The Black Road

by Mel Odom

  “That doesn’t explain why you think I can pick up that sword,” Darrick said. He made no move to try.

  “I heard the stories about you when I arrived in Westmarch,” Taramis said. “And I began looking for you. But by the time I’d arrived, you’d vanished. I caught up with your ship, but no one knew where you were. I couldn’t tell many that I was searching for you, because that might have alerted Kabraxis’s minions, and your life could have become forfeit.” He paused, locking his gaze with Darrick’s. “As for the sword, perhaps I’m wrong. If I am, it will prevent you from taking it. You have nothing to lose.”

  Darrick glanced at Ellig Barrows.

  “Over the years before the sword was hidden away,” the old man said, “many tried to take it just as Taramis has. If there was no true evil in their hearts, they were only prevented from removing the sword.”

  Darrick looked at the corpse and the plain sword it held. “Has Hauklin’s sword ever been taken?”

  “Never,” Ellig Barrows said. “Not once from his hand. Not even I can remove it. I have only been made their protector. As my grandson shall be after me.”

  “Try,” Taramis urged. “If you can’t take up the sword, then I’ve come on a fool’s quest and uncovered secrets best left hidden.”

  “Yes,” Ellig Barrows said. “No one has ever come for the sword in my lifetime. I had begun to think the world had forgotten about it. Or that the demon Kabraxis had been permanently banished from this world.”

  Taramis put his hand on Darrick’s shoulder. “But the demon is back,” the sage said. “We know that, don’t we? The demon is back, and the sword should come free.”

  “But am I the one?” Darrick asked in a hoarse voice.

  “You must be,” Taramis said. “I can think of no other. Your friend died in that place. There has to be a reason you were spared. It’s the balance, Darrick. The needs of the Light must always be balanced against the power of the Darkness.”

  Darrick gazed at the sword. The stink of the barn behind his father’s butcher shop returned to him. You’ll never amount to anything! his father had shouted. You’re dumb, and you’re stupid, and you’re going to die dumb and stupid! Days and weeks and years of that rolled through Darrick’s head. Pain tingled through his body again, reminding him of the whippings he’d endured and somehow survived. His father’s voice had often haunted him during the past year, and he’d tried to drown it in wine and spirits, in hard work and bleak disappointment.

  And in the guilt over Mat Hu-Ring’s death.

  Hadn’t that been punishment enough? Darrick stared at the simple sword clasped in the dead man’s hands.

  “And if I can’t take the sword?” Darrick asked in a ragged voice.

  “Then I will search out the true secret,” Taramis said. “Or I will find another way to battle Kabraxis and his accursed Church of the Prophet of the Light.”

  But the sage believed in him, and Darrick knew that. It was almost too much to bear.

  Pushing away his own fears, going numb and dead inside the way he had when he’d faced his father in that small barn in Hillsfar, Darrick stepped toward the dead man. He reached for the sword.

  Inches from the blade’s hilt, his hand froze, and he found he was unable to go any farther.

  “I can’t,” Darrick said, refusing to give in, wanting desperately to be able to pick up the sword and prove his worth even if only to himself.

  “Try,” Taramis said.

  Darrick watched his hand shake with the effort he was making. It felt as if he were pushing against a stone wall. Pain welled up inside him, but it had nothing to do with the sword.

  You’re stupid, boy, and you’re lazy. Not worth the time or the trouble or the food to keep you.

  Darrick fought the barrier, willing his hand to pass through. He pressed his whole body against it now, feeling it support most of his weight.

  “Ease off,” Taramis said.

  “No,” Darrick said.

  “C’mon, lad,” Ellig Barrows said. “It’s not meant to be.”

  Darrick strained for the sword, wanting even another fraction of an inch if he could get it. It felt as if his finger bones were going to pass through the flesh. Pain raced up his arm, and he clenched his teeth against it.

  I should have knocked you in the head the day you were born, boy. That way you wouldn’t have lived to be such a disgrace.

  Darrick reached, in agony now.

  “Give it up,” Taramis said.

  “No!” Darrick said in a loud voice.

  The sage reached for him, gripping him by the shoulder and trying to pull him away.

  “You’re going to get hurt, lad,” Ellig Barrows said. “You can’t force this thing.”

  Pain dimmed Darrick’s hearing. Images of Mat falling from the cliffside spun through his brain again. Guilt filled Darrick, echoed by the worthlessness he felt from his father’s oft-repeated words. For a moment, he thought the pain was going to destroy him, melt him down where he stood. He was locked in the pursuit of the sword, didn’t think he could pull back if he wanted to.

  And where would he go from here after failing this? He had no answers.

  Then a calm, cool voice holding just a hint of mocking amusement filled his head. Take up the sword, skipper.

  “Mat?” Darrick said aloud. He was so surprised at hearing Mat’s voice that he didn’t even realize at first that he had fallen across the corpse, bruising his knees against the earthen floor. Instinctively, his hand curled around the sword’s hilt, but he glanced around the shadows of the crypt looking for Mat Hu-Ring.

  Only Taramis and Ellig Barrows stood there.

  “By the Light,” the old man whispered. “He has taken the sword.”

  Taramis smiled in triumph. “As I told you he would.”

  Darrick gazed down at the dead man so close to him. The corpse felt unnaturally cold.

  “Take the sword, Darrick,” the sage urged.

  Slowly, disbelieving, not knowing if he’d truly heard Mat’s voice or it had been part of some spell that opened the ward protecting the sword or a delusion of his own, Darrick pulled the sword away from the dead warrior. Despite its length and unfamiliar style, the sword felt comfortable in Darrick’s hand. He stood, holding it out before him.

  Something in the scarred and dark metal caught the light of Ellig Barrows’s lantern, glinting dulled silver.

  Tentatively, Taramis reached for the sword, but his hand stopped inches away. “I still cannot touch the sword.”

  The old man tried to touch the weapon as well but with the same results. “Nor can I. None in my family has ever been able to touch the sword. Whenever we moved it, we had to move Hauklin’s body as well.” A note of sadness sounded in the old man’s voice.

  For the first time, Darrick realized that taking the sword would leave the old man and his grandson with nothing to care for or protect. Darrick gazed at the old man. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Ellig Barrows nodded. “All of us who have defended the sword have prayed that this day would come, this day when we would be free of our burden, but to see it actually happen—” Words failed him.

  “Taramis!” one of the men shouted from outside.

  Even as the sage started for the magical door, the sound of inhuman and monstrous yips and growls cascaded into the root cellar.

  Darrick followed the sage, bolting through the racks of foodstuffs and wines, trailed by Ellig Barrows with the lantern. The weak gray daylight pouring through the root cellar door marked the entrance.

  The noise of men fighting, their curses and yells, as well as the growls and howls of the creatures they fought, pummeled Darrick’s ears as he raced up the earthen steps. He was on Taramis’s heels as they burst from the root cellar.

  The clearing around the house, which had moments ago been peaceful and restful, was now filled with battle. Taramis’s warriors formed a quick skirmish line against the bloodthirsty beasts that raged against them from the forest.


  “Lezanti,” Taramis breathed. “By the Light, Kabraxis has found us out.”

  Darrick recognized the demon-forged beasts, but only from tales he’d been told aboard ship. Even in all of his travels, he’d never before encountered the creatures.

  The lezanti stood a little less than five feet tall. They were human-shaped, but they possessed the reverse-hinged knees of a wolf and the thick hide of a lizard. The head was lizard-shaped as well, bearing an elongated snout filled with serrated teeth and flat, flaring nostrils. The eyes were close-set under a hank of wooly hair and surprisingly human. The hands and feet were oversized, filled with huge claws. Lizards’ tails, barbed on the ends, swung around behind them.

  “Archers!” Taramis cried hoarsely as he stood his ground and began weaving his hands through the air, inscribing symbols that flared to flaming life.

  Four warriors took up longbows, stood behind swordsmen, and drew back shafts. They had two arrows away each, dropping the lezanti in their tracks, before the first wave of the creatures reached them. Then the swordsmen held them back with their shields, staggered by the lezantis’ speed, strength, and weight. The clang of flesh meeting steel boomed in the clearing.

  “Darrick,” Taramis said, his hands still moving, “hold the door to the house. There are women and children inside. Hurry.”

  Darrick ran, trusting the line of warriors to protect his back as he made for the small house.

  Taramis unleashed a wave of shimmering force that hit the center of the lezanti pack, scattering them and showering them with flame. Several of the smoldering bodies hung in the trees or landed with bone-breaking thumps against the ground. Only a few of them tried to get up. The archers calmly nocked more shafts and fired again, as cool as any crew Darrick had ever seen. The clothyard shafts drilled into the eyes and throats of their foes, putting them down. But the odds were not in the favor of the warriors. They numbered twenty-six men, including Darrick, and there had to be at least eighty of the lezantis.

  We’re going to die, Darrick thought, but he never once considered running. Hauklin’s mystical sword felt calm and certain in his hand despite the unaccustomed length.

  A scrabbling sound alerted Darrick. He swung around in time to see the lezanti on the roof of the house leap at him, its claws reaching for him.

  Darrick ducked beneath the creature’s attack, set himself as it thudded against the ground. Not dazed even for a moment, the lezanti came up snarling and snapping. The elongated snout shot at Darrick’s head. He parried the head with the sword, then drove a boot into the lezanti’s stomach, doubling it over.

  Still moving, Darrick stepped to the side and brought the sword down in a hand-and-a-half grip that powered the blade into the creature’s side. To his surprise, the sword sliced through the lezanti, dropping it to the ground in halves. The body parts quivered and jerked, then lay still. Blue energy crackled along the sword’s length, and the lezanti’s blood dried and flaked away, leaving the steel clean of it again.

  Men cursed and fought out in the clearing, striving to hold back the merciless horde of creatures. Two men were down, Darrick saw, and others were wounded. Taramis unleashed another bolt of mystical energy, and two of the lezantis were covered in ice, frozen in place, shattering beneath the blades of the warriors who took advantage of their weakness.

  Racing into the house, Darrick surveyed the small room filled with carvings and a few books. Ellig Barrows’s wife, as gray-haired and gaunt as the old man was, stood in the center of the room with her hands over her chest.

  Darrick glanced around at the wide windows in the front wall of the room as well as one of the side walls. There was too much open space; he could never hope to guard the old man’s family there.

  The grandson tugged at a heavy rug that covered the floor. “Help me!” he cried. “There is a hiding place beneath.”

  Understanding, Darrick grabbed the rug in one hand and yanked, baring the trapdoor beneath the material. Many of the homes along the border where the barbarian tribes often crossed over and raided were constructed with security holes. Families could lock themselves beneath the houses and live for days on the food and water stored there.

  The boy’s clever fingers found the hidden latch, and the trapdoor popped up.

  Darrick slid the sword under the trapdoor’s edge and levered it up, revealing the ladder beneath.

  The boy took a lantern from the floor and reached for the old woman. “Come on, Grandmother.”

  “Ellig,” the old woman whispered.

  “He would want you to be safe,” Darrick told her. “Whatever may come of this.”

  Reluctantly, the old woman allowed her grandson to lead her into the hiding place.

  Darrick waited until they were both inside, then closed the trapdoor and dragged the rug back over it. Glass shattered behind him. He rose with the sword in his hand as the lezanti howled in through the broken window and threw itself at him.

  There was little room to work with inside the house. Darrick reversed the sword in his right hand, gripping it so that it ran down his arm to his elbow and beyond. He kept his left hand back but ready, allowing his body to follow the line of the sword.

  The lezanti reached for him. Darrick swung the sword, not allowing it to drift out beyond his body, keeping it in nice and tight as he’d been trained by Maldrin, who had been one of the best Darrick had ever seen at dirty infighting.

  Darrick slapped the lezanti’s claws to one side with the blade, then whipped his body back the other way, reversing the sword still along his arm, and slashed the creature across the face. The lezanti stumbled back, one hand to its ruined eye and crying out in pain. Darrick stepped in, keeping the sword close, and slashed at the creature’s face again. Before it could retreat, he cut the head from its shoulders.

  Even as the decapitated head rolled across the hardwood floor, another lezanti crashed through the door, and a third came through the window overlooking the well and the barn.

  Breath rasping in his throat but feeling calm and centered, Darrick parried the spear the first creature wielded with surprising skill, caught the spear haft under his left arm, and caught it in his left hand. Holding the spear-carrying lezanti back by holding on to the spear, Darrick wheeled, dropped his sword, turned his hand over, caught the weapon in a regular grip before it fell, and chopped an arm from the other lezanti.

  The spear-carrying lezanti shoved forward, trying to drive Darrick backward over a cushioned bench. Darrick pushed the spear out so that the point dug into the wall behind him and halted the lezanti. Releasing the spear, he stepped forward, knowing the one-armed lezanti was closing in on him from behind again. He sliced the lezanti in front of him, shearing its head and one shoulder away, amazed at the sharpness of the sword. With the sword still in motion, he reversed his grip and drove the blade through the chest of the lezanti behind him.

  Energy crackled along the blade again. Before Darrick could kick the lezanti free of the sword, blue flames erupted from where the blade pierced the creature’s chest and consumed it in a flash. Ash drifted to the ground before Darrick’s stunned eyes.

  Before he could recover, another lezanti hurled itself through the broken window on the barn’s side. Darrick succeeded in escaping the fist full of claws the lezanti threw at him but caught the brunt of the creature’s charge. He flew backward, stumbling back through the door, unable to get his balance, and landed on the porch. He flipped to his feet as the lezanti charged again. Ducking this time, Darrick slashed the blade across the creature’s thighs, chopping both legs off. The lezanti’s torso hurtled by overhead and landed in the dirt in front of the porch.

  “They’re after the sword, Darrick!” Taramis called. “Run!”

  Even as he realized what the sage said was true, Darrick knew he couldn’t run. After losing Mat at Tauruk’s Port, and himself for most of the past year, he couldn’t run anymore.

  “No,” Darrick said, rising to his feet. “No more running.” He took a fresh
grip on the sword, feeling renewed strength flow through him. For the moment, all uncertainty drained away from him.

  Several of the lezanti tore past the sprawling bodies of the warriors who had fought them. Nearly half of Taramis’s group lay on the ground. Most of them, Darrick felt certain, wouldn’t rise again.

  Darrick waited on the charging creatures, lifting the sword high in both hands. Seven of them came at him, getting in one another’s way. Energy flickered along the sword’s blade. He slashed at his foes as they came into reach, cutting into them, then stepping through the gap that was filled with the swirling ash the mystical flames left behind. Three had died in that attack, but the other four came around again.

  Regrouping, moving the sword around in his hands as if he’d trained with it all his life, Darrick cut at them, taking off a head, two arms, and a leg, then thrusting into two more creatures and reducing them to swirling ash as well. He stepped over to the creatures he had maimed, piercing their hearts with the enchanted blade and watching them burst into pyres that left the ground scorched.

  Rallied by Darrick’s show of power against the lezantis, the warriors drew up their steel and their courage, and attacked their foes with renewed vigor. The price was high, for men dropped where they stood, but the lezanti died faster. Taramis’s and Ellig Barrows’s spells took their toll among the demon-forged creatures as well, burning them, freezing them, twisting them into obscene grotesqueries.

  Darrick continued battling, drawn by the bloodlust that fired him. It felt good to be so certain and sure of himself, of what he was doing, of what he needed to do. He hacked and slashed and thrust, cleaving through the lezantis that seemed drawn to him.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the lezanti rush toward Ellig Barrows from the side, giving the old man no warning. Knowing he’d never reach the old man in time to prevent the creature’s attack, Darrick reversed his grip on the sword and threw it like a spear without thinking about what he was doing, as if it were something he’d done several times.