“The Infinity Swords” prologue

Below is a draft of the prologue for our first anthology project. If it interests you and you’d like to submit a story, here are our guidelines.

Of the swords …

It was made to slay a god.

Haggorum forged it. Bright Sassinara honed it. Hoden poured into its gleaming blade the mysteries and energies of a dozen universes.

And Hiromel would carry it into battle to decide the fate of time itself.

Long the blade was, and keen, with a hilt to fit a hero’s hand. Invisible fires caressed its length, and coursed through the broad black quillons shot through with golden lightning. The pommel, a single blue sphere marbled with browns and greens and whites, resembled a world — but contained more magic than any one world could hold.

Hiromel lifted the blade — called Stor — and set his sharp gaze along its length. Swirling energies flowed from the hilt and into his veins. His mind expanded, and filled with the knowledge of unknown worlds. His farseeing eyes narrowed; this blade, indeed, would slay Ohkor. He turned to his brothers and sisters, nodded grim acceptance of his mission, and strode across worlds into battle, mighty sword in hand.

But the enemy had forged a weapon, too.

Black, and broad, and serrated with predator’s teeth. Ohkor’s sword reflected none of the light that fell on it, and pulsed with power that hummed within. Krell-Doom, it was called.

The combatants met, in a place and time that no longer exists. The swords clashed, and sparks rained upon time and space. Portals into other dimensions opened and vanished as the fiery drops splashed and sizzled and hissed upon the fabric of reality. And then …

Nothing more is written of the battle between Hiromel and Ohkor, for it is not ended. The blast from the first clash of those blades flung the foes beyond the knowledge of gods and men. They drift, greatly diminished and yet still gods, and send forth ethereal agents to regain the lost weapons.

And the blades?

Those were flung, too, into the vast expanses of possibility, to be wielded by lesser hands and minds that understood not a mote of the true powers they held. Those blades ripped open legends on countless worlds, in universes that could contain them for only a while before they vanished again into the realm of mystery. The swords move forever on their swirling destinies, from one reality to the next, ever seeking one another — to decide the fate of time once and for all.

%d bloggers like this: