The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  Walking through the town’s empty street was a spooky experience. Alther noticed that most of the doors leading to people’s homes were barred and locked. In a town like Midlake, people hardly ever locked their doors. The incidents at the edge of town had scared the townsfolk. They probably had no idea of what had happened in the field, but either through instinct, or through the heeding of warnings, they had taken precautions. That fact made Alther feel a tinge of sadness. It was so rare to find a community that was unafraid of the wider world and their neighbours.

  Alther reached the edge of town and the road leading towards Farmer Sammi’s fields. The Marshal’s two deputies still guarded the road. Both Yin and Dillon wore long coats of leather and shirts of chainmail. They were sat on wooden stools, playing cards. An iron brazier provided warmth and light, its flames casting them in an orange glow. Alther was pleased to see that Jorin had taken his advice and invested in some swords for his men. Each of the deputies had a long steel sword on their hip. Whether they knew how to use the weapons was another question entirely, but a moot one: as long as they looked dangerous, the locals were far more likely to avoid the road. Not wanting to repeat the earlier standoff with the deputies, Alther climbed over the low stone wall that led into the first of Farmer Sammi’s fields.

  Keeping low, he made his way through a field of maize. The crop provided good cover. Eventually, he reached the border of the second field and clambered over the stone wall dividing them. This field was full of sheep that looked at him inquisitively before returning to munching grass. The twin moons were high overhead, bathing the land below with their glow. Finally, Alther arrived in the fourth field and made his way towards the forest at its edge. He passed the stained earth where the cattle had lain. The Marshal had ordered the removal of the carcasses earlier in the day. Standing at the edge of the forest, Alther tilted his head and listened. As he suspected, there was no sound of wildlife coming from within. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the forest.

  The moon’s light dimmed as the canopy of the tall trees blocked it out. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a firestone. The magical object burst into life as he rubbed it. The orange glow created by the stone pushed back the darkness, creating a myriad of creepy looking shadows. He pushed on further until he came to a small clearing. On the ground was a torn shirt. Alther kneeled and picked it up. The material had been ripped as though it had been torn from its wearer’s body. On the ground nearby was dried blood and signs of a struggle.

  “Drag marks perhaps?” Alther muttered to himself.

  To a normal person, a night alone in the woods would be a scary experience, but to Alther it was a part of his job. Over the years, he had spent nights in places that most dared not tread. Ancient Nivonian ruins, abandoned wizards’ towers dating back to the Golden Empire, the underground cities of the first folk – he had visited them all. Some had been terrifying; others had been remarkably peaceful.

  Holding the firestone higher, he could see that the drag marks led deeper into the forest. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his walking stick, he followed them. Eerily, the only sound he could hear was his own breathing and his footsteps moving through the brush. He pushed his way through the undergrowth for what seemed like miles until he reached the entrance of a narrow valley. Tall oak trees stood above the valley mouth, and vicious bushes full of thorns and stinging nettles leant in like grasping talons.

  Using his walking stick, Alther carefully worked his way through the stingers, grateful that he was wearing his armour. His cloak snagged on the bushes more than once as he pressed onwards. Once through the barrier of nettles, he realised that he was now standing on an ancient road. He tapped on the ground with his stick. Underneath the layer of mud and soil were cobbled stones.

  Kneeling down, he brushed away the mud with his gloved hands. As he suspected, the stones were marked with swirling patterns.

  “Nivonian,” he whispered thoughtfully.

  He closed his eyes and thought back to his time in the mage city of Caldaria. The city’s Great Library had been home to many ancient tomes, some of which contained maps of the old roads that now often led to the dark places of the world. The old roads had been lost long ago, or replaced by the master engineers of the Golden Empire that followed the thousand-year darkness.

  With a grunt, he stood up and froze. Up ahead he could see a black figure stood in the road. At this distance, due to the lack of light he couldn’t see who or what it was that was watching him. As quickly as it had appeared, the shape disappeared. Alther rubbed his eyes; had he imagined it? Was it a trick of the faint light? He cursed his old age. In his youth, he could see like an owl in the darkness of the night. Cautiously, he walked onwards to where the shape had been. Sure enough, the ground had been disturbed. Something had been there, alright. Footprints led deeper into the forest. Curiosity overrode his caution, so he followed them deeper and deeper into the valley. He held the firestone close to his chest so that its light would not be so obvious, but would still cast enough light to show the road.

  Trees towered over him like mocking giants, and the road was lined with thick bushes of stingers. The road was narrow, and the valley walls closed together until only a single person could pass between them.

  As he walked, Alther continued to grip his walking stick tightly. He had lost track of time, but it felt as though he had been walking through the forest all night. The lack of any signs of wildlife made him feel uneasy; he could not recall anywhere where he had experienced silence as heavy as this.

  He almost cried out at the sound of a snapping twig. The noise had come from up ahead. A part of him was screaming at him to turn around and go back to the town; that it was not his business; that he had given up that life a long time ago. Another, stronger, part of him was urging him to carry on.

  “I’m going to regret this …” he thought.

  Tucking the firestone into his cloak, he kept on walking. If there was someone ahead of him, the light cast by the stone may alert them to his presence. Using the skills he had learnt over decades, Alther crouched and began to stalk slowly forwards. The road curved to the right slightly as he went. He stopped again. Up ahead was a flickering light, like one cast by a bonfire. As stealthily as he could, he crept towards it.

  The narrow valley opened up into a wide clearing. Alther hid in a bush and watched. In front of him was a large bonfire like he had guessed, and stood around it in a semi-circle were three hooded figures. They each wore a long robe, similar to the ones worn by the mages of Caldaria. Instead of the blue and gold of the robes typically worn by mages, these strange figures wore black.

  “Was there someone in the woods?” one of the figures asked.

  From the deep voice, it was obvious that it belonged to a man.

  “No. I thought I saw a light, but it was probably just a wisp. Relax; none of the fools from the town would dare enter the forest at night, especially after we unleashed the banshee onto that farm.”

  This one was a woman, probably the figure that Alther had spotted earlier.

  “A foolish move on your part,” snapped the final figure. “What if they contact the authorities? What if a Nightblade comes snooping? If what we are doing here is discovered, we will all be killed and the plan will not be fulfilled.”

  This one was taller than the others and heavily set. His voice was deep and raspy, as though he had suffered some sort of wound to the throat in the past.

  “So what if they do? We will dispose of them like that Witch Hunter who came snooping last month.”

  “A Nightblade is nothing like a Witch Hunter,” the man growled. “They have magic on their side, for a start, and the annoying habit of being difficult to kill. They are Hunters, and tenacious ones at that. You had better pray that none come here. The mistress will not be pleased if she has to intervene.”

  “If you two are done, shall we get down to business?” the other man asked impatiently.

  Alther crept closer, careful not t
o alert the strange figures to his presence. Now that he had a better view, he could see that there was a makeshift altar made of what looked like human bones in front of the bonfire. The figures knelt before the altar and began to utter incantations. To Alther’s surprise, the temperature plummeted and the light cast by the fire seemed to retreat so that it was now faint. His breath came out of his mouth in an icy plume of steam, and ice crystals began to form on his cloak. The atmosphere of the clearing became heavy and oppressive, it felt like a heavy weight was pushing down on him.

  “Life from death,” the hooded figures chanted.

  Alther gasped. He knew those words. The dark ritual he was witnessing was affecting him. He was shivering uncontrollably and his breaths were coming in ragged gasps. His legs were cramping and his back was aching. Once again, he cursed his old body. The weight increased until he could bear it no longer. His legs gave out, sending him sprawling onto his face with a thud. Twigs snapped and leaves rustled.

  The chanting stopped.

  “I heard something,” the big man said.

  The others lowered their arms.

  “Me too. Spread out; we are not alone,” the woman snarled.

  Alther scrambled onto his feet.

  “There!” cried the woman.

  Alther turned and fled the way he had come. He channelled his magic and focused it into his aching legs. Immediately, the pain subsided and new energy flowed into them until he was running like a much younger man. He careened through the undergrowth. He could hear the figures running after him.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The tallest of the three had raised his arms into the air.

  “Run! You will not get far!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the dark trees.

  Alther fled blindly, his cloak tearing as the thorns and nettles snatched at it like claws. He flinched as a thorn cut deeply into his cheek. He touched his face with his hand, it came away sticky with blood. Behind him, the two hooded figures continued their pursuit, whooping and jeering as they did so.

  Up ahead a thick mist had begun to form. Once again the temperature plummeted.

  “You’re a dead man! The Banshee can have you!” the woman laughed manically.

  Alther entered the swirling mist. Visibility plummeted until he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He slowed to a jog and then to a walk. The figures had stopped their pursuit. Leaning against a tree, he regained his breath. His aged body trembled from the run. He hadn’t moved that fast in years. Once the spell he had cast dissipated, he would certainly feel the effects of the exertion in the morning.

  A rustling in the trees caught his attention. Closing his eyes, he listened. This was a threat that he knew how to handle. The sound of material flapping in the wind grew closer. A lack of footsteps confirmed to him that it was indeed a Banshee creeping up on him. He waited until the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  He spun around and summoned to life his blade. The sword that he carried was unlike any other. Instead of being made of metal it was made of magical energy. He channelled his magic into the hilt of his walking stick as he spun. The wood of his walking stick split apart in a blinding flash of light as the magical blade shot out from the hilt.

  He gripped the weapon with both hands and held it steady, inches away from the horror before him. Floating above the ground was the Banshee. It was more spirit than a creature – its torn cloak flapped in an invisible breeze and its razor sharp claws were held high above it ready to strike. The Tourmaline blade made it hesitate; it knew that the weapon could harm it. Only magic and pure silver could hurt a Fell Beast of the Void.

  Alther watched the beast through narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t know how they are controlling you, monster, but I will send you back to the Void from whence you came.”

  He stabbed forward to plunge the blade into the banshee. The beast screamed its haunting scream. Alther tightened his hold on the hilt as the Banshee writhed around violently in a desperate attempt to free itself. Alther used all of his strength to thrust the blade in deeper. He leant back to avoid the creature’s swiping claws. If one connected, it would take off his face in a single swipe. With one last effort, he shoved again until the tip of the blade impaled a tree. The Banshee was trapped allowing him time to reach into one of the pouches on his belt. He pulled out one of the glowing phials and hurled it at the tree. The glass broke and the space where it had hit exploded, tearing the very fabric of reality apart and creating a void rift.

  A powerful wind began to blow within the newly opened rift, a wind that sucked everything around it towards it. With a roar, Alther pulled back his sword. Now free from the tree, he withdrew it from the writhing Banshee before plunging it deep into the ground. Using the sword as an anchor, Alther braced himself against the portal. The Banshee wasn’t so lucky. With a scream, the beast was sucked into the rift. As the energy of the Banshee was consumed, the rift imploded, once again plunging the forest into silence.

  Alther sank to his knees and pressed his head against the hilt of his sword. He began to chuckle.

  “Retire, my arse,” he laughed.

  Tiredly, he got to his feet and dispelled the sword. The blade of light vanished leaving just the hilt in his gloved hands. The Banshee had been banished to the Void, but who were those people in the forest? He would need help if they were what he suspected. Wearily, he started the long walk back towards Midlake, unaware of the hooded figures that were watching him from the trees.

  “In the night they comes, swift as the wind, strong as the earth. When they comes, you runs; fail to runs, you die.”

  – a children’s song from the age of the Niver

  4.

  Upon arriving home, Alther stumbled over to his bed and collapsed in exhaustion. The fight with the Banshee had taken what strength he had out of him. The tiredness was so great that he didn’t bother removing his armour; as soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep.

  Whenever he slept of late, his mind would take him back to days long past. This particular night took him back twenty years, to the far north and a time of turmoil …

  * * *

  The city of Blackmoor was eerily quiet. Smoke drifted lazily on the winter breeze, obscuring the vision of the watching crowds gathered outside of their baron’s castle. The heavy gates were barred closed; grim-faced men wearing long coats made of leather and wide-brimmed hats stood guard before them.

  Alther watched the castle, his hood tucked low so that it cast his features in shadow. He was forty-six years old, a veteran Nightblade, and one with a fearsome reputation. He had just returned from a goblin hunt in the Black Marsh that ran for hundreds of miles to the south, when the Witch Hunters had stormed the city. A small crowd was beginning to gather outside the castle. Alther noticed that most of the citizens were being herded reluctantly by the Witch Hunters. Curious, he joined the growing throng. With a loud crack and screech of metal, the castle gates slowly opened.

  The crowd fell silent as they recognised the people walking out to meet them. There were four of them in total. The first was a tall proud-looking man who wore an outfit of purple velvet and smart black boots: the baron.

  The second figure was a woman, and her dress had been torn so that she had to hold the material in place to protect her modesty. A red gash wept crimson on her forehead. Toddling at her side was a little boy no older than five years of age with black hair, his eyes red with tears.

  Bringing up the rear was a man dressed in the garb of a Witch Hunter. His brown leather jerkin was offset by a shirt of chainmail and his wide-brimmed hat. In the man’s mouth was a long wooden pipe. Alther recognised the man as the kingdom’s Witch Hunter General, Elias Cunning.

  Alther had been in service to the Baron of Blackmoor for six months and knew of his illicit affair with one of his wife’s handmaidens. The baroness was a cruel prude of a woman who spent most of her time in prayer. Alther scowled as the young woman, Esmere, was dragged over to a tall
wooden post and bound to it. Witch Hunters hurried forward to begin creating a pyre at its base. The baron was pleading with Elias to spare his lover, but his cries were ignored as Elias’s gaze settled upon the small cowering boy.

  Alther pushed his way through the crowd. The execution of an innocent woman was bad enough, but he would not allow harm to befall the child.

  A Witch Hunter tried to bar his way. Alther stared at the man, his hand gripping the hilt of his Tourmaline blade. The Witch Hunter’s eyes grew wide as he recognised the cloaked man before him as a Nightblade.

  “Let me pass,” Alther growled.

  The Witch Hunter hesitated, before deciding that tangling with a Nightblade would be too much trouble to handle. He stepped aside and spat.

  “Won’t be long before all you wielders are burning or swinging,” the Witch Hunter mumbled with a smirk.

  Alther ignored him. His attention was fixed on the heart-breaking scene unfolding before him. The baron had been restrained by two of the Witch Hunters. Tears ran down his face and his voice was hoarse from his pleadings. Under the law, even barons could not stop the Witch Hunters; to do so would mean their own deaths. The woman was tied to the wooden pole, her eyes locked on the boy who watched weeping. It was a badly kept secret that the lad was the illegitimate offspring of the baron and Esmere. The boy tried to run to his mother, but the baron roughly grabbed his arm and held him in place at his side.

  Alther approached, and the Witch Hunter General turned and faced him. An expression of disgust crossed his weathered face.

  “You have no business here, Nightblade,” Elias snarled. “Leave before I tell my men to find another stake and have them tie you to it.”

  “Nightblades are protected under the king’s law!” the baron shouted.

  “For now, but if I have it my way the king will soon see that all wielders, even Nightblades, should be purged from this land,” Elias snapped back.