Tales of Dark Fantasy

by Robert E. Keller

  ***

  We found ourselves standing in wet grass, surrounded by a crumbling stone foundation. We somehow knew that the Lady Teagan's mansion once stood here. It was a cool fall day, and a light rain was coming down. For a moment we stood and gazed at the cloudy sky, letting the rain hit our faces and breathing deeply to savor the fresh air.

  "What shall we do now?" Fasban said, looking around. "We have no horses, no money. Are we to go back to being rogues?"

  "Even if we wanted to," said Gariana, "we could not. We just don't have it in us anymore." She smiled, and it broke into a laugh. "But we're free now regardless."

  "We'll find a way to get by," I said. Depression was already settling over me, as I realized my duties were finished forever. They had simply been a cleverly disguised method of feeding the machine--but nevertheless they had been my main purpose in life for so long....

  "Do you think the world has changed much?" said Fasban. "Have they bred better horses, or built bigger ships? Have machines become more complex and reached the point where a human does not need to power them--like the one we were trapped in for...for such a long time?"

  "We couldn't have been in there for more than a few decades," I said, struggling to remember. I laughed. "You always were imaginative, Fasban."

  "I think the world has changed a little bit," said Gariana, her face pale. She pointed to where a huge, gleaming, disk-shaped object was quietly spinning across the sky.

  End.

  The Elder Root

  From the ancient diary of a gnome

  (Originally published in Necrotic Tissue magazine.

  Revised for this collection.)

  It grows fat with my blood, while I tug at it in misery. It remains wound tightly around my neck and rooted deep in my veins, its slimy black surface spotted as if with disease.

  How many nights have I lain awake, cursing that day I dove into the river and tried to yank the gnarled old root from the sand?

  I try to burn it, but I feel its pain. I try to cut it, but the blood it loses is also my own. It seems I have to make peace with it, before I go insane.

  Wood Axe

  Balteon staggered, groaning, his legs sagging beneath him. Then he managed to grab a tree trunk and steady himself. He trudged onward down the trail, his eyes smoldering. He ignored the disgusted look that his son, Alandair, sent his way. "I'll be fine, lad," he said. "I just need to keep moving."

  The gnarled handle of a wooden battle axe, which tapered into a twisting root, was planted into Balteon's neck and was feeding off the old man's blood. Alandair watched with growing dread, wondering how he could pry the weapon from his father's clutches before it drained him dry. His father's eyes were glazed over, drool running from the corner of his mouth. His skin was growing ghastly pale.

  "You're losing too much blood, Father!" Alandair said. He wanted to tear the vile axe free of his father's throat, but such an action would have killed Balteon. The axe was rooted too deeply into his flesh.

  The old mercenary sneered at his son, his rugged hand caressing the axe handle. "Blood is easily replaceable, boy. It's money we need to be concerned with. We're getting closer to the phantom's haunts, and my axe must be ready. Otherwise, not only will we fail to get the bounty, but we'll be dead!"

  Alandair's gaze burned into the axe, which was an ugly piece of wood that was reddish brown in hue and mottled with dark patches as if diseased. The handle tapered down to the quivering root that was concealed in the flesh of his father's throat. The axe had grown larger over the weeks his father had owned it, getting fat with his blood. It had a stretched, swollen look, though the wooden blade was still somehow sharper than a razor. It looked like a mock weapon one might use for sparring, but in reality, it could hack through the most stout armor with ease.

  "That sorcerer was your enemy, Father," Alandair said. "He gave you that axe as a curse, not as a gesture of friendship." It was an old argument, but Alandair had never given up on trying to convince his father to see the truth that was so obvious to Alandair. The axe was a cruel punishment and nothing more.

  "The sorcerer was weary of our feud," said Balteon. "He wanted to make peace. He gave me his most prized weapon out of kindness. How blind you are, my son, if you think this wondrous axe is a curse."

  "You're the one who is blind, Father," Alandair said. "Blind and poisoned with evil. You seem lost in a fog lately."

  Balteon smiled, his eyes distant. "Yes...I am indeed in a sort of fog. It shields me from mortal pain and fear, like glorious armor. I'm sorry you cannot know the pleasure of it, my son. Perhaps someday I will pass this axe on to you, and then you will understand how magnificent it really is."

  "I'll see it destroyed!" Alandair promised, his hands knotted into fists. He clenched his teeth, hating the bloated weapon with all of his heart.

  Balteon's eyes twinkled. "You shall come to adore it."

  "Father, give up the axe," said Alandair, his eyes widening. He reached forth with his calloused hands. "Don't let it consume you."

  "You just want it for yourself," snarled Balteon. "I know your tricks. In fact, I taught you all of your tricks. But you must wait your turn."

  "You think I want that grotesque blade?" Alandair said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why? So it can drain me dry of blood as well? Don't be a fool."

  "Enough!" Balteon growled. "We shall speak no more of it. The bounty for the phantom will make us rich men. Bear in mind that six villages have pooled their gold in an effort to stop the phantom's murder spree. We can retire, and I'll no longer need this axe. I can sell it to the highest bidder, and we'll gain even more riches."

  Alandair said nothing, wishing his father spoke true. Alandair was a grown man now and should have known better. To others, Alandair was a feared and respected bounty hunter, his face and body bearing the scars from years of combat. He was an ugly, skull-splitting nightmare that no lawbreaker wanted to meet in the dark places. But whenever he was around his father, he felt and acted like a young boy again. His gruff voice even seemed to take on a higher pitch. Alandair hated it, and he knew it wouldn't gain him his father's respect; but he couldn't help himself. The old man's aggressive personality always put Alandair on the defensive.

  "I'll never touch it again," his father promised. Then he laughed, more drool running from his mouth. His voice changed to a hiss. "Yes, because I'll move on to someone of significance and be gone from this sorry old mercenary." Balteon shoved Alandair down, his unnatural strength easily overwhelming his larger, more muscular son. "I've heard enough of your whining, boy!"

  Alandair lurched up, his face crimson with fury and frustration. The axe was not only sapping the old man's blood, but it was also gaining control of his mind. Alandair raised his broadsword with trembling hands, and then lowered it in shame. The axe wanted him to lash out against his father, because the cruel weapon seemed to enjoy such things. It not only fed off human blood, but human torment as well.

  Wolves howled in the forest around them. Oak branches blocked out the sky, leaving the woods in shadow. The black wolves of Makmir Forest could be lurking anywhere, slipping quietly amongst the trees, preparing their ambush. Alandair knew their cunning minds were at work, plotting against them. But his father seemed unconcerned, confident his axe would protect them. Alandair wanted to smash some sense into the old fool's skull with the flat of his blade.

  Balteon threw back his head and laughed. It turned into an odd, strangled sigh. "Those howls are sweet music to my ears," he whispered. "Don't you agree, my son?" He got down on all fours, the axe propping him up like a bloated stick, and licked his lips in some perverse gesture. Alandair grimaced and turned away.

  Alandair caught sight of yellow eyes gleaming in the underbrush--there for a second and gone. "Pay heed, Father! They're closing in on us." The wolves of Makmir Forest were suspected of being servants of the phantom, their bodies mutated with dark sorcery. They would not fall easily in battle.

  The forest reeked of a luminous
green fungus that was draped over the trunks and branches. Stone ruins shaped like beasts, covered in moss and vines, were visible now and then beside the trail. These were the Wilding Lands, once the home of beast worshippers who built their dwellings in honor of their blood-soaked gods. The phantom was reputed to be an ancient king whose body had been fused with a monstrosity. This king continued his alchemy experiments within the sprawling ruins of his castle, breeding nightmare creations that he then sent forth to do his bidding. The phantom had reached legendary status throughout the land, and few dared to try to collect the massive bounty that had been placed on the monster.

  Alandair was sickened to the core by the sights and smells of the forest. Everything around him was gnarled and evil looking and emanated the choking stench of the fungus. He couldn't shake the feeling of being in a wooden tomb--the place where he and his father would breathe their last. A feeling like one that lingered after a nightmare infested his mind, making him feel detached from reality.

  "Do you know how old I am?" his father asked. (It was the axe speaking through the old mercenary again.) "I was forged when the earliest humans walked the earth. I've had many masters. I was once wielded by King Xantheus the Lustful, and I controlled half of the world. Half of the entire world!"

  "Clear your mind, Father!" Alandair shouted, losing control and rapping his knuckles on Balteon's forehead. "Wake up in there." Swallowing his shame, Alandair smashed him again, this time staggering the old mercenary. "I'll knock some sense into that stubborn head yet, or I'll knock you out cold!"

  "He cannot awaken," the axe said, using his father's mouth. "I own his thoughts now. Soon the wolves will come for you, boy. Alone, you cannot defeat them. It's up to me whether you and your father live or die. Oh, what a jolly life! If you don't know the joy of controlling the weak, you're really missing out on something grand. But how could you know of such delights? After all, you're nothing but a pathetically stupid mortal with a face that resembles a horse's arse."

  "I've earned more respect in my life than you could ever know," said Alandair. "I've brought many criminals to justice, and I've kept my honor intact. In all the years that you claim you've existed, what have you ever accomplished that's worthwhile? All you've done is bring misery to people."

  "I've changed the face of the land!" said the axe. "I've been responsible for the rise and doom of kingdoms. And while it's true that I've fallen on hard times lately, being stuck with a washed up old mercenary like your father, I hope to change that situation soon enough."

  "What do you hope to gain?" Alandair said through gritted teeth. His hatred for the weapon was so strong it seemed his body might burst from it. But all he could do was stand by and let it suck his father's blood.

  "A wee taste of the red stuff, of course" said the axe. "Oh, and I want the freedom to rule as I once did. See, that old sorcerer kept me locked away for fifty years in his tower while he used me in his wretched experiments. Some of those experiments were so disgusting I can't bring myself to speak of them. Now, in death, he expects me to carry out his revenge and drain your father's life away. But I don't care about that. I want to be prominent again. I want a lord, or even a king, to control. I'll release your father if you promise to deliver me into the hands of some important nobleman. Think quickly, now, for the wolves are soon to spring!"

  Alandair shook his head. "I'm a mercenary, not a murderer. I won't inflict your doom on anyone else. Rather, I'll see to it you don't feed on the blood of any other victims. I'm going to burn you to black ash and scatter you to the west wind. You can blow down into goblin lands to cake their dirty fingers and loincloths."

  "Then you and your father shall be wolf food!" snarled the axe. "Good luck fighting them all yourself. I assure you that a single man--even a man as skilled as you--with an ordinary weapon is no match for the wolves of Makmir Forest. Now watch as your father stands like a statue as the wolves tear him, and you, apart!" Balteon lowered the axe and closed his eyes.

  "Father!" Alandair cried, shaking the old mercenary. But Balteon simply stood there grinning.

  Alandair circled about, struggling with his sense of honor. His father had raised him to have a strong moral code, to give his life if need be to protect the innocent. Alandair had always lived proudly by that code (which put no restriction on getting drunk whenever he had the chance, warming up to any woman he didn't scare off with his gnarled countenance, and gambling away his money), but he'd never actually been faced with a choice between his honor and his death until now.

  The wolves finally crept into view--at least twenty of them moving in from all sides. Alandair shook his father again, shouting at him to awaken and fight. But the old man stayed utterly motionless, prepared to let his flesh be stripped from his bones. An evil aura hung in the air, a hopeless feeling that radiated from the wolves and whispered in Alandair's mind that he should surrender, that victory was impossible.

  The wolves had the stink of insects, and their spindly legs carried them like spiders over the forest floor. Their fur was crusted on them like wavy dark shells, and iron bolts had been pounded through their backs for some grim purpose Alandair couldn't fathom. The bolts ran under their spines and caused them to hunch, keeping their heads low to the ground. Their claws were oversized hooks.

  "Okay, I'll do it," Alandair muttered to the axe. "I'll take you to a nobleman and you can feed off his damn blood." He could worry about the decision later. Right now survival was all that mattered.

  His father's eyes popped open. He sneered. "I thought you'd agree. I always knew I'd raised a spineless dung heap for a son." It was the axe speaking, of course, but the cruel words still stung Alandair.

  The wolves charged them, their muzzles split open to reveal fangs that dripped poison. Alandair smashed his broadsword down on the first one to reach him, driving it deep into its skull. The wolf staggered beneath the blow, then tore itself free and fled howling into the forest. Two more wolves struck Alandair and knocked him off his feet. They bit down on his chain mail, shaking their heads back and forth and trying to tear through it, while he held his arm protectively over his throat.

  Alandair thought he was finished, and he tried to make peace with himself even as he fought to the last. But there was no peace to be found, for he'd wanted more than to die as a mercenary. His dream of leading a life as a simple blacksmith, marrying a good woman, and raising a few children was going to end in a bloody mess on a remote forest trail.

  Desperation flooded through Alandair, fueling an insane effort to defeat his foes. He clutched a snarling wolf muzzle that descended toward his face, black poison from the jagged teeth dripping down to soak his beard. With a roar, Alandair shoved the creature off him and sent it tumbling into an oak tree. And then the other wolf was torn away in a shower of blood by his father's axe.

  Grinning insanely, the old man leapt about, the wooden axe moving with inhuman speed and precision. He looked like a dancing goblin, drool flying from his gleeful lips as he lashed out at his foes. The blade tore horrific wounds in the wolves, their yelps of agony filling the air, and in moments several of them lay shredded. Severed limbs twitched in the dirt, and bleeding jaws shuddered as life departed. The rest of the wolves fled into the forest.

  Alandair scrambled up, and the trees seemed to spin around him. Glancing down, he saw that his chain mail had been torn open and blood was pouring from his arm. It was a shallow wound and one that Alandair might have simply ignored. But he could tell by the grim, yet delighted look on Balteon's face that Alandair was only moments away from death.

  "You've been bitten," the wood axe hissed through Balteon's mouth. The weapon had once again rooted itself in Balteon's neck, and it roared laughter. "Deadly poison. You won't last long without an antidote."

  "Then I'm finished," Alandair said, falling to one knee and slamming his fist into the dirt. And that meant his father was doomed as well.

  "I can drink your poison," the axe said. "Let me feast on your thick neck. It'
s your only hope. However, you must then take me to a nobleman and offer me to him as a gift so that I may lay claim to him!"

  Alandair wiped the deadly fluid from his beard and stood up. He could feel the poison seeping through him, a burning flow creeping toward his heart. He nodded, cursing himself for his weaknesses. He clearly wasn't the man his father had raised him to be. It appeared his life was worth more to him than his honor.

  Shuddering with revulsion, Alandair grabbed the axe, and the twisting root at the end of the handle came free of his father's neck. His hand twitched as he considered hurling it into the forest. Instead, he pressed the root against his throat. He cried out as the wood burrowed into his flesh. He could feel the blood being pulled out through his neck, and he wanted desperately to tear the thing away. But he let it drink deeply, until the burning sensation of the poison cooled into oblivion.

  The axe seized control of his lips for a moment. "Now take me to a nobleman. Don't worry, I won't feed off you too much during the journey."

  "What about my father?" Alandair said. The old mercenary looked dazed, and he stood shaking his head and muttering.

  "He will recover completely," said the axe. "Life is indeed jolly!"

  "Return my weapon to me, my son," Balteon ordered, focus returning to his gaze. He balled up his fist." Do it now, lest I be forced to break your jaw!"

  "I cannot, Father," Alandair said. "I'm going to take it away, to someone else. You're free of it now. Don't you understand?"

  "It was a gift for me," said Balteon. "You have no right to steal it from me. I didn't raise my son to be a rotten thief!"

  Commanding Alandair's lips again, the axe whispered to his father. It spoke of the darkest places of the forest, where the trees bore the scars of a magical disease as old as life itself and their roots were like writhing worms hungry for blood. There, the gnomes crafted malicious weapons beneath the sprawling branches, willing their spite and their rage against humanity into their creations--knowing the greed of those seeking power would lead them to those weapons and that entire civilizations would crumble into ruin as a result.

  Balteon bowed his head. "How could I have been so misguided? Yes, I see now that this axe is indeed a curse. It would have destroyed me."

  "You're a hopeless optimist like me, Father," said Alandair. "You believe that people can change, and you accepted the sorcerer's gift based on that belief. You gave your trust too easily. The truth is, neither one of us should be mercenaries. Our hearts are not hardened enough for this profession."

  "I was utterly lost," said Balteon, moaning. "I was perfectly content to let it drain me dry. How could a man like me become so weak and enslaved? I thought my will was unshakable, but the dark sorcery crushed it with ease."

  "You're still alive, Father," Alandair reminded him. "You've withstood it. And we both know that some forces are too strong for any mortal to overcome."

  "We must destroy the axe," said Balteon, "as it would have destroyed me. And we'll end this way of life, my son. We'll return home as new men and find a different way to make a living. Your children will not be raised as I have raised you."

  Alandair hung his head. "I made a vow to deliver the axe to a nobleman, and you always taught me to keep my promises."

  "My son, said Balteon, managing a smile, "that lesson was wrong. Some promises are not worth keeping. In fact, honor demands that some promises be broken." Seeing the uncertainty in Alandair's eyes, he sighed. "However, I don't want you to feel as if you're sacrificing your honor. Therefore, I will destroy the axe myself."

  Alandair pulled the weapon away from his throat. "You're right, Father. We shall burn this abomination to ash." The axe quivered in his hands like a bloated slug, the squirming root probing for flesh. He threw it down in the trail. "I will honor my promise and deliver it to a nobleman--whatever remains of it, that is!"

  Balteon patted him on the back. "You're a fine man, Balteon, and I'm so very proud to have you as my--"

  Ghostly whispers suddenly filled the air, and a green, leafy mass shot from the forest and seized Balteon's head. Like a claw made from vines, it grabbed him from behind and lifted him into the air. The vine-fingers tightened. Balteon's skull made a cracking noise, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  "Father!" cried Alandair, as a spectral figure floated out from the trees--a transparent and ragged blue cloak from which vines hung out like twisting serpents. From the cloak's hood, where the face should have been, protruded the thick vine that had grabbed his father and was threatening to crush his skull. It was the phantom, the lord of the forest who had terrorized the surrounding villages for decades.

  Drool ran from Balteon's mouth, and his body convulsed. His lips moved as if to say something to his son, but no words came forth. He hung in the air like a stocky, grey-bearded puppet, as the vine-fingers went on crushing his skull.

  Alandair swiped up the wood axe. He leapt around his father and hacked at the vine, cutting into it. But it did not sever. Frantically, he turned his assault on the phantom's torso, but the axe went right through it as if it were mist.

  A vine shot out and struck Alandair in the forehead, knocking him on his back. The phantom floated toward him, and more vines slithered out and wrapped around his legs. They squeezed so hard they threatened to break his bones. Meanwhile, Balteon hung limp in the phantom's grasp, blood dripping from his mouth.

  Alandair hacked through the vines and staggered up. He swung at the phantom again, and as before, the axe passed through it as if it were not there. At last, he leapt away and let the axe root itself into his neck again. "How can I defeat the phantom?" he asked. "If you're so ancient and powerful, you must know a way!"

  "The big vine is its link to the living world," the axe hissed through Alandair's lips. "You must sever it, or the creature cannot lose."

  Alandair wrenched out the axe and delivered blow after blow to the vine, while smaller vines tried to wrap around his legs and trip him. After his arms had gone numb from the strain, Alandair at last managed to cleave the great vine in two. The phantom and its vines faded into nothingness. Balteon fell to the ground and lay still, blood pooling around his head.

  Alandair knelt and checked the old man's pulse, though he already knew the truth. Balteon, a man who had survived countless battles and brought many dangerous criminals to justice over the years, was dead.

  Alandair slammed the axe to the ground and cursed at it. "You led him to his death! He would never have dared come here if it hadn't been for you. Yes, you destroyed the phantom, but that single deed--done for your own selfish reasons--cannot make up for the countless lives you have ruined. Yet you expect me to honor a bargain that will allow you to inflict great misery upon the land. You, who have slain the phantom, would now replace him as a tyrant. Meanwhile, my father lies dead and will never get a chance to settle down and find happiness."

  Alandair put his head in his hands and grieved. And in the midst of his pain, an idea came to him. It was time to simply give in. He was going to do what the wood axe wanted. He would deliver it to a lord--a powerful man who ruled his lands without opposition. Alandair told himself he was done questioning his honor, that he just wanted to be rid of the axe forever regardless of the consequences.