Wolf Blade: Chains of the Vampire

by Marco Frazetta

  Take the Quest, Great Hero!

  Reference the world map any time by finding it on the table of contents.

  You may find an alternate cover on the table of contents as well.

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  Enough. Let us make haste! For battle draws near!

  And now…

  1

  “Wake...” A voice. Unknown. A whisper. Darkness swirled all around me.

  “Wake, Rothan, son of Gustaff...” The voice grew louder. There was urgency in that voice, an arcane intelligence in it.

  “Wake!”

  Breath burned into my lungs. My body trembled. Torchlight shone through my half-closed eyes.

  “Where... am I?” I looked around at the chiseled stone, massive granite blocks with dark splatters on them, stains that could only be left by blood, stains that could only be found in a torturer’s dungeon. I went to move, but I felt the rattle of chains contain me. My first instinct was to pull at them, knowing that the strength Fenris had given me would splinter the chains as if they were made of grass. Spittle flew from my mouth as I pulled with all my strength. The chains rattled violently as I pulled at them. Nothing. They did not break. “Wraaaargh!” I jerked against them, feeling my arms stretched out in agony. I went on struggling.

  It was useless. I was bound hand and foot. My limbs were splayed out, and I was held upright with the tension of my bonds. No ordinary chains. True Silver.

  “You can’t break them. Even a Fenrir of your strength is helpless against true silver.” I looked to the speaker, the same voice that had woken me. He was a small, frail man, with a thicket of straight black hair that fell lopsided over his eyes. He wore the garb of some kind of wizard, a loose-fitting blue robe with tight long black boots and gloves, a thick belt around his girlish waist. A caped overcoat adorned his shoulders, made them much bulkier than they must have been underneath. I could see the chicken bone wrists that protruded from his baggy sleeves. He sat in some kind of golden chair and on his head was a turban-like helmet with a great gem atop it. He was altogether a strange being to encounter in this dim, barren place. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to harm you.” His voice was piercing, yet gentle, magnetic in a way that betrayed unnerving intelligence. “I’m only here to speak from one captive to another.”

  My whole body felt weak, feverish as I stood there, upright not by my own strength but by the chains that bound me. My mind was a soggy piece of rotting wood.

  Flight. I remembered flying. A griffon, a flock of giant war eagles. Knights riding atop them. It began coming back to me. I had been captured.

  “You were captured by Platina, the King’s Champion, as well as a retinue of King’s Guard. It was not a fight you could have won. You lost no honor, Rothan son of Gustaff.”

  Yes, I had been captured. Kyra and my other companions had tried to interfere, but they were overpowered, and I had given myself up willingly. “You… you said you are also a captive. Why are you not in chains?”

  The young wizard looked up at me and for the first time I saw one of his haunting grey eyes peering straight into mine through strands of his raven black hair. “We all have different kinds of chains.” He moved his bony hand along the armrest of his golden chair… and the chair moved, gliding as a boat on water. There were no legs under it, only empty space between it and the ground. “You see, I am bound to this chair for life. This is one of my many chains.”

  “By the gods, you truly are a wizard to wield such a marvel.” I wondered if it were some enchantment on the chair or his own magic power that held him aloft from the ground. My thoughts returned to myself. “What have you come here for then? Am I already at the fabled island of Black Tear where men’s minds are flayed?” For a moment I realized this made perfect sense and a thrill of terror ran through my spine. It would be a wizard who would perform such a task. “Are you to be my flayer then?”

  The young wizard brushed some of his thick hair from the bronzed skin of his forehead. “Not at all. You are within Cloudspyre, Capital of Goldwater, Seat of Albrecht IV, High King of Skald and all its Jarldoms. And I am no dungeon torturer, nor am I a flayer of the body or mind. I am Zyman, Court Wizard to Jarl Gmarr of Ironrise, and I am in your debt.”

  “I have never seen you before… and Ironrise fell to the Orc hordes. How can you be in debt to me?”

  “Had you not intervened and launched an attack on Ghazrak and his horde, it would have been worse for my adopted home, and for myself. I would likely be dead, as would my Jarl. When word spread of Ghazrak’s defeat, much of the Orc forces holding Ironrise fled north. You allowed us to escape with our lives.”

  “Has Ironrise been freed of its Orc invaders?”

  “No. Another has taken command of the Orc horde holding the Iron Keep. They reinforced their grip on the city. Those Ironrisers who survive continue to flee. It is a dangerous journey and not all survive. Orcs and their allies control nearly all Ironrise territory. My Jarl and I are here in Cloudspyre, pleading that the king intervene immediately and free Ironrise of its invaders.”

  “You say you are in my debt… then free me! Let me fight!” The sudden force of my words made me cough. Bile burned in my gullet. The silver truly was a torture. “There is…. a horde gathering in Jarkandur. The fate of Ironrise awaits the entire kingdom. All of Skald will burn if the horde descends down on us.”

  The torchlight reflected in his roaming pupils as he thought—his eyes alone betraying the power of his mind. “Freeing you is not under my power to decide, Rothan son of Gustaff.”

  “Let me speak to the King then.”

  “Speak to him. That you will do. That you must do. A trial is to be held tomorrow.”

  “A trial? Madness—for what crime?”

  “You are said to have killed dozens in Kenessos. Some say you became a monster and set the city aflame.” There was truth in this, though it was not the whole truth. “Others say you are a Fenrir, of the blood of the first Skaldean Kings. Men call you ‘the Wolf Blade.’ They sing tales of how you fought an entire Orc horde with but a small band of Skaldean warriors, that your bite is as strong as a dragon’s and that you wield a sword that can split the skies with lightning.”

  “Aye, and I can fly, breathe fire and shit earthquakes.” Lies and captivity riled a bitter humour in me.

  “Truth easily blends with fiction, but the common man often makes no distinction. Even now, the story of the ancient wolfblood kings returning in Skald’s darkest hour spreads throughout the kingdom. Men throng to pledge their swords to this hero from a greater age. You must see the predicament this puts our king in.”

  “Gah—you do not understand! I am a Fenrir, true, but this gift was given to me by Fenris himself. I have never claimed royal blood. I fought free of Kenessos because I was betrayed, and fought upon battlefields here in my homeland because it is my duty, as it is of every Skaldean man. All of that which I’ve done, I’ve done in loyalty to Skald, and my king.”

  “It is not I that you need convince, Rothan son of Gustaff.” He moved closer to me, his chair emitting a subtle hum as that of a kettle beginning to boil. “If you are a Fenrir, it must mean that Maghadrad, first high king of Skald is your ancestor. As the lineage of the first Kings was lost, you could lay claim to it. Already some speak of how you sought to be Jarl of Wolf Rein. Now, the Empire demands of King Albrecht that you be turned over to them, to answer for crimes committed in Kenessos. They claim they have proof of this. For they have flayed the mind of one of your companions, on
e called Karlstaff One Eye.”

  My teeth rattled. “No!”

  “Whatever they saw in his mind about you, it made the Empire very eager to take hold of you. They have sent their greatest warship to personally see you to the Black Tear, where your mind will also be flayed like your friend One Eye.”

  A cold, helpless shudder ran through my chest as my worst fears of my friend’s demise were confirmed. “You repaying my debt to me, is it to mercifully kill me and escape this fate?”

  “No. I have spoken with King Albrecht. He does not wish you come to harm. In fact, he holds you and your father in high esteem.” I felt a whisper of hope at this. Perhaps I could survive with my mind despite all. “But he cannot refuse to hand you to the Empire without reason, and he cannot keep you in Skald if men will look to you as their true king.”

  “So what help can you offer if the king fears my power and the Empire calls for my head?”

  “This is how I will repay my debt to you. I will counsel you what to say, that you might live and someday be free: tomorrow, at the trial, you must confess that you are no Fenrir. It was not Fenris who gave you this gift which you now possess. No, it was a demon who gave it to you. A demon lord with crimson flesh, vengeful black horns and hell itself in its eyes. It was from this infernal source that you drew your power. Whatever crimes you have committed, you were not under your own free will, you see, but were compelled by this bestial curse.”

  “How can I say such a thing? Should I appease a king only to insult a god?”

  “If you do, you will be sentenced to imprisonment here in Skald instead of on the Black Tear” he continued, with no regard to my protest. “The Jarl’s court wizards and I will then put on a display of magic, claiming that we are curing you of this demon curse. We will call the Imperial general aboard their warship to come witness this cure, and I will persuade him that you are no longer of interest to the Empire. General Eschellion is the second most powerful man in the Empire. If he is convinced of it, so will all the Empire. You will then remain a prisoner of King Albrecht until we can find a true cure to your Fenrir condition. Once cured, you will no longer be a rival to his kingship. Then you will be free.”

  “All I must do is lie, turn my back on my highest god who gave me a second life, and agree to remain prisoner?” I smiled bitterly.

  “Call it what you will. It will be the difference between being a mindless walking corpse the rest of your existence or regaining your freedom and life someday.”

  “Someday. Until then, I will be a dungeon prisoner. For days, for years—who is to say a so-called cure to being a Fenrir can ever be found?”

  “Have faith. Not in gods but in the great craft. You do not yet know me, and so I do not blame you for doubting my abilities. But I assure, Rothan son of Gustaff, I am a stalwart student of the magical sciences.”

  “You truly think you can cure me of being a Fenrir? I was made one by a god.”

  “Even the gods bow to higher powers. There is a solution to every problem within the science of magic.”

  “If there is, why do you not stand on your own two legs?”

  Zyman’s eyes flitted down for a moment and he seemed agitated. I could tell being caught off guard was not something he was used to. He took quick breaths and then a certain stillness shone on his sunkissed face. “Some problems push us to become greater things. They do not need solving.”

  “I meant no insult.”

  “You offered none. I wish I could offer more aid to you than to force you to paint yourself as something you are not, to claim guilt for things you are not guilty of. But this is the reality of things: you face a trial tomorrow that will seal your fate. Heed my counsel.”

  I thought of what it would mean, if this crippled wizard truly found a cure, what it would mean to be fully human again. The Beast bestowed on me such power, but it did come at a price. I remembered that first night when I turned, how I devoured those two men like a frenzied animal. Those bestial instincts always lurked within so long as I was a Fenrir. Yet what I might lose should I agree to his plan, could be my very soul, if I had to speak true. Impossible choices. That is life. “If it is my fate to linger in a dungeon, to be stripped of Fenris’ gift, perhaps I must accept it. But please, wizard, by all the gods or what higher powers you place faith in, you must speak sense to King Albrecht. The Orc horde. It gathers in the North. And there are things far more terrible than Orcs that ally with them. The Imperials will only protect Skorrad and let the other Jarldoms burn, surely you know this.”

  “Yes, they stand little to gain from expending military strength to protect the Jarldoms that resist their total control.” His cape draped over the back of the chair. It rustled gently, nearly dragging along the ground as his chair hovered. “But there may be a way to convince them to intervene. Leave that to me.”

  “No! We cannot bring more imperials onto Skald! We must convince the king to gather forces and prepare. You must have him free me, Zyman, if even for only long enough to break the horde. Dorgramu, court wizard of Wolf Rein, has been studying the source of these Orc invasions. He suspects it is one of the Dragon Serpents of old, one called Deralag. I must stop this invasion at its source. I alone have the strength to do this.”

  Zyman cast his eyes down and they were shadowed by his dark hair. “I will counsel his majesty that the Orc threat is real, but I do not command kings. Even if he takes the threat seriously, he will protect Goldwater before all the other Jarldoms. He has hardly intervened even in ousting the Orc invaders from Ironrise, for it is not an immediate threat to his throne. The Imperials, on the other hand, have half a legion and their greatest warship just down the river from Cloudspyre. He will not anger them by denying them their prisoner without a strong reason. Do as I advise you. Confess to being a demon possessed. Let yourself be imprisoned here, rather than taken by the Imperials. That is the best fate I can guide you to. As for the defense of Skald and Ironrise, you must leave it to others now.” He leaned his head forward in a kind of bow, then his chair began turning as if it had a will of its own.

  “You don’t understand! The Orc horde is coming! The great serpent Deralag rises! Let me speak to the King!”

  He was already moving away, carried away in his golden chair and its arcane power. There was a slight hum in the air once more as the chair flowed with magic. He stopped for a moment and turned just enough to peer at me side eyed. He pressed two fingers to his forehead and his turban-helmet glowed. Suddenly I felt the chains loosen. Manacles fell away, their clasps undone. All but the one around my ankle fell away from my limbs. I slumped to the ground. My hands pushed off the cold dusty floor and I sat up.

  “Rest this night unbound,” Zyman’s voice echoed from the doorway. “This small favor I do not out of debt, but as a mercy. Be wise and follow my counsel, Rothan son of Gustaff.”

  His chair went on hovering, its shadow swimming along the ground. A guard opened the chamber’s iron door—It glimmered as if it had been enameled with silver as well. I pulled at the chain around my ankle. Veins rippled along my forearms, along my neck as I tugged with what strength remained. It was no good. The chain was of True Silver, and wearing them all this time—days perhaps, I was not sure—had weakened me. I tried summoning the Beast, clenching my teeth with fury, but it was of no use. I was only a man once more.

  2

  The King’s hall was lined with smooth marble pillars. Only white marble had been permitted during the hall’s construction, so that those peasants who looked up from their drudgery in the town below would be awed by the palace of clouds rising high above the earth. Nobles all sat along the raised outer level of the room in fox-skin hats and coats made of seal or cloaks of bear fur bejeweled with sapphire brooches. There must have been three score of them at those long tables. Rich Goldwater nobles, some from the other Jarldoms. They gazed down at me, many sipping from goblets. I stood at the lower center of the room, True Silver chains around my limbs once more.

  A gold-helmed
guard with a fiery plume of feathers on its crest announced, “All rise for his majesty, the High King of Skald, Albrecht IV!”

  There he was, emerging from two lacquered doors: Albrecht, the man I had fought for, the man my brother had died for. He walked now with a heavy gut under all the fine draperies of monarchy. He had always been rather short for a Northman, but he had been strong in his youth, all said. Never a true warrior, but strong, a man of sport and hunt. He walked to his throne in his brocaded outfit, puffed lantern sleeves, furred mantle and crown with an eagle head at its crest. His frosted beard and splayed eyebrows betrayed his Skaldean blood, no matter how many layers of silk, brocade, gold enamel and white hawk down he layered over it. I had never thought him an evil man, or even unjust, but had always thought his admiration for all things Imperial was all too great for a Northman. Still, I had thought him a good and just king. Loyalty perhaps had blinded me.

  He was surrounded by his King’s guard. Among them were Platina the Winged Panther, and the two wizard siblings who all together had come and taken me from Wolf Rein.

  “Alright, sit!” the King waved his hand and the nobles jostled. “Sit, sit, already!” There was a rustle of finery as all the nobles obeyed. “Rothan.” The King looked at me, standing there before him, bare chested, in my disheveled pants and boots. “You never did like wearing a shirt, did you?” The nobles chuckled at that.

  “Had I free use of my hands,” I said, lifting my chained wrists, “I would have dressed for your royal presence, your majesty.” Some whispered laughs went through the crowd.

  “Haha!” The king’s cheeks turned to apples as he grinned. “Ah, Rothan, I always liked you. Always liked your father, and your brother, gods rest his soul.”

  “My father and I have always favored serving you. My brother so much that he died defending your kingdom.”

  His eyes narrowed at that. “Your family are all brave warriors. You have always done your duty. I should see you well and good once more. Once you are cured of this strange... malady… this curse, you will surely be the brave warrior you’ve always been. But Rothan, before you can receive the mercy of a cure, you face charges from the Empire, the murder of over three dozen guards in Kenessos as well as setting fire to much of the city. And even before answering to those charges, you must answer for charges of crimes committed here in Skald, against the high laws of the land.” I remained silent. His gut rose and fell with his breathing. “Very well, let this whole sordid affair be put to rest once and for all. Chancellor, bring the charges forward.”