The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  “Aljeron raised his staff high into the air, and the air itself seemed to quake. All around, the Nightblades fought the Fell until, with a blinding flash, the Void rift was sealed. Of Aljeron, there was no sign.”

  – The tale of Aljeron

  20.

  Ferran swore as they rounded a corner. Up ahead, he could see Elias fleeing up a staircase. No doubt he had a horse waiting for him on the surface.

  “Come on!” he yelled to Sophia, who was a short distance behind.

  Once again, he broke into a sprint and bounded up a crumbling staircase. After a few dozen steps he spotted light shining through a crack in the tower’s wall. They were back on the surface. He had to stop the Witch Hunter General at all costs.

  Finally, he reached the top step, the brightness of the day near blinding after the dark tunnels of the tower. He looked around desperately for any sign of Elias. Panic filled him, but then he heard the whinnying of a horse. He sprinted towards it and emerged into a forest clearing.

  Four horses were tied to tree branches. Elias sat astride one of them.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Ferran shouted as the Witch Hunter kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks. The horse reared before galloping off into the forest. Ferran swore and leapt into the saddle of another horse. He kicked the animal’s flanks and bellowed for it to move. With a loud neigh, the horse bolted forward at a breakneck pace.

  The forest whipped by an alarming pace as the horse thundered through the undergrowth. Ferran cried out as he had to lie low in the saddle to avoid a low-hanging branch. Up ahead, Elias continued to ride at a reckless speed. Of Sophia, he had no clue; his attention was solely fixed on the horse and rider ahead of him.

  A large tree loomed in front of him. With a “Whoa!” he yanked hard on the reigns, and the horse adjusted its direction to go around it. Ahead Elias turned in his saddle and aimed a crossbow. Ferran saw the bolt loose, and ducked his head just as the projectile whistled narrowly passed his head.

  As they galloped, the number of trees began to lessen until they broke free of the forest entirely. Now they were thundering across open plains. In the distance was Midlake and the lakes, their waters shimmering in the fading sunlight.

  Elias’s mount reached the nearby road. With the flat stone of the efficiently built roads beneath it, the Witch Hunter General would gain a substantial lead. Ferran urged his steed onwards and narrowed his eyes. Focusing on Elias’s horse, he channelled the magic within him. Using all of his concentration he focussed it at the animal and raised his right hand.

  “Pushara!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  At such a distance, only a mage would dare cast the spell. The telekinetic blast erupted from his palm and flew up the road. As it went, it sent debris flying in all directions. Elias looked over his shoulder and cried out. He tried to steer his mount out of the magical blast’s way but was too slow. The blast struck, sending him and his horse crashing off the road. The animal tumbled head over hooves, and Elias was thrown from the saddle.

  Sweat poured from Ferran’s brow. The spell had been the most powerful one he had ever dared cast. Only by luck had it hit its target. An intense weariness threatened to overwhelm him. Shaking his head, he trotted over to the prone figure of the Witch Hunter General.

  Elias was still alive but his left leg was broken and his face was covered in cuts and bruising from the fall. Ferran dismounted and stood over the man who had killed his mother and who had forced him to flee his home. The man looked the same as he had then, except that his once black hair now had streaks of grey. His eyes were still the same cruel ones that Ferran remembered.

  “Ferran of Blackmoor,” Elias coughed, blood spurting from his lips. “I promised to kill you and yet there you stand. Another of my failures.”

  Ferran activated his Tourmaline blade. The urge to pierce Elias’s black heart was almost too much to resist.

  “Why were you working with the N’Gist? You have betrayed everything that you swore to protect,” he asked softly.

  Behind him came the sound of a galloping horse. Sophia had caught up with them.

  “Wait!” she cried as she leapt from the saddle. She sprinted over to the two men and, to Ferran’s surprise, pushed him out of the way and knelt next to her father. She lifted Elias’s head and placed it in her lap. Tears fell from her eyes.

  “Tell us why?” Ferran said again, anger rising in him.

  “For her,” Elias replied his eyes on his daughter. “I am sorry, my love; you were never meant to get involved in all this.”

  “You … you killed Hanser. He was my friend, Father. You let the N’gist unleash undead upon a town of innocents. You’ve done terrible, unforgivable things,” Sophia wept.

  “All for you. The lady … she showed me that we could bring your mother back from the dead; she said that she would give me the power to wipe out all wielders, even those in Caldaria. They killed your mother, you know that right?” Elias said.

  “Bringing someone back from the dead is the darkest and foulest of all magic,” Ferran growled.

  “All magic is foul. You abominations use it all the time. She would have returned to me and this emptiness inside would finally be gone. All I had to do was help her find the remains and the staff. I would have succeeded if it wasn’t for you,” he spat at Ferran.

  Sophia moved away from her father, her eyes full of horror at his words.

  “You made a deal with the N’gist so that you could kill all magic users, yet you would use necromancy to bring back Mother, I … I don’t believe this. You are a monster.”

  Elias raised a hand towards his daughter, but Sophia turned away, unable to look at the man who had raised her. He had always been a hard taskmaster, rarely loving, but when he had, he had been the best father anyone could ask for. Tears streamed from her eyes. She had known that her mother’s death had affected him deeply, but not to this extent … not a to a point where he would forsake everything he had once believed in.

  As Ferran watched the exchange between father and daughter, a rage built inside him. Memories of his own childhood flashed before his eyes. The screams of his mother as she burned at the stake. The cruelty in Elias’s eyes as he enjoyed every second of it. More memories came to him, of his encounters with the Witch Hunters handiwork. Men and women put to the flame in their hundreds for simply being different.

  Striding forward he put the tip of his blade under Elias’s chin.

  “Who is this lady?”

  Elias glared at the Nightblade and chuckled.

  “Oh my boy, you have no idea, do you? No idea of what she is planning. Even without the staff, she will find another way. There is no fighting them!”

  “Who is she?” Ferran roared, his anger now uncontrollable.

  “She is your doom, Nightblade,” Elias said a twisted smile on his face.

  The screams of his mother filled Ferran’s ears. He closed his eyes and plunged his sword downwards, piercing Elias’s blackened hate-filled heart.

  * * *

  He could still hear screaming.

  It was Sophia. She shoved him out of the way.

  She fell over the body of her father and cradled his head in her lap.

  “No … Father, no,” she wept.

  “Sophia, I …”

  He stepped backwards and dispelled his blade.

  Sophia glared at Ferran. Her knife was in her hand, all love now lost.

  “You murdered him, my father. We could have taken him into custody, gotten the answers we seek. Instead, you killed him. I never want to see you again. Leave now or else,” she whispered, her heart broken.

  Ferran nodded in understanding. A pain filled his heart. Did he love her? Without another word, he walked away from the grieving daughter.

  He found the staff of Aljeron in a ditch at the side of the road, not far from the broken body of Elias’s horse. He picked it up and mounted his own horse. Then he gave the despairing Sophia one last glance before riding back into t
he forest.

  * * *

  It didn’t him long to return the wizard’s tower. Hurriedly, he leapt from the saddle and sprinted down the crumbling staircase. Magic flowed through his limbs, giving an extra burst of speed and stamina. Navigating the warren of tunnels, he quickly arrived in the chamber where the staff had been discovered. The bodies of the Witch Hunters and three Crimson Blades Assassins lay scattered about. His gaze settled upon the still form of Alther.

  “No!” Ferran cried as he rushed over to his mentor. He fell to his knees and checked the old man’s neck for a pulse. He sighed in relief as he felt a weak beat. Healing wasn’t his speciality but he had learned the basics from the Medica in Caldaria. He placed his head against Alther’s chest and listened. The old man was barely breathing.

  “Wake up, old man. How am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong with you?” he demanded. Closing his eyes, he uttered the spell for awakening and then placed a palm on Alther’s forehead.

  Alther awoke with a gasp. His breaths were ragged gasps and his hands instantly clutched his chest.

  “Your heart?”

  Ferran rubbed his hands together and uttered another incantation, this one for the spell of healing. Light began to shine from his hands, and he placed them over his mentor’s heart.

  Warmth flooded into Alther, and some of the colour returned to his ashen grey face. The spell was healing some of the damage to his heart. It would be enough to get him out of the tower and hopefully buy them enough time to find a more skilled healer. The pain eased in his chest and his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. His eyes fluttered open and glared at Ferran.

  “Stop calling me old! Did you get it?” he growled.

  Ferran laughed in relief.

  “Yeah, I got it. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  “When Darkness Stirs, the Nightblade will be there.”

  Epilogue

  The mages were gathered in the Arch tower of Caldaria. Ripples of excitement spread through the gathered crowds. A large raised stage dominated the far end of the chamber. Standing on it were the masters of Caldaria and a circular table made of green crystal.

  Grand Master Thanos stepped forward and raised his arms to silence the crowds.

  “The rumours that have been spreading about the city are true. A relic of the First Wizard has been found and, by permission of the King of Delfinnia, has been entrusted to us for its safe keeping.”

  Excitement conversation spread through the hall. There hadn’t been such a special find for decades.

  Thanos approached the table and picked up the golden cylinder resting on its surface. He held it high and twisted it. The crowd gasped as the cylinder extended to double its original length. At seeing the Staff of Aljeron, the mages clapped and cheered. Such a discovery was a marvel to them.

  At the back of the chamber, shrouded in shadows cast by archways, stood Alther and Ferran. The old man still looked pale and weak, but the skill of the Medica healers had kept him alive, at least for a while longer.

  “So, I guess it’s back to retirement for me. Have to say that I hadn’t realised how much I didn’t miss all of the violence and danger. Guess I got soft,” Alther chuckled.

  Ferran smiled.

  “You should be proud. The first Nightblade to actually make it alive to retirement age. I doubt I will be so lucky,” Ferran replied, a hint of sadness in his tone.

  “Not heard anything from Sophia?”

  Ferran shook his head.

  “I doubt I shall ever see her again. I killed her father. Even though he was an evil bastard, I don’t think she will ever forgive me.”

  Alther placed his hand on his old student’s shoulder.

  “Never say never, Ferran. Give her time; she might come around.”

  Ferran shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps,” he sighed. “Anyhow, I’d best be off. Got word of a Fell Beast near Bison and duty calls.”

  The two men embraced before Ferran slipped out of the chamber. Alther smiled. His time was over; best to let younger folks deal with the challenges ahead.

  * * *

  The woods were peaceful early in the morning, and the young woman felt safe as she moved through the long grass. The basket she carried was already near full of mushrooms. Her grandmother would be happy with her haul.

  As she skipped along, her long white dress and long blonde hair flowing behind her she hummed a melody. Her bare feet moved over the ticklish grass and she almost failed to notice the figure watching her in the trees. She stopped. The figure was hunched low and wore a dirty brown shawl.

  “Do not be afraid, my child,” said the figure. It was the voice of an elderly woman. “What is your name, pretty one?”

  The girl smiled at the compliment.

  “My name is Alira. And you are?”

  The old woman waved the girl closer.

  “My voice is not as strong as it once was, my dear.”

  Alira stepped closer. As she approached, she realised that the woman was ancient, even more ancient than her own grandmother. Wrinkled hands reached out and clutched her own. At the touch, Alira tried to recoil. For some reason, she felt an overwhelming sense of fear.

  “You will do nicely my dear. Yes …”

  “What do you want? Let me go, you’re hurting me!” Alira cried, struggling to escape the old hag’s iron grip.

  “You will be my vessel, girl. This body fails me but yours is youthful. It is now mine.”

  The End

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  THE NIGHTBLADE

  Copyright 2016 M.S. Olney

  Firebound Books