The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  He drew his Tourmaline blade and walked over to the chapel door. He peeked in through a gap. Only darkness and the faint light from the high stained glass windows filtered in. He pushed open the door with a creak and stepped inside.

  “Ferran.”

  He stopped at the sound of his name being whispered. He was ready to cast a defensive spell at a moment’s notice. He sighed in relief as Thrift stood out from behind one of the stone pillars lining both sides of the chapel.

  “What are you doing here, Thrift?”

  His old friend stepped more into the light. His clothes were covered in soot, no doubt from the fire. His bald head was covered in small cuts.

  “I hid here once the battle started. Those bastards tried to kill me, but I outfoxed them.”

  Thrift walked over to a candle stand and lit the waxy light-givers with a piece of flint he drew from his pocket.

  “I snuck out through one of me bolt holes and hid in a basement across the street. Then I noticed those cloaked buggers leaving here, and then you going arse over tit out the bloody third-floor window of the inn. Bet that hurt,” he winked.

  Ferran stepped further into the chapel. Tapestries depicting Niveren adorned the walls; his golden image faced out at them, his eyes boring into their souls. Niveren was the father of mankind, created by the gods to win their wars of creation. It was he who had first stood against and defeated the darkness.

  “I thought you said that the cloaked men left town shortly before I arrived in Ridderford?” Ferran asked as he paced deeper into the chapel. At the far end of the main thoroughfare lined with wooden pews was a large archway with steps leading down into the catacombs. Thrift jogged to keep up.

  “Aye, I thought they had. My lads reported one of them certainly left. They said he was tall and moved oddly. The night after, more of them left but this time, they carried a big box with them … thinking of it, it looked like a coffin. ’Tis a bit weird that Witch Hunter bird had been snooping about shortly before they arrived.”

  Ferran stopped in his tracks and put a hand firmly on Thrift’s chest.

  “What did you just say?”

  “That Cunning lass. She was ’ere a few days before you arrived and then didn’t show up again until you did,” Thrift explained. “She said that she had business at the chapel, and then off she went to the Moor. Shortly after that, those weird fellas that tried to kill us showed up.”

  Ferran rubbed his chin in thought. So the Lich hadn’t been on the Moor by pure chance – it had been hunting Sophia. For what reason, he couldn’t imagine, but the Witch Hunter certainly had some questions to answer.

  “Let’s find out what’s so special about this place,” he said, walking down the stairs and into the dark of the catacombs.

  He focused and snapped his fingers to create a hovering ball of bright magical. Slowly, they made their way down into the darkness with only the magic light to guide the way.

  It was eerily quiet as you would expect of a place that housed the dead, but a sensation tickled Ferran. He sensed magic in the place. He frowned and tried to focus on where the power was emanating from. He walked deeper into the catacombs.

  The coffins of the long dead were lined in alcoves along the stone walls. Cobwebs and dust covered every surface save for the plethora of footprints etched into the dirt.

  Ferran stopped and crouched to examine the prints. There had been at least eight men that had walked through this dank place, and judging by the scrape marks, the Lich had staggered through here also. Thrift looked around him nervously as though one of the coffins would suddenly burst open and its long-dead inhabitant rip him apart. Ferran slowly stood up. He placed a gloved hand on his friend’s arm to reassure him.

  “These dead are long dead. No magic could bring them back now. So relax.” It was true – necromancy only worked on corpses not long dead; a few hundred years was the oldest a body could be for the dark spells to work. The dead around them had been interned here at least five hundred years ago. The structure was ancient Nivonian. Ferran noted that many of the coffins bore the old insignia of the mages. Once, those spell casters had been shown enough respect to warrant a burial in a holy place; now they were lucky to even be burned on a pyre such was the animosity towards them.

  “Thrift. Come on; this way.”

  They walked on, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. Ferran’s eyes didn’t leave the floor, the trail of footprints led in the same direction. Whatever was down there had been important enough that a Lich had come into a populated area. Normally they avoided the living at all costs. Only a few had been recorded in history and each had brought enough death and misery to warrant their own legends. The one they sought now was a mystery and that made it even more dangerous. As far as Ferran knew, he was the first person to encounter one in more than three hundred years.

  “What is that?” exclaimed Thrift.

  They had emerged into a large antechamber. in the centre of the chamber was a large hole. The debris of the stones that had covered it was strewn all over the place. Ferran closed his eyes and focused. The source of the magic came from the hole. He gestured with his left arm and the ball of light drifted to hover over the empty space. The hole was at least eight feet deep and no wider than a man.

  “Square edges,” said Thrift said as he crouched down and examined the hole’s sides.

  “The box you said they carried out of here?” Ferran asked staring into the hole.

  Whatever had been in it had been immensely powerful, and very, very old.

  “Aye could be. What do you reckon it was …”

  Thrift’s voice trailed off.

  He was staring at the far wall, the magic light only revealing part of it. Ferran gestured again and the light shined on the wall. Etched upon the stone surface was a symbol. A symbol almost exactly the same as the one he had encountered on the Blackmoor. This time, however, it was circle crisscrossed with two jagged lines. The dim traces of magic radiated off of it, its power now spent.

  The Nightblade knew what the symbols were. Memories of his time at the Mage city of Calderia sprung up into his mind. The mages used similar runes and symbols to summon creatures or objects to them. Their patterns were just circles with smaller circles inside, whereas the ones on the Blackmore had been etched with lines of blood. He walked over to the symbol and ran a finger through one of the lines. In the dim light, he could just make out the colour of dried blood … Redcap blood.

  “They caused the Redcaps to attack the town,” he said.

  Thrift looked at Ferran as though he were mad.

  “Those Fell beasts can’t be controlled, Ferran. You know that.”

  “This is a summoning circle. I understand what they are now. The circle is the channel for the magic they used and the lines are made of the blood of whatever they wish to summon; in this case, Redcaps. Three lines … each line must represent a number. These ones are thickly drawn, perhaps meaning a high number.”

  Thrift didn’t look convinced.

  “How else do you explain the Redcaps attacking the town, they never attack in such numbers and against such a well-defended place as Ridderford,” he explained.

  Thrift’s eyes grew large with understanding.

  “The buggers used the goblins as a diversion,” he exclaimed.

  “Exactly. The attack was to distract the town’s soldiers whilst they slipped away with whatever they had dug up.”

  Ferran took a scrap of paper out of one his pockets and a pencil from another. He scribbled down the symbol and stuffed it back inside.

  “These symbols are a clue as to who we’re dealing with.”

  “Standing alone against the darkness, his magical sword cleaving all foes before him, the wielder tried. Magic was his ally, but alas – even our hero fell to the ravenous claws and teeth of the Fell. As he fell, the last vestige of hope died.”

  – an account of the Battle of the Dusk

  9.

  Ferran and Thrift exited the cata
combs and found Sophia tending to some wounded civilians. She was wrapping a bandage around the arm of an elderly woman who was talking incessantly. The Nightblade watched her for a moment. How could she be the daughter of the man he had met as a child? He had not seen any of the rage that had been in the Witch Hunter General’s eyes; all he had seen in Sophia’s was kindness and strength. He felt himself blush as Sophia cocked an eyebrow at him; she had noticed him staring. Her hands were red with blood, and some was on her face, but still she looked beautiful. She stood and wiped her hands on her tunic. She said something to her patient that made the old woman chuckle and wave her away.

  “A woman of many talents,” Ferran greeted.

  “It’s not the first battle I’ve seen. When I was younger, I volunteered in the Balnor Academy Medica during the height of the Yundol Invasions. I’ve probably tended to just as many wounded people as a veteran Legion healer has.”

  “Now we know your good with yer hands,” Thrift chuckled lewdly.

  Sophia rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Did you find anything in the chapel?” she asked, hastily changing the subject.

  Ferran pulled the drawing he had made out of his pocket and handed it to her. Upon seeing it, her face paled slightly.

  “These markings were etched into a wall in the catacombs and it appears that something was removed,” Ferran said, his eyes not leaving hers. “You know who did this? Thrift told me that you were in town before heading to the Blackmoor.”

  Sophia looked away. She was troubled that much was clear.

  “Come, we need to talk, in private.”

  * * *

  The three of them walked through town until they reached a street that looked undamaged by the Redcap attack. A number of taverns and inns lined the road, and from the sounds coming from within, they were all making good business from the off-duty Legionaries celebrating their survival. Sophia stopped outside of one of the taverns. Unlike the others, it was quiet. She led the way inside where there was a solitary patron sat at the bar nursing a large tankard of ale. From the man’s long robes, it was clear he was a member of the Niveren cult. He glanced upwards at the newcomers and shook his head.

  “Can’t a man drink in peace, for Niveren’s sake?” he grumbled.

  Ferran raised an eyebrow and exchanged a look with Thrift. Neither of them were fans of the cult. Sophia gestured for them to stay put whilst she walked towards the cultist.

  “Brother Asper? It’s me, Sophia Cunning. We had a meeting arranged for later today,” she said.

  Asper looked her over and the colour drained from his face.

  “The Witch Hunter? I … I have nothing to say,” Asper stammered.

  The reaction the man had to Sophia’s name peaked Ferran’s interest. He stepped closer.

  “Do you manage the church in town?” he asked.

  The cultist paled and nodded. Being faced by a Witch Hunter was bad enough, but a Nightblade!

  “I do,” Asper replied hesitantly.

  Before he could press further, Sophia placed a hand on Ferran’s chest. She frowned at him and slowly shook her head.

  “Easy there. Asper is my contact. He answers my questions first,” she said firmly.

  Her tone took Ferran by surprise. He stepped back, his hands held up in mock surrender.

  “Oh, I like her. She’s a feisty minx,” Thrift muttered with a smirk.

  Sophia ignored him and turned back to Asper.

  “The man I am tracking came through Ridderford. You said he told you that he had business on the Blackmoor. I went there and found no trace the man. What I did find was him,” she growled, pointing at Ferran.

  “I spoke the truth,” Asper answered. “Hanser went to the Blackmoor like I told you. He said he was meeting someone and told me to keep the chapel unlocked.”

  Ferran advanced again to stand at Sophia’s side.

  “Who went into the chapel and what did they remove from it?” he asked. Something fishy was going on. A lot more questions were being raised than answered.

  Asper’s eyes were wide and a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. The man was neck-deep in something.

  “Answer them, brother, or else I will let slip that you like to spend your parishioners’ hard earned Delfins at Brida’s whorehouse,” Thrift growled.

  Asper looked aghast. He was about to protest, but the stern looks of his interrogators made him think it unwise. He slumped his shoulders and leant heavily onto the oak bar.

  “If I knew that helping them would lead to all this, I never would have taken their gold. Niveren help me, I have been a fool,” he moaned.

  “Spill it, Asper,” Sophia pressed.

  “You’d best pull up some stools and get some drinks. I fear this will take some explaining.”

  * * *

  “Before you begin, I have to ask: Who in the Void is Hanser?” Ferran asked Sophia as he slid a silver Delfin to the barkeep. A tankard of Robintan ale was in front of each them, the foaming liquid bubbling away appealingly. Sophia took a swig from her pint before answering.

  “Hanser is a Witch Hunter. One of the best in the guild, in fact. He went missing a few months ago, and so I set about finding him. The trail led me here,” she said, somewhat elusively.

  Ferran frowned. Something in her tone made him think that there was more to it than that. He decided not to press her on it at that moment. He turned his gaze back to Asper.

  “So, Asper, tell us everything. What did those men want from the chapel, and more importantly, why would they try and kill me?”

  Asper drank from his own tankard before taking a deep breath and sighing.

  “A few months back, Hanser came to Ridderford and to the chapel. He asked me lots of questions about its history. I told him what I knew: that the chapel was built on the site of an ancient Nivonian temple. He then asked me to show him the catacombs, which I found odd as the cult stopped burying people within it over a century ago due to a lack of space. I led him all the way through, but when we reached the end he wanted access to the Nivonian part. At first, I was going to refuse, but then he showed me a pouch full of gold.” Asper looked downwards, his face flushing red with shame. “I took his money. He told me to leave the catacombs unlocked and that he would return.”

  Ferran glanced at Thrift. “Hanser and his mysterious companions removed something from the catacombs. What was it?” the Nightblade asked.

  A feeling of unease had been in his gut ever since they had discovered the magical runes etched into the catacombs’ wall.

  Asper’s bottom lip trembled. The man was terrified.

  “Legends say that the physical remains of the Dark One were hidden there …”

  “Dark One? What are you on about?” Thrift interrupted.

  Asper leant in closer and lowered his voice until it was but a whisper.

  “You must know the stories. Of Zahnia the Great and his victory over evil. A victory that ended the thousand years of darkness and led to the rise of the Golden Empire. What do they teach you wielders in Caldaria?” Asper said incredulously.

  Thrift laughed.

  “I ain’t no wielder, priest. Danon is a tale old mothers tell their kids to make them shut up and behave. You can’t believe this, Ferran?”

  Ferran and Sophia exchanged a knowing look. Both of them knew that Danon, and more importantly his followers had been real. The N’gist had carried out dark deeds for aeons in the name of their master, and more than a few Nightblades, knights and Witch Hunters had been slain by their shadowy hand. Most people believed the cult to be extinct, but there were always rumours that they still existed in the dark places of the realm.

  “So,” Ferran said laying his hands down flat on the table top, “Hanser, a Witch Hunter came to Ridderford for information on the chapel, where legend has it is the resting place for Danon’s body. Hanser leaves town, and for some reason heads to the Blackmoor, for what purpose we do not know.”

  Sophia coughe
d.

  “Actually … I think I know why he went there.”

  The others looked at her in surprise.

  “I tracked him across the moor to an old Nivonian ruin. I hid and watched. He met with some people. I couldn’t see their faces due to their cloaks and hoods. He stayed there awhile and then headed back towards town. A mist descended upon the moor and I lost his tracks. I tried to find his trail, but before I could do so, I heard him screaming. I headed towards the sound, but by the time I got there, all I found was some blood and signs of a struggle. Something had dragged him off the path. I searched all night until in the morning I stumbled across you, Ferran.”

  Ferran leant back in his chair. The events on the moor now made sense to him. The Ghoul that had clawed its way out of the valley had been Hanser. Had the Lich killed him because he knew too much? It also explained why he had been attacked at the inn.

  “When we arrived in Ridderford, someone tipped these people off that I had survived my run in with the Lich on the moor. Whoever they are, they didn’t want any loose ends. Also, explains the attack on the town. With everyone distracted by the Redcap assault, they could enter the chapel undetected.”

  “It was probably one of my boys that tipped them off,” Thrift muttered. “I’ll find out who and I’ll have their guts for garters.”

  Asper had gone white.

  “Whoever these people are they have magic and the power to control Fell Beasts, they are willing to destroy an entire town just to cover their tracks, and are quite happy to try and assassinate a Nightblade,” Ferran said darkly. He turned to Sophia. “Can you take us to those ruins on the moor? We might learn more there.”

  The Witch Hunter nodded.

  “I remember the way. We can reach it in less than a day.”

  “You coming, Thrift?” Ferran asked.

  The thief rubbed his bald head.

  “As much as I love trudging across the bloody moors, I think I’ll have to pass. I need to get the Fleetfoots back in line. No doubt some of them have gone on the rob whilst the soldiers are distracted. The last thing I need is the law breathing down me neck.”