Welcome to the Flashing Swords Challenge. This is a prompt driven challenge, and for those who don't understand what that means, allow me to explain.

Each quarter, approximately a week after the new issue of the magazine is released, we will post a challenge prompt. The prompt may consist of a picture, it might be a few sentences, it might be a theme and a subject, or it might be something else.

Along with the prompt, we will post the rules of the challenge. There is no fee to enter, however we will accept only one entry per challenge, per person. The challenge will close one week before the next issue of the magazine is due. All challenge entries that have been received by the time the challenge closes will be read, and a winner chosen. Winners will be chosen by a random member, or members, of the Flashing Swords staff, and decisions of the judges are final.

The winner will receive a prize of $10.00 and the winning entry will be posted online during the next challenge round. Winning entries will not be archived and the winning author retains all rights. The current winning entry will be removed when the new winning entry is posted. A winning author must wait one challenge, before entering again. Non-winning authors may enter each challenge.

Send entries to flashingswordspress@gmail.com

Prompt

With a loud crash, something smashed through the roof and slammed into the living room floor.

The moon slowly rose above the horizon, revealing a dark shape slinking through the trees toward the dreaming village. The shadowy figure was that of a man, tall and gangly. Behind the head, and several times its size, was an ovoid where shoulders should be.

The silhouette seemed to flow rather than walk, as if bone and sinew had been replaced by mist and vapor. It made no sound as it traversed the forest in the cool night air. Indeed, its passage was marked by silence itself when frogs and crickets paused their creaking conversation.

The trail meandered around thick groups of oak and ash. Regardless, the shadow's pace neither slackened nor quickened, as if propelled onward by untiring wheels and cogs.

The traveler seemed unconcerned or unaware of the dangers of journey by night. Yet no highwaymen challenged to demand tribute of coin, possession, or blood. Perhaps they lay sleeping off the reward of captured ale. Or possibly, they noted the strange, silent apparition, crossed themselves, and mumbled half-remembered prayers.

Finally, the traveler entered the village of Bonne, its eighty souls fast asleep. The egg-shaped lump behind the traveler's head swung down and separated from the body, to land with a dull thud.

Tom stepped out of his thatch-covered hovel and stretched under the first, tentative rays of sunlight. A light breeze snatched his misting breath. Then he noticed the odd structure.

A tent that resembled a downed clothesline had been pitched on the village square. Its walls were sewn from irregular-shaped sections of cloth. He thought its owner could mean trouble, so he returned to his hut, then emerged with his double-edged, iron sword, strapping it on as best he knew how. It had passed to him from his father's father. Reportedly, an ancestor had liberated it from bandits along the road. But the blade was rusted and chipped, and Tom thought it more likely looted from a grave after years underground.

Regardless, the possession elevated him to village constable, though baker by trade. He strode to the tent, the sword's pitted edge a shifting pendulum that painfully nicked his shin. He considered rousing his neighbors, and he briefly wondered why none had yet risen. But as he neared, he realized the tent was fairly small. No real threat could emerge from something that size.

An opening in the tent appeared and a man emerged. He unfolded like a long legged spider until he stood a head taller than Tom.

Transfixed, Tom stared up at the man, impossibly big for the tent. He wore a black robe, the hood pulled back to reveal an ancient, weathered face. Uneven clumps of gray hair hung down around his face, as though he barbered with Tom's sorry sword.

Tom recovered his wits, and he challenged the stranger. "What's your business?"

"I'm a tinker."

"You'll have to move on. We don't need your help."

"For example, I could repair your sword."

Tom glanced at the weapon, wondering if this were true.

"Make it gleam like its former splendor."

Tom doubted the sword had ever garnered anything like splendor, but he was curious. "In exchange for what?"

The man smiled, the lips stretching into a grimace. "I ask only three things. A morsel of food, a patch of old clothing, and a small favor."

Tom considered, then said, "Well, you can't stay. You'll have to move on."

"Just one more night's stay."

Tom pursed his lips. "You could fix my sword by then?"

"Indeed."

Tom thought there was no way the old guy could repair the sword in one day, but … "What if you disappeared with my sword?"

The man chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Such a fine possession, I understand your reluctance." He lifted the robe, revealing bare, purple-veined feet. "Surely, I am old as the wind, and I have only these two friends to carry me. Do you fear you could not overtake me?"

Tom grinned. The stranger made a good point. "You leave tomorrow." He removed the sword. After a moment's hesitation, he passed it over. "What's your name?"

The man's eyes riveted on the sword, and he slowly ran a fingertip along one of its ruined edges. "My name is Serviteur."

Tom's tensed, eyes narrowing. "That sounds foreign."

The man returned Tom's gaze. "My mother was foreign born."

Tom relaxed. Warriors sometimes returned with wives born in strange, faraway lands.

Serviteur said, "I'll take the food today." As if with great reverence, he placed the sword inside the tent. "Tomorrow, I'll exchange the sword for a simple patch of clothing, no smaller than your fingers spread wide, and the small favor I mentioned."

"What favor?"

"Tomorrow."

Tom soon returned with the remains of his morning meal and gave it to Serviteur. He'd even added vegetables from his small garden. The fellow seemed grateful for the scraps, and he embarrassed Tom by heaping on praises.

Tom checked on the visitor whenever he could. Each time, Serviteur was speaking with one of the village residents, but never more than one at a time. And every so often, he observed Serviteur add some article inside the tent. Tom couldn't imagine the fellow would have time to repair even a fraction of what he'd collected. He began to feel cheated, and his face flushed. Nonetheless, he'd struck a deal. Serviteur had one more day.

Tom rose with the sun. He carried a rag from an old shirt he'd once worn. Serviteur greeted him, a warm smile crossing his face.

Tom said, "Where's my sword?" There was a hint of hostility in his voice.

Serviteur's grin widened. "Allow me." He stooped to reach inside the tent, and rose holding a polished, finely crafted sword.

Tom's breath caught in his throat. The sword was exquisite. It couldn't possibly be the same one he'd left yesterday. He'd hoped to merely have the blades evened and sharpened. But it looked as though master craftsmen had lovingly made it for king and honor and glory. He accepted the gleaming weapon, and marveled at his sword. HIS sword.

"The clothing?" asked Serviteur.

Tom passed him the rag.

A needle and thread appeared in Serviteur's hands. He expertly whipped the fabric onto the tent, hands moving in a blur. Then he turned back to Tom. "And now for the favor."

Tom looked away from the sword. "Favor?"

"Our agreement."

Tom nodded, remembering.

Serviteur's eyes twinkled, and an eyebrow twitched as if in mischief. "This will be fun. Your neighbor has a wife named Jane. Tomorrow, after I'm gone, you will visit their home. You will find a necklace hidden beneath her pillow. You will destroy the necklace, leaving only small remnants scattered about the room."

A small corner of Tom's brain argued he would never do anything like that. He liked Jane and her husband, Sven. But he grinned at the thought, imagining how much fun that might be. Eyes unfocused as if in trance, he said, "Fun."

Speaking in a voice of stern warning, Serviteur added, "But you must hide your sword carefully. Your neighbors will surely covet it. They will do all they can to steal it from you. You must protect the sword."

Tom echoed, "Covet. Steal. Protect."

Tom found himself in the midst of kneading bread. He couldn't recall what he'd discussed with Serviteur. But that wasn't important; the sword was. It lay on a nearby table, ready to serve him in warfare.

He slept with the sword that night. When he awoke, the strange old man had vanished, along with his tent.

He heard snores coming from Sven's cottage, and a mischievous grin crossed his face. After hiding the sword inside his oven, he crept into Jane and Sven's hut, feeling naughty, adventurous. Spotting a necklace of strung, colored rocks peeking from under her pillow, he gently removed it. The necklace was an ugly collection of reds and greens and purples. Using a knife, he sliced the string, capturing loose stones in his hand. He scattered these near the bed and by the hearth. Then he departed. Along the way home, he cast the remainder of the rocks into the forest.

He returned home to his beloved sword. He opened the oven, but the beautiful sword was gone. In its place was a small, wooden sword - a child's toy. He raced outside, clutching the toy, waving it about like a warrior ready for battle. He unleashed a cry of rage and anguish. Nearby, some of his neighbors caught up the cry.

Servitor paused on the hilltop to gaze behind. Pillars of smoke rose in the distance. He smiled. Another village laid to waste. Within a week, any who remained among Bonne's smoking ruins would drift away like chaff on the wind. Within a year, Bonne would be forgotten.

Then he turned back to his journey. If he kept this pace, he should reach Strombol well before dawn, two days hence.