The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia

by Matthew Olney

  Thrift pointed at Asper. “What about him?”

  “If your foes learn that I spoke to you, I’m a dead man. Please, you have to protect me!” Asper pleaded.

  “He can come with me. I’ll keep him safe,” Thrift said after a moment.

  * * *

  Ferran and Sophia said their goodbyes to Thrift and headed towards the stables. Sophia’s mount was happily eating some hay. Ferran approached the stable master and produced a piece of parchment. Upon the paper was the emblem of the king. As a Nightblade, Ferran had some authority and the parchment enabled him to claim resources when needed, in this case he needed a horse. After a brief moan, the stable master had a horse saddled and shod. The sun had just passed its zenith when the Nightblade and Witch Hunter galloped out of Ridderford and back towards the Blackmoor.

  They followed the westward road through the heavily forested countryside. Legion roadblocks had been established every few miles in an effort to protect the road from any Redcaps that may have fled from Ridderford. The first two blocks waved them through without any trouble, but a third resulted in them being delayed. A small group of Redcaps had been cornered in a clearing near to the road and the soldiers were having trouble dealing with them. Ferran, wary of the time, offered the soldiers his assistance, but all he was met with was a sneer and a firm “no thanks.” Tired of waiting, Ferran led them off of the road and into the forest. Using hidden paths that the Nightblades often used to avoid detection, they reached the edge of the Blackmoor without further incident.

  The forest ended suddenly, replaced by wide open space. The ground was softer and covered with tall spiny grass that grasped at their clothes. Tumultuous black clouds hovered the moor. It was said that the clouds never left, that they were one of the side effects of a terrible battle from millennia ago. As well as the clouds, spirits and monsters roamed the moor, the leftovers from the same battle. Ferran looked at Sophia and gestured for her to lead the way.

  As they travelled the moor was eerily quiet. It always was; nothing lived on the Blackmoor save some fallow deer, but even they were scarce and often stuck to its edges. What settlements there were on the moor survived through farming the land’s rough, stony ground. Needless to say, the folks who lived there were poor and intolerant of outsiders. Their customs were different to those of the other peoples of the kingdom. Instead of Niveren, they worshipped the old gods and some were said to deliver sacrifices to the horrors that prowled the nights in order keep them appeased and away from their villages. Ferran had been on the moor many times; he still had nightmares about the village of Tuil. There, the people had offered their second born children to their gods. The babies’ cries still echoed in his mind when dark moods took him.

  Sophia pointed to the ground. Hidden under a layer of moss was stone. Ferran dismounted and pulled the moss away with his gloved hands. As he suspected, runes were carved into the stones. The road was a relic of the long dead Nivonian Empire.

  “We’re on the right track,” he said as he climbed back into the saddle.

  “We should reach the ruins by nightfall,” Sophia said.

  Ferran nodded. “Great. A night in a ruin. My favourite.”

  The two moved on. It was another hour before they encountered a thick bank of fog. Ferran hesitated for a moment. All sorts of spirits and Fell Beasts used fog to mask their approach, differentiating between naturally occurring fog and fog created by supernatural means was difficult at best.

  “What do you think?” Sophia asked softly.

  The moor was silent and even her hushed tones sounded loud to Ferran. The stillness of the place was getting to both of them. Even seasoned Nightblades feared the moor, and with good reason. More Nightblades had met their deaths there than anywhere else. It was a dark, sick place.

  “We have to push on through,” he answered quietly. “I’d rather we take our chances with the fog than end up exposed on the moor at night. If the cold doesn’t kill us, then something else will.”

  His breath came out as a plume of icy mist. A chill went up his spine. Sophia was about to spur on her mount, but Ferran reached out and gripped her hand to stop her. She looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. Her gaze flitted to him and then to the thing standing in the fog behind him. Ferran closed his eyes. The cold was always the sign. He knew from the look of fear on the Witch Hunter’s face that the thing in the fog was no spirit. It was a Fell Beast; only they could strike such terror into the hearts of Witch Hunters.

  Slowly, he turned his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the shape of the beast. It was as tall as a horse and stood on four legs, but that was where the similarities ended. A Night Stalker had a reptilian head with a large mouth that possessed fangs filled with poison. Its body was covered in dark scales which were tougher than a shirt made of chainmail.

  Ferran frowned; more Nightstalkers were moving through the fog. The beasts hunted in packs. He looked at Sophia and caught her eye. She nodded in understanding of his unspoken command. With a shout, Ferran slapped Sophia’s horse on the rump, making it dart forward. At the same time, he kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks and shouted for the animal to go faster. As the horses bolted, the Nightstalkers roared and followed in pursuit.

  The thunder of his horse’s hooves pounding upon the earth, and the whistle of the air whizzing past his ears was near deafening. Ferran sat low in the saddle and kicked his heels into the horse’s side, urging it to go quicker. Up ahead, Sophia’s horse was sprinting; it was hard to make out in the thickening fog. He glanced over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. The Nightstalker pack was hot on their heels and gaining fast. With his left hand, he let go of the reins and summoned a fireball to life. He thrust his hand at the nearest Nightstalker, sending the ball of fire slamming into it. The beast roared as it was consumed in flame and crashed to the ground in a tangle of spindly limbs. Two more of the monsters leapt over their fallen comrade to continue the chase.

  They sped across the moor, the shapes of ancient stone structures emerging from the fog as they went. Off to their right, they spotted a brightly glowing spirit flitting through broken stone walls.

  “The ruins are not far!” Sophia shouted over her shoulder.

  They careened through some underbrush, the Nightstalkers right behind them. Ferran shouted out in fear as one of the creatures got close enough to snap at his horse’s flank. The animal whinnied in agony as one of the Nightstalker’s fangs punched deeply into its flesh. The poison would act within minutes. His horse would fall paralysed, and he would soon join it in the afterlife. Just as the horse’s legs gave way, Ferran pulled his legs up so that he was crouched on the saddle. With a last whinny, the horse collapsed. Ferran leapt. The speed of the crash sent him flying, but as he soared through the air he used magic to brace his body. The horse crashed to the ground and so did Ferran. He bounced twice before skidding to a halt. The spell did its job of keeping his body safe from the jarring impact. The Nightstalkers pounced on the downed horse and began to devour it with a ravenous hunger. The poor animal didn’t stand a chance.

  “Ferran!” Sophia called from somewhere in the fog.

  Ferran clambered to his feet and summoned his Tourmaline blade to life. The snap-hiss of the magical blade reassured him slightly. He dived forward into a roll as a Nightstalker pounced at where he had been standing. With cat-like agility, he came out of the roll and back onto his feet. He watched the Fell Beast closely, aware that others were beginning to encircle him. The Fell Beast roared and pounced again. This time, Ferran was ready. He whipped his blade and swung it with all of his might. The sword cut deeply into the Nightstalker’s flank, and it backed away. In the distance, he heard Sophia’s panicked shouts.

  “Follow my voice, Ferran!”

  The wounded Fell Beast staggered towards him. Darting forward, he thrust his sword forward in a savage strike, punching it into the beast’s fang-filled mouth and down its throat. The Nightstalker gave off a garbled screech as the magica
l blade vaporised its internal organs. With a last pained cry, it collapsed to the muddy earth.

  Three Nightstalkers emerged from the fog, their mouths quivering and drooling as they smelt their prey. Ferran retreated towards Sophia’s voice, his blade held before him. One Nightstalker he could handle, but three?

  He glanced downwards and spotted a series of white stones lying in the grass. He stepped over them, his eyes not leaving the Fell Beasts stalking him. One of the Nightstalkers reached the line of stones, it’s front legs stepped over them. Ferran stopped. The air crackled and grew heavy, then a bolt of energy struck the creature, vaporising it instantly. Ferran sighed in relief and lowered his weapon. The line of stones marked the boundary of a rune stone. He sank to the ground and laughed in relief as the other Nightstalkers retreated from the invisible barrier.

  Sophia emerged from the fog.

  Through the gloom, they could make out the shape of stone structures. Most lay in heaps of overgrown rubble, but one structure stood tall.

  “We’re here,” she said offering him her hand.

  “Let’s hope we get some answers.”

  “You have cowered in your underground cities for too long. Have you forsaken Niveren’s glory? His gift of the light. I say enough is enough, not all men are cowards some will fight.”

  - the warrior Benji the Bastard

  10.

  Alther led the terrified boy through Ridderford’s bustling streets. It had taken them two days of fast travelling across the Blackmoor to reach the town, but at last the Nightblade felt confident that they were safe. The Witch Hunters’ threat to hunt the boy had not been an idle one; Alther just hoped that by taking him to the busy town he could get him lost amongst the people. He hurried down a side street, the boy clinging tightly to his hand as they went. After traversing a warren of backstreets, they reached a plain-looking building with a battered door. Alther knocked upon its surface three times and waited. He crouched down so that he was at eye-level with the boy. Big dark eyes full of tears looked back of him and the child’s bottom lip trembled. Alther placed a gloved hand on the lad’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.

  “You will be safe here, Ferran. These people will look after you if you prove yourself useful to them. Here,” he said reaching into his tunic.

  He pulled out an amulet in the shape of a seven-pointed star. It was made of silver and attached to a long silver chain. He placed it into the boy’s hand and closed his fingers around it tightly.

  “Keep this. It will keep you safe, but be sure to keep hidden under your clothes. Who knows may be watching.”

  Ferran nodded as Alther placed the amulet over his head and tucked it under his tunic. They both looked up as the battered door opened. Standing in the doorway was an elderly woman with raggedy grey hair and a nose like a billhook. She wore a long dress made of sheep’s wool, and around her waist was a belt with a vicious-looking dagger sheathed on her hip. The woman scowled at them for a moment before gesturing to them to follow her inside. The building was in disrepair and the white paint was peeling from the walls. A series of lanterns lit up the interior, which was surprisingly spacious. Watching them were children, dozens of them. Most of them were dirty and wore rags, but all looked well fed.

  “Wait here,” Alther said to Ferran, before entering a side room with the woman. Ferran was left alone and afraid. The children whispered to one another and pointed at him. A few moments passed and Alther returned with the woman.

  “This is Old Bess,” Alther said softly. “She will look after you now, Ferran. Do as she says and you’ll do fine. I’ll come back to you soon, alright?” He squeezed the lads shoulder again and left.

  He would not return for a long time.

  * * *

  Alther stared into the bottom of his tankard of ale, his mind lost in memories of long ago. The guilt he had felt of leaving the lad had never left him. He sat back in his seat and sighed heavily. It was foolish to regret such a thing. The boy had thrived with the Fleetfoots, and his time with the thieves had prepared him well for what had come next. Oscar licking his fingers brought him out of his memories, and he chuckled and ruffled the dog behind the ears.

  “You weren’t even a pup then, lad,” he muttered. “I wonder if he will get my message.”

  The door to the Fisherman opened, and in walked the usual rabble. He and the Marshal had kept quiet about the N’gist in the forest in the hopes of preventing a panic from gripping the town. The fields were still cordoned off by the Marshal’s men and no further incident had been reported, even so, Alther could not shake the feeling that the N’gist were still in the area. Normally such a group would flee upon discovery, but something about the ones he had encountered in the forest suggested that they were not just amateurs dabbling in the dark arts. Plenty of foolish young folk flirted with dark magic, despite the dangers. To them it was exciting, and the risk of being caught made it even more thrilling. Over the years Alther had encountered many such people. Normally, all it took was a stern telling off or a knuckle sandwich and they soon learnt the error of their ways.

  Tomas the Butcher and Cron waved to him as they took their usual spots at the bar. Erin had already poured them usual tipples of Robintan Ale and Blackmarsh Beer.

  “No Garen this evening?” Erin asked as she cleaned a glass with a cloth.

  “Nope. Haven’t seen nor heard from him all day,” Tomas replied after taking a big gulp from his ale. He sighed happily and licked his lips.

  “Is he sick? Not like Garen to come for his usual brew. He hasn’t missed a single night’s drinking in ten years, and only then it was because his wife gave birth to their boy,” Erin joked.

  Tomas and Cron nodded in agreement.

  “’Tis odd indeed,” Cron said.

  A loud banging came from the inn’s closed door. Tomas jumped in surprise and spilt some of his pint. He swore loudly.

  “I bet that’s the sod now,” he spluttered.

  The door didn’t open. Tomas and Cron exchanged a confused look.

  “Is that you, Garen?” Erin said. “The doors open, you silly bugger.”

  Still the door did not open. Another loud bang sounded.

  Alther leant forward in his seat and frowned. Something was amiss.

  “Turn the handle!” the two men at the bar shouted in unison.

  Another bang.

  “For Niveren’s sake. Has the silly sod gotten himself drunk at home or something?” Erin huffed. She made her way from behind the bar and walked over to the door. Another bang. Alther stood. Erin reached for the handle.

  “Wait!” Alther shouted.

  Erin turned the handle. She looked at the old man in confusion. The door opened. Erin screamed.

  Garen, or what was left of Garen, stood in the doorway. The man’s clothes were torn and deep bloody cuts covered his exposed torso. His face was deathly pale and his eyes were empty, blackened husks. He snarled upon seeing Erin and lunged for her. As he did so, he let out a spine-chilling moan. Garen grabbed Erin’s arm and tried to bring it towards his gnashing mouth. The tavern owner screamed again, prompting the stunned Tomas and Cron into action. They rushed forward and pulled Erin out of harm’s way. The big butcher used all of his strength to push Garen backwards out of the doorway. Once Erin was free of his grasp, he slammed the door closed and bolted it. On the other side, Garen hammered his fists upon the thick oak and howled like a wild animal.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Erin shouted. Her arm was bruised from where Garen had held it in a vice-like grip.

  Tomas and Cron put their weight against the door as it buckled under the enraged Garen’s assault. Alther led Erin over to a chair next to the fireplace and sat her down. She was pale and cold; soon she would be in shock.

  “He is a Ghoul,” Alther said softly. He hated being right. The N’gist were in the area, he knew for sure now.

  “A Ghoul? What are you talking about, Alth?” Tomas said fearfully.

  “Your friend is dead and no
w cursed by dark magics. If he gets inside, he will kill every one of us. We must barricade the door and the windows. I fear that Midlake is in terrible danger, for one Ghoul will create more given the opportunity.”

  “There’s someone else coming up the road!” Cron yelled. The man had his face pressed up to the window. So far Garen was still focused on smashing down the door. Cron’s face paled.

  “Niveren save us. There’s not just one, but a dozen. They’re all moving funny …”

  Alther walked over to stand next to him. He too pressed his face to the glass. Sure enough, a dozen more villagers were ambling towards the inn. As they got closer, he could see that they too were snarling bloodthirsty Ghouls.

  “Cron. Get that table and put it up against the window. Tomas help me move the barrels of ale into here we can use them to barricade the door.”

  Erin stood and rushed to help Cron, tears streaming down her face.

  Soon the other Ghouls were clawing at the door and windows. It took them a good few minutes to barricade themselves inside the inn. Alther grunted in satisfaction that they were safe for the time being. Ghouls were dangerous and fortunately not very bright.

  “We need to get help,” Tomas said as he paced the tavern.

  “The whole town might be overrun with those things by now,” Cron muttered.

  “If it is then we must hope that there are other people who have barricaded themselves into their homes,” Erin said, doing her best to offer some comfort. “Alth, you know what these things are. How do we fight them?”

  Alther smiled softly at the tavern owner. There was a fire in her eyes, a defiance that surprised him. He looked at Tomas and Cron, both determined to live despite the fear on their faces. He had underestimated these people.

  “We cannot fight them now. With nightfall, they will grow in strength. We must wait until daybreak, when the sun’s light will weaken them. They are creatures of darkness and so only light can harm them. With a bit of luck, they will slink off and find somewhere dark to hide during the day. If they do not, then we may be trapped in here for a long time.”