[ WP ] `` There are legends of this , one the most evil of all weapons . The sword that can never kill . ''

The guards of the castle rose as men in the morning and fell as dust in the evening. Their bodies crumbled around my sword, leaving nothing of the victim behind but memories. Even the slightest cut would induce the corruption: the curse would propagate through the wound, devouring all the victim's blood, then bone, then flesh. The sword spared nobody: it was the sword that always killed. 
 
 The last guard dropped to his knees, shaking. He had n't even unsheathed his sword; he had just stood and watched as his companions were ripped from existence. My sword seethed: cowardice whetted its appetite. The craven would be permitted a moment of begging, and then he would join the others. 
 
 `` Kill me.'' 
 
 His words were so soft that I did n't catch them at first. The guard stared at me with desperation and then lunged, hands outstretched for my sword. It compelled me forward to greet him, and with a slight *snick*, he impaled himself through the eye. His corpse began to disintegrate. 
 
 Why? Why would he beg for death? The guard's actions shook me for a moment. Had it been a trick of some sort? Had the coward developed a sudden sense of honor? Either way, I had neither the cause nor the time to dwell on it. The black door to the throne room loomed ahead. Nobody who had ever confronted the tyrant king had ever returned, but none of them had wielded the sword that always killed, either. It was my duty to bring his downfall. Righteous agreement emanated from my sword as I gripped its hilt. 
 
 As I stepped forward, I heard moans and wails from within the sanctum ahead. The king would hopefully be occupied, then. I pushed the door open and strode inside. The wails grew louder and seemed to be coming from everywhere around me, but I could n't discern their source. The entire room was dark, except for a small patch of light at the back. There, the king sat, flanked by a circle of torches. Across his lap laid his own sword, supposedly the counterpart to mine, the sword that never killed. 
 
 `` I've come for your head,'' I said, marching down the dark towards him. 
 
 `` And I've waited for yours.'' The king stood up and flourished his own sword. Though the blade was sharp, it exuded a dullness that suited its name. Or was that just my imagination? Travelers had whispered of the most evil of all weapons, the sword that never killed, but nothing ever substantive. `` It's evil,'' was all they said, before passing out. How could one man hold dominion over the realm with such a handicapped sword? 
 
 The wails ignited my sword's furor, and it pulled me forward. I charged towards the king. He stared at me blankly: was he making his peace? He was good as dead: none had ever bested me in swordplay, and one hit was all I needed. 
 
 We clashed in front of the throne. He parried the first blow and my subsequent ones with ease. As I wailed on him, I began to tremble: his sword felt like a wall, and every hit I landed resonated back through me. My sword pressed on, though, continuing its assault despite my shaken will. Eventually, I landed the hit. It was slight, a cut on the hand that was just enough to draw blood. He did n't even flinch: in one fluid motion, he cut his own hand off. The curse fizzled out at the stump of his wrist. 
 
 I had n't anticipated that, nor had my own sword. The moment I had thought to best him, euphoria had welled up in the both of us. We had let our guard down, and there was no time for us to recover. The king evaded my guard and swept his own sword in an arc that severed my own head from my body. 
 
 As my head rolled backwards onto the floor, I saw above me, illuminated by the faint flickering of the torches, rows upon rows of mounted, human heads. They groaned in chorus, their eyes locked permanently ahead. And as I realized I was about to join their ranks, I began to wail too.
