“Uggh that damnable thing.” Venic shifts in his seat and takes an other drink of the sour ale this particular tavern sold. He grimaces and I prod him to continue.
“Blessed or cursed depending on how you look at it. Seems ole Molockare Spit-Bile created it to put in the hand of his chief assassin, a man can't be killed as long as he holds that blade.”
I take my own drink and grimace too. “ That doesn’t seem so bad” I mutter with an ale roughed voice.”
“It don't do it. Boy I’ve been selling my blade all along the east road for twenty years or more an the last poor shit that I seen bearing that knife scared me more than any thing before and quite a few things since.”
“Why is that.” I drink down to my dregs and wave the serving girl over.
“Well the man who holds that blade can't die 'til hes spilled blood with it a thousand times, as the name says. The last bearer I hear had been alive for a century or more. Seems a thousand cuts ain't as easy to come by as one might think even in this world.”
I don't say anything but drink more waiting for him to go on.
“He had...ahh. Taken to cuttin' his own self to make up the tally, time we found him he's just a mass of red scars and bleeding wounds. Lost all shreds of sanity and just waded into battle , carving foes and friends a like..just..laughing and counting. Laughing and counting, eight hundred, eight hundred one, and on and on til it was just him and the remains of the Black Horse company.” Venic drinks again and downs the whole tankard and one swallow. “Not ashamed to say I ran, some fools didn't and ended up just another number to him.
I can see in his eyes that this memory is a hard on so I don't push, I just order another round.
“He finally got his a few years ago. Last track of the count or ...who knows finished and went looking for his last fight. Either way I pity the poor sod that picked it up when he dropped it.”
We finish our drinks and stumbled out the camp. The caravan master is shouting orders for guards and mercenaries alike. It seems the East road calls