The baron looked at Alther pleadingly.
“Alther, please take my son. Take him away from here. He has done no wrong!”
“Silence,” Elias said to the petrified crowd. “The boy’s mother wields magic. There is a chance that the boy does too. Under the law, we have the right to test him.”
“All you have is the word of my bitch of a wife that Esmere possesses magic!” the baron argued. “You have no right to take the boy; you have no evidence!” A murmur spread through the crowd. Armed men were beginning to file into the square. Upon their tunics was the sigil of Blackmoor.
Alther glared at Elias.
“Let me take the boy,” he said gesturing to the soldiers. ‘You have humiliated their lord enough already; do not test their patience even more.”
The Witch Hunter General paled slightly as he glanced at the soldiers filing into the courtyard. He and his men were outnumbered.
“Fine. Take the boy. His mother will burn,” Elias snarled.
Alther moved towards the petrified child, but Elias grabbed his arm.
“This isn’t over, Nightblade. I will find the boy. I will test him, and if he possesses magic he will join his mother on the pyre. Hide him well, for I will not stop until every one of your kind is wiped from the face of this world.”
Alther shrugged free of the Witch Hunter’s grip.
“We shall see.”
He walked over to the boy and knelt down before him. He took the lad’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
“Have courage, boy. I will take you somewhere safe. What is your name?”
The boy wiped tears from his eyes and sniffed.
“My name is Ferran … Ferran of Blackmoor.”
* * *
A banging at the door made Alther awake with a start. Daylight was streaming through his bedroom window, and Oscar was barking, adding to the commotion. Alther swore under his breath; he didn’t want any of the villagers to know what he was. Quickly he took a long brown robe out of his wardrobe and put it on over his black armour. He took off his gloves and kicked his boots under the bed. The banging persisted.
“All right all right, I’m coming,” he shouted.
He hurried to the front door and peered through the keyhole. It was the Marshal.
Taking a deep breath, Alther opened the door.
“Ah, there you are, Alther.” The Marshal frowned at the old man’s appearance – smalls cuts covered his face. “By Niveren, are you alright?”
Alther touched a hand to his face. It came back dark with dried blood. His run through the forest must have torn him up. Sighing, he gestured for the Marshal to enter his house.
“Before you ask, I am fine. And yes – I went into the forest last night.”
The Marshal looked at him as though he were a madman.
“I was right: there was a Banshee haunting the forest. Don’t worry; I banished it back to the Void.”
The Marshal sighed in relief.
“It’s over, then,” he said happily.
His smile faded as Alther held up a hand.
“No. It is not over. In fact, I fear it has only just begun. As well as the Banshee, I discovered people in the forest. People carrying out foul incantations … incantations I am sure are of the N’Gist cult. It was they who were somehow controlling the Banshee, using it as a guard dog to keep people away from learning of their presence.”
“The N’Gist?” the Marshal whispered.
The colour drained from the man’s face at hearing the name. Alther nodded. At least these simple folk had heard of the cult that had helped enslave the world in darkness a millennium previously.
“They saw me. The fact that they now know that a Nightblade is in the area will make them even more dangerous. They will be on their guard.”
“Surely they will move on? Now that you know they are here we can send word to the capital. The king can call a crusade to clear the forest if needs be,” the Marshal said, hope in his voice. It was clear that the man was in way over his head. He wanted nothing more than to pass the problem on to others.
“No. We must not alert the capital. The last thing I need is Knights of Niveren coming here. They will only get in the way. No, we must handle this ourselves. Whatever those cultists are up to it is something important and sinister.”
The Marshal looked at Alther in dismay.
“No offence Alther, but you’re not exactly a young man, and me and my men are certainly not equipped to handle N’gist cultists. We need help.”
Alther wondered over to his armchair and slumped into it tiredly. His limbs ached and his eyes were weary.
“There is someone I can ask for help,” he said wearily. “Whether he will come or not is another matter entirely.”
“The last bastion of man is lost; the screams are mixed with those unholy cries. Despite this, hope remains. The surface is overrun but the world beneath is not. We shall be like rabbits safe in our warrens, perhaps to return and reclaim all which is lost.”
– the scholar Hermina of the order of Arend.
5.
The fire did little to keep back the cold night that threatened to envelop the hooded figure; its light flickered limply, and its warmth was not up to the task of keeping back the chill that had settled over the barony of Blackmoor. Ferran sat alone under a stone outcropping, rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to bring life back into his frozen fingers.
He had come to the bleak place on an assignment for Caldaria. It was a place he had little love for, despite it being the place of his birth. In the expanse of the Black Marsh that bordered the barony to the south, the spirits of the dead roamed. Its rivers were haunted by spectres, the forests inhabited by monsters and the borderlands were the murderous playground of the Wild Folk. The moor was little better. It was a dreadful place.
He pulled his hood tighter around his head and breathed into his gloved hands. The creature he was there to find would soon make its move, and he would be ready. Ferran tilted his head to listen. In the far distance, a Banshee screamed; some poor soul was no doubt being dragged screaming into the Void. The unsettling shrill faded, and silence once more descended across the black vale.
Ferran stared in the direction of the scream, but after a while shrugged his shoulders. It was not his concern. The villagers of the region knew the dangers of the moor and the marsh; it wasn’t his place to run to the rescue of every poor fool who ventured out after dark. He chuckled to himself as he realised that he was nervously fingering the hilt of the Tourmaline sword attached to his belt. The sheer eeriness of the moor was getting to him … No, it wasn’t just the moor, it was the memories of this terrible place, memories of his childhood.
A wolf howled in the east, breaking the silence once more and giving him something to focus on other than the memories. The campfire was burning low, its light fading, and cold rushed in to fill the void. The flame died. Ferran sat there, as still as a statue, and prepared. From his perch on the rocky outcropping, he could see down into the valley below. It was home to the Fell Beast he was seeking. He had followed its trail from a small village at the edge of the moor; the blood trail of its latest victim was hard to miss.
Ferran was no fan of the mages that had brought such monsters into the world. Their vanity and arrogance had led the world to the point of ruin on more than one occasion, and it was the common folk that often ended up paying the price. Many believed his attitude towards the mages strange, seeing as how the blood of one flowed through his own veins. To those folk he would say that he did not choose to hide away in the crystalline city, pretending that the evil they brought into this world were nothing but tales; he had chosen to use his powers to take the path of the Nightblade, to hunt and destroy the monsters that the mages and other Magic Wielders had brought into the world. He would use his magic to protect the weak and safeguard the kingdom.
The cold was making his thoughts drift, and he had to blink a few times to comprehend what his tired eyes were seei
ng. In the depths of the valley, a whitish glow was drifting upwards. Ferran froze. The light formed into the shape of a gnarled and twisted figure. It clambered up the valleys stony surface, its long claw-like hands biting deeply into the rock. It was a creature of magic – the glow emanating from its skin made that clear. Ferran tensed and prepared to drop down from his position and onto the road below.
“Enhincinia,” he whispered.
Magic coursed through his veins as the spell enhanced his body. He could feel his muscles gain extra strength and agility. He would need it, for the drop was at least twenty feet.
The monster below was unaware of his presence. It sniffed the air as it shuffled its way along the road. Ferran paused before he leapt. Narrowing his eyes, he remembered his learning on the beasts of the world. The creature was shaped like a man, but its flesh was rotten, with magic permeating from it. Its face was a twisted mockery of the man it had once been; its features were hollow, but a sinister grin was permanently etched onto its face. This wasn’t the beast he was there to hunt, but perhaps the results of his target’s grizzly eating habits. As he got closer to the edge of his vantage point, he could see that it was indeed a man, albeit twisted and distorted.
The man must have once been a traveller, perhaps a farmer from the look of his tattered clothes. The magic surrounding it was the after effects of the curse flowing through its drained veins. It was a Ghoul, the victim of dark magic. Their kind was normally found in the mountains of Eclin far to the North. They were the after effects of one of the final great battles of the magic wars. Curiosity filled Ferran. What could have created one so far from their regular hunting grounds?
Ferran leapt from the stone perch and landed in a crouch, the magic he had used protecting him from the fall’s height by dissipating the energy of the descent. The darkness hid him from the Ghoul’s sight as it shambled along the pathway, no doubt heading towards the nearby fishing village to find some prey. Ferran crept up behind the staggering monster, using magic to muffle his footsteps and cast him deeper into the embrace of the dark night. This is what Nightblades excelled at, operating in darkness, using their talents for concealment that enabled them to do the tasks that normal people could not.
The Ghoul was not his intended target, but he could not sit by and let it stalk the moor. Ferran smiled as he remembered what his teacher had always told him: “A Ghoul grows in power the longer it is in existence.” By the looks of the Ghoul in front of him, it was only a few days old and would be easy to dispatch. He drew his Tourmaline sword.
Suddenly, the temperature plummeted even further and Ferran’s shallow breathing created steam in the chill. A mist rose upwards from the valley floor, enveloping the path on which he stood. The Ghoul, too, was absorbed by the mist’s thickening tendrils. A robed figure clawed its way over the valley’s lip and hauled itself onto the pathway, its skeletal hands clawing at the soft soil. A rasping sound emanated from under the ripped hood covering its head. Ferran held still, not daring to move an inch in case he revealed his presence. At first, he thought the creature to be a Banshee, but as he watched he realised it was something else entirely, something worse. He tightened his grip on his blade. The magical sword was inactive – to channel his power through the hilt’s Tourmaline crystal would certainly attract the thing’s attention.
The Ghoul had turned to face the hooded figure and shambled towards it, giving off the spine-chilling groan that the undead often make. The hooded figure was still on its knees rasping, the mist getting thicker. It sniffed the air and screamed, its high pitch shriek deafening. Ferran resisted the urge to cover his ears and stayed as still as a statue, his head ringing from the noise. To his surprise, the Ghoul stopped, falling silent in the presence of the strange figure. Wracking his brain, Ferran tried to figure out what was stood before him. He had assumed his initial quarry to be a Redcap, one of the goblins that fed on human flesh, but the thing before him was like nothing he had ever seen before.
Ferran almost cried out when the hooded figure spun around and stared at him. It’s hidden gaze piercing his very soul. A chill swept through his body, freezing his limbs into inaction. He could feel its magic sweeping through his body, attempting to disable him. The Ghoul moaned once more as it spotted him and began to shamble in his direction. Ferran took a deep breath and focused his power to dispel the invasive magic creeping into his body. He shouted out in anger and raised his right arm. It took all of his concentration, but he managed to manifest the fireball that shot from his fingertips. The ball of magic slammed into the hooded figure, setting its robes alight and sending it screaming backwards; instantly the fiend’s magic was gone and Ferran could move once more. The Nightblade whipped his sword upwards and focused, and the blade came to life in a glow of bright light.
Ferran charged the Ghoul, ducking under its flailing arms and thrusting the magical blade upwards, cutting the abomination in half. Flicking the sword around with his right hand, Ferran aimed his free hand at the hooded creature. He conjured up another ball of flame and set the Ghoul ablaze.
Only fire can truly destroy the dead.
It writhed and moaned pitifully as it burned away to nothingness, the intense heat of the magical flame incinerating it rapidly. That left Ferran face-to-face with the strange creature to his front. He staggered backwards as he saw its true form: its robes had been burnt away to reveal a skeletal being. Its eyes glowed yellow and decaying flesh clung to its protruding bones. Around its neck was an amulet attached by a metal chain, a red jewel set in the centre.
Such creatures were mere myths none had been seen since the wars and even those ancient stories were hard to believe. The Lich snarled, its skeletal face turned into a sneer. It raised its hands, unleashed its piercing scream and fired a blast of magical power that sent Ferran flying backwards. He smashed into the rocks behind, a rib cracking as he impacted. He then fell forwards, but before he hit the ground the Lich moved with blinding speed to catch him in its skeletal grip. With astonishing strength, it tossed him like a rag doll through the air. The last thing Ferran remembered before blacking out was the sense of weightlessness as he plummeted into the valley below.
* * *
Groggily, Ferran opened his eyes and winced as a sharp pain flashed through his chest. Judging by the light he had been unconscious for hours. The sun was now climbing in the east. Slowly he sat up, and cried out as pain lanced through his chest. Tentatively, he pressed a hand to it and gingerly felt the wound.
“Broken rib,” he gasped through gritted teeth. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the pain and channelled his magic towards it. He cried out as the healing magic began to fuse and heal the wound.
He had definitely broken a rib and could feel the fractured bone grinding on nerve endings. Taking a deep breath and focusing on the pain, he channelled magic to flow through his body. He focused its power into healing the wound and cried out when the bone began to fuse itself back together. Healing magic had saved his life on many occasions, but it was always painful to use. Magic always came with a price. To restore himself, he would have to endure excruciating pain. He lay back on the damp earth as the magic coursed through his body and sought out any other injuries he had endured from the fall.
It was a good job he had used an enhancing spell; without it the Lich’s sheer strength would have shattered every bone in his body, and the fall would have turned him into a sticky mess on the valley floor. The presence of the Lich was troubling. There had been no reports of their kind since the wars where they had been the generals of the dark armies summoned by the N’gist. Immensely powerful in both physical and magical strength, they had wrought devastation on the armies of men. Now they were just a myth, but a myth that had turned out to be fact.
The pain began to subside. Judging by the sun, he had rested for a good few hours before he felt comfortable enough to gingerly get to his feet. Now that it was day, he could see his surroundings.
He could see that he was trapped in the valley
he had been observing the night before. Moss and fungi covered the stones and long grasses peaked out through the rocky ground wherever they could. The valley’s sides were sheer, making a climb all but impossible.
The Ghoul had managed to clamber out due to its sharp claws and the Lich had seemingly risen up through the mist as though it had wings. Ferran stood up and patted the dirt from his clothes. His black tunic and trousers were caked in mud, as were his boots. He checked the satchel on his hip and checked to ensure that all was still in place. The phials a Nightblade always carried all seemed to be in order. The hip flask that contained his drinking water had been torn from its leather strap. He sighed at the prospect of a thirsty day ahead.
He held out his right hand and focused, calling his Tourmaline blade to it. Some bushes shuffled and the weapon flew from the ditch it had landed in during the fall and into his open hand.
The moor was silent, just as it had been the night previously; the roads were scarcely travelled these days; any hope of a traveller coming to his assistance was slim. The valley seemed to stretch on for quite a distance. Ferran recalled from the maps he had studied that it should eventually lead to the edge of the Ridder River. From there he would be able to follow the water’s course south and bypass the vast expanse of the moor, hopefully arriving at the town of Ridderford in a day or two.
He wasn’t scared; the life of a Nightblade is often lonely, and long periods of time in the dark places of the kingdom gets them used to travel. He set off walking along the valley floor, hand never straying far from his weapon’s hilt, after all, the Lich could still be haunting the area. He had only walked a few meters when he stumbled upon the results of the Ghoul’s grizzly appetite. Rounding a bend in the valley, he caught sight of four decaying corpses. Most had been eaten by the beast he had slain, but one stood out. It appeared untouched. Blood caked its clothes, but there was no obvious sign of mutilation. Cautiously, Ferran approached the body; after what he had witnessed he was not prepared to take any chances.
The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia Page 4
