Along the walls of the arena are weapons racks, including swords, tridents, staffs, and every imaginable weapon for appropriate combat.

Among these are some named weapons: weapons of those who prefer to store them here and have earned and maintained that right and, perhaps – though Asher won’t say, some that were either surrendered or lost in combat.

Two of the named weapons are Oblivion, which belongs to Asher, and Mithin Virol – the only weapon in The Arena that has never actually been used in The Arena.

Oblivion

The inscription on Oblivion reads, “Pain is warm like love and safer at your chest.”

Mithin Verol

This is the story of Mithin Verol, or at least one of its stories:

It was very quiet. I stood, motionless, on the tall outcropping of rock, waiting. At my feet lay the sword in its sheath, also waiting. Waiting for sunrise.

Gradually the sky in the east began to pale. The mountains stood out against it in sharp relief. The light grew, dyeing the sky pink and purple. I bent and pulled the sword out of its sheath. The dim light glinted dully on the blade, sliding down the milky blackness of the crystal, catching on its reinforcements of cold metal.

I held it out before me at arm’s length, locking both hands together around the hilt and raising the point vertically as high as I could reach. The blade was heavy and my arms trembled at the effort. The whole world seemed to tense with me, waiting for the sun. The sword alone was lifeless, inanimate. The light continued to grow.

A narrow beam of sunlight shot over the mountains. I could almost see it speeding out over the valley. It hit the sword, illuminating the blade along its entire length. The sword glowed, soaking in the light, and came to life, vibrating. As the sun rose higher, the blade glowed brighter and brighter, and the vibration became a sound, a bell-like tone, shimmering and growing.

At the instant the sun leapt fully into view over the mountains, the blade burst into flame. It burned with a brilliant white fire and sang a fierce, joyous paean of triumph, piercingly loud and sweet. Louder and louder it sang, until it erupted in a shower of white sparks on a final, glorious note.

The light in the blade faded and the echoes of song died away. I had been frozen into position, enthralled. Now I stirred and lowered my aching arms. I looked at the sword in wonder. Before, both crystal and metal had been a dull, unrelieved black. Now the crystal was clear as glass and the reinforcements veined it with shining silver. The blade was as light as a feather in my hand. I swung it, and it blurred in the air, a trace of light following it.

I sheathed the sword and climbed down from the rock, wondering.

1985