The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  He nudged the body with his boot and instantly regretted his actions. It wasn’t dead at all! Its eyes snapped open and the Ghoul’s groan emanated from its lips. Ferran swore and summoned his blade into life once more. To his horror, the other corpses began to writhe into life as well.

  The fresh Ghoul lunged at him, its fingers already elongated into claws swiping at his tunic. Ferran ducked under its grip, savagely thrusting the blade into the creature’s chest. It collapsed with a thud whilst he spun to face the other three abominations. Their groans echoed around the valley as they staggered to their feet and began to shamble towards him.

  Fire kills the dead.

  As he had done before, Ferran focused the magic within him, once more channelling its energy into his blade. The magical blade flashed for a second before flames sprang along its length. With a battle cry, he charged into the Ghouls’ midst, hacking and slashing in a whirlwind of flame and destruction until finally the valley was silenced. The nearby vegetation and the Ghouls were burnt nicely.

  Smoke drifted lazily upwards out of the valley, the smell of scorched flesh filling the air. He rested his hands on his knees as weariness threatened to overwhelm him. Using the powerful flame magic had drained his energy. He needed to rest, but curiosity got the better of him once more. He walked over to the spot where the Ghouls now burned and frowned. Under the spot where their bodies had been, a symbol was etched into the valley floor. A circle crisscrossed with four jagged lines. Ferran made a mental note of the pattern. He would be sure to check its meaning when he was next in the capital. The pattern radiated magic, dark magic.

  He had been right to investigate the valley, but now it was clear that something far darker than what he was expecting had taken place here. He had initially thought it had been one of the vicious goblin creatures that had taken the villagers; now he knew it had been something far worse and far more dangerous. He crouched down and ran a gloved finger through the symbol, it was made from some type of dark residue. He sniffed it but no odour emanated from it.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he sensed movement from the valley edge above.

  “Hello down there,” the voice of a woman called. “You need some help?” Ferran squinted against the rising sun’s glare and saw the silhouette of a young woman, her long hair swaying in the breeze. He stood and waved.

  “Yes, I could do with some help; I’d rather not have to walk for days to reach the other end,” he replied gesturing to the length of the valley.

  The woman laughed. “I have a rope on my horse. Hang on and I’ll throw it down to you,” the woman called before disappearing.

  Sure enough, a few moments later a rope descended into the valley. Ferran tested its strength with a sharp tug. It seemed secure. The woman must have tied it to one of the big rocks that dotted the valley’s rim. He hauled himself up and began the tough climb, the weariness in his body momentarily forgotten by his eagerness to get out of that disturbing scar in the landscape.

  A few minutes later, he had reached the top; all that was left was to haul his body over the crest. A gloved hand appeared. Gratefully he gripped the woman’s hand and she pulled him upwards.

  Ferran collapsed onto the wet grass, panting at the exertion of the climb. He looked over at his rescuer. The woman was similar in age to himself with long raven-black hair. Her eyes were as green as emeralds and her nose was elegantly small. She was a beauty, make no mistake.

  She was also someone who could be very dangerous. On her back was a longbow with a quiver of arrows. She wore a suit of tight leather armour that highlighted every curve of her slim, athletic body. A deadly looking silver sword hung from her waist.

  “You’re a Witch Hunter,” Ferran stated matter-of-factly as he accepted the offered water flask. He drank the sweet water gratefully, the cool liquid chasing away his thirst and washing dust from his throat.

  She smiled.

  “You must be a Nightblade,” she replied. “Only one of your kind wanders off into a place like this with just the clothes on his back.”

  Ferran chuckled. He saw the Hunter’s horse standing nearby, burdened with a plethora of items. She was certainly prepared for the moor.

  “So what is your name? If you don’t mind me asking”, he asked after finishing off the water bottle. His back ached from the climb and he stretched his sore limbs in an effort to restore vitality to them. He was tempted to use another bout of healing magic, but the mere thought sent a flash of pain through his brain. Using too much magic could cause a wielder to black out, or in severe cases lead to their death. The mind can only take so much after all.

  “Sophia Cunning,” the rescuer answered with a faint smile.

  Ferran’s eyes grew large at the name. The Cunnings were famous throughout the land. Many witches had fallen to their swords or burned on their pyres. Just as his mother had done. He looked away from Sophia as dark memories flashed in his mind.

  “I assume you have a name?” Sophia asked, taking the water flask. She shook it to see if anything remained within and tossed it into the valley when she discovered it had been emptied. “Well, now I know you have a thirst at least …”

  He hesitated before replying. He had an understandable concern about revealing his identity at the best of times, let alone to a Witch Hunter named Cunning. Ferran pulled his cowl tighter around his face so that his features were hidden in the hoods shadow. He pulled a gold Delfin out of his trouser pocket and flicked it at Sophia. She caught it easily, a confused look on her pretty face.

  “Thank you for the rescue and the drink … but I have to go.”

  Ferran had a mystery to solve and a Lich to hunt.

  “The city is a marvel. Underground it is, but thanks to the mages there is light as bright as any summer’s day. There is trade, entertainment and all of the comforts we once enjoyed above. Perhaps we shall be safe?”

  – a citizen of the underground Nivonian city of Edre

  6.

  Ferran arrived in the town of Ridderford two days later. The walk across the Blackmoor had been long, cold and uneventful. He had stopped at an inn on the moor’s edge for a night to rest and wash the filth of the road from his tired limbs, before pressing on towards the tiny hamlet that had reported the disappearance of the farmer-turned-Ghoul. He told the hamlet’s chief that he had found the man’s body, but not his killer. Instead, he warned the scared man to warn his people to stay in their homes after dark, and to not be so stupid as to wonder the moors at night. Ferran decided to keep the Lich’s presence to himself; he didn’t want to cause a panic. No sane person would choose to stick around with one of those things at large, and the kingdom already had its fair share of abandoned villages.

  With his task done he set off in a north easterly direction and made his way across open country until he reached the worn road leading to the fortified town of Ridderford. The ancient stone slabs that comprised the road were cracked and covered with moss. The ancient highways of the Golden Empire were the everlasting memorial to that long dead civilisation.

  As he walked the road, he passed a number of travellers heading north towards the lands of Robinta. Most were traders, hoping to sell their wares to the garrison of knights stationed at the citadel defending the northern coast from pirates and raiders. Others were groups of young men hoping to enlist in the King’s Legion, or take their chances with being accepted into the Knights of Niveren. On the night of the second day, he had stopped at the side of the road and joined a group of peddlers around their campfires. Ferran often did this whenever he was on the road; traders always carried the world’s latest news and, unlike a villager’s idle gossip, those men of the roads often spoke the truth.

  Word was spreading that the knights of the Niveren order had launched a new crusade: ten thousand knights had gone into the mountains in a bid to root out the Ghouls that dwelt in the dark depths. After a week had passed, no messenger had arrived at the citadel to report on the campaign’s progress. A small team of knights an
d a Nightblade had been dispatched to investigate. What they found had shaken the kingdom to the core. The reconnaissance team had come across the remnants of a battlefield in one of the mountain valleys, the scars of artillery dotting the landscape, and a torrent of blood turning the Eastern River red. The mystery deepened when the team reported back. No bodies had been found, just the remains of the knights’ horses and thousands of broken weapons. The pedlars added that the king had dispatched a Legion to Eclin to help secure the mountain region’s borders.

  At dawn, Ferran had said goodbye to the traders and hastened towards Ridderford. He had a feeling in his gut that the Lich he had stumbled upon in the valley on Blackmoor and the news from the mountains was somehow linked.

  “Darkness stirs,” he whispered, citing part of the Nightblade code. Unsettled, he picked up the pace. The Ridder River flowed serenely to his right as he walked. Birds flitted to and fro, insects went about their business, and a solitary bird of prey soared overhead. On days such as this, Ferran often wondered if the animals of the world were aware of the troubles that plagued it. In his years as a Nightblade, he had often used the wildlife as a way of telling when danger was close. In the presence of Fell Beasts or dark magic, most creatures would flee, whereas others would be drawn like moths to a flame.

  Oak and beech trees grew in droves along the river banks, their branches arching high into the sky.

  After a few hours, he arrived at Ridderford’s outer wall. Its high walls were made of oak and topped with crenellations and guard towers that dotted the rim every hundred feet or so. Troopers of the King’s Legion patrolled, their eyes keen and sharp to potential dangers. As he reached the gatehouse, a tall trooper dressed in silver embossed armour and wearing a plumed helmet greeted him.

  “Greetings, Ferran,” the soldier said seriously.

  “Commander Stalvo,” Ferran replied.

  “What brings a Nightblade to Ridderford?” Stalvo enquired, falling into step with Ferran as he walked on through the gate. The town was bustling with activity; traders were calling out to potential customers, who in turn rushed about their own business. Armed Legionaries patrolled the streets, ever-vigilant to crime and ne’er-do-wells.

  “I need to reach the capital,” the Nightblade said.

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Stalvo asked.

  “Afraid I can’t say, Commander,” Ferran replied.

  The Legion commander kept up with Ferran’s brisk pace as they wound their way through the crowds. People tended to give Ferran a wide berth when they saw the black cowl and dark clothing he wore. The hilt of his Tourmaline sword was on show to let them know his station as a Nightblade. The king’s law forbade anyone interfering in Nightblade business, a fact that regularly slipped the ever curious Stalvo whenever Ferran passed through the town.

  After a few minutes of walking in silence, they reached the town square. Stone and thatch buildings surrounded the marble platform of the town speaker, and market stalls filled every scrap of spare space. The chapel of Niveren towered over the square, casting its long shadow over the scene. The call to prayer would be made soon, and Ferran was eager not to be caught up in the crowds as they headed to the place of worship.

  Religion wasn’t that important to the majority of people in Delfinnia. Most held the belief that if there were gods then they didn’t deserve their prayers. Before the fall of the Golden Empire there were many religions and gods, but now centuries after that conflict, only one deity remained and that was Niveren.

  Ironically Niveren was never originally a god. He was a man who had ascended to the lofty title after he defeated Danon, the enemy of the world. The world was still full of evil, in Ferran’s eyes, Niveren had not done enough of a good job to deserve to be worshipped.

  Stalvo was still walking at his side. The big Legionary was panting as he struggled to keep up in his heavy armour. “Fine, Ferran, keep your secrets,” he scowled, “but I warn you, Nightblade, if there is danger near to this town I will not be happy.”

  Ferran laughed humourlessly.

  “There is always danger, Stalvo; just keep your sword sharp and have a messenger ready to ride for Sunguard at all times. We Nightblades can be here in a day or two.” He winked at Stalvo before disappearing into the crowd.

  He and Stalvo had an up-and-down relationship. Ferran had saved one of the commander’s patrols from marauding Pucks that had been swarming along the Ridder to the South. From that day on, Stalvo had been in the Nightblade’s debt, a point Ferran had repeatedly reminded him of. He was a good commander and a good fighter, but his pride prevented him from showing the Nightblade respect in public, despite the awe that he held for them. His was a view shared by most of the kingdom’s citizens.

  * * *

  The Cod and Croaked inn was filled with patrons. Drunken men pawed at the tavern wenches that carefully wound their way through the maze of tables, pints of glog rocking precariously on their serving trays. Ferran eased his way passed one of the wenches who smiled as he walked by. The man he sought would no doubt be where he always found him, drinking in the private bar on the second floor. The drunken patrons bellowed with laughter when a big bear of a man received a slap from one of the serving girls for being a little too friendly. No doubt a brawl would kick off very soon. Ferran ascended a flight of rickety stairs and was confronted by Tubolt. The big dumb lad guarded the private bar, and every time the Nightblade came here he demanded to know who he was.

  “Halt. Who the bugger is you?” he asked, his voice a drawl of dumbness. The lights were on, but nobody was home, as usual.

  “You know me, Tubolt. Now let me pass. I need to see Thrift,” Ferran said impatiently.

  The first time he had met Tubolt, the oaf had drawn his sword on him. In response, Ferran had broken the man’s sword arm and left him crying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. The second time he set his trousers on fire with a flame spell, and on the third occasion he had cast a spell that made Tubolt think he was a chicken. But still the dumb idiot didn’t recognise him.

  Ferran sighed as he saw Tubolt’s hand slowly move to his sword’s hilt. Ferran didn’t have the patience to reason with the lad. Focusing his magic, and with a flick of his right hand, Ferran levitated the stunned Tubolt into the air.

  “Arrgh! Help me!” he cried as his flailing body floated over Ferran’s head and up towards the porch above. His cries grew fainter as he was raised over the upper floor’s railing. Ferran chuckled when he heard the shocked screams from the whores working in the brothel on the third floor. Clicking his fingers, he broke the spell and winced at the sound of Tubolt’s body crashing to the wooden floor. No doubt the whores would give him a hiding for invading their space. With Tubolt out of the way, Ferran pushed open the inn’s door and was greeted by the thick odour of carma smoke. The sweet smelling herb was a favourite of Delfinnia’s underclass. The man he was looking for was a master thief and an invaluable contact for the Nightblades. If Thrift couldn’t tell him what was happening in the region, then no one could. Ferran hoped he could tell him of any rumours regarding the Lich and the strange symbol found in the valley on the Blackmoor.

  A dozen hooded figures filled the upper bar’s stalls, each chatting quietly amongst themselves. The barkeep didn’t take his gaze from the mace he kept under the bar. Many a time, Ferran had witnessed the elderly man wield that weapon against violent patrons. The wooden frame above the counter was notched with over thirty marks, each one a skull the barman had crushed. Ferran nodded to the man who pointed him in the direction of a side room – the same room Thrift always used. He would have to chide the thief for his lack of imagination. As a thief, you would have thought that he would make his movements a little less obvious, but then again the Cod and Croaker was the nearest thing to a home the rogue had. Laughter from the main bar filtered up through the cracked floorboards, and the sound of a glass breaking prompted the intoxicated patrons to cheer and holler at the fool who had spilled his pint.

  Thrift was
sat in his usual booth. Two slim beauties were draped on either arm. One had red hair like a breaking sunset whilst the other girl’s was raven black. Across from them sat a person wearing a cowl. Ferran frowned as he approached the table. Thrift spotted him and broke into one of his bare-toothed smiles.

  “Ferran, my friend! What brings you back to this shithole? Come have a seat next to my new friend here.”

  The hooded figure turned to face him and lowered her hood. Ferran smiled as he recognised the features of Sophia Cunning. She smirked and raised an eyebrow.

  “Ferran, is it?” she laughed, sliding over to allow him to take a seat. Ferran stayed standing.

  “I apologise for my rudeness on the road, but you can never be too careful, Ms Cunning. Now I am afraid I will have to appear rude once more when I say that I need to speak to Thrift here, in private.”

  “You two know one another?” Thrift intervened, before Sophia was able to reply with what was likely to be a couple of rude words of her own.

  “We met on the road,” Ferran replied.

  Sophia laughed at that.

  “I saved your neck more like,” she scoffed. “If I hadn’t shown up, you would still be looking for a way out of that valley. He drank my water skin and then tossed me a gold piece before swaggering off across the moor.”

  Thrift chuckled.

  “Always a cool customer was our Ferran.” His shaven head nodded with glee. Ferran had known the man for years, ever since he was a boy in fact, and he was one of the few people that knew his last name.

  To everyone else, he was simply Ferran. Thrift and he had been street thieves together as lads and got into many scrapes with the petty gangs that roamed the town’s backstreets. Ferran had arrived in Ridderford when he was just a boy, alone and scared, with only the clothes on his back. His thoughts drifted even further back to the man who had saved him and who had taken him across the Blackmoor. They had fled the horrors of his home, but his saviour hadn’t stuck about. Instead, he delivered Ferran into the care of an old woman. It wasn’t long before he ran away and fell in with a group of street urchins. Thrift had been one of the best, and now it was he who ran all of the petty crime in the town. Commander Stalvo would kill to get his hands on the chuckling man sat before him.