Bladeborn

by Clayton Schonberger

  Bladeborn saw a large metal brazier and maneuvered toward it, keeping the bugs on the other side of the small arena. When close enough, he picked up the heavy brazier and heaved it onto the closer Rat-bug. The thing was smashed, its tail twitching straight up when it died.

  The other was quickly closing on him. Bladeborn brandished his saber and sprang at the bug, cutting the end of its tail most of the way though, and stomping with both feet where two segments of it joined. It had been close, but the second grandfather Rat-bug was dead.

  He looked about and found an empty jar with a soft wood stopper, then squeezed the rat-bug venom into it. That much poison of the Rat-bug would be a treasure to an alchemist—one such as Thustral the Damned—so he didn’t let it go to waste.

  In the back of the room were steps and a small balcony; he climbed the steps. The walls of the room above were lined with many moldy tomes. He opened one of the tomes and found it contained writings on bizarre subjects like Demonology, Devils, and dissection.

  In another infernal book, he flipped pages to a passage claiming Devils had fire for blood. Yet another book told of the gains to be had in life if bargaining for souls.

  “Bargaining for souls,” Bladeborn said under his breath in amazement.

  He found dozens of books beyond that—almost a lifetime’s reading.

  One book that looked especially interesting was a small treatise on dragons. Skimming it, he read about the two types of dragons, both powerful and dangerous: the dreadful pit dragon, and its greater cousin, the blood dragon. Reading further, he came to know of a dragon’s deadly fire breath, its powerful magic, and its size-shifting ability. He pocketed the tome, leaving the other books, maybe to destroy later.

  Investigating the room at the top of the stair further, Bladeborn discovered a dusty apartment. With all the other features of this floor and the one below, he decided the area would serve well as a secret retreat. The chilling laughter of the skull would likely scare people away.

  Back in the large room below, in the center of the sandy pit, Bladeborn found a picked-clean set of bones; the only completely intact skeleton in the place. It was a small skeleton, that of a young woman, he guessed. He said a prayer for her, imagining she had become trapped in the infernal location and fallen into the pit.

  In the following weeks Bladeborn repeated the journey to the rooms of the laughing skull many times. He found a secret door in the back that let into an irrigated lower-City farm floor—an endless supply of food and water. Many mushrooms, cavern carrots, darkmelons, and various grotto gourds grew there. He realized that he would no longer have to eat so poorly, because all he needed could be stolen from the vast farm when the workers were away.

  After months of eating his fill, studying in the library, and exploring other lost parts of Fortress City, Bladeborn was restless. He had everything he could hope for—relatively safe lodgings, food, and the ability to meet the challenges the City presented to him. His conversation with Brother Grumrig had made him feel more independent and more alive. He vowed that he would never again sink as low as he once had and allow himself to lose hope. Now, with his confidence returned, he desired more—but the nature of it was uncertain.

  Unlike most people, Bladeborn now believed there was a world beyond the walls of Fortress City. Many of the books in the apartment’s library described it. The books spoke of Elves, Dwarves, trolls, Ogres…many races of an intelligent nature, and many different beasts such as plated elephants and giant cats.

  The more he knew, the more Bladeborn longed to be free of the City and see the sun. Why Onar the Acolyte had claimed the sun was Bladeborn’s sign was unknown. He thought Thustral would know something about his relation to the sun…and so he planned to ask him.

  Bladeborn brought a few of the infernal tomes he possessed to Thustral. One book he shared was especially disturbing.

  Alarmed after translating a passage, Thustral whispered, “This book speaks of Zipzorag, young man, and the reason for the rituals done here in Fortress City! Within our walls, through the rites of blood, Zipzorag is progressively becoming immune to physical harm!”

  “So, we avoid this creature,” Bladeborn said simply.

  Thustral frowned. “It is not so easy. This is a concern of all sane men within Fortress City.”

  “I must go, Thustral,” Bladeborn said. “But before I do, I wish to know what you found when you read my aura.”

  “I have yet to do it, Bladeborn, these things take time! You will either have to wait or do the reading yourself!”

  “I will never become a Wizard of that kind, Thustral,” Bladeborn said.

  “You are right, it is unlikely. You prefer the shiv, like many rogues do…or the saber, perhaps?”

  Bladeborn’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the weapon hidden beneath his cloak.

  “Be wary of carrying a sword, young warrior,” Thustral cautioned.

  “What are you suggesting?” Bladeborn demanded.

  Thustral glowered, “I would be merely a fool of an old man if I did not sense such things. And furthermore, you should know that those rings you are wearing can protect you when all else fails. Keep them on your fingers at all times.”

  “I will never take them off,” Bladeborn confirmed.

  “I know that you explore deep reaches of the City…Searching for a way out, perhaps?” Thustral inquired rhetorically. “…Beware if you delve into the depths…An encounter with Zipzorag would be the end of you.”

  * * *

  Although Thustral trusted Bladeborn, the Wizard required a great price for his teachings. Bladeborn had to keep Thustral supplied with candles and sacred water to learn from him. Yet he taught Bladeborn how to avoid the curses that had been a problem for years.

  Thustral said, “You now know how to protect yourself using the cleansing chant. Keep the magic fresh, and a hex from the Shaft Police spell-casters and other minor Wizards will not harm you.”

  “We shall see,” Bladeborn said, guardedly.

  “As for the saber,” Thustral mentioned, “I have determined it is an old Undead Hunter’s weapon. The faint green light it casts comes from remnants of the spirits it was used upon…remarkable, yes, but not unique. At one time, there were horrid creatures know as Skeletal Lords roaming freely among the populace, feeding and speeding their particular disease.”

  “What of my scabbard?” Bladeborn asked. “You indicated it was unique.”

  “Harrumph!” Thustral cleared his throat in disgust. “The scabbard, from which you foolishly pried a ruby, is a thing of high magic. I do not know where the Skeletal Lord came by such a treasure, but the scabbard is a priceless foci of healing Essence. It compliments your natural healing ability.”

  “What natural ability?” Bladeborn asked.

  Thustral predicted, “You will come to know more of it as time passes.”

  Bladeborn wondered what Thustral would do with the Rat-bug venom, and asked about it.

  “It gives me hope,” Thustral said forebodingly.

  “Hope?” Bladeborn asked. “Poison gives you hope?”

  “Hope that the enemy’s weakness is what I suspect. Now go! Today’s lessons are over!”

  At regular intervals, Bladeborn used the cleansing chant to remove the hexes aimed at him—curse spells, which he knew to be things of dark magic. It could only be as Brother Grumrig said: many powerful Wizards following the path to the Abyss worked for the Shaft Police, doing evil and gaining power.

  In the library above the rooms of the laughing skull, Bladeborn read about many kinds of fish, animals and other creatures that once lived outside Fortress City. He particularly loved the hawk—a creature that could fly. He read about Lizardmen, and how they seldom took sides in war. He found an illustration indicating that Jerzee was simply a very small ogre.

  He had learned elements of magic from Thustral, and more from his reading. As this learning progressed, he found that he had something of a natural aptitude for psychic spells. With that a
wareness, Bladeborn grew eager to fully explore the avenues opened to him. However, staying safe and fed took up most of his time, and he lacked the hours necessary to devote himself to these Essence-based arts.

  Through it all he kept wearing the rings to ward off many common hexes, and gaining skills that seemed to radiate from the scabbard that Thustral had called priceless. Before he was twenty-five, Bladeborn was becoming a magician with the Essence of a much older spellcaster. Onar had put Bladeborn on the path of magic, Thustral had helped to keep him there, but now Bladeborn was progressing in his own way.

  One day, upon entering Thustral’s laboratory, Bladeborn found the Wizard passed out at his desk. As far as Bladeborn knew, the old Wizard seldom slept.

  “Thustral!” Bladeborn called out, concerned. “Awaken, man! I have the holy candles you have asked for…”

  “What?” Thustral exclaimed, startled. “It is you!”

  “Who else would it be?” Bladeborn said, surprised by the Wizard’s abnormal behavior. “Your door was ajar, so I let myself in! You are the one who tells me of the danger this deep beneath the City, yet you sleep with the door open!”

  “I have had a vision,” Thustral said, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “You…have a very old soul, Bladeborn…One that stretches past comprehension. I have taught you all I can at this point. The rest you will have to discover on your own.”

  “What is this?” Bladeborn said in disbelief. “You are the one who schooling me in magic.”

  “Death will find you some day, Bladeborn. And then your story will begin…Leave me now. I must rest.”

  “Death? What do you mean by that?” Bladeborn said, frustrated. “Thustral! Awaken!” He shook the old Hedge Wizard but could not awaken him.

  Bladeborn let Thustral sleep at his desk. Standing watch outside his door, Bladeborn felt Thustral’s prophecy of death was more meaningful than it appeared.

  Hours passed until he heard the old man begin to shuffle around in his lab again. Feeling that his duty was fulfilled, Bladeborn went back to the room of the laughing skull.

  Bladeborn’s quest for knowledge of certain subjects took him took him to high levels of Fortress City, where very old books in curiosity shops could be found. To access those vendors of antiquities he had to painstakingly forge special papers and move with extreme caution to hide who he was. He read the books in brief moments so his interest in the obscure and arcane would not raise suspicion.

  On the upper levels of the City, in a reading room which specialized in prayer books, a Noble Priest spoke to Bladeborn, “This is a good read, young one; pay heed to the pages I have marked.”

  The priest, dressed in Royal finery, had passed him a book, and Bladeborn moved away quickly, thinking he had been recognized. The Royal Priest wore a golden symbol of Morth set with precious stones.

  The holy man left Bladeborn holding the recommended book, and as Bladeborn was about to read it, he heard the librarian say, “Oh! Bishop Auxi! I was reading and I didn't see you come in! Welcome, it is an honor, sire! Is there anything I can do for you today?”

  “Go back to your reading, my son,” Bishop Auxi said evenly to the librarian as he was leaving.

  Bladeborn read passages from the book that had been recommended. It was about Emperor Eshumé and how he had held the Sword of the Ancients. Flipping through the pages, he read about Emperor Eshumé’s war with the Rhinolon. The campaign was going well until the human army reached an enormous swamp where a battle was lost. Eshumé fled that battle with only a few personal Guards.

  What fascinated Bladeborn most about the book were the parts about the Sword: it emanated bolts of lightning; it “spoke” to the Emperor with keen intelligence; and it controlled the most obscure functions of Fortress City. In the end, the Emperor had insisted that he be buried with The Sword of the Ancients, vowing that the other Royals would never wrest it from his grip.

  Bladeborn was about to slip the book into the folds of his shirt and try to walk out with it, when the Shaft Police Supreme Captain came storming in.

  “Was the Bishop of Morth just in here?” he demanded of the librarian.

  “Why y-yes. I mean yes, sir, Grux, sir!” the librarian stammered. Bladeborn was nervous also, noting the vicious-looking flail at the Supreme Captain Grux’s side.

  “What did he do?” Questioned Grux.

  The librarian tripped over his words, trying to explain.

  Grux yelled, “Out with it, man! I have neither the time nor the inclination to talk to you any more than is necessary!”

  “Why—I am so sorry sir but I do not know!” the librarian finally answered. “He came in so quietly and I was reading and…”

  “You had better learn to watch your shop more closely,” barked Grux.

  “Sir, it's not a shop; it's a reading room,” said the librarian.

  “Whatever it is, I could have this placed closed for some of the books you've got here—like that one you are reading now! Did you know that text has been banned for two years, you criminal?”

  “No sir! But I'll check my list of banned books and cart them out immediately—today!”

  “See to it,” the Supreme Captain said. “Or you'll be in the dungeons before you have time to lock the door on this ‘reading room’ of yours.”

  After the Shaft Police leader left, Bladeborn made his way to the pressurelift with the book hidden under his clothes. Taking the book was even more dangerous with the leader of the Shaft Police about. Grux was the one who had cut off Angres’ hand years earlier. He was not a man to be trifled with. But the story of Eshumé and the Sword of the Ancients was a rare find. Bladeborn returned to his rooms and read it cover to cover.

  One day, Bladeborn found a secret door deep within Fortress City. It led to a dusty back-corridor of the City’s lower reaches, stopping at a wall made of uncharacteristic red pottery slabs and weak mortar. Half-buried in the broken bricks was a marker with the Shaft Police logo on it. A skull was carved in the pock-marked surface.

  “A long-forgotten warning from the Shaft Police?” Bladeborn thought. “Whatever lies on the other side will be worth seeing!” He went back to the rooms of the Laughing Skull for an oil lamp. By the brighter light it cast, he could see the wall was composed of many layers of brick, but the top was falling apart.

  It took two days of work to widen the opening enough to pass through to the other side.

  Bladeborn had never seen anything like the maze beyond the wall. He knew the crypts, running endlessly in downward spirals. Yet this maze was not so deep, nor were there niches for the dead. It was different from other places, seeming to be a massive, undiscovered section of the lower levels. He could hear the dripping of water and sliding of old, metal fan blades echoing in the darkness ahead.

  Cautiously, Bladeborn proceeded, finding a hidden trap doubtless set long ago by whoever wanted to keep the area secret. This led him to consider the architecture of the lower City, especially a nearby part that he had never seen before. There were no secret ways into it, at least, until now.

  Bladeborn was refilling his lamp with oil when he heard a loud “Burrup!” from some sort of animal. With the lamp lit he saw a large orange lump with googly eyes and little hands out front.

  “Burrup!” it said again, inhaling and exhaling from a purple air sack under its jaw. Bladeborn realized it was a giant bullfrog—a rarity he had only read about.

  A few insects buzzed around in the light of Bladeborn’s lamp. The giant bullfrog spat a gob of acid at them. Half hit Bladeborn’s hand and he dropped the lamp, which shattered, flaring up. The bright light scared the giant bullfrog away.

  Bladeborn quickly cleaned his hand with his cloak. The light, still burning, would be gone soon, so he drew the saber. By its dim light he proceeded forward, keeping an eye out for other “frogs.” Acid spit! The books he read about frogs had never mentioned such a thing!

  In this part of the maze were many stalls like a large abandon marketplace. He followed the main t
unnel, finally reaching a huge, blocked archway. The bricks laid in the tunnel had also been knocked down or previously dug out. He thought perhaps the caustic frogs had weakened sections of the mortar in the bricks as they moved around.

  Eventually, Bladeborn found the entrance to a cavernous area, one so open it was only rivalled in fortress city by the Arena of Blood. Fascinated, he moved around the place’s walls, which were covered with giant, condensed salt crystals. He walked out into what seemed to be a dried pond and found the long-forgotten wreckage of several “boats” and “ships.” These were the first life-sized ones he had ever seen.

  He climbed onto the deck of the old, rotting ship and went into a cabin. The old wood was so dry each step he took made the ship groan and creak terribly. Looking through the remains of a desk, he found some old charts with markings and measurements. The charts were like ones he had seen in the rooms of the Laughing skull, so he left them.

  Upon further exploration, Bladeborn found an area where these “ships” were possibly constructed. A rotting, insect-ridden store of unusual wood was laid out in warped planks, along with tools. And what could only be plans for a ship were there. He read the plans and learned that the ship was called the “Firedrake.”

  Further amazed, Bladeborn discovered what looked to be the platform of a pressurelift going up a shaft. An enormous amount of red bricks nearly buried it. If his observations had been less painstaking he would have overlooked it entirely. Over the course of a day he removed the fallen stone. After hours of hard work, he had mostly cleared the platform of debris, finding a pressurelift control lever.

  As Bladeborn finished removing the stone, he pondered his discovery, knowing that curiosity could be a foolhardy influence. He decided he would go up in the pressurelift, despite the danger. He wished to complete his explorations and that meant following the pressurelift upwards. He dreamed of finding wealth somewhere at the top, although it seemed unlikely. He knew he could be trapped if the old lift got jammed… or the lift could fail and plunge down, taking him on a ride to his death.