Unofficial Portkey Archive

Harry Potter and the Swords of Power by Darkstar
EPUB MOBI HTML Text

Harry Potter and the Swords of Power

Darkstar

Harry Potter and the Swords of Power

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing in this fic. Harry Potter and associates are owned by JK Rowling and Scholastic Publishing. The Swords series is owned by Fred Saberhagen.

A/N: Thanks to Max LoneWolf for beta-reading for me. Also thanks to Msscribe for beating on me to get this story up.

PROLOGUE: SETTING THE STAGE

Fifty thousand years in the future…

Somehow, the lost Swords of Power-products of a war so terrible, it changed the very laws of nature, bringing magic back into being-have returned to Earth. ARDNEH, fearing what the Swords could do now, casts them into the past where Old-World technology could destroy them for good. However, when dealing with the Swords of Power, even ARDNEH must move cautiously. The Swords have been cast further into the past, and into another reality, where lives a wizard boy named Harry Potter…

The Song of Swords

Who holds Coinspinner knows good odds,

Whichever move he make.

But the Sword of Chance, to please the gods,

Slips from him like a snake.

The Sword of Justice balances the pans,

Of right and wrong, of foul and fair.

Eye for an eye, Doomgiver scans,

The fate of all folk everywhere.

Dragonslicer, Dragonslicer, how d'you slay?

Reaching for the heart in behind the scales.

Dragonslicer, Dragonslicer, where d'you stay?

In the belly of the giant that my blade impales.

Farslayer howls across the world,

For thy heart, for thy heart, who hast wronged me!

Vengeance is his who casts the blade,

Yet he will in the end, no triumph see.

Who flesh the Sword of Mercy hurts hast drawn no breath,

Whose soul is wandering in the night,

Has paid the summing of all debts in death,

Has turned to see returning light.

The Mindsword spun in the dawn's gray light,

And men and demons knelt down before.

The Mindsword flashed in the midday bright,

Gods joined the dance and the march to war.

It spun in the twilight dim as well,

And gods and men marched off to hell.

I shatter swords and splinter spears,

None stands to Shieldbreaker.

My point's the fount of orphans' tears,

My edge the widow-maker.

The Sword of Stealth is given to

One lowly and despised.

Sightblinder's gifts: his eyes are keen,

His nature is disguised.

The Tyrant's Blade no blood hath spilled,

But doth the spirit carve.

Soulcutter hath no body killed,

But many left to starve.

The Sword of Siege struck a hammer's blow,

With a crash and a smash, and a tumbled wall.

Stonecutter laid a castle low,

With a groan and a roar, and a tower's fall.

Long roads the Sword of Fury makes,

Hard wall it builds around the soft.

The fighter who Townsaver takes,

Can bid farewell to home and croft.

Who holds Wayfinder knows good roads,

Its master's step is brisk.

The Sword of Wisdom lightens loads,

But adds unto their risk.

A young boy walked across a field in Northern England. It was dusk, and he knew he must arrive home as fast as possible. It did not appear, however, that he would make it. The sky grew even darker, as black clouds rolled in across the lands. A crack of thunder, and the rains began.

The boy started to run, hoping he would make it to his house in time, to be warm and cozy with his family. He did not know what fate was to bring to him. He ran, and kept running.

A flash of lightning. In the eerie glow of the forked white light, he thought he saw figures standing in the grass. He ignored them. They must only be his imagination. He kept running.

Another flash. They were still there, yet closer now. Panic began to ensnare him. Were they real? Who were they? Terror flamed up inside him, and now he began to run even faster, for dear life, for he could feel a malevolence about them that made him feel cold beyond what the rain was doing, and made the hairs stand on his neck and arms.

He was just about to the edge of the field, when he tripped. More specifically, tripped over something. Despite his terror, he turned on the ground and saw it. A black sheath, with a sword hilt sticking from it. He looked around cautiously. The figures did not appear to be present. Perhaps he had outrun them. Perhaps they had given up.

He crawled forward slowly, and grasped the sheath. He slowly pulled on the hilt. Suddenly, as the gleaming metal shone in the half-light from the moon, he was stricken again by a feeling that appeared out of no-where. But suddenly, that feeling did not matter. Nothing did. He thought about setting down the weapon, but that didn't matter now either. He slumped to the ground, almost as if relieved of the will to live.

Black figures were all about him now. He made no move to run, or even stand. The inch of blade still showing seemed to suck his life force from him, rending his very soul. Hands grabbed at the boy, heaving him up. They wrested the sword from his willing grasp. The sword was fully sheathed again. The fog started to lift from his mind.

He stared about. The figures were all cloaked, and surrounding him. They stared back at him, but then their ranks part, and another figure, taller than the others, entered the circle. In the gloom, the boy could see faintly glowing red eyes from under that hood. He tried to scream, but the apathy still consumed him enough to prevent it.

"What shall we do with him, Master?" queried one darkly. There seemed to be no question about what they would do.

The tall figure stood still for one moment, saying nothing. "No one must know what has transpired here tonight." The figure raised one hand, and there seemed to be some sort of wand there.

Then there was a blast of intense green light, then blackness.

The boy's lifeless body was found early next morning, sprawled, eyes still open, in the field. There was no sign that anyone else had been there. The sword, likewise, was gone.

* * *

In the town of Surrey, outside London, a sixteen year old named Harry Potter basked in the glory of Sunday morning. He was actually able to sleep in a bit on that one day now. A little threatening had been in order, of course, for the Dursleys, his only living relatives, did everything they could to keep him downtrodden, as they were Muggles of the worst order, terribly afraid of magic. However, Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, was a convicted killer-who was actually innocent, it turned out-in the wizarding world, so the threat of him being unhappy if Harry was usually enough to get him some small freedoms. This was one of them. Adding to the fact that Dudley was no longer allowed breakfast on weekends, owing to the fact that he was built like a hippopotamus, wider than he was tall, Harry had nothing to do Sunday mornings.

He slowly decided to drag himself up and glance at the latest letters from his two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He sorely missed both of them, especially Hermione, though he would never admit that to either of them. The simple fact of the matter is that he and Hermione had grown somewhat closer towards the end of last year, while Hermione was still upset about her breakup with Ron. Although she was the one who had suggested it, she still was unhappy to have to go through with it, and Ron, who could be temperamental, had ended up stalking the school angrily for weeks. It had fallen to Harry to raise her spirits in time for the OWLs, which were one of two very important tests they took at their school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

In the end, Harry thought he was probably falling for Hermione, but he couldn't ever say that. For one thing, he didn't want to ruin his friendship with her, for another thing, his friendship with Ron would also likely end if he made a move, as Ron was still extremely jealous and protective of her. So he sat back and kept his peace.

Harry stared into his closet, before pulling out an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He fingered his Hogwarts robes for a moment. The prefect badge shone brightly on the shoulder. He had been as amazed, if not more, than anyone about being made a prefect. He hadn't thought his marks had been good enough, but apparently he was mistaken, though he suspected teacher recommendation, in the form of Headmaster Dumbledore, who was very much a supporter of him, had a major part of it.

He headed downstairs. He really had no plans for today, which probably meant his aunt would have him work in the garden, despite the stifling heat outside. He was, however, looking forward to tomorrow. It was his birthday. He knew he'd never get anything from his aunt and uncle, but he could always expect something from Hagrid, the Hogwarts groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Hermione, and Ron.

He decided to go for a walk, so as to take his mind off things. With the return of Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Wizard in a thousand years, things were beyond hectic for Harry. The group assembled to try and fight Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix, with Harry's help had defeated his plots last year to steal a Prism of Power from Ministry of Magic headquarters in London. The Prism could have restored even more of Voldemort's lost power to him. Still, as the Dark Lord had not actually appeared at the attack, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, still denied his return.

Harry was cutting through the backyard on his way back to Privet Drive when he tripped over something. It was a sword sheath. He frowned, puzzled. There was no logical explanation he could think of why this would be lying there. He hefted it curiously, and drew the blade partially. It was an exquisite blade, with absolutely no blemishes on its surface, which had an interesting mottled pattern which seemed to extend beyond the actual thickness of the blade. Inspecting the edge, he found it to be razor sharp, as he was able to cut a strand of hair effortlessly with it. Upon even closer inspection, he saw there was a small white marking on the plain black hilt. It appeared to be a small hammer of sorts. He shrugged. Doubtless the real owner would want it back, but…

Without knowing exactly why, he hauled it back up to his room. He was thankful that the Dursleys had not even looked up when he entered. He certainly didn't want them to see him hauling a sword inside.

As the day ended to a close, many more people discovered swords lying in the oddest of places about England. Little did they know that these Swords would shape the future of the entire wizarding world.