The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  He never made it.

  A deafening scream pierced the air, freezing him to the bone. His legs gave way, sending him tumbling back onto the ground. He cried out as something grabbed his foot and began to pull. He clawed desperately at the ground, his screams echoing across the foothills.

  And then: silence.

  “The horrors of the Void are unleashed. First, the Kingdom of Alnor fell, its people scattered to the four winds. Soon this evil will reach our borders, and I am afraid”

  – King Erindor of Retbit

  2.

  Alther paused outside his front door and tilted his head to listen. Even at his old age, he could hear the scream. He sighed deeply and looked at Oscar, who was staring out into the darkness. The little dog knew that scream well. The animal shook and whined in fear.

  “Easy now, boy, we are safe here,” Alther said softly as he bent over and stroked the dog gently behind his ears.

  He sighed again and shook his head before taking a key from his pocket. He unlocked the heavy oak front door and stepped into his home. The place was small. It comprised of a small living area, a tiny kitchen and a bedroom which was located at the rear of the property. He pulled gently on Oscar’s lead to coerce the still shaking dog inside.

  Once inside, he removed his cloak and hung it from the wooden stand that stood next to the front door. He took a small stone from a bowl that was on the kitchen counter and rubbed it. The firestone flared to life, casting its light and pushing back the darkness of night. Holding it in front of him, Alther walked through his little house to his bedroom, the dog following at his heels.

  “Tomorrow we will investigate that field, but first, I need some sleep,” he muttered to himself before he took off his shirt and climbed awkwardly into his bed.

  He sighed happily as his head hit the pillow. Oscar jumped onto the bed and curled into a ball at the bottom. It wasn’t long before dog and master were snoring peacefully.

  * * *

  The next morning, Alther got up with the sunrise. After eating a breakfast of boiled eggs and bread, he had dressed, picked up his walking stick and headed off to the fields, with Oscar at his side. Walking through town, he noticed the forlorn looks on the townsfolks’ faces. Some of the women looked as though they had been crying, whilst the men looked angry and afraid. Eventually, he reached the centre of the town, and there he found a small crowd of people. Standing in front of the crowd was a short man wearing a white wig. It was the symbol of office for the town mayor. Alther recognised Tomas standing with his arms crossed at the rear of the crowd, and made his way over to him.

  “What’s going on here, then?” Alther asked.

  Tomas nodded to him in greeting. “The mayor is trying to calm these idiots,” the butcher explained. “They seem to think something evil occurred last night. I heard the screaming, we all did. I reckon it was just some animals. My grandpappy always said that wolves roamed the woods; t’was nothing but they that we heard last night.”

  Alther kept quiet. Best to let the butcher and the townsfolk believe the scream was wolves or some other wild animal. If it turned out to be what Alther suspected, then panic would probably be the result.

  A woman stood in front of them, turned and held a finger to her lips to silent the loud-mouthed butcher. Tomas glared at the woman indignantly. Alther pushed his way closer to the front of the crowd; his hearing wasn’t what it used to be.

  “Please, folks, calm down,” the mayor pleaded weakly. “I know what we all heard last night was scary, but I can assure you that there is nothing to worry about. The town Marshal has assured me that he and his men have the situation under control.”

  The man was in his late forties, short and fat. His wide head was covered by the wig of his office that he constantly readjusted to stop it from falling off. His clothes were of those of a nobleman, but were far too tight for his bulbous stomach. His face was always flushed red, either because of too much ale or constant embarrassment, Alther had never decided which.

  “What happened to farmer Sammi, then?” a man in the crowd called out. “His missus says he’s gone and disappeared!”

  “Now, now, don’t go listening to gossip, Mr Copple. I am sure Sammi has just gone on a fishing trip or something,” the mayor replied.

  Alther rolled his eyes. Small town people seemed to be the best at denial. Satisfied that something mysterious was afoot, Alther walked on past the crowd and towards the edge of town. He crossed the little stone bridge again and, as was his custom, touched the large rune stone that stood on the little islet.

  It was ten in the morning by the time he reached the old road leading to Farmer Sammi’s fields. Barring his way stood Yil and Dillon, the Marshal’s two thick deputies. Yil was the older and taller of the two. He was nineteen years old, with a brain the size of a peanut. His long, thin face was covered in acne, and his chin was flecked with wisps of blond facial hair. Dillon meanwhile was younger still at sixteen. He too was tall and skinny, with a head of shaved black hair. Both of the lads carried heavy sticks – only the Marshal carried a proper weapon. The two lads were bickering amongst themselves when Alther appeared on the road. Upon seeing him, Yil barred the path.

  “Where do ya think you’re going, old man? Marshal told us not to let anybody through.”

  Alther sighed in irritation. “I am just out for a walk. Let me pass, lad. I am old; I don’t have enough time left of my life to waste it bickering with you idiots.”

  Yil’s eyes widened in surprise at the response before narrowing. He hefted his stick and began to smack it onto his palm.

  “You shouldn’t talk to us like that, old man. We are the Marshal’s deputies; we represent the king’s law. You should show us show respect.”

  Dillon moved to stand next to his companion, a sneer on his spotty adolescent face.

  “Respect? I should show you the back of my hand. Now get out of my way,” Alther warned. The two deputies moved towards him menacingly. Alther sighed again. The stupidity of youth!

  Yil pressed his face close to Alther’s.

  “Turn around. I will not tell you again,” he said, waving the stick in his hand about threateningly.

  “I did warn you, boy,” Alther muttered.

  With a speed that took the lads by surprise, Alther grabbed Yil’s stick and wrenched it out of his grasp. The old man then threw it into the bushes that lined the road. For a moment, the two deputies gawped in surprise at the speed of it all.

  “What the?” Yil exclaimed. “Dillon hit him!”

  The younger deputy raised his stick and yelled a high-pitched battle cry. He swung the heavy wood at Alther’s head. The old man raised his walking stick, easily parrying the blow. All the while, little Oscar was yapping and growling at the Marshal’s deputies. Knocked off balance Dillon staggered forward. Alther stepped aside and stuck out his foot. The boy tripped landing face first onto the gravelled road with a crash.

  Yil gawped at the old man. Dillon was sobbing on the ground and holding his knees where he had cut them on the gravel. Alther raised a thick bushy grey eyebrow.

  “I have bested you two idiots, now get out of my way,” he snapped, as though scolding young children. He shouldered his way past the stunned Yil and strode up the road. He didn’t look back as Yil helped his sobbing colleague up.

  The further along the road he went, the thicker the treeline on his right became. He paused for a moment and closed his eyes. The sounds of songbirds and insects flitting about came back to him. Opening his eyes again he observed the vegetation at the roadside. It was lush, green and healthy. It was as he expected still so close to the town.

  Pressing on, he came to a wooden gate which led into the second of Sammi’s fields. A small flock of sheep was happily grazing away. Alther looked sternly at Oscar as though to warn the dog to stay on his best behaviour.

  Oscar looked at his master, his mouth open and his long tongue panting in the warming sunlight. Satisfied that Oscar would behave, Alther pushed open
the gate and entered the field. Some of the sheep looked up at him before returning to their grazing.

  It took another half hour before he arrived at the boundary of the fourth field. As he suspected, the vegetation lining its boundary with the forest had changed. Instead of vibrant greenery, the trees were gnarled and bare of leaves. Instead of flowers, there were thorns and thistles. The bones of Sammi’s cows remained, but the blood had dried, turning the grass a rusty brown colour.

  Alther hesitated. Standing in the centre of the field was a man wearing a cloth cap and a chainmail cuirass. At his hip was a steel sword. Alther recognised the man: it was Midlake’s Marshal, Jorin. The man was tall and muscular, despite his fifty years of age. A thick greying beard covered much of his face, and his brown eyes, unlike his deputies’, radiated intelligence. The Marshal twirled a blade of grass between his fingers, a curious expression on his face.

  “I served in the king’s Legion for over twenty years and I’ve never seen anything like this … except that one time …” he mumbled to himself.

  Alther coughed, and the Marshal to nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. The Marshal swore loudly, making Alther smile. He always enjoyed the reactions of people taken off-guard. Most reacted like the Marshal, but there were some odd folks who didn’t react much at all.

  “You scared me half to death, Alther,” the Marshal grumbled. “What are you doing here? I told those two idiot deputies to guard the road.”

  “Forgive me, Marshal,” Alther said. “Scaring you was not my intention. As for your deputies, let’s just say I was insistent. As for why I am here, I reckon it’s for the same reason you are. Something occurred here, something that I hoped to never encounter again.”

  Alther walked over to the Marshal and took the blade of grass from his hand. It was icy cold to the touch and as hard as iron.

  “Do you know what did this?” the Marshal asked, suspicion heavy in his tone.

  “Perhaps. Tell me, are the rumours in the town of Sammi’s disappearance true?”

  The Marshal paled slightly and nodded. He gestured for Alther to follow him as he walked through the field. The blood of the slain cattle had now dried, turning the grass a ruddy brown. The Marshal stopped and crouched.

  “I found this.”

  In the ground were deep gouge marks, as though someone had desperately clawed at the ground. Alther followed the marks. They led into the nearby trees.

  “There are no footprints. Whatever dragged Sammi off appears to have not touched the ground,” the Marshal said, confusion in his voice.

  Alther tapped his chin, deep in thought. Oscar sat at his feet and stared into the dark forest. The dog was growling softly as though it could sense something watching them from the trees. After a long moment, Alther turned to the Marshal.

  “I suggest you cordon off this field and tell the townsfolk to stay away from the forest,” Alther said seriously. “I also suggest that you hire some new deputies or buy them some swords. Silver ideally.”

  “You know what happened here don’t you? Tell me, Alther. I need to know.”

  Alther sighed. To say it would make it real, and once it was real he would have to intervene. So much for a peaceful retirement. He faced the Marshal.

  “I believe a Fell Beast of the Void is responsible for the occurrences in this field. I know this because I was … I am a Nightblade.”

  The Marshal’s expression was a picture. He looked at the old man as though he were mad. Alther scowled at the reaction; he had seen it often over the years. The disbelieving looks always changed when the monsters were clawing at their doors or dragging their women and children off into the night.

  “Believe me or not, I do not care. What I am saying is the truth. The thing that killed the cattle in this field and dragged off poor farmer Sammi is a banshee, one of the most dangerous types of Fell Beast. It leaves no footprints, no trace but the cold corruption it brings with it. Cordon off this field, Marshal, or more citizens of Midlake will share the farmer’s fate.”

  “How do we stop the hosts of the Void rampaging throughout our world? How is man to stand against such terrors? Is this our punishment? Is this why Lord Niveren abandoned his people?”

  – a monk of the order of Niveren.

  3.

  It was late afternoon by the time Alther returned home. After a lot of persuading, he had managed to convince the Marshal to heed his advice. The two men had parted ways in Midlake’s square with the Marshal heading to the blacksmith to see about getting his hands on some new weapons. Alther had warned him that a silver blade would be incredibly expensive, as the precious metal was only handed out to the realm’s blacksmiths in small quantities. The bulk of it was sent straight from the mines of Balnor to the king’s Legion and the mage city of Caldaria far to the north. Once back inside his house, Alther headed for his small bedroom and the large wardrobe that dominated the wall. Slowly, he opened the doors and pushed aside some of the clothes hanging within. At the back was a cloth sack which he pulled out. Almost reverently, he placed the sack onto the bed and undid the string that held it closed.

  “It’s been a while. Wonder if it still fits,” he muttered to himself. Oscar leapt onto the bed and sniffed the bag excitedly. Alther smiled.

  “You were just a young pup the last time I wore this,” he said, stroking the dog behind its ears. He took off his cloak and took the black cuirass from the sack. To a close observer, the cuirass was covered in intricate patterns, carved with exquisite detail onto the steel surface. Underneath the chest piece was a shirt of chainmail made from silver. He ran his hands along its surface to check for any missing or disjointed rings. Satisfied that the chainmail was intact, he moved it next to the chest piece. At the bottom of the sack were greaves and a pair of tall boots. Each item was as black as night, and each piece had runes etched into the surface. Carefully, he put the silver mail shirt over his head.

  “Heavier than I remembered,” Alther grumbled.

  The shirt was also loose about his shoulders and waist. The last time he had worn it had been twenty years previously. Old age had taken its toll on his body. Now in his early seventies, he was literally half the man he once was. Back in the day, he had been muscular and strong; that muscle was now mostly gone save in his arms where he still practised with a sword every morning. Some habits were tough to kick.

  Also on the bed was a bandolier made of dark leather. The dozen or so pouches sewn into it contained various potions and phials. The biggest pouch was at the base. Alther pulled it open. Three long phials were inside, and inside each of them was a glowing substance. Alther closed the pouch and patted it. Three would be more than enough.

  After a long struggle, he managed to get into his old armour. He paced around the cottage to get used to the weight and feel of it again, before sitting in the armchair in the corner of the living area. He would wait until nightfall before venturing out. He couldn’t risk any of the townsfolk seeing him as it would only raise questions and possibly concern. Closing his eyes, he settled in for a nap, Oscar curled up at his feet.

  * * *

  He awoke with a start to find the cottage bathed in darkness. Night had already fallen. Grumbling, Alther got out of the chair and stretched. He grunted in satisfaction at the plethora of cracks and creaks his aged body made. He walked over to the window and sighed. The two moons were close to their zenith; it was almost midnight.

  “Overslept, you old fool,” he grumbled to himself.

  He hurried over to the front door and took his black cloak from off the peg. He pulled it tightly about himself so that his face was hidden by shadow. If anyone did spot him, they would find it difficult to identify him. Next, he took his cane from the rack on the wall and tested the weight of the hilt. It had been so long since he had used it; he wondered if it would still work. Opening the door, he stepped outside. The air was cold and fresh, a relief from the warmth of the day. He turned and held a hand up to Oscar.

  “Sorry, old friend, n
ot this time,” Alther said. “I think your days partaking in the hunt are long over.” He paused as his words sunk in. “So are yours, you old fool.”

  Shaking his head with a chuckle, he closed the door and set off down the road towards the edge of town. As he walked, he realised that he was humming to himself. To his surprise, it felt good to be outside at night, and memories of his days on the hunt came flooding back to him as he went. He passed the stone at the centre of the town and ran his gloved hand over its surface. Closing his eyes, he tapped into his magic, a power he had not used in many years. A warm sensation filled his limbs as the energy flowed through his body. To an observer, it would seem that an old, stooped figure stood upright and puffed out his chest. Alther could sense the ancient magic radiating from the stone; it felt pure, like the touch of the sun’s rays on a warm summer’s day. The ancient sigil stones had defended the cities and towns of the world for millennia against the terrors of the Void. Satisfied that the stone’s power was active he continued on his way. Over the centuries, some of the stones had been damaged or vandalised by people too ignorant to realise their importance. The source of their power was now a long lost mystery, but the mages of Caldaria had ways to temporarily repair them. Without the stones, the world would have been overrun by Fell Beasts long ago.