by Steven Drake
“Ahh.” Kirin reflected, putting a hand to his chin. “So that’s what he meant by assaulting a member of the nobility. That magistrate is the local Baron’s younger brother, and the nobility have many special privileges. Then again, perhaps that was just the excuse. He didn’t seem too fond of elves. He might have simply wanted to be rid of a mage living nearby, and you provided a convenient way to get her to surrender without a fight.” Kirin paused again, scratching his chin with his finger. “Ultimately, though, in a way you’re still right. It was your fault. Your mother died because that magistrate had power over you. He was stronger and you were too weak to stop him from killing her.”
“Damn you,” Darien cried, lunging at the cloaked figure. “Shut up!”
“Getting angry at me won’t change anything,” Kirin chided, stepping back, feigning fear. “If you don’t like being at the mercy of men like that, you must become stronger. That man is not worthy of his title, but he has power, so justice, fairness, law, are whatever he says they are. Justice can only be bought with power. If you want justice for your mother, you must become strong enough to take it.”
“And how do I become strong? What do you mean?”
Kirin smiled a wide, knowing smile, and continued. “You need only join me. The Order of the Shade serves the magnificent and all powerful Master of the world, the Demon King. He possesses power beyond the measure of mere mortals, and he takes whatever he wishes. All who serve him enjoy his favor and the most powerful of his servants are like kings who serve a living god. You need no longer answer to the arbitrary whims of men and their petty nobility. If you answer to him, you will be above all others and you can get the justice you so long for. He asks nothing of you but obedience.”
“The Demon King?” Darien was confused. “My mother once told me about him. She told me he is evil.”
“What is evil and what is good, like what is just and unjust, depend upon power. Those who lack the power to oppose the Demon King say he is evil, just as they say their neighbors are evil and just as they say elves are evil. Anything they do not understand, anything they fear, anything that threatens their own power they say is evil. They convince fools to oppose the ‘evil ones’, and in so doing they strengthen themselves and weaken their enemies. There is no law but one, and it is that the strong rule, and the weak must yield to the strong, or perish. All else is lies and deceit. The powerful understand this and the weak do not. Now that you know what it is to be weak, will you choose to remain so?”
“Do they hate elves like us there, in your Order?” Darien asked.
“Not at all.” Kirin scoffed. “In the Order of the Shade, the Demon King is our Master, for he is the strongest. We answer only to him. Whether you are elf or man, dwarf or dragon, man or woman, it makes no difference there. We have no need of any measure but talent and strength. Even if the humans there hated us, it would make no difference unless they were stronger, and none but the Master himself is stronger than I.” Kirin finished with a boast.
“Can I come back here?” Darien asked. “Once I’m strong enough, can I come back and punish that man, just like the man in black killed my mother?”
“Of course. And you will. And you will show them the true meaning of justice, for the glory of the Order and the Master,” Kirin promised.
“All right, what do I have to do?”
“Only obey, that is all, no more nor less,” Kirin answered. “Now hold still while I see to those ropes and your eye.”
Darien held out his hands, and Kirin touched them with only a finger. The ropes burned in the middle, freeing his hands, and then they burned around his wrists, crumbling to ash, though he could feel no heat. Then Kirin looked at Darien’s eye.
“That will leave a nasty scar I think” Kirin commented. Darien tried to turn away, but Kirin held him firmly. “A scar is not something for which we should feel shame. Rather, it is a mark of strength.” Kirin reached somewhere into his cloak and pulled out a small vial of some cloudy gray substance. He opened it, and Darien’s nostrils were assaulted with a vile smell like rotten meat. Kirin rubbed the substance into Darien’s bleeding forehead. The bleeding stopped, and the pain subsided. The throbbing sting was replaced with a dull aching as Kirin continued to speak. “In the Order, we say that what does not kill you only strengthens you. Scars are a symbol, a sign that you have struggled, suffered, and survived. A killing blow leaves no scar, for a dead man cannot live to bear it. Do you understand?” Kirin asked, staring Darien squarely in the eye with a stern look on his face.
“Yes, I think so.” Darien replied as firmly as he could manage.
“Good. Now, come with me.”
“Yes, um...master.”
“No,” Kirin corrected gently. “You must not call me that. Only the Demon King himself, may be addressed as ‘Master.’ That is his law, so you must obey.”
“I understand, but what do I call you?”
“Just call me Kirin,” Kirin answered, as he started walking down the road in the same direction Darien had already been heading. “My full title is Kirin the Hollow Eyed. In the Order of the Shade, we have no family names. Instead, we choose a title for ourselves, or we ask the Master to choose one for us. Do you have any idea what you might like to be called?”
Darien thought for a while as they walked down the road toward some unknown destination. His mind reflected on the day’s events, and everything Kirin had said. He remembered the fight in the village, the guards, the magistrate, his mother’s face, but the thing he remembered most, the one thing which stood out, was the black clad executioner. A silent, unfeeling, bringer of death, an instrument of destruction, without fear or remorse. Surely, that cloaked figure must command some mysterious power, standing calm even as he carried out the gruesome sentence, even as everyone else ran in fear of the crazed half-elf boy. “I think…” Darien hesitated, frightened at the eagerness with which his mind took hold of the thought.
“Yes?” Kirin said, coaxing Darien to speak.
“I want to be like that executioner. He was so frightening, but so calm. He didn’t seem to care about anything. Everyone else ran, but he wasn’t afraid. I think I’d like to be like that, never afraid of anything. Not afraid of death, of killing, of anything.”
Kirin chuckled, though Darien could not fathom what was amusing. “Very well. You will be Darien the Executioner, and you will return to this place one day to carry out the death sentence upon your mother’s killers.”
Upon that day, Darien the Executioner was born, and in time he would more than live up to that name. The training in the Order of the Shade was severe. Darien learned to endure pain, physical, mental, and emotional. He learned to control his passions, to obey without question, and to fight and kill without anger, joy, remorse, or compassion. For the apprentices in the Order of the Shade were not trained so much as forged, hammered, molded, and shaped until they were living weapons of the Demon King’s will.
Darien rose quickly through the Order. His natural power earned him the favor of his Master. At age fifteen, he became a Shade himself. At sixteen, he was granted the privilege to be trained by the Demon King personally, an honor reserved only for the most talented members. At age seventeen, he was assigned his first command, and he finally returned to avenge his mother’s death. When he did, a tiny, and otherwise insignificant village was utterly destroyed. Every living person was either killed or taken to serve as a slave to the Demon King. Every building was leveled to the ground, and even the gravestones were torn down, so that even the memory of the village would be erased. In the place where his mother had died, he placed his own stone, which read,
Here in this nameless place, Mirianna, mother of Darien the Executioner, was killed unjustly. By my will and my power, every person, structure, and memory of this place has been destroyed and forgotten. Only her name shall be remembered. This is the judgment of the Executioner.
Such was the thorough, methodical, unrelenting nature of Darien’s justice.
The boy might have been wholly consumed by the evil that consumed so many others like him, but just as a single candle can banish the darkness, a single shred of hope remained in Darien the Executioner. In his heart, he held to the memory of his mother. Even during his darkest days, he kept her at the very center of his being, clinging to her, loyal to her memory before even his Master. It was, in the end, that loyalty that would set him against his Master, and lead him to his destiny.
Chapter 2: The Confrontation
The moment had come. Darien’s entire body trembled with anticipation. Sweat formed on his brow as he grappled with the final choice he was making. After this, there could be no turning back. He thought for a moment of running, or trying to sneak away, out of Shade Castle and into the forest. No, the Executioner reminded himself, I have come too far and risked too much to stop now. This will be the final stroke of justice. Sixteen years have passed since that day, and after this, it will finally be finished.
The light from the starstone illuminated the Master’s secret chamber with a quiet, warm glow, shining light on what had been hidden for centuries in shadow. The dark jagged stones from which the room was constructed were colored a deep, unnatural shade of violet-purple, no doubt owing to the enchantments of concealment woven upon them, or perhaps to the residual power of the object contained within the chamber. A pedestal of the same purple stone stood in the center of the room, rising to the level of Darien’s waist. Atop that pedestal, encased in a shiny, reflective, red crystal, rested the Demon’s Blade, the legendary weapon forged by the elves long ago, said to contain the power of the ancient demons. Who would ever have guessed that it actually existed, and that it was the source of all the incredible magic power the Master possessed?
As he approached the pedestal, Darien reflected on his months of planning. Finding the Master’s secret chamber had been a difficult enough task, but finding a way to break through the crystal that protected the ancient weapon had proved an even greater task. But for a singular stroke of luck in encountering that old dwarf, he might never have found the starstone that he would now use to claim his Master’s prize. Though the Master named himself the Demon King and claimed godhood, he was nothing more than a man, clever, powerful, and ambitious, but still only a mortal. Darien cursed his own foolishness, as he had done some uncounted multitude of times before. No matter, he thought, it will all be irrelevant in a few minutes.
The crystal reflected his features with a reddish hue. He gazed into it for several minutes, contemplating the child he was, and the man he had become. His own steel grey eyes stared back at him, showing just a hint of his mother’s green. His raven hair, colored like his mother’s, was haphazard, wild, unkempt, and chaotic. His shoulders were uncharacteristically broad for an elf, but no more than average for a man. Years of physical training and life as a soldier in the Order of the Shade had made him lean and tough, with arms like the springy trunks of young trees, and legs like iron rods. His sharp angular jaw was set firm, in stern determination. Darien towered over ordinary men, owing his height, a few inches over six feet, to his elven blood. His otherwise young and fair face bore the scars of battle and brutal training, a slash on his left cheek, a burn mark beneath his left ear, and a handful of others told the tale of Darien’s difficult youth. In truth, he had forgotten where he’d gotten most of them, but there was one, of course, he could not forget. He touched the star shaped scar above his right eye, remembering the day he had been given it, so long ago, yet so fresh in his mind. Hate and anger flamed in his mind anew, and filled him with fresh resolve. Darien the Executioner he had become, in name and in deed, and so he would die as well.
Beneath his reflection, the Executioner could see the dark shape of the sword encased within the crystal. The blade was jet black, the color of emptiness, like the magic he had become so skilled at. He had delayed enough. Soon the counterspells he had placed upon the Master’s warning enchantments would fade, and the Master would learn what had transpired. He raised the starstone above his head, and it glowed with a bright light all its own. He then focused all of his energy into the stone, and thrust it down into the crystal.
The impact of the stone upon the crystal produced a terrible sound, screeching like the wails of the dying. No sooner had the harsh screech faded than a shrill whistle replaced it. The light of the starstone traveled down into the crystal, and then outward in thin white lines from the point of impact. It was working. The magics that held the crystal together were breaking down, and it was beginning to shatter. The white lines traced snaking paths around the crystal, meeting in various places. Finally, all at once, the crystal shattered in a thousand places, and as it did, the pieces disintegrated into a fine pink powder, which burst in all directions, coating the floor and walls of the small room in a thin layer of the stuff. The reaction completely consumed the starstone, and the room was left in darkness.
The darkness however, did not trouble the Executioner. The magics that enhanced his sight and allowed him to see in darkness had become second nature, requiring no more concentration than focusing his eyes. The sword lay before him. Even to his enhanced vision, the blade appeared utterly black, a fang of emptiness, long as a man’s arm, but no wider than three inches at the hilt. The silvery hilt shone bright to Darien's eyes next to the dark of the blade. Elven runes wound around the hilt and along the cross guard, words in a language now remembered only by scholars. A transparent sphere, made of glass or some sort of crystal, formed the pommel.
Darien stared, awed at finally seeing the source of his Master's power, laid bare before him. Once he took it, the blade would eventually consume him. Once he took the sword in hand, it would bind itself to him, and in so doing, subject him to the corruption of demonic power. The Master knew this as well, of course, but he had been clever, never actually touching the blade directly, instead drawing upon its power using his enchantments and the power of the now shattered crystal like a fountain of magical energy. That, at least, was what Darien had learned in his long months of preparation. If he had erred, then he would know in a moment. He took hold of the hilt.
As his fingers wrapped around the silver, he felt his hand clench. He felt the sword's immense power rush through him, filling him with more magical energy than he had thought possible. He clenched his teeth. His hand burned with a terrible fire, while the rest of his arm felt as though it was frozen. A few moments later, and it was over. The burning relented, and he could move his arm again. Even as he did, he felt the change in him. He felt the sword's power commingling with his own. It was complete.
He then strode resolutely out the arched door and into the narrow stone tunnel that led back to the dungeon of Shade Castle. He navigated the winding passage as quickly as he could manage, and then opened the door to the dungeon. A single green skinned, sharp tusked, orc guard watched as he entered the room, perhaps ten yards ahead in the narrow hallway. The orc was no doubt wondering why a half-elf had had just appeared out of the wall, the door was invisible to all who had not the skill to see it. The orc started to run, but the Executioner had covered the distance before the orc could take a step. The orc fell dead without a sound at the slight stroke of the demon sword, and the resolute half-elf continued on. He wound his way through the mazelike passages of the dungeons, killing the few guards he found as easily as the first. He knew these tunnels well. He had witnessed so many horrors here. The dungeon was an evil place, so evil that only the most depraved and violent members of the Order ever came here unbidden. There are, after all, some things that sicken even the wicked. Darien stopped his mind from too long dwelling upon such memories, trying to focus on his task.
Finally, he arrived at the dungeon’s main entrance, a wide straight stone stair that led up to the keep proper. He opened the door just a crack, and seeing no one, he slunk through, and began to climb. He heard no sound, and wondered if the Master had already felt the effects of what he had done. At the top of the stair, he turned left down a narrow hallway lined wit
h hideous yawning gargoyles. Did the Master yet know what had happened, and who was responsible? Beyond the narrow hallway, he opened a small doorway on the left, which led to a spiral staircase. The alarms had not sounded, and he could hear no commotion in the castle. Maybe I will be able to strike without being seen, he thought. These stairs open to a door at the back of the main hall, where the Master sits upon his throne.
Darien climbed the spiral stairs until they ended at a dull brown wooden door, and looked through a small barred window into the hall. Nothing moved in the hall. The Master sat upon his throne. His form was not human, more a monster than a man. He was taller than any man alive, perhaps eight feet, or more. His skin had thickened into a tough, leathery hide, dark red and purple upon his front side to black upon his back. What remained of his hair was coarse and ashen gray. Two small horns grew from the top of his head, above his eyes. He wore black plate armor over his black robes, an inch thick in most places, impossibly heavy. He wore no shoes, the thickened skin of his feet served as well as armor. His hands and feet were clawed, like the talons of a dragon. Killing the Master would not be easy. He had lived for hundreds of years, and many had tried.
Only a few scattered servants scurried about the room. The only defenders present were the Master's personal guard, a group of four great ogres, each as tall as two men and wielding an iron battle ax, chosen for this task because they were the largest and fiercest of their kind. Darien pushed the door open a crack, just wide enough to fit through, and moved out into the room. Years of practice allowed him to easily move through the darkness unseen to most, but against the Master, this was not so great an advantage. He maneuvered himself behind the Master's throne, in the shadow of the tapestries. He focused his mind, and planned his attack; a quick strike was his best chance. He would kill the guard on the back right side, then swiftly slice the Master's neck. A moment later he struck. Time seemed to slow, and the world appeared to move even more slowly around him. He put a dagger in the right hand guard on the back of the neck, disabling the creature instantly. Before the ogre’s body had even time to crumple to the floor, the would-be assassin had already swung the Demon Sword, aiming for the Master’s neck before he or his guards could react. Clang! The sound echoed in the hall.