pain that I went through when I wielded the blade.”
“Seriously,” Cannivone warned, “I can just leave you to rust in the snow.”
“Why don’t you?” the sword dared him. It should be easy, he thought, to drop the annoying blade and walk away. Why couldn’t he? Was it the guilt he felt for the blood on his hands? Would he feel alone without the voice constantly urging him on?
He shook his head, violently and groaned.
“Give me some peace,” he pleaded. The sword snickered, but said nothing more. Cannivone made his way through the mud toward the only tavern, called The Broken Wheel. He had no money to purchase a meal or a bed, but he would try and find out all he could about the place he was born, since he remembered nothing about it.
Inside, the inn was warm. A roaring fire blazed beneath a wide stone hearth and the succulent smell of roasting meat filled the air. A large table sat near the fire, a single man sitting amongst a pile of empty cups and dirty plates, his face in his hands.
The man was old and dressed in ragged robes. He seemed to be muttering to himself turning his head in his palms. Cannivone slowly approached the man, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
Grumblings from the robed man brought a small smile to Cannivone’s face.
“We should do the man a favor,” the sword hissed, “and put an end to his grumblings with a quick stroke.”
Cannivone ignored the sword’s request. He vowed to take no innocent lives and the man had done nothing to wrong him.
“Get bent,” he whispered to the blade. He got the impression the sword wasn’t happy, but it was being silent for the moment so the lad would enjoy the moment.
He approached the wine stained man, cautiously.
