The woman nodded.
“Aye, that we are. My name is Erin, this here is Cron and that big bugger is Tomas. We managed to slip out of town. We’re heading to Farnhallow to raise the alarm.”
“Well, Erin, my name is Sophia and this is Ferran. I am a Witch Hunter and he is a Nightblade. We will do what we can for your town.”
Erin’s eyes widened in awe.
“You’re a Nightblade too?”
Ferran nodded, his curiosity piqued.
“That’s what old Alther said he was as well, weren’t it?” said Cron.
“Alther? You know him? Is he alive?” Ferran asked.
“Why yes, sir, he was the last time we saw him, which was yesterday morning. He was the one who told us to leave town and seek out the Legion garrison in Farnhallow. He said he was going to get his sword and that he’d try and find a way to put right the town.”
“Yesterday morning?” Sophia interjected. “Why has it taken you so long to reach here? It’s less than three hours walk to the town.” Something wasn’t right, and she didn’t think it was just down to the undead ravaging Midlake.
Erin glanced at her companions. The men seemed to pale at the question.
“There are strange folk abroad in the Lakelands, miss,” Cron said. “Men and woman cloaked in shadow. Fell Beasts haunt the surrounding fields and woodland. Evil has come to this place, an evil not seen since the tales of the old Empire. We saw them with our very own eyes. We had to stick to the ditches and trees so as not to be seen.”
Sophia looked at Ferran.
“Stick to this road and do not leave it, no matter what you see or hear in the woods. Do you hear me?” Ferran said seriously. “You will reach the garrison by nightfall. When you do, tell the commander to prepare his men for Fell Beasts and the undead.”
He reached into his tunic and took a piece of parchment and a piece of chalk, then hastily wrote the command onto the paper before folding it. Closing his eyes, he channelled the magic within himself and sealed the letter with the seal of the Nightblades. He then handed it to a stunned Erin.
“Here. Give the commander this. And before you go, what is that large building?” he asked, pointing to the structure where the undead had gathered.
Erin narrowed her eyes as she focused on the building.
“Ah, that’s the town hall.”
“Thanks. Now, get moving. We will do what we can for Midlake.”
The townsfolk hurried off up the road and to safety. Ferran and Sophia, however, were heading into the heart of danger.
“Do you have a plan?” Sophia asked as she checked her gear over.
On her shoulder was her bow, on her left hip a quiver of silver arrows and on her right a quiver of steel bodkins. On her belt were two vicious curved daggers forged from solid silver. She reached into one of the saddlebags and took out a shirt of silver chainmail which she then put on over her leather tunic. She was dressed for battle. Ferran in comparison simply checked the straps on his own armour and loosened his Tourmaline sword in its scabbard.
“Our primary objective is to reach the town hall. From what I can see, there are too many for us to take down head-on. We need to thin their numbers and lure them away from the hall.”
Sophia nodded in agreement. “If we approach the town from different directions and make a racket, we should be able to draw their attention. Hopefully, we can split them up into manageable numbers. If I can get up high, I can take a few with my bow,” she said enthusiastically.
Ferran looked at her with respect. It was a simple but effective strategy, and in fact the one that he was going to suggest.
“Okay then, let’s do this,” he said as Sophia climbed back onto her horse.
He then spurred his mount onwards, and together the Nightblade and Witch Hunter galloped towards the besieged town.
* * *
“Barricade the doors! If they get in here we are all dead,” the Marshal bellowed to his terrified deputies.
Grasping hands were reaching around the door’s edge, and the moans of the dead filled the hall to an almost deafening level. The deputies and a few of the petrified survivors were pushing against the doors in a desperate attempt to close them.
Dillon cried out as a hand grabbed the sleeve of his cotton shirt. The Marshal swore loudly; he drew his sword rushed forward and hacked at the undead’s arm until it fell away in a bloody mess. Dillon gasped in relief before renewing his efforts to shut the doors.
The Marshal sheathed his blade and strode over to Alther who was watching the scene unfold before him.
“By Niveren, Alther, I could have doomed us all to save your hide. Is there nothing you can do to help remedy this situation?”
“How can this old fool help us?” the mayor whined. He was cowering at the back of the hall, the place furthest from the danger. “You should have left him to them, Marshal, just like I commanded.”
Alther glared at him and Oscar growled threateningly. Without a word, Alther walked towards the doors. With a snap-hiss he summoned his Tourmaline sword to life. The sight caused the villagers to cry out in surprise, and stunned the mayor into silence.
“Step aside,” he ordered.
The deputies looked to the Marshal, surprise in their eyes. Alther couldn’t help but smile. For so long, these people had thought him as just a useless old man. Now, here he was, a weapon of magic in his withered hands, a Nightblade. To these folk, a Nightblade was a mythical thing, and now there was one amongst them. The Marshal nodded to his men.
Alther set himself and channelled the magic within him. He felt heat flash through his body and directed it to his hands.
“Step back,” he barked.
His voice was loud and full of authority. The deputies stepped back and the doors swung open. Undead stumbled inside, and the villagers screamed out in terror. The first undead staggered towards Alther. He raised his arm and held his hand out, palm upwards. He muttered an incantation and flame erupted from his palm, engulfing the snarling dead. The first undead the magical fire struck was instantly vaporised and turned into ash, whilst the ones close behind were set ablaze.
“Only fire destroys the dead,” he muttered under his breath.
The fire swept through the crowd of undead. Those at the back fled the painful flames, whilst those at the front collapsed to the ground.
Alther dashed forward and dispatched each of them with a downward thrust of his sword. As the magical blade pierced flesh, the curse that had turned them into Ghouls was lifted, revealing the bloody remains of the people they had once been. He had cleared a space outside the hall. More undead would soon replace those he had slain.
“Close the doors!” he shouted.
The Marshal ran forward with his deputies, and together they slammed the doors closed and barred them. It wasn’t long before undead hands were once again banging on them.
Everyone in the hall sighed in relief.
“What was that?” the Marshal said calling for quiet.
Outside they could hear the mournful tone of a horn being blown.
Alther smiled tiredly.
“I think help has arrived.”
Dead.
“… and so it was that the Nightblades and wizards began their plan. The surviving men of the Niver followed behind them. Even kings bent the knee, and the cultists of Niveren were shamed into silence.”
– The Chaotic Heresies
17.
Sophia lowered the ivory horn from her lips. The mournful tone carried over the town and across the lakes. She tilted her head slightly and listened. Sure enough, the moans of the undead increased in volume as they began to shamble in the direction of the horn blast … her direction. Casually she strung her bow and waited. It did not take long for the first of the undead to appear. She was stood in the middle of the main road that ran through the eastern edge of Midlake. Ferran, meanwhile, should have reached his position on the western side.
She raised her bow and took aim at the und
ead. She felt a pang of sorrow for the person that the snarling beast had once been. Judging by her clothes, she had been probably been a shop owner. The smart velvet dress was now covered in filth and blood – that of her victims or her own, it was impossible to tell.
Sophia drew back the bowstring and loosed. With a twang, a silver-tipped arrow shot outwards and struck the undead in the head. It staggered on for two more steps before crumpling to the ground in a heap. More figures were coming down the road, too many for her to fight alone.
She shouldered her bow once again and eyed the building next to her. It looked like a tool shed of some kind, with a low roof. With catlike agility, she leapt into the air and grabbed a hold on the tiled roof before pulling herself up onto its surface. Her years as a Witch Hunter had ensured that she was a lot stronger than she looked. Gaining the high ground, no matter the situation, was one of the key mottos of the guild.
“Strike from afar if possible,” her father always said. “The bow and crossbow are the key weapons of a Hunter.”
Such advice had saved her skin on many occasions. Fighting illegal magic users, Fell Beasts and other monsters required cunning and unorthodox tactics by the Hunters. With no powers of their own to call on, they needed every advantage.
Now that she was on top of the low roof, she could reach the rooftops of the town’s other buildings. She shot down three more undead before clambering upwards and onto the next structure over. From this vantage spot, she could see much of the town and, most importantly, the town hall.
She looked to the west as another horn call sounded. Ferran was in position. Sure enough, the crowd of undead that had been gathered outside the town hall began to drift off towards the sound. Below her were two dozen undead. The rest were heading towards Ferran.
“Like fish in a barrel,” she muttered as she once again took aim with her bow.
Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. There were people moving towards the forest. She counted six. All of them save one were wearing black cloaks. To her surprise, the other person was wearing the armour of a Witch Hunter – his tricorn shaped hat was unmistakable. She stared at the figure. From this distance, it was impossible to be sure, but she was sure that they had seen her on the rooftop.
A feeling of dread wormed into her stomach. Something was terribly wrong. It was then that she saw them. Witch Hunters were moving stealthily over the roof tops, their crossbows aimed at her. She cried out as a crossbow bolt whistled past her head, striking the tiles with a spark. They were shooting at her! Without thinking she launched herself into a sprint and leapt over the street, bolts whizzing past her. She landed with a crash onto the roof of a building opposite.
“There she is!” she heard one of the Hunters shout.
A Hunter appeared on the roof near to her. Without hesitation, she whipped her bow around, notched an arrow and loosed. The arrow struck the Hunter in the shoulder. His armour deflected the projectile, but the force of the impact made him stagger backwards and lose his footing. With a cry, he fell off the roof and into the undead-filled street below. Even over the moans of undead, the sounds of the Hunter’s screams as he was being ripped apart made Sophia shudder.
Pain lanced through her arm as a bolt ripped the material of her tunic and grazed the armoured skin beneath. If it had been a direct hit, the bolt would have easily punctured the silver mail. She moved quickly in a crouch to the other side of the rooftop, using the building’s chimney as cover. More bolts clattered off roof tiles, forcing her to hug the brickwork tightly. She leant out from cover and scanned the town’s rooftops. Her gaze settled on the town hall. Quickly she planned a route to it. She would have to cross the roofs and leap across two streets, but it would keep her out of the claws of the undead. She spotted four Witch Hunters; each had their crossbows aimed at her position. If she broke cover, she would surely be greeted by a bolt in the gut.
“Good job I’m always prepared then,” she muttered.
Reaching into one of the pouches on her belt she pulled out a firestone and a small ball of lead. A short fuse stuck out on top, which she now lit using the firestone. With a hiss, the fuse ignited. She threw the ball high into the air where it exploded, producing a thick cloud of black smoke. She launched herself from her hiding spot and charged through the swirling smoke towards one of the Hunters. The smoke hid her approach. She reached the edge of the rooftop and leapt across the street. Whilst in mid-air, she drew one of her daggers and threw it with all of her might. The whirling blade embedded itself into her target’s neck before she even hit the opposite rooftop. As she landed, she went into a combat roll. The other Hunters were taken by surprise as their quarry appeared amongst them. She drew the other dagger and leapt on one of the Hunters. She kicked him off the rooftop with a scream. Only two left to go. She ducked a panicky shot bolt and sprinted forwards. The Hunter who had missed desperately tried to reload, but before he could even draw a new bolt from his quiver Sophia cut his throat. The Hunter clawed at his ravaged oesophagus before collapsing to the ground. One left! Rotating the dagger as she ran she gripped it by the blade and hurled it. The blade embedded itself into the Hunter’s skull. None left!
With the rooftops now clear, she gathered her daggers, sheathed them and hurried towards the town hall.
* * *
Ferran whirled through the snarling undead, his sword flashing as it carved a grisly path through the streets. Parry, stab and blast was his pattern. Undead were falling all around him, but still they came. He had made good progress through the town, until he was distracted by the sound of a large bang. Black smoke drifted over the rooftops to the east. For a second, his thoughts flitted to Sophia and he realised that he felt genuine concern for her.
“Feelings can get you killed,” Alther had always said.
Ferran shook his head.
“Not today, old man,” he snarled through gritted teeth as hands tried to grab his arm.
He dashed backwards and swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing the undead back. Once he had cleared enough space, he used his other hand to channel his magic. Muttering a spell, fire once spat out of his fingertips. As it did so, he could feel his strength failing. He had underestimated just how many of the town’s citizens had been turned. He was strong in magic, but he was no mage. To a Nightblade, magic was a useful tool, whereas to a mage it was life itself. He knew mages that used magic for everything, including mundane tasks.
The fire destroyed the shambling corpses, allowing him to progress further. In the distance, he could hear sounds of battle. Breaking into a run, he quickly reached the town square. He skidded to a halt as he took in the scene.
The surviving townsfolk were gathered in a semi-circle armed with anything they could get their hands on. One woman was wielding a silver candlestick which she was using to clobber an undead. Leading the fight was a man in the clothing of a town Marshal, his silver sword doing a good job of fending off the enemy. Fighting at his side was an old man dressed in the black armour of a Nightblade.
Alther may have aged nearly beyond all recognition but the way he moved was unmistakable. His stance was fluid, his Tourmaline blade moving with a casual grace that Ferran had always envied him for. It was impossible to deny that his old mentor was a master swordsman.
Silver-tipped arrows lanced down from the rooftops taking out another three undead. Ferran looked up and saw Sophia. He tossed her a salute before running into the fray. Within a few short moments, the undead was defeated and Midlake was safe.
* * *
Ferran was shivering from the cold. He had been woken by Alther before the sun had even risen. The man had said nothing other than telling him to get dressed. Silently, he had taken him through a maze of corridors and down several flights of steps until they reached a courtyard. Surrounding it were buildings made of crystal, and in the centre stood two black-clad figures and a man who wore a golden cloak. The man’s eyes were a dazzling blue and his hair was a dull blond. Alther told him to s
tand before the man with the bright eyes.
“Welcome to Caldaria,” the man said. “My name is Grand Master Thanos and I am the ruler of this city and leader of the mages in Delfinnia. Alther here believes that you have the gift of magic flowing within your veins. Is this so?”
“I don’t think so,” Ferran replied meekly.
Were these people mad? Anyone with magic was cursed, the cult of Niveren said so. If you had it then the Witch Hunters would come and purge you of it through fire and ice. Why would he ever admit to having it?
Thanos smiled.
“You are safe here, Ferran,” the Grand Master replied, as though reading his thoughts. “Tell me. In all your time struggling to survive on the streets of Retbit, did you ever do something that you could not explain. That scar on your face; tell me how you got it.”
Ferran touched his face and winced.
“I was trying to lift a coin purse from a travelling noble, but his bodyguard spotted me. He swung his sword at me, but I moved out of the way. It grazed me here,” he said, touching the scar.
“Then what happened?”
“He tried to grab me but I didn’t let him. I … I don’t know how it happened, but as he went for me, I lashed out, and the next thing I know both he and his master were lying in a heap several feet away.”
Thanos raised an eyebrow and nodded. He turned to the other cloaked figures and spoke to them in low tones. Eventually, he addressed Ferran once more. Without any warning, he flicked his wrist and a large stone that had been lying at his feet launched itself from the ground, straight towards Ferran.
Just as the stone was about to strike him he felt a spark of heat flash inside his chest. He raised a hand and shut his eyes tightly, awaiting the pain of the stone hitting his forehead. Nothing happened. Slowly he opened his eyes and gasped. Lying at Thanos’s feet was the stone. A broad smile lit the Grand Master’s face.
The Nightblade_Tales of Delfinnia Page 13
