Nightblade Boxed Set
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Nightblade Trilogy
Ryan Kirk
Copyright © 2015, 2016, 2019 by Waterstone Media
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Nightblade
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
World's Edge
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
The Wind and the Void
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
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About the Author
Nightblade
For Katie
Prologue
I am crawling, silent as a shadow, through the tall grass, each prolonged moment bleeding into the next. The full moon is rising as bright as the sun to my night-adapted eyes. It pierces through the leaves of the new forest, clearly illuminating the way forward. Tonight I count the moon among my enemies, assisting the archers scanning the grass and trees for signs of my presence. I have no need of the moon’s light and curse the necessity to act on this night, but my enemy is no doubt grateful for its near-omnipresent light.
The night is blissfully cool, a strong breeze coming in from the north, portending rain. Despite the chill of the night sweat pours from my body, drenching my loose black robes. My condition is excellent, but stealth is exhausting. The breeze which slices through the top of the grass does not penetrate down to my level. Fortunately, I can sense that the security and relative darkness of the forest is getting closer one agonizing pace at a time, marking the end of my slow crawl through the grass.
I halt my crawl, just for few moments, to focus my sense. The closer I get to the outpost, the closer I am to the danger that sits patiently within. Even now I can sense him nibbling at the edges of my awareness. I should know everything that is happening around me, the movement of all living beings. But there is a hole, a sense of darkness where darkness shouldn’t exist. It’s near the center of the outpost, and my experience identifies that darkness as the man who is out to end my life.
The grass is just tall enough for me to sit on my calves without being detected, a relief my body thanks me for. With my head higher, I begin to feel the wind brush through my short hair. Breathing deep and filling my lungs, the tension in my body dissolves and I empty my mind just as I was taught many cycles ago.
With stillness comes the sharpening of the sense, and I drink in everything that it whispers. Behind me, two archers have taken up posts in the trees I emerged from just as the moon was beginning to rise. They haven't seen me yet and their eyes and ears are focused outward, not knowing that I’m already behind them. It must be terrifying sometimes, not being able to sense others. To rely only on sight and sound. To know, with the animal instincts we always try to deny, that danger was approaching, but to be unable to detect anything but the peaceful passing of an evening in the woods. The not knowing seems impossible to live with.
But if the archers are afraid, they are professional soldiers, and they do not show it. They are still, arrows loosely nocked in bowstrings, waiting for the slightest hint of unnatural movement in the grass. One of them, higher than his partner, is scanning the grass and surrounding forest in quick sweeps. In other, happier circumstances, I might have laughed. Tonight I am grimly content. He will not find me. I am completely within myself, a ghost, and he does not have the senses necessary to locate the small emptiness only twenty paces ahead of him.
The archers are a threat, but one that can be dealt with. I cautiously expand my senses outward, towards the outpost. Soon I will re-enter the wood and be safe from the wandering eyes of the archers. Then a very short hike to the clearing which surrounds the outpost. This place was designed with secrecy and defense in mind, unique among the southern lands. Beyond the clearing is the wall, twice as high as a man. The south has seen nothing like it before, but more will be built as Lord Akira continues his plans for the expansion of his kingdom.
Everything inside the wall is glowing with life. There are more than thirty soldiers stationed in this outpost, but no women, no children. The signs of fear are overwhelming, palpable against the soothing backdrop of the peaceful woods. They have heard the rumors and they know whom they hunt. Everywhere is the fear of death, of the terror that grips even a courageous heart when it knows that it faces impossible odds.
I know all too well what those soldiers are feeling, for I feel it as well, although not because of the difference in numbers. It is because of who sits in the center of that outpost. I can sense him only as emptiness, blackness at the center of activity. He is also perfectly still, searching for me. I am unsure if he can sense me this far out. In this, at least, I am his superior. But it is in this and this only. By the time I make it to the wall, he will know
me, and he will come.
I push aside the darkness, if only for a moment. Our fight is fated to occur whether I want it to or not, and so there is no point in worrying. I expand my sense one more time, seeking out the other two, the reasons I am here. They are both there, even though they are both hard to find. One, because she has camouflaged herself so well, the other because she is barely alive, and is close enough to the Great Cycle that she is almost beyond my sense.
I bring my senses back and let my fingers brush lightly against the hilt of my sword. This sword and I have come a long way to be here, and the sword has been constant, with me from before I had ever taken a life.
When the dawn breaks she will be unsheathed again, and although I hold out little hope for myself, I hope that she will taste the blood of the shadow tonight.
1
The afternoon was cold, a cold that seeped into your bones. In the wide plains of the Southern Kingdom there were no trees to block the wind, and it tore through the small caravan heedless of the suffering that it caused. The cold spring air was bad enough, but the wind sliced through the travelers’ clothing, driving daggers of ice into their skin. Snow whipped around the villagers, creating the illusion of a blizzard, even though the sun burned brightly and helplessly above them in a cloudless sky.
The caravan was barely large enough to be called one, a group of traders from a small village who had walked for four days to reach New Haven, the capital of the Southern Kingdom. They had been returning home, celebrating an unexpected level of success in the city, when the winds picked up. Trapped in the middle of the plains, just over halfway home, they had no easy choices. Their unofficial guide, the local blacksmith who spent as much time wandering the plains as smithing, believed that they were only one hard day's journey from home. But no one was sure of their exact location anymore. In the wind and blowing snow, the signs that marked the trail were no longer visible, and the plains that were visible appeared the same no matter which direction they looked.
There were only a dozen people in the caravan. Three elders, who had come along to aid in the bargaining, the blacksmith, and two families. The first family was a merchant who had brought textiles and weavings from the village, his wife and his son. The boy was thirteen cycles of age and rebelled against his surname. The whole trip he had been nothing but a nuisance. He wanted to be a great warrior, and so followed without end the two soldiers who had been hired as an escort. This often caused him to wander away from the events that his father had planned for him, an introduction to the business of trading in New Haven.
A farming family rounded out the group, a relatively young but well-respected couple whose first and only son was with them. He had just seen the passing of his fifth cycle, and the trip to the big city was his first, a late gift from his family.
The travelers brought warm clothes, but they were not prepared for a storm of this ferocity and duration. Spring in their village was a fickle time. There were plenty of storms, some severe, but they occurred infrequently enough that the elders, hardened by cycles and cycles of life, ignored the potential threat. Travel to the city was somewhat rare during the spring, but the weather had been calm, if cold, and an early start to trading would increase the revenue throughout the village. It had been a calculated risk, but one that had backfired. The travelers did not often see storms like the one they were caught in, and as the wind continued to howl with no end in sight, worry began to build into fear. Death by freezing seemed like a much more likely possibility the longer the storm lasted.
After following the blacksmith through the afternoon, dissension rose within the group. No one recognized any landmarks even though the smith assured them they continued to get closer to home. Seeing no end to the storm's fury, the travelers decided to stop and try to maintain a fire. After the efforts of four of the men of the party, a small fire was started, and all twelve of the caravan huddled together for warmth. Even the soldiers, who had stood firm against the brunt of the storm, decided it wisest to be as close as possible to the burning wood.
The travelers could not see the sun set, but as it grew darker discussion of their options became more cynical and more heated. Fear was growing, gnawing its way into the stoutest hearts of the group, and rationality crumbled before heightened emotions. The blacksmith continued to swear that they were close, and that it was no more than half a day's journey to home. He looked to continue the journey by night, to make it to the village before daybreak. The elders were hesitant and divided, and the soldiers were of no help at all.
It was the merchant who became the strongest proponent of continued travel. He didn’t like being away from the comforts of hearth and home, and his growing nervousness made him restless to move on. "These are not safe lands. We are in the open and defenseless, with goods and gold to tempt any traveling band of raiders. The best way to minimize our risk is to be out on the road for as short a time as possible. We should continue."
The soldiers quietly added their assent. Part of the regional militia, they had only been blooded earlier this cycle, and were eager to avoid conflict. The elders also nodded. Although the merchant was the wealthiest of the group, and the unofficial leader of the caravan, tradition and honor demanded that the elders make the final decision.
The farmer looked around the group and saw that no one dared contradict the merchant. The man was powerful in town, and speaking against him was an expensive proposition. But the farmer worried about his family, and he viewed the dangers of being lost in the open during a blizzard to be far more threatening than a band of raiders in this weather. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke, "I worry that we are not as close as we believe. I live on the land that approaches our village, and I do not recognize these surroundings at all. To leave the fire is to endanger the health of my son and wife. Let us instead camp by the fire. This same blizzard which pins us down surely keeps the bandits in the holes they dig for themselves. It is safer to travel by day, warmed by what heat the sun can give us. The young, and the old," he added, with a meaningful glance to the elders, "would be unwise to travel in such cold conditions, away from the warmth of camp."
The elders, sitting together, took their time conferring. The merchant and blacksmith exchanged chagrined looks as the farmer looked on. They were well used to the deliberation of elders. But their caravan was filled with younger people, and waiting patiently for the elders did not come naturally. The merchant and blacksmith exchanged some whispers, but the farmer held his tongue. It was a common practice to malign the indecisiveness and slowness of the elders, but the farmer didn’t join in. Someday he’d be an elder, and would rather have respect than half-hidden whispers.
The elders reached a decision before frostbite settled in. The oldest of the elders acted as their spokesperson as tradition mandated. "The farmer is right. Traveling in these conditions is more dangerous than the risk of bandits. We will leave at first light, assuming that the storm has abated."
The merchant stepped forward, his mouth half open in protest before his wife’s hand on his arm restrained him. The elders’ decision was final, and the soldiers were bound to the will of the elders. Although upset by the decision, launching a public protest would do him no good and would only hurt his trade upon their return to the village. He had two options open to him. He could either take his family and leave without the support of the soldiers, or he could abide by the decision of the elders.
The farmer watched the merchant closely out of the corner of his eye. Although outward appearances suggested he was a simple peasant, a man tied to the land, he was well known in the village for his quick intellect and insight. When he was younger, growing up, the elders had suspected he possessed some degree of sense ability; but he had always denied any affinity for it, and he had never passed the tests the monks administered to all children throughout the Three Kingdoms. The farmer knew he had made an enemy of the merchant, at least for a time. Rates of exchange would be unfavorable at the merchant’s, and he would h
ave to trade in other villages. The information was filed away with the rest of the tidbits of information he kept in his head.
The farmer’s gaze lingered upon the merchant for a moment more, then moved back to his family. His worries melted like the snow around the fire when he saw his son. The boy was too young to understand the disagreement that had just taken place, and he was content to be nestled between his mother and the fire. The farmer was proud of his son on this trip. The child was a prodigy, apparent to everyone who met him. He had learned to speak much faster than any child the elders remembered. At the age of five he asked questions of everyone and everything, and his recollection was impeccable. The farmer had been hesitant to bring his son to New Haven, but his fears had been ungrounded, and the trade he had bargained for had been much better than what he would have gotten if he had relied on the merchant to sell their goods.