“I’m on Nightblade business, Thrift. I really must speak with you alone,” Ferran insisted, his gaze not leaving Sophia. The Witch Hunter appraised him coolly, before sighing in exasperation and holding her hands up in defeat.
“Very well Nightblade, I know better than to argue with a representative of the king,” she said sarcastically, smiling sweetly.
She slid out of the booth lithely, standing close to him as she slipped past. Her scent was intoxicating. Ferran slipped into the now vacant booth and watched her go with an amused smile on his face. The shape of her elegant body wasn’t lost under the cloak she wore. I turned to face Thrift, who seeing his expression sent away the two lovelies at side. They complained at first before sauntering off, giggling.
“So, Ferran, you never write you never send word. I assume you’re dead every time you don’t swing by here. The last time you visited me was over a year ago.’ Thrift picked up a jug of glog and poured them both a mug. ‘I assume that business with the Goblin was taken care of?”
Ferran gratefully accepted the mug and took a swig, the spicy liquid burning his throat all the way down to his stomach.
“The Goblins were long gone before I got there. I finally caught up with them in the Withering Woods east of Pinefork, but by then there were far too many of them. In the end, I resorted to burning down most of the forest.” He shrugged; Goblins were just one of the many Fell Beasts that roamed the kingdom’s forests, and in that particular case three had been abducting the children of a small village bordering the Withering Wood. He had been sent to investigate, and sure enough he was attacked by them as he tried to rescue a child. Unfortunately, the child perished in the ensuing skirmish. Both he and the Goblins had used magic that laid waste to much of the village. It was just one painful memory amongst many.
“So, my old friend, what brings you to me this time? I know it’s not my charming company or the drink because that often tastes like piss. You only come to me when you need information, so what is it this time?” Thrift downed his mug and poured another.
Ferran leant in closer and lowered his voice.
“What do you know of the Lich on the Blackmoor?”
Thrift slowly lowered his mug, the colour draining from his face. Ferran was surprised; nothing ever quelled the man, not even the evil monsters they had faced together had scared him before.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he replied, his eyes unable to meet Ferran’s. He was lying. Instinctively, Ferran’s hand gripped the Tourmaline Sword at his belt, ready to be drawn and activated at a second’s notice. Something wasn’t right.
“Please don’t ask me about that again, Ferran, I beg you,” Thrift pleaded.
“I must know, Thrift. What do you know?” the Nightblade persisted.
Ferran could see the turmoil in his old friend’s eyes. Would he insist on lying, or would he help him despite the danger he must be in? Only threats of the direst kind would quell the man he had known for twenty years.
“Fine,” Thrift said, leaning in even closer until he spoke in a whisper.
“About a week ago, some shifty looking bastards came into town with a horse and cart. As I’m the man with all the contacts in town, they sought me out and started asking questions about the chapel and the strength of the Legion garrison. They gave me a big sack of Delfins, so I told them. A few nights later, there was a huge commotion. The chapel had been broken into and a number of Legionaries had been found dead, their throats slit.” He glanced around to make sure no one could hear the discussion. “According to one of me lads, they looked like their bodies had been sucked dry, as though something had drained the life out of them. The poor sods hadn’t even been able to draw their weapons. Me lad also said that the Legionaries probably spooked the intruders, as nothing had been nicked from inside.”
“That explained why Commander Stalvo was so inquisitive and uneasy when I arrived in town,” Ferran said. “My presence was hardly going to put his mind at ease that any danger had passed.”
He leant back. Only magic could have caused the effects being described, and it wasn’t of the good kind; only necromantic magic had such a spell in its grisly repertoire.
“What do you think the men were looking for?” Ferran asked.
“Well, I heard that something had been buried under the chapel, some relic or something from the Magic Wars. Might even have been older, I dunno what, but whatever it was, those shifty looking gits left empty handed.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, they vanished; skipped town, I guess,” Thrift answered. “It was shortly after that, that we got word from the villages on the edge of Blackmoor about folk going missing, and I guess that was when you were called in to investigate.”
Ferran jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “What did Ms Cunning want from you? Aside from your no doubt charming company?”
Thrift perked up at the change of subject. Something was definitely amiss. He smiled wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“She’s a beaut and no mistake, eh? I’d love to have her ride me till the Kingdom freezes,” he cackled. Ferran smiled slightly; the thought had crossed his mind when he first saw her. “She wanted some information on a rune she said she found upon the Blackmoor. She said it was a circle crisscrossed with four jagged lines.”
“What did you tell her?” Ferran asked, curious to see if Thrift could indeed share some light on the matter.
The thief shrugged his shoulders.
“I told her the truth: that I didn’t know. Never heard of a rune like that before, I say; maybe go and speak with the uptight frigs in Calderia, I says. Then you come striding over with your charming personality.”
Ferran sat back and finished off his mug of glog. So, the Witch Hunter was just as curious about the rune as he was. Perhaps he would have to seek her out again, after all, to find out why.
“So, you’re going to stay here the night, then?” Thrift asked non-gallantly over the rim of his mug. The offer was tempting. Ferran was footsore and his muscles ached. He longed for the warmth of a comfy bed and the attentions of a busty maiden. He smiled at his friend.
“Aye, I’ll stay, and I’ll have that redhead for company, too.”
Thrift laughed.
* * *
The sound of leather-soled boots stealthily creeping along the stone-flagged floor was almost indistinguishable over the background noise of the tavern. Ferran awoke with a start, his heart pounding. He looked around the dark room and listened. Years of training and of hunting had improved his senses, allowing him to hear the footfalls.
He gently unravelled himself from the embrace of the redheaded whore that lay naked and snoring softly next to him, and quickly pulled on his clothes that were scattered about the room. He moved as quietly as possible so to not wake the woman. If she stirred, then whoever was creeping towards the room would be alerted. He wanted to find out who they were.
Ferran unclipped his Tourmaline blade from his belt and took up position next to the doorway. Sure enough, the noise was drawing nearer. He readied his weapon and prepared to defend himself, the familiar weight of the Tourmaline sword giving him some comfort as he waited.
The small tavern room Thrift had offered him was comprised of a small chest, a bed, a single worn out chair and a tiny window high on the wall. There was no visible way of escape aside from the door towards which the person now approached. Ferran loosened his limbs and dropped into a fighting stance.
The sound of the stealthy footsteps had now stopped directly outside the tavern room’s door. Ferran now knew for certain that whoever was in the hallway was indeed coming his way. The door handle turned slowly, and with a quiet click the door began to open.
Ferran tensed and raised his sword, ready to summon up its magic and make a move.
Two small but lethal-looking knives flew through the now open door to dig themselves deep into the bed, right where the redhead was lying. Ferran winced as the blades cut deep into the woma
n’s body. Mercifully, she was killed instantly, her skull breached by the blade’s impact. Blood and gore sprayed up the headboard of the bed and onto the ceiling.
The assassin noticed fast that their quarry was not where he was supposed to be and moved into the room, a sharp and lethal curved blade in his hand. The attacker wore a dark grey cloak that hid his face.
Ferran wasted no time and immediately summoned his sword into life, hacking the magic blade in a downward stroke. The magical weapon sliced clean through the attacker’s arm, taking it off cleanly at the elbow.
Before the assassin had a chance to react, Ferran bellowed a challenge and struck again, this time burying the sword up to the hilt into the assassin’s chest. The lifeless corpse slid off the blood-soaked blade and slumped to the floor.
Ferran ducked just as another thrown knife struck the wall where he had just been standing. He threw himself to the floor and rolled to his feet as two more of the robed figures charged him with familiar curved daggers in their hands.
Ferran was now in the main upstairs corridor of the tavern; it was narrow with various doors leading to the other guest rooms on either side. The attackers blocked the staircase that led to the bar and to safety. He could see only one other possible escape route: the large window at the far end of the passage.
He parried a quick strike from the lead attacker and brought his elbow up to strike the assassin square in his throat. The robed figure immediately fell to the floor clutching his throat and gasping for air now that his windpipe had been crushed.
The second assassin was more patient, holding back and watching him for any sign of weakness. Ferran focused and prepared to unleash a blast of magic at the attacker. Before he could cast the spell, the assassin moved with incredible skill. Ferran swung his blade but missed, giving the assassin an opening. Ferran spun just in time to avoid a lethal blow, but nonetheless he winced as the assassin’s blade slashed him across the face.
The pain was extraordinary, and a burning sensation began to emanate from the wound. A realisation dawned upon Ferran. These killers were trained in magic. The speed of their movements and the sheer accuracy of their strikes was something that only Nightblades were capable of. Stunned at the prospect of being potentially assassinated by members of his own order, he hesitated.
A mistake.
Again the assassin was on him, his dagger swinging and stabbing savagely. It took all of Ferran’s concentration to parry the blows that were raining down on him. The pain in his face had begun to subside, but now numbness was spreading out from the wound. One side of his face had now lost most of its feeling.
Poison! It was a poisoned blade, he realised with horror. Just what poison it could be, he didn’t know. Ferran tried to summon a healing spell, but couldn’t; the poison was too distracting.
Numbness began to spread through his body. He now knew the assassin’s intent – to keep him occupied long enough for the poison to take effect, and then watch him die a slow death or perhaps capture him. The realisation struck him like a fist. The poison wasn’t intended to kill him. He could feel the numbness spreading; he had to escape and soon.
Ferran feinted high with his blade and rotated his wrists so that now the blade was ready for an upward slash to the assassin’s face. The assassin, however, moved to parry the cut, and as he did so, Ferran twisted again, and his blade to caught the assassin in the throat.
Scarlet blood hit the corridor wall as the sword sliced clean through the assassin’s throat. The robed figure crumpled to the floor as blood continued to spurt from the wound.
Ferran leant heavily against the passageway wall, his breath wheezing out of him. His whole face now felt numb and the sensation was spreading through his arms. He made to head for the staircase, but the now familiar figure of yet another assassin was cresting the top step. The assassin’s dagger was drawn, looking for vengeance for his comrades’ deaths. He too wore a black robe and wore a strange amulet around his neck. The pattern … it was the same one Ferran had seen on the Blackmoor. His mind flooded with questions, but the poison continued to spread, and even thinking was becoming difficult to do.
The assassin began to advance, forcing Ferran to stagger back down the corridor. Ahead was the window. He turned and saw that the corridor was clear; only the petrified whores of the brothel peeking out from behind their doors stood between him and his escape. Steeling himself, he ran as fast as he could towards the window, his attacker close behind. He jumped, and with an ear-piercing crash, he went flailing through the air, bits of glass and window frame digging into his flesh. Ferran shouted out in fear as he fell, hoping that there would be something soft to cushion the fall. Without the ability to enhance his body he would hit the ground like a dropped egg.
The fall felt like forever, and with a bone-jarring thud he hit the ground, fortunately landing on a cart full of straw. His shoulder dislocated and he cried out as his body flooded with pain, but apart from that, he was alright. He dragged himself to his feet. To his disbelief, the assassin leapt from the window, his hooded robe billowing behind him. Deftly he landed in front of Ferran, blocking any attempt of escape. The poison flooding into the Nightblade’s veins made his legs give way. He crumpled to the ground, unable to move; he was at the mercy of the killer before him. He crawled backwards, trying desperately to escape the reach of the dagger’s point that the assassin now mockingly tossed from hand to hand. The bastard even chuckled. The assassin raised the dagger high, ready to deliver a final blow. Ferran shut his eyes, but suddenly the attacker cried out. His back arched in pain and he crumpled forward, slamming face first onto the ground. Out of his back stood an arrow, still quivering from the impact of striking deep into flesh.
Sophia Cunning stood at the end of the alleyway, her longbow held at the ready. She notched another arrow and moved quickly towards Ferran, her eyes scanning the rooftops for any more assassins.
Ferran tried to stand, to talk, but his legs wouldn’t work and all he could manage was a gargled moan. Sophia put her bow over her shoulder and put the arrow back into the quiver on her back. Then she slung Ferran’s useless body over her shoulder and tested the weight.
She grunted. “How much do you weigh?” she asked incredulously. “I’m going to call you fatty Ferran from now on,” she whispered as she helped him move through the town’s back alleys.
She paused and her eyes grew large when the town’s alarm bell began to keen out. The shouts of concerned townsfolk could be heard in the distance, but more disturbingly was the sound of battle drawing nearer. They rounded a corner and Sophia peeked around the building they were hiding behind. Ferran caught a glimpse of the King’s Legion scrambling to man the walls. Attacking the town were hundreds of the vile goblin-like creatures known as Redcaps. The soldiers’ weapons glinted in the moonlight and the screams of the dying echoed in the air as they fought desperately to hold the town walls.
Something else caught Ferran’s attention. They had fled through the back alleys and into the town square. Coming out of the chapel were more of the hooded figures who were dragging something big and heavy out with them. It looked like a crate. At their back and towering above them was the Lich from the Blackmoor. It wore a long black cloak and a hood that failed to hide its hideous skeletal features. The hooded figures loaded the strange crate onto the back of a cart. Ferran tried to warn Sophia, but she had already seen it. Quickly she dragged him away from the square and hastened for the town’s stables.
The Lich raised its bony arms, unleashing its dark power upon the defenceless town. Fire erupted from the thatched buildings. The ground shook and the terrified populace tried to flee. Ferran was defenceless; the poison was spreading and he could not use his powers. With his body having now gone completely numb, it was up to Sophia to get them out of there. His life was now well and truly in her hands.
They reached the stables without incident. Sophia unceremoniously hauled Ferran onto the back of the big horse he had seen with her on the moor. Sh
e spoke gently to the terrified animal to calm its nerves. The animal whinnied and stamped its feet as the smell of smoke from the burning houses grew thicker. Sophia tied her bow and arrows to the rear of the horse’s saddle, grabbed Ferran’s wrists and pulled him up onto the animal’s back. Awkwardly, she put his hands around her waist before pulling a strip of ribbon from her hair and tying them together. Ferran was paralysed and tied to a beautiful woman; if the situation hadn’t been so dire he would have enjoyed his predicament.
Sophia spurred the horse into a gallop with a kick of her heels, and they charged out of the stables and through the stone-flagged streets. Panicked people flocked to the sanctuary of the town’s fort, where the Legion had begun to mobilise its artillery and cavalry. As they rode they could see that the battle had grown more ferocious. Man battled Goblin, metal clashed with metal and blood sprayed. The distinctive red caps of the enemy swarmed over a segment of the wall before they were obliterated by a massive ball of burning rock hurled by one of the fort’s catapults. The noise of artillery impacts grew more and more frequent as more breaches were made. One round almost struck them, but Sophia’s skilful riding averted disaster.
Eventually, they reached the main gate where Commander Stalvo had gathered the bulk of the Legionaries. Sophia reigned in the horse and watched as the gates buckled under the impact of a battering ram. Redcap raids were common along the northern borders, but Ferran had never known them to attack such a well-fortified town like Ridderford before. The presence of the Lich and the mysterious assassins was no mere coincidence.
The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia Page 6
