The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  The gate smashed open and the goblins surged forward, numbering in the hundreds. Stalvo raised his sword, barking the order for his men to engage. His cohort of a hundred men hurled their silver-tipped javelins at the beasts squeezing through the narrow gateway. The weighted weapons struck with devastating effect, cutting them down by the dozen. The Legionaries then locked shields and slowly advanced upon the enemy. With a rhythmic war chant, the soldiers pressed forward, cutting a bloody path through the goblins. The monsters’ cries rang out but were drowned out by the Legion’s chant. Each Legionary carried a silver short sword and steel long sword, a silver-tipped spear and a handful of naphtha grenades. The silver weapons were used when battling the kingdom’s supernatural foes; the steel for mortal ones. Now the silver weapons cleaved a swathe through the goblin hordes, until finally the beasts broke and fled back into the surrounding forests, the Legion hot on their hills.

  With the gateway clear, Sophia urged the horse onwards and headed out of the town. Once clear of the goblin corpses and through the gate, she spurred the horse into a gallop and hastened away from Ridderford. She paused to look back at the town. Thick smoke billowed from rooftops, the flashes of artillery strikes lit up the night and the sounds of battle continued. The main gate may have been cleared, but the rest of the walls were still being attacked. Ferran squinted his eyes to try to see whether the Lich was still causing havoc, but he couldn’t see through the smoke.

  “We must find somewhere safe for the night,” Sophia spoke softly. There was a sadness in her voice as they watched the town burn.

  “The sky remains as was, but the world of Man is no more. Once mighty cities are now overrun by Goblins and Pucks. Creatures only a mad god could have imagined roam everywhere killing anyone they find. Of my beloved, I have found no sign. I will continue to search but I fear the worst.”

  – a report by a Ranger of the Kingdom of Wester

  7.

  Ferran had lost all feeling in his body; he was helpless as Sophia roughly hauled him off of the horse. Whatever poison the attackers had used was growing stronger by the moment. He focused the magic inside of himself to desperately use what antitoxin spells he knew, but it proved hopeless without the ability to use the words of power needed to cast them. Sophia dumped him rather heavily under a tree. She tied the horse to one of the trees branches and disappeared from view. The horse nuzzled into Ferran, its hot breath covering him. He was unable to move, and now a horse was licking his face. He was miserable.

  About half an hour later, Sophia returned. She dumped a handful of timber at his feet and pulled some plants out of her knapsack. She set a fire after much cursing, before taking a metal pot out of one of the horse’s many saddle bags. The horse still licked Ferran’s face, its slobber covering him. He wanted to tell the animal to get lost, but the words came out all wrong: “Geetoffffssssmmme.”

  Sophia laughed and shooed the horse away, then crouched down in front of him.

  “So, Nightblade, this is the second time I’ve saved your life.” She pulled a dagger from her waist and began to cut up the flowers she had collected. “These plants mixed together should help you get the feeling back into your body. You ever heard of Cleaninsia?” she asked as she began to grind the petals together in her hands.

  Ferran tried to nod in the affirmative. Cleaninsia was a mixture used by alchemists and healers to purify metals and the body. When mixed with boiling water, the concoction was capable of inflicting a rather unpleasant detox. Sophia stood and took a water flask from one of the horse’s bags and poured its contents into the metal pot. Next, she dropped the mashed-up petals into it and stirred it with the hilt of her dagger.

  “We should be safe here,” she said as she went about her work. “I rode cross country fair ways. No sign of pursuit or Redcaps.”

  All Ferran could do was blink to notify her that he understood.

  “I wonder who those men were,” she said. Ferran would learn that the woman liked to talk to herself when she was concentrating. “They certainly didn’t like you, and what was that thing coming out of the chapel? Ah, now we wait,” she said as she put the pot into the fire and sat down next to him.

  They sat in silence as the water boiled, the Nightblade’s eyes not leaving the Witch Hunter. Why had she saved him? Ferran was weary, and tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel his eyes drooping.

  “No! Don’t shut your eyes!” Sophia cried. She jumped up and slapped him hard in the face. All Ferran felt was a dull numbness, but it was something.

  “If this poison is what I think it is, you must not fall asleep. If you do, you will die; your heart will stop and the poison will paralyse your internal organs.”

  “Jiacco, keep Ferran awake,” she said sternly to the horse. The animal whinnied and perked up its ears at her words. The horse immediately began to lick Ferran and nudge him. He couldn’t have gone to sleep even if he wanted to.

  “Good boy,” Sophia praised.

  She walked back to the boiling pot and prodded the fire, eliciting sparks from the angry inferno. She grunted in satisfaction when she checked the pot’s contents. The water bubbled angrily as the petals dissolved into it with a hiss. She turned to Ferran and shooed away the horse once more before lifting the Nightblade’s head.

  “Drink this.”

  She put the pot to his lips and poured the foul-smelling hot liquid into his mouth. The scalding liquid burnt his mouth and throat. His eyes bulged as with horror he realised that he couldn’t even swallow; the poison was affecting even that ability. Sophia could see his predicament and placed two fingers onto his throat. She gently rubbed to loosen the muscles. Her actions had the desired effect and Ferran could feel the liquid burn its way down into the pit of his stomach. He clenched his teeth and prepared for the effects of the concoction to take effect. He had only taken Clenisia once before as a boy when he was suffering from the effects of eating a toxic plant. It wasn’t pleasant.

  His muscles contracted painfully as feeling began to spread through his body. The pain was astonishing as he felt the potion burning away the assassin’s toxin. He cried out and sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. Sophia stood back, an amused smirk on her face. The feeling had returned, but Ferran knew what came next. He staggered away from the camp and into some bushes and where he wretched uncontrollably. His body forced out all trace of the toxin and potion, not to mention anything else he had in his stomach. By the time the ordeal was over, he was on his knees and coughing. The grass rustled, Sophia walked over to him and placed a hand on his back.

  “Here, drink this,” she said, offering him a flask of water. He gulped it down gratefully, then gasped before slumping onto the grass. She stared at him with a look of amusement.

  “Laugh it up,” he croaked. Slowly, he got to his feet and staggered back under the tree, where he collapsed and fell into a deep sleep.

  “That’s three you owe me, Nightblade,” Sophia said as he drifted off into dreamland. Ferran was too tired to offer a sarcastic reply.

  “The worst of humanity are they. Vultures picking at the carcass of Man’s empire. Lordlings hide in their underground holes whilst the rest of us are prey to the Fell. They are the biggest monsters of them all.”

  – unknown author

  8.

  Her face haunted him still. Her face was bruised and bloody, but defiance burned brightly in her dark eyes. She was staring at him, a thin smile on her lips despite the men piling the wood at her feet. She nodded to him, telling him to go, to be safe. All he wanted to do was run to her and set her free. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and he looked away from his mother. A man dressed in black stood over him, his face stern as he struggled to control his rage. The man was speaking to the bad man, the Witch Hunter general. Ferran didn’t hear the words; his mind was racing, full of concern for his mother’s fate. His father was struggling against the Witch Hunters, tears streaked his face. A feeling of resentment spiked in Ferran’s gut; the man was weak. The man
in black was speaking to him, asking his name. Ferran replied, his voice high pitched and that of a scared boy.

  “My name is Alther,” the man said. “You must come with me. Don’t look.” The man in black covered Ferran’s eyes with a gloved hand. Ferran clawed at the hand; he could smell smoke and then burning flesh.

  Alther held him close and wrapped his arms around the boy’s head. Even with his ears covered by the man, Ferran heard his mother’s screams.

  * * *

  Ferran awoke with a start. The smell of cooking meat made him grimace. Sophia was humming gently to herself. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see that she had discarded her leather armour. She now wore a long red cotton robe, offering him a tantalising peek of her long toned legs. She was knelt next to the fire and was prodding a pan containing what must have been bacon, due to the odour assaulting his nostrils. The dream faded from his mind to be replaced by his stomach growling at the smell; he could have eaten a horse. Ferran noticed that while he had collapsed under a tree and uncomfortably slept with his head on a tree root, she had erected a small cotton tent on the river bank. Her horse drank merrily from the flowing waters.

  “Ah, you’re awake, finally,” Sophia said disapprovingly. “You snore like a wild boar, you know,” she teased.

  He slowly stood up and stretched his back, the muscles ached in protest and the impression of the knobbly tree root had left a nasty pain in his neck.

  “I don’t think I have much control over that I’m afraid,” he replied sheepishly. Many women had complained about that over the years.

  Sophia offered him some bread and a piece of the delicious bacon, which he consumed ravenously.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you travelled prepared,” Ferran said, munching through the tasty meat.

  “I was taught by the best,” she replied, moving to her horse and packing her saddle bags.

  Her lithe body stretched as she reached for some of the straps. She turned to look at Ferran and a flirty smile creased her lips.

  “You like what you see?” she asked provocatively.

  Ferran almost choked at her forwardness. He was sorely tempted to walk over to her and take her on the damp grass. Then memories of who her father was flashed into his mind, his mother’s screams filling his consciousness. The dream was fresh in mind and his thoughts turned to darker matters.

  “We should head back to Ridderford. I need to find Thrift and find out just what it is he knows.” He watched her face; there was no sign of disappointment in her eyes, just curiosity.

  “What is it you asked him?” she asked, walking to her tent; she went inside and began to change back into her travelling gear. Ferran thought for a moment; she had asked about the symbol, too; it wouldn’t hurt to have some backup on this one, and she had proven she was a crack shot with her bow. With a Lich on the loose, he would need all the help he could get.

  “I asked him about the same thing you did,” Ferran replied. “I wonder, though, if he lied to you as blatantly as he did to me.”

  Sophia left the tent, tying her long hair into a braid; she was now back in her leather outfit. “He didn’t tell me much at all, just to keep my nose out of things I didn’t understand,” she said, kicking the tent pegs away before folding up the cloth and stuffing it into one of the many bags strapped to her horse.

  Ferran watched her struggled with a strap for a few moments, before walking over to offer her his assistance.

  “Here,” he said leaning over her and untying the knot that was giving her trouble. She nodded in thanks and wiped her brow. “Obviously Thrift didn’t recognise your surname, otherwise I’m sure he would have helped you. After all, it’s not every day the daughter of the most feared Witch Hunter in the land pays a visit to Ridderford …”

  She laughed.

  “You’re not very subtle, Nightblade. For all your training and magic, I would’ve thought you to be a tad more subtle.”

  Ferran couldn’t help but smirk; she was a sharp one, alright. She turned to look at him. “You want to know what I was doing there, and no doubt you want to know how I know Thrift. Am I wrong?”

  He held his hands up in mock surrender.

  “You got me,” he answered. “Well?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

  She sighed heavily, her hands on her hips.

  “I know Thrift through one of my contacts in the town,” she explained. “They knew that you Nightblades use him for intelligence whenever you arrive in this part of the kingdom, and believe it or not we Witch Hunters need sources too. As for what I was doing on the Blackmoor when I found you … well, I was tracking someone.”

  Ferran thought for a moment. Her answer was acceptable; Thrift was well known amongst the guilds and, with each one often spying on the others, some common knowledge was bound to have reached their ears. As well as the Nightblades, there were the Rangers Corps – tasked with defending the frontiers from the wild folk of the mountains and tribes of the Great Plains – the mercantile guild, and of course the Witch Hunters who were tasked with tracking down all unauthorised Magic Wielders. No love was lost between the various groups, with the Rangers and Witch Hunters constantly clashing over funding and supplies; after all, the king’s purse only stretched so far.

  Sophia checked the straps on her saddle one more time before leaping onto her steed’s back. She flicked her hair from out of her eyes.

  “You coming or not?” she asked.

  Ferran smiled and nodded his head. She offered him her hand which he grasped and hauled himself onto the horse’s back. He wrapped his hands around her waist and held on tight. With a shout, she kicked her heels into the horse’s flanks and they shot off back towards Ridderford.

  From his upright position, Ferran saw the land around them, whereas the night before all he had seen was grass and stones whipping past. Now, he saw that Sophia had taken them about a mile off the road and a good three from the town itself. Even from this distance, they could see the smoke from the night’s battle rising slowly into the air, the thick black clouds spiralling in the wind.

  As they drew closer, they could make out the shapes of Legionaries moving around outside the battered and damaged stone walls. Groups of them were hauling the corpses of their comrades and their foes out through the town’s gate. No doubt the Redcaps would be burnt in the ditch that another cohort was busy digging at the edge of the forest. The dead soldiers would be consecrated by a priest of the cult of Niveren and the town’s resident mage, who would use her magic to ensure that no ill after effects would spring from the dead. In these times, even the corpses of the slain could arise again and inflict further pain and misery onto the living.

  As they arrived at the gate they saw many of the town’s citizens were amongst the wounded and the dead. Healers from the Legion garrison were doing the best they could to help them.

  Ferran saw commander Stalvo sat on a wooden stool being tended to by a healer who was cleaning a wound to his forehead. Ferran dismounted and walked over to him whilst Sophia offered her assistance to the healers. Witch Hunters were renowned for their knowledge of potions and the like, and she had demonstrated her abilities to him the night before.

  “Commander, it looks like you had a hard fight.”

  Stalvo looked up at him tiredly and waved his hand limply in response.

  “The bastards clocked us hard. We must have lost at least two hundred men to those monsters.”

  He waved away the healer and stood up adjusting his armour. “The artillery did its part, though.”

  Ferran could see the impact sites of dozens of artillery rounds. Small fires still blazed where the incendiary projectiles had struck. Legionaries and townsfolk hurried around carrying pails of water to douse the fires. Long smears of blackish red indicated where the Redcaps had been obliterated.

  “How many dead?” Ferran asked, scanning the ruins of several houses. Their blackened frames were scorched by the flames, from artillery or by the Lich’s magic he couldn’t tell.


  “Too bloody many,” Stalvo replied angrily. “As well as the dead soldiers, so far we have counted up to sixty dead civilians.”

  A heavily armoured patrol of Legionaries jogged passed.

  “We keep finding the odd Redcap alive in the town. They must have been cut off from the rest of their force during the battle. We lost six men to strays alone.” He stopped Ferran with a hand on his arm. The Nightblade knew what he was going to ask. He shook his head.

  “I cannot spare the time hunting for strays, Stalvo. I’m sorry, but I have more pressing tasks to attend to.”

  The commander loosened his grip on his arm and sneered in disgust and spat.

  “Bloody Nightblade. What good are you if you won’t even help protect the people?”

  Ferran shook his arm free and stared at him hard. He understood the anger; if finding Thrift wasn’t such priority, he would have gladly erased those hideous creatures from existence. He turned from the commander and strode into the smoky ruins of the town square, Stalvo’s angry calls at his back. He cautiously stepped into the street leading to the square. Broken glass and vicious wooden splinters were scattered all about. The marble square was blackened and charred.

  The Cod and Croaker was a burnt-out shell, its front completely scorched. The windows were shattered and the top floor had collapsed. He seriously doubted that Thrift and his compatriots would have stayed inside during the battle. As was his way, the thief would have bolted to one of his safe spots at the first sign of danger. Across the square stood the chapel, the place where the Lich had come from. Ferran frowned as he noticed a figure standing in the doorway. Before he could call out, it vanished from sight.