But how could he kill something already dead?
The warlock laughed, beckoning. More of the corpses appeared on the stairs, descending from the Tower’s upper levels, their eyes blazing with emerald flames.
Nicodemus stopped at the edge of the stairs. The walking dead were creatures of magic, and it would take Heartwarden’s magic to defeat them. He drew upon the soulblade’s power, and his mind reached out, touching the chains of power binding the dead bodies. He sensed the spell, cold and dark, that forced the corpses to walk and fight.
Nicodemus drew more power into himself, as much as he could hold, until his mind seemed to burn with it. Then he charged through the chamber, striking every corpse he could reach, giving them just as a tap with his blade, the sword’s power pouring into them to fight against the warlock’s dark magic. The corpses stopped for a moment, the fires in their eyes flickering, and the warlock took a few steps backwards.
“Fool!” shouted the warlock. “You have not the power to banish them back to the grave. Kill him! Kill him now!”
The walking dead Nicodemus had touched did not respond.
They turned, burning eyes falling upon the warlock, and attacked.
The warlock shouted in alarm and gestured, green fire bursting from his fingertips. Some of the corpses fell, consumed by the flames, but others kept coming. The warlock backed towards the stairs, the fires crackling from his hands, his full attention upon the walking dead.
So it was easy for Nicodemus to circle around and plunge his sword into the warlock’s back.
The warlock shuddered, clawing at the air, the green fire around his fingertips dying out.
“Master!” snarled the warlock, gesturing at the ceiling. “Master, aid me!”
Then the warlock slumped forward, falling off Nicodemus’s sword. The fires in the animated corpses’ eyes flickered madly.
Then they fell motionless as the dead warlock’s spell expired.
Nicodemus looked at the slain warlock for a moment, and then up at the ceiling.
The orcish warlock had called out for his master. And he still felt the source of dark power radiating from the top of the Tower, like a freezing gale blowing from the mountains.
Another warlock. That was the only answer. The dead warlock must have been serving a more powerful one. And unless Nicodemus slew them both, his Trial was incomplete.
He cleaned the blood from his sword and started up the stairs. He passed through more chambers, each one littered with crumbling bones, the wind moaning through the empty windows.
Then he entered the chamber at the Tower’s crown, and saw the crimson light.
It filled the chamber, painting the marble walls the color of blood. An altar stood in the center of the room, beneath the Tower’s dome, and upon that altar rested a gemstone the size of Nicodemus’s fist. The blood-colored light poured from it, as if a fire raged within the stone's depths.
Even from across the room, even without using Heartwarden, Nicodemus felt the raw power of the thing, the sheer arcane potency.
It was a soulstone, similar to the soulstone embedded at the base of Heartwarden’s blade, but…twisted, corrupted. Warped, somehow.
He took few steps, not wanting to get too close to thing. The power beat upon his brow, and Nicodemus drew on Heartwarden’s magic, using its power to sense the presence of spells. His mind reached out, probing the stone, testing the nature of the magic that bound it.
He gazed at it in amazement.
The soulstone had been infused with raw life force. Out of stolen life force, Nicodemus realized. The warlock must have captured the life forces of his victims, feeding the energy into the soulstone to create a reservoir of power. But such a feat would take subtle skill. The warlock's powers had been strong, but crude. Nicodemus doubted that the orc had possessed the skill to create something like this.
So who had fashioned it? The warlock's master? Another warlock, one stronger and more skilled?
Or worse, a dark elven wizard? An urdmordar?
A footstep clicked against the marble floor.
Nicodemus whirled, raising Heartwarden. A shape in a hooded cloak came up the stairs and stopped.
"Name yourself," said Nicodemus.
The figure sighed, drew back the hood, and Nicodemus found himself looking at the face of Alexius, Magistrius of the Order.
A man known throughout the realm with his subtle skill at magic.
"I hoped you wouldn't have to see this," said Alexius.
"Magistrius?" said Nicodemus, blinking.
Alexius sighed again, shaking his head. "Why couldn't Arban have listened to me? There were any number of tasks suitable for a young Swordbearer’s Trial. Why did he have to send you here, of all places?"
"You made this," said Nicodemus, pointing his sword at the soulstone, "didn't you? Out of stolen life force?"
Alexius said nothing, his face tight with strain.
"And that's...and that's how you've been keeping Julia alive?" said Nicodemus. "You've been killing the travelers, stealing their life force, and feeding it to Julia."
"It was necessary!" said Alexius. "I had to save her. My family is gone, Nicodemus. My wife died of plague. My sons fell in battle against the orcs. Julia was all that I had left, all that I cared about."
Nicodemus shook his head. "But to serve an orcish warlock..."
Alexius laughed. "Is that what you think? That I serve that wretched creature?" He strode to the altar and the glowing gem, holding his hand over it. "I found the warlock, I defeated him, and I forced him to serve me. He gave me the spells of blood sorcery that I needed. And I used that knowledge to save Julia, to keep the disease at bay. But still it was not enough. I needed more. Something capable of curing her. So I twisted the fragment of a high elven soulstone to create this...thing." He looked at Nicodemus. "You judge me? I did what was necessary to save her. You would have done the same, I think."
"No," said Nicodemus, angry now. "No. I saw the corpses of the women, Alexius. Of the children. You murdered them, stole their lives to save Julia's."
"If you truly loved her," said Alexius, "then you would understand."
"Julia would not want to bathe in the blood of innocents to save her own life," said Nicodemus.
Alexius's face hardened. "Then you intend to tell Dux Arban?"
"I must," said Nicodemus. "This...this travesty cannot go unpunished."
Alexius stepped closer. "Then you would let Julia die?"
"Julia is already dead," said Nicodemus. "She was dead the moment the disease took her. What you've done...what you've done has given her a few months of additional suffering in exchange for innocent blood."
Alexius grimaced. "So be it. I will not permit you to threaten my daughter. I will not!"
And the Magistrius Alexius drew a sword and jumped into the air, moving with spell-enhanced speed and strength.
Nicodemus just got his blade up in time. Alexius struck again, and again, his blade flickering and stabbing like a storm of steel. Nicodemus backed away, whipping Heartwarden back and forth in a frantic effort to block. Somehow he managed to keep Alexius from skewering him like a roast. He stepped back and drew Heartwarden’s power into himself, preparing to attack.
Alexius thrust out his palm.
Invisible force hammered into Nicodemus, throwing him towards the wall. He fought back with Heartwarden’s magic and managed to cancel the spell, skidding to an awkward stop a few feet from the altar. Alexius had been a Magistrius for years, and his magical strength and skill was considerable.
Nicodemus could not match him.
But Nicodemus was younger, stronger, and a better swordsman. If he could close with the older man, Nicodemus could end the fight.
Alexius stalked forward, blade drawn back, hand raised in the beginnings of another spell. Nicodemus charged, and leaped forward in a magically-enhanced leap, both hands around the hilt of his sword. Alexius’s eyes widened in surprise, and he only just got his blade up in time t
o parry. The shock of the blow knocked the older man back on his heels, and Nicodemus struck again and again, putting all his muscle and Heartwarden’s power behind the blows. Alexius’s face tightened with strain, sweat pouring down his face.
Nicodemus drove Alexius against the far wall, preparing to finish the fight.
But Alexius dodged and threw out his hand, unleashing his power. His will struck like a falling boulder, and Nicodemus hurtled backwards to land hard against the altar. He shook off the blow and staggered back to his feet, sword raised to block any following attacks.
Green fire crackled around the fingers of Alexius’s outstretched hand, the same green fire Nicodemus had seen the orcish warlock use.
“Orcish blood spells, Magistrius?” said Nicodemus. “Have you fallen so far?”
“I’m sorry it has come to this, Nicodemus,” said Alexius. “In a just world, you would have been my son by marriage. But it is not a just world, is it? If I must choose between your life and Julia’s, I will choose Julia’s. And if I must kill you…then why should your life go to waste, when it might save Julia’s?”
A chain of green fire erupted from his hand.
Nicodemus called on Heartwarden’s power, but he had never seen a spell like this. Alexius had taken the warlock’s sorcery and improved it, refined it. The chain of emerald flame wrapped around Nicodemus’s throat, and he fell to his knees, gagging. His stomach churned with nausea, and he felt a horrible cold numbness spread through him.
Alexius’s spell was draining away his life force, he realized. This was how the Magistrius had created that soulstone, stealing the life energies of his victims one by one and storing them in that stone. Nicodemus fought back, trying to dispel the burning chain, but it sank deeper into his skin.
“Stop fighting,” murmured Alexius. “It will cause you less pain that way.”
The spell’s grip sunk deeper into Nicodemus, and he felt it threaten to rip away his life. He did not have the strength or skill to fight it off. Desperation took hold of him. He would not let his life be used as fuel for Alexius’s crimes. He would not!
He could not fall upon his sword, not without Alexius stopping him. But he still had the vial of poison in his belt. Better to die quickly than to let Alexius steal away his life.
Nicodemus snatched the vial from his belt and downed the yellow poison. It tasted horrible, and burned as it dripped down his throat.
Alexius frowned. “What is this? Some elixir. Do you…”
The burning vanished from Nicodemus’s throat and chest.
The chain of green flame flickered.
And then it turned a rancid yellow.
“No!” shouted Alexius, but the yellow light shot up the chain and drained into him. The chain flickered and vanished, and Alexius fell to his knees, gagging and coughing.
Nicodemus blinked and got to his feet. Alexius had been draining away his life force, and the spell had suctioned away the poison, channeling it into Alexius’s body.
“Nicodemus,” whispered Alexius.
Nicodemus came closer, sword ready. But Alexius was no threat. Blood filled his eyes, the veins in his hands and temples turning a malignant shade of yellow.
Julia’s father was dying.
“The soulstone,” said Alexius, waving a shaking hand at the altar. “Take it. It’s almost done. It should work. Take it…take it to Julia and use it. It can cure her. It can cure her.”
“No,” said Nicodemus, disgusted. “You want me to use that vile thing? Julia would never allow it…”
“Do not!” rasped Alexius, seizing Nicodemus’s wrist in a shaking hand. “Do not…do not let it have been for nothing. It disgusts you that I slew those travelers? It was…it was a terrible thing I did, yes. A terrible thing. But do not let their deaths have been in vain. Take the gem! Save Julia! Save her, save her…”
Alexius slumped back against the marble floor, eyes staring into nothing.
Nicodemus stared at the dead man for a moment. Then he crossed to the altar, lifting Heartwarden, ready to smash it down upon the soulstone.
He hesitated.
Alexius, dead for nothing.
All those travelers, dead for nothing.
And Julia, dying. The sword trembled in Nicodemus’s grasp. Could the gem save her? If Alexius had indeed created something that could save Julia’s life, whatever the cost…did Nicodemus have the right to destroy it?
He stared at the glowing gem, and at last made up his mind.
###
A few days later Nicodemus laid warlock's rotting head before Lord Arban’s seat.
“It is done,” said Nicodemus. “And the Magistrius Alexius is dead. He…disagreed with your decision, my lord, and went to slay the warlock before I arrived. The creature proved too much for him, I fear.”
Arban closed his eyes, sighed, and bade the Swordbearer Nicodemus, now an adopted cousin of the House of Arban, to rise.
###
That night Nicodemus climbed to the tower room. Julia lay upon the bed, eyes closed, brow damp with sweat, chest rising and falling. She looked worse. Without Alexius channeling stolen life force into her, she would die in a matter of hours.
He took a deep breath and laid the blood-colored gem upon her chest. Crimson light flooded the chamber, the stolen life pouring into Julia, and the soulstone dissolved into nothingness.
Her eyes shot open, and she sat up with a gasp, the gray tinge gone from her face.
“Nicodemus?” Julia whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Where…where is my father?” she said, looking around.
Nicodemus closed his eyes.
“He sacrificed himself for you,” he said at last.
THE END
Thank you for reading THE SOULBLADE'S TALE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review. You can read a novel set in the world of Andomhaim, FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT, at this link. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page. You can also read some of my free ebooks here.
Turn the page to read the first chapter of FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT.
Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT
A letter to the surviving kings, counts, and knights of Britain:
I am Malahan Pendragon, the bastard son of Mordred, himself the bastard son of Arthur Pendragon, the High King of all Britain.
You know the grievous disasters that have befallen our fair isle. My father betrayed my grandfather, and perished upon the bloody field of Camlann, alongside many of the mightiest knights and kings of Britain. Before that came the war of Sir Lancelot’s treachery and the High Queen’s adultery, a war that slew many noble and valiant knights.
Now there is no High King in Britain, Camelot lies waste, and the pagan Saxons ravage our shores. Every day the Saxons advance further and further, laying waste to our fields and flocks, butchering our fighting men, making slaves of our womenfolk, and desecrating holy churches and monasteries. Soon all of Britain shall lie under their tyranny, just as the barbarians overthrew the Emperor of Rome.
My lords, I write not to claim the High Kingship of Britain – for Britain is lost to the Saxons – but to offer hope. My grandfather the High King is slain, and his true heir Galahad fell seeking the grail, so therefore this burden has fallen to me, for there is no one else to bear it.
Britain is lost, but we may yet escape with our lives.
For I have spoken with the last Keepers of Avalon, and by their secret arts they have fashioned a gate wrought of magic leading to a far distant realm beyond the circles of this world, certainly beyond the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here we may settle anew, and build homes and lives free from the specter of war.
I urge you to gather all your people, and join me at the stronghold of Caerleon. We shall celebrate the feast of Easter one final time, and then march to the plain of Salisbury, to the standing stones raised by the wizard Merlin.
The gate aw
aits, and from there we shall march to a new home.
Sealed in the name of Malahan Pendragon, in the Year of Our Lord 538.
###
The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.
He gazed at the town huddled behind its walls of gray stone, his left hand gripped tight around a long wooden staff. He had not been here in over five years, not since the great battle against Mhalek and his horde of orcs, and then Dun Licinia had been little more than a square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland.
Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people, fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the south.
Ridmark’s father had always said there was good mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.
And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose behind Ridmark.
He walked for the town’s northern gate, swinging his staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him. When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek’s horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty.
Perhaps no one would recognize him.
Freeholders and the freeholders’ sons toiled in the fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure.
The Soulblade's Tale Page 2
