Nightblade

by Jason Howard

  Kell said, “Shut up Mauler.”

  Kell had the whitest teeth Zac had ever seen, except the one that had been replaced with a gold filling. The slightly crooked gold tooth flawed his smile, and therefore made it warmer and kinder somehow. A moment before, the swordsmen had been stone-faced, the image of a hardened warrior. The smile made him a different person.

  Mauler whispered something else, just a little louder this time, and Zac heard snatches of it. It was a dirty joke, something about a nun and a wizard walking into a bar, and the wizard asking the nun if she wanted to see a miracle. Zac couldn’t hear it all, he only heard the tall swordsmen with the gold tooth chortling and continually telling Mauler to shut up.

  Zac remembered watching those two fight each other and how vicious their battle had been. The man with the warhammer tattoo, Mauler, had savaged the gold-toothed swordsmen with hard blows to his armor and shield, but the swordsmen had defended and endured until Mauler had gotten tired. Finally, the swordsmen had lashed out with an unorthodox move—repeated kicks to Mauler’s chainmailed legs.

  The kicks had weakened Mauler’s legs, tired him further, and finally, the gold-toothed swordsmen had overcome him. Zac thought it strange how friendly they were now. They certainly knew each other from before. As Zac watched the others, he realized that they all knew each other. They must have met each other in the prizefighting circuit. Some had probably even trained together. He felt awkward. He and Artem only knew each other so they were left out of their conversations.

  Lanthos entered the courtyard preceded by two Royal Guards. His posture and confident stride announced authority. Everyone was instantly silent. Following him were thirty-five soldiers and five mages. The soldiers marched in perfect unison and wore identical light platemail over chainmail. Everything about the way they carried themselves spoke of their discipline and training.

  Four of the mages wore flowing robes and circlets with precious stones embedded in them. One of the mages stuck out because she wore light leather armor, dyed dark black. Zac thought she looked familiar. Then she walked fully into the light of Ivor’s floating fireball and his mouth dropped open.

  “What’s wrong?” Artem said, following his gaze.

  “She’s . . . the one I told you about.”

  Artem thought for a moment, then said, “Cera?”

  Zac nodded.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Friends, family, and perhaps familiar enemies are how we should measure ourselves. Why is it that we sometimes let complete strangers be our measuring stick, our sense of self-worth? Perhaps it is because they only know our most outward identity, what we have crafted. It is our inner self that we are ashamed of, and those that really know us have glimpsed it. Our friends and family have seen our most honest, hidden side, our moments of vulnerability. Our intimate enemies have seen our darker side. Some always seek a fresh start. They can’t forgive themselves for who they are. That is why so many desire fame—they want to be known of by many, but known by none. Self-hatred is often the true impetus for seeking the love of strangers.”

  –Rione Trayne, famed First Blood eleven-time champion and travelling exhibition warrior

  The light of Ivor’s fireball flickered across Lanthos’s face as he looked toward them. When his eyes fell to Zac they paused. Zac stared right back. Tension thickened as the silence stretched.

  Lanthos looked more like a soldier than a king. He wore a charcoal grey shirt under a silvery cuirass, high black boots polished to a sheen that gleamed in the light from the fireball. At his hip was a long sword, hilt a charcoal grey steel, buried in a sheeth of oiled leather. The only thing that distinguished him from being a soldier was the platinum crown, set with a precious gem called The Firestone. The Firestone was the symbol of Sal Zerone, and had been passed from king to king for centuries.

  Lanthos, in a powerful voice that echoed through the courtyard, said, “The reason I’ve gathered you here is because Ascadell needs you. These soldiers you see before you are the best in my army. These mages have been handpicked by Ivor to provide us with their expertise. They are all rising mages. Most of you probably know that Ivor himself is a risen mage.”

  There was more magical power in this small space than anywhere else in Ascadell. Zac knew that together the conduits could turn the courtyard into a crater in an instant.

  Lanthos continued, “You have been selected, based on my judgment of your performances in First Blood, to join them in seeking the cure to Soulbane. Together, you will be called Nightblades.”

  Lanthos paused to let that sink in. His eyes roved across them.

  Zac looked back over to Cera. He still couldn’t believe she was there. She matched his stare, but kept her face still, not showing any emotion.

  “If you fail your mission to find the cure to Soulbane, Ascadell may fall. This mission, and your service as a Nightblade, is not optional—consider yourself drafted.”

  “Drafted? No one can draft me,” a snide voice rang out.

  Lanthos’s eyes widened in rage, but then narrowed as his temper cooled.

  “Your majesty, I mean no offense, but my place is in Cloudsaddle,” Ryder continued.

  Lanthos walked toward Ryder, face calm.

  “Your place is here.”

  “My father, the Duke, will differ in opinion.”

  “Your Father, the Duke, is my subject.”

  Ryder shook his head and said, “Cloudsaddle is neutral in this and other matters that involve Sal Zerone. We pay our taxes. You can have our coin, not our men.”

  Lanthos nodded, as if accepting this. Then his hand flashed out, grabbed Ryder by the collar of his chainmail hauberk, and jerked him forward. Ryder was off-balanced. Lanthos took a step back, pulling him to keep him from regaining his footing. Ryder quick-stepped forward to keep his feet under him.

  Lanthos, with a quick smooth movement, unsheathed his long sword. He inserted the swordpoint into Ryder’s neck, smoothly applying pressure. The steel sunk into Ryder’s flesh like it was warm butter. Lanthos held Ryder there, staring into his eyes as his life cascaded from his neck. Lanthos let him fall.

  “Guards, clean this from my courtyard. Ivor, after we are done here Duke Laveanor is to be brought to Castle Sal Zerone and imprisoned until the war is over. His son’s refusal was treason, but he won’t see it that way so he can’t be trusted. Find a suitable replacement to rule over Cloudsaddle in the interim,” Lanthos said. Then, he turned to Zac and the rest of them. “The rules were different when we were at peace. I allowed the provinces to have a certain level of sovereignty. No longer. We are at war. Roen is gaining power and influence. He is using spellwork to mark people and give them Soulbane. I also have reason to believe he has spies and informants throughout Ascadell, even in Castle Sal Zerone. Ivor is looking into the matter. The point is, I will tolerate no disobedience in this time of war. This war is unlike any other in our history—it is being fought with sinister dark magic and treachery rather than armies. As a ruler during peace, I have been lenient. That is at an end.”

  Lanthos cleared his throat and continued, “Nightblades, you must cross the Mirianic Ocean to a lost continent that is only spoken of in ancient myth. Ivor has translated Elven scrolls of ancient prophecy that speak of the cure we seek. If the prophecy is true, we will find it in a cave behind a waterfall Ivor has mapped the location of.”

  Lanthos paused, letting his intense eyes strafe them with a gaze of searing authority. He wanted to let the importance of what he was saying sink in. Elves were a long extinct race. They had ruled the world for millennia until they had fashioned their own demise through magic during a conflict called The War of Wizards.

  Lanthos turned to Ivor.

  Ivor stepped forward, kindling a glowing blue globe between his palms. With a flourish of his arms, he threw the blue sphere into the air above them, where it expanded. Zac gasped. The little he knew about magic told him that Ivor’s globe was a miraculous thing of beauty. There were intricacies on it
that most mages could never conjure. Little blue stripes of river, structures and spires rising from green forests, thimblefuls of blue that represented lakes, mountains that cast shadows and were topped with white snow, and tiny waves lapping up on the illusory shores of Ascadell. Zac could see the climate change in the arid southlands, the booming oceanfront city of Emerald Isle, the impossible ripeness of the green canopy that swathed the Ajaltan Jungle. He glanced at Ivor. He could see the concentration on the man’s face as he maintained the illusion, could feel a thrum of power coming from him.

  Ivor said, “I’ll show our course on this map. According to texts I have studied, the lost continent can only be reached by one of two ways. The first is by sea—but that would be far too perilous. For centuries men have tried and failed, dying in the watery depths of the Mirianic. Doldrums and harsh cross currents would mire our journey, and even if we somehow, miraculously made it where no one ever has, it would take years.”

  Ivor’s finger was tracing a line across the Mirianic Ocean on his floating globe. The magic was so detailed that it even showed the movements of the Southerly Currents, which rippled across the water. Every sailor knew that those currents made the ocean impassible. Even Zac had heard stories of men, great explorers, who had died trying to best the Mirianic Ocean.

  Ivor continued, “The scrolls have revealed one other way for us to make it across. But it is dangerous.”

  Ivor took a deep breath, as if what he was about to say was so dangerous that he was hesitant to speak it to life. He grabbed his enchanted globe and turned it, like it was a physical object. His fingers made glowing indentations on the illusion. Zac marveled at Ivor’s skill.

  “There were two interconnected magical gates that were constructed millennia ago, by Elven conduits at the height of their civilization’s golden age. At one time, there was only one continent, but it was so vast that they built two teleportation gates on opposite sides of it. They used the gates to send contingents of soldiers, important trading goods, and whatever else needed to be moved quickly from one side of their kingdom to the other. The legend says that the magic of the gates was recharged by the rays of the sun.

  “They were called the Gates of Evernear. At least, that’s the closest translation I could come up with. According to the ancient maps, one of the gates is deep in the frigid wilderness of Raezellia, at a plateau nestled among the mountains north of Reef Valley.”

  Zac knew of the region. He had been born near there. Ivor spun the globe, stopping it with a finger on Reef Valley. It felt strange to see his homeland like this. Even stranger to think that he was meant to return to it. He had never planned on going back to that desolate, icy waste.

  “When we enter the gate here,” Ivor said, his hand making a glowing ripple on the globe, like a stone tossed into a lake of luminescent water. “We’ll exit its twin, which is somewhere on the lost half of the continent, which has been drifting away from us for centuries. There were complex descriptions of the magic that the Gates of Evernear were built with, as well as equations and mathematical descriptions of how much can be transported with them and how much energy it takes.

  “I have also done calculations to determine how fast the continents have been drifting apart due to the shifts of the earth by using old maps and comparing them to new ones, and measuring the drift of various islands off the shores of the Ascadellian mainland. In short, I have extrapolated an approximate distance between the Gates of Evernear at present day.

  “I could go on for hours giving you the numbers and terms that describe the spellwork that The Gates employ, and the different outcomes we might expect. Instead I will tell it to you plainly. The Gates of Evernear may kill us when we attempt to go through them. They were not built to take men across the entire Mirianic Ocean, they were built for the time when the continents were one. We cannot bring thousands with us. That is why Lanthos and I have selected fifty of Ascadell’s best to be Nightblades. And even with only fifty, our conduits will have to supercharge the Gates with energy to make the jump across the ocean.”

  Ivor let his gaze roam over everyone before he continued.

  “The road ahead will be hard. But take a moment to be proud that we have named you Nightblades. You, the few chosen are the best soldiers in Ascadell, the top fighters in First Blood, and five Rising conduits that were chosen not only for their superlative skills, but also for how their skills complement each other. You are the steel and magic Lanthos and I hope to wield in order to save Ascadell from a horrible fate.”

  Zac glanced at Cera. He still couldn’t believe she was there.

  Zac tore his gaze from Cera and looked at the other conduits. He didn’t recognize any of them, and that made him feel out of place again. As a slave, especially during his time in the mines, he had been mostly secluded from the culture of Ascadell. In his short time as a free man he had learned little about the important figures of the kingdom.

  The first thing Zac noticed about the conduits was that they were all older than Cera. Two of them were women, one with hair so blonde that it was more white. The other had a black stripe tattooed on one of her cheeks. It started on her temple, then trailed down her face and disappeared into her robes. The tattoo drew his gaze and unsettled him, but he didn’t know why. As he stared at it, he realized the reason; it was moving. Thickening. Then it would get thinner. It was such a slow process that it was almost imperceptible.

  One of the male conduits was extremely old, but he didn’t seem frail in the least. His most striking feature was his irises, which were orange on the outside and yellowed until they met the pupil. He smiled back at Zac, and Zac looked away. He regretted looking away rather than returning the smile, but decided not to look at the old conduit again.

  The other male conduit was the only one who carried a sword. He was built like an ox, and looked like he’d spent time as a farmhand or a builder. His sword was in a beautiful silver sheath. Embossed symbols were wrapped around its hilt. Zac guessed they were runes of some kind.

  “Once we use the gate on the plateau north of Reef Valley, we will be transported here.”

  Ivor spun his globe. Unlike the intricate representations of Ascadell and Raezellia, the lost half of the continent was mostly shrouded in darkness. The basic shape was clear but there were only a few rivers and lakes, and no cities detailed. Zac felt that this part of the globe, because so much of it was blank and uncharted, felt sinister.

  Ivor pointed out a spot near the southern shore of the unknown continent.

  Zac wondered what the landscape there would be like and what creatures they would find.

  Ivor interrupted Zac’s rumination. “We must go to a cave behind a vast waterfall and retrieve Xalemindor’s Cube. Xalemindor’s Cube contains the magic I can use to create a cure for Soulbane. Unlike regular diseases, Soulbane is a creation of dark magic, and it is spread entirely by magical means. That is why our best conduits cannot find a cure. I believe Xalemindor’s Cube is the only way to stop it.

  Ivor dragged a finger and drew a red line across the face of the lost continent until it met a great body of water. Images of a waterfall bigger and more powerful than any of them had ever seen appeared in the air before them.

  “This is an idea of the path we’ll take to find Xalemindor’s Cube. Keep in mind that I can’t chart all the geographic changes that might have occurred since the maps were drawn up millennia ago, so this will not be exact.”

  Zac realized that he was barely breathing. He was flushed with adrenaline. The king himself had just killed a man in front of him. Ivor was telling him that he was now to be an explorer of an unseen land. And he was a . . . Nightblade? He stared at the statuesque soldiers standing at attention and the conduits with their flowing robes. He suddenly felt like he was drowning. This was too much. He was no longer a free man. He wasn’t chained, but now he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Ivor waved a hand and the globe disappeared like dissolving mist.

  From th
e entrance of the courtyard a procession of servants came, each holding armor that matched Lanthos’s. Each of the Nightblades was brought a set of armor. It was charcoal grey, and indented into the light chestplate was a small symbol. Zac examined the symbol—it was the three moons, red, green, and bluish-white, partially eclipsing each other. The cuirass went on over charcoal grey shirts of exactly the same shade. They were given the leather boots, which were malleable like woodsmen’s boots. Thigh guards strapped to their legs were made of the same light grey plate.

  Lanthos said, “Although this armor is light, it’s made from a qurellium compound, forged with the help of powerful sorcerers and skilled blacksmiths. The metal of the plates has been enchanted. If you don’t want to be seen it will sense your trepidation and begin to blend with the colors around it, like a chameleon’s skin. Otherwise it will remain that charcoal grey. While we are making preparations, you will be bedded in the guest hall of Castle Sal Zerone.

  You may send correspondence to your family members and any that need to be notified of your coming absence, but it will be read before being handed to a courier. You may mention nothing specific about this mission.

  You may leave the castle once a day for a couple of hours. Before you leave and when you return you must submit to honorbinding. You will be asked if you plan to avoid your service, and when you return you will be asked if you told anyone about this mission. This mission is secret knowledge, and if you share anything about it you will be put to death. If you do not return, you will be hunted down and killed. You may train in the courtyard here, as well as the West Hall, where you will find arms and training equipment. Stay sharp. Your success or failure will determine the future of Ascadell. That means all of our lives, and all of the lives of everyone you know, are at stake.”

  Lanthos paused. He seemed to look at all of them individually, making eye contact with each person. His more subtle message was that they were important enough not just for the words of a king, but also his gaze. When his eyes met Zac’s, Zac was overwhelmed anew. A short time before he had been a slave, dung under the boots of the lowest of the low. Now Lanthos met his eyes like he was a man of import.