* * *
After the fight, they explored deeper into the ruins and found a campsite. It was clear that a group of at least ten N’Gist and assassins had been hiding out in the ruins. Aside from the now-cooling corpses of the assassins, there was no trace of the other people that had been staying there.
“They were using this place as a base. It’s out of the way, and yet close enough to Ridderford for someone to travel half a day on horseback to reach,” Ferran theorised as he looked through the campsite.
Sophia, too, was rooting through it. She moved a black cloak and gasped. Underneath it was a book. On the cover was the sigil of the Witch Hunters. The crow’s head was engraved in solid silver. With a shaky hand, she picked it up and opened it.
“What’s that?” Ferran asked.
Sophia’s eyes scanned the hastily scrawled handwritten text. It was clear that the book was a journal. All Witch Hunters carried one so that they could keep track of their cases. Her eyes rested onto two passages halfway into the journal.
16th of Estran Fall.
My mission has been a success. After much digging and enquiring, I have learnt from a priest called Asper that the chapel in Ridderford is indeed the resting place of Danon’s remains. I have sent word to the Witch Hunter General via carrier pigeon and will remain in the town until I receive further instructions as ordered.
30th of Estran Fall
Orders finally arrived from Balnor. The Witch Hunter General has ordered me to travel west to a Nivonian ruin to meet reinforcements. According to his note, he believes that a coven of witches is planning to break into the chapel and perform some dark magic there. I will do as commanded, but I do find it odd that the reinforcements will not meet me in town. I guess he does not want to risk us being discovered.
Sophia closed the book and looked at Ferran. The journal had belonged to Hanser. Her father, the Witch Hunter General had sent Hanser to this dark and horrid place. She held the book out to Ferran. He walked over and took it from her hands and flicked through the pages. He cast her a dark look.
“You had no idea?”
“No. Please, Ferran, you must believe me. Me and Hanser were friends – we went through the Balnor Academy together; we trained to be Witch Hunters together. He suddenly disappeared and no one in the guild would tell me why. All I could get out of the guild was that he had been sent on a mission to the Blackmoor and that’s it.”
Ferran closed the book and tossed it back to her.
“I believe you, but it seems that your guild knows more about what’s going on than they told you. Pack your things. We’re heading back to town.”
“Flee north, there you will meet with the man who offers salvation. The wielders caused this disaster, but it is they who will end it. Flee north to the lands of the wizard.”
– a passage from the Histories of the Great Calamity
13.
The journey back to Ridderford went without incident. When they exited the ruins, the sun was high in the sky and the mists of the Blackmoor had been burned away by its heat. They had had to ride on the back of Sophia’s horse, the Witch Hunter insisting on taking the reins. Ferran held onto her slim waist and couldn’t help but enjoy the closeness of their bodies. Sophia had spurred the horse into a gallop as soon as they were out of range of the rune stone, fortunately, there had been no sign of the dreaded Fell Beasts. Once off the moor, they took the road east. Thanks to the glorious sunshine, both of them took in the splendour of the countryside. To the south were the Westerlands and their thick woods, whilst to the north was the land of Robinta. The gentle foothills that led down into the Robintan valley were covered in grazing cattle, and their odour carried on the gentle breeze.
The sun was lower in the sky by the time Ridderford came into view. There was no smoke except that from cooking fires and fireplaces, floating lazily into the sky. The thick billows from the previous few days were gone as the Legion had gotten the inferno inflicted by the Lich under control.
Just as when he had first arrived into the town, they were greeted by the dour-faced Commander Stalvo. The Legion had quickly re-established order in the town and was now busily repairing the walls. The sound of hammering and metal-working echoed throughout. Stalvo barred the road leading deeper into the town, his muscled arms folded across his broad chest. In his hand was a piece of paper.
“Commander,” Ferran greeted as he slid from the saddle.
Stalvo raised an eyebrow.
“Been in the wars, Nightblade?”
Ferran frowned. With the bandage on his arm and his and Sophia’s bloody and filthy clothes, the commander had a point.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked irritably.
“This arrived via courier pigeon last night. The seal says it came all the way from the Lakelands. I trust you won’t be spending much more time in Ridderford? The townsfolk are growing a bit nervous having a Nightblade and a Witch Hunter around.”
Ferran took the letter and tucked it into his pocket. He noticed that what Stalvos was saying was true. A number of townspeople were watching them and whispering amongst themselves. A Nightblade never stayed in one place for long; often they would be turned on by the very people they had been sent to protect. Some folk even believed that having one in their town or village caused the Fell Beasts to come, and a fair few Nightblades had been attacked or killed by lynch mobs. Ferran thanked Stalvo for the note and the warning. He turned to Sophia.
“Let’s so see Thrift. I for one want to get cleaned up and get something to eat.”
* * *
They had difficulty finding the thief, and probably wouldn’t have if one of the Fleetfoots hadn’t found them first. A small scruffy lad no older than ten led them through the warren of backstreets that made up the Ridderford Slums. It had been amongst the peasants and filthy alleys where Ferran had spent much of his misspent youth. The stench of human waste and animal fat mingled with smoke from the town’s smithy, creating an aroma that was difficult to stomach. To Ferran, it smelt like home; to Sophia it must have seemed horrid. She held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth to stop the assault on her nostrils. The lad turned a corner and pointed to a small hovel before running off into the maze of streets.
Ferran banged on the rickety wooden door and waited. He couldn’t help smiling at the disgusted look on Sophia’s face. As a Witch Hunter, she had been to some vile places, but even the swamps of Retbit smelt better than the slums.
The door creaked open.
“Come in,” came Thrift’s voice.
Inside, the hovel was comprised of a tiny living area and a narrow set of woodworm-eaten stairs that led upwards to a sleeping area. A fireplace filled the downstairs room and a pot full of soup was bubbling away over the flames. Thrift was stood next to the pot, stirring the liquid with a wooden spoon. Sat in the corner of the hovel was Asper. Upon seeing Ferran and Sophia, the priest’s eyes widened.
“Oh thank Niveren!” he cried.
“Save it, priest,” Ferran growled. “Your friends’ little trap almost worked.”
“They’re not my friends!” Asper stammered. “They threatened to kill me if I didn’t do what they asked.” Fear was evident on his face.
Ferran crossed the room and grabbed the collar of the terrified holy man.
“Who’s to say I won’t kill you?”
A tense silence descended upon the room. For a heartbeat, Sophia thought that Ferran would carry out his threat. The moment passed and Ferran released his grip, much to the visible gratitude of Asper.
“So, the N’gist have the remains of Danon,” he said, pacing the room. “What would their next step be?”
“If they truly aim to resurrect Danon then they will need to find a way to bring his soul back from the Void, and the only way for them to achieve such a feat would be via powerful magic,” Asper replied hesitantly.
“The staff of Aljeron,” Thrift said.
All eyes turned to th
e thief. Ferran looked at his old friend in surprise. Thrift chuckled.
“Just because I was raised a street urchin and am now a common thief does not mean that I haven’t read a book or two over the years. It was years ago, but I remember lifting a book off a mage who was trying to sneak her way through town. I took it right out of her satchel; she didn’t even notice. I was proud of that steal, I was. Anyhow, I took that book home with me to the slums and I started reading it – well, what words I could read at the time. One page had this rod-looking thing drawn onto it and a little description. It said … now let me think. Ah, it said something like the Staff of Aljeron was used by the first wizard to seal the Void; it is the only object that can also unseal it, but that process has been lost to time. Then in a different handwriting, it said something like the staff must be retrieved at all costs and brought to Caldaria. Its last known location according to the old texts is somewhere in the Lakelands.”
Sophia couldn’t help but laugh. Ferran clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Thank Niveren for that perfect memory of yours, Thrift,” he chuckled.
“That note that the commander gave you – didn’t he say that the seal was from the Lakelands?” Sophia asked.
Ferran pulled the letter from his pocket and opened the envelope. A few moments passed as he read the neatly handwritten writing. As he read, his stomach flipped. Alther? He hadn’t seen his old mentor for over a decade. They had exchanged letters a few times over the years on birthdays and the like, but their relationship was a distant one. He lowered the letter and handed it to Sophia.
“I need to get a new horse and re-supply. If you want to come with me you can,” he said as she scanned through the note.
“Strange events in Midlake,” she said. “This cannot be a coincidence. I’ll go with you. I still need to get some answers, and I need to know what my father is up to, and why Hanser died for it.”
Ferran nodded.
“Very well. We hit the road at first light.”
“Rally, my brothers, rally! Who shall save us, but ourselves? We need nor want the aid of magic!”
– Archbishop Pinius at the meeting of the Ridder River
14.
The market was filled with people, and the sound of hundreds of voices talking and shouting created a wall of noise. It had been a long time since he had been there last. Memories of the small boy he had left behind in the care of the thieves were at the fore of his mind. Alther pushed his way through the bustling crowds until he reached a market stall that was selling books. He picked up one of the tomes and began to flick through its pages. All he had to do was wait. He had deliberately worn his coin purse so that all the world could see it hanging from his belt. The bait would be irresistible. His eyes scanned the words scrawled onto the books pages, but his ears were focused on the world around him. A thin smile crossed his face as he heard the sound of someone creeping up behind him. A normal person would never have detected the sound, but using magic to enhance his hearing, it stood out like a sore thumb.
He waited until he could sense a hand reaching for the coin purse. A finger tightened around it preparing to lift it from his belt. With lightning quick reflexes, he spun around and grabbed the thief by the arm. The teenage lad cried out in surprise. Alther chuckled. What luck! His contact had been correct. The boy had grown into a tall, lanky youth with unruly, long black hair that reached his shoulders. The grey eyes that glared at him were unmistakable.
“Get off me!” Ferran yelled as he desperately tried to shake himself free of the Nightblade’s vice-like grip. Alther tightened his hold and twisted the lad’s arm until it was pressed up into the small of his back.
“Quiet, boy, and quit your struggling. Me and you have a lot to discuss,” Alther said sternly.
Ferran continued to struggle, drawing the unwanted attention of the crowded streets. People began to point at the struggling boy and the tall man dressed in black. Sensing that someone would soon try and play the hero and intervene, Alther muttered some words that made Ferran go limp. He caught the boy and slung him over his shoulder.
“He has the sleeping sickness; he’s not well,” Alther said to the surprised onlookers. Some offered him looks of sympathy as he carried the now snoring boy through the streets. He walked through the backstreets of the town until he reached the stables that stood next to the eastern gate. Still with Ferran over his shoulder, he flicked a coin to the stable boy who had been paid to prepare the horses for travel.
“This is the boy?” a man dressed in similar garb to Alther said.
“This is the one, Renly,” Alther replied to his brother Nightblade.
Renly cast a disapproving eye over the snoring Ferran. The Nightblade was in his late twenties and had a reputation for being a stickler for the rules. Alther placed Ferran into the saddle of one of the horses and climbed up himself. He placed the lad’s arms around his waist and cast a spell to bind them into place.
“He is just a street urchin,” Renly said snidely. “I doubt the others will be impressed with him.”
“It does not matter if they are,” Alther retorted, spurring his horse into a trot. “If he has the gift, as I suspect, then it is time for him to come to Caldaria regardless. If he can pass the trials, then he will become a Nightblade.”
* * *
Alther jolted awake. The incessant banging of the undead villagers on the inn’s door and boarded-up windows continued. The others had taken spots on the inn’s floor to make their beds; none of them wanted to be apart. Each of the men had armed themselves with whatever they could find. Erin had brought down some blankets and pillows from the guest rooms. Alther had chosen to stay in his favourite chair, his boots resting on the low table that stood in front of the fireplace. The inn was still dark, but the dawn would not be far off. Carefully Alther rose from his chair. Oscar stirred, but he shushed the little dog back to the land of sleep.
Moving silently through the inn, he went up the stairs that led to the guest rooms. Before exhaustion had taken them they had heard screams in the distance and the moans of the undead. A few hours had passed before the screaming had finally ended – a troubling sign. Had the whole town been overrun? He walked into one of the rooms that overlooked the stream that ran through the town and crept close to the window. The view was of the town. An orange glow was flickering in the distance and the faint smell of smoke wafted on the wind. A fire had broken out at the other end of town.
“That will complicate matters,” he muttered.
With no one to put it out, the fire could easily spread to the rest of the town. Fortunately, there was only a light breeze, but if the winds picked up then the flames would surely engulf the rest of the settlement. His hand went to his belt. He had been a fool to leave his Tourmaline sword at home. He had left it behind to avoid attracted any unwanted attention. If there were N’gist in the town then they would instantly have recognised the weapon and marked him for death. Alther whispered a silent prayer to Niveren that his message had reached Ferran. He could send word to the Nightblades at Caldaria, but knowing the order like he did it would take them weeks to send anyone. Their numbers were stretched thin at the best of times, and instead of sending a Nightblade they would have sent an observer.
To avoid their time being wasted hunting wolves and the like, the Nightblades often sent observers to the areas requesting their aid. It was up to them to ascertain that a Fell Beast was indeed in the area, and it was down to their judgement whether it was worth the time of the experts. If only they knew that the N’gist were back, the panic on their faces would no doubt be amusing. For years Alther had warned that the N’gist were still active, but his fears had repeatedly been dismissed.
“Hunting and banishing Fell beasts was the job of a Nightblade. Let the Knights of Niveren or the Witch Hunters deal with the relics of the Magic Wars,” was the line that they would always use to dismiss his concerns.
A flicker of light caught his eye. Frowning, he moved closer to t
he window. There it was again … and again. Someone was alive in town. He brought up a map of the town in his mind. The light was coming from the third-floor window of the town hall. If the hall was secure then that likely meant that the mayor and perhaps the Marshal were still alive. He froze – figures were moving through the streets leading out of town. From this distance, he recognised the garb of the N’gist he had encountered in the woods, only this time there were a lot more of them. In the darkness, he could make out other figures. Some were Ghouls most certainly, but there also seemed to be men wearing tricorn hats. He could only make out their silhouettes, and his eyesight wasn’t what it once was, but he was convinced. The only people that wore those type of hats were Witch Hunters. He shook his head; surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. He watched the world outside until the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the eastern horizon. With the light, the Ghouls would weaken and hopefully wander off to seek shelter in a cellar or some other dark place. He went back downstairs and roused the others.
“I don’t think I managed a wink of sleep,” Erin yawned.
“That is understandable. The day’s first light will soon be here and with it our chance to slip out of here,” Alther replied as he gathered up his cloak from the back of his chair.
“Where are we going to go?” Cron asked nervously.
Alther faced them. “Get out of town quickly, and if you can, raise the alarm with the Legion outpost at Farnhallow.”
“What are you going to do?” Erin said, her voice full of concern.
Alther pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.
“I’m going to get my sword and do what I can to save any survivors”
The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia Page 11
