Sergeant Dil, spade in hand, wandered along the muddy track, his head heavy with thoughts. As he paced down the earthy brown field, every step his tired legs trod became a trial of its own. His rusted armour creaked and groaned. His aching, filthy limbs were pulsating with a released tension.
    “I’ve done it. I’ve done it. It’s all over,” he whispered to himself, almost in song. He climbed over the stone wall that stretched across the outside of the field, and could see the Prince, crown on head, sitting on the broken tree stump where he had left him. The Prince was looking out into the forest, smoking a pipe, his knee bouncing up and down. He looked very nervous, all be it needlessly now though.
    Dil shuffled over to the Prince, humbly lowering his head before speaking.
    “It’s done sir,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. The prince turned, his eyes wide with expectance, his moustache quivering with anticipation.
    “Truly? Is it buried?” he said, his mouth breaking into a small smile. Dil had never seen the Prince smile. Dil became instinctively nervous. He felt like a pig who had just seen his owner sharpening his knife and lighting a fire, singing a song about the joys of bacon sandwiches. It was very unpleasant.
    “Buried underneath six feet of rock and soil sir,” he said, brightly as he could manage, straightening his well built frame, his stubbled cheeks turning a shade of red.
    “Are you sure? You didn’t forget to bury it or anything? You actually... buried it?” said the Prince, his eyebrow raising inquisitively.
    “The sword is buried sir,” Dil repeated. He gripped his spade tightly as the Prince leered at him.
    “...Are you absolutely sure? Because if someone comes invading my kingdom again holding that sodding sword aloft, turning things inside out with it and setting houses on fire, I will know who to come to Sergeant!” The Prince pointed an accusing finger.
    “Yes, sir. Its buried, sir,” Dil said firmly.
    He had definitely buried it. He remembered digging the enormous ditch. He remembered the intense white glow of the sword. He remembered how it nearly blew him to smithereens when he casually stabbed it into the ground. He remembered how the sword was hot to the touch, throbbing with a strange power that he knew no-one should ever try and utilise. And he remembered burying it.
    Definitely.
    Or.
    Did he?
    The Prince stood from his stump and gazed at Dil in astonishment. But there was something else. Something not so welcoming. A glimmer in the Prince’s eye that made Dil panic even more, and whisper silent prayers under his breath as the Prince advanced towards him slowly. Dil watched the crossbow tied to the Prince’s waist intently.
    He expected the worst.
    In the moments Dil was expecting to be his last, he decided being murdered by royalty wasn’t a particularly bad way to go. It was certainly popular in most villages. Especially around his home, Pennyshire. By the time Dil had concluded that it probably wasn’t worth worrying about, the Prince was standing directly in front of him, nose to nose.
    Dil closed his eyes, bracing himself for impact.
    “Well done Sergeant Dil,” said the Prince, embracing Dil with a hug. Dil squinted at the Prince in surprise.
    “Erm, thank you, Prince Henry.”
    The Prince relinquished his grip on him and smiled warmly. He beamed like a man who had not only found god and embraced religion along with all its benefits, including eternal life and what not, but had the good fortune to be been enlightened by God himself, who had given him a company wagon and an eternal-life-times supply of ale.
    Not only did the Prince smile, but he began jumping, up and down with delight, his moustache bouncing from side to side, and his crown falling to the floor.
    “Mr. Dil, I knew you could do it. We’ve done it. We’ve beaten her. That witch Morgaine will never, ever have enough power to take the kingdom now.”
    “Good news, sir,” said Dil, beginning to clam down, smiling with relief. He decided now would be a good time to ask an important question.
    “That sword, sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why do an awful lot of people, pardon my saying sir, including some of your family, sir, I mean, why do they want it so much they will fight wars for it? What’s the point?”
    A short silence followed the question, as the Prince settled down from his sudden burst of happiness.
    “It’s a very powerful, and strange sword, Dil,” said the Prince, picking up his crown from the ground. “It has the power to do great things, but its has a mind of its own. An actual living consciousness. It only wants to have fun! It controls people, bends them to its will without care or remorse. Some people, like my sister, Morgaine, have tried to use it for evil...”
     The Prince trailed off, his voice turning a little quieter.
    “...But no more. No-one will ever find it. Not my witch of a sister. No-one. I dare not of tried to bury the thing myself, in case It drove me power mad too. But you Dil, you had the power to say no, and get rid of the thing. My kingdom is in your debt.”
    The Prince placed a hand on Dil’s shoulder. Dil felt a stinging sensation well up inside of his innards. Could this be... ‘pride’? His mother had always warned him about it. He didn’t understand why. Now he was experiencing it, it wasn’t as bad as she had made it out to be.
    He would have liked a very, very long time in which to really enjoy this new found feeling.
    A very long time.
    The last thing Dil heard was the snap of an arrow piercing the side of his skull.
    The Prince, tying his crossbow around his waist, wandered over to him.
    “I’m sorry, Sergeant Dil. No-one can ever know where it’s buried,” he said, his voice croaking. He stood to attention, and saluted Dil’s body, the a twinkle of tears in his eyes.
    Dil’s ghost sat up, and regarded the Prince as he wandered off into the forest, back to the horses that they had stabled on the other end of the thicket.
    He couldn’t help but feel a little hard done by.

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* A comic fantasy novel. A more or less complete first draft has been written, here is just some of it.
* The tone is immature and frivolous, most of Glaps came from combating boredom rather than trying to write good fantasy. Tolkien it ain't.

updated Sep 17 by splintersteve