Dark Blade

by Steve Feasey

  Praise for

  ‘This has everything you want from an epic fantasy adventure – devious Gods, hideous monsters, a portal to another dimension and a hero with an enchanted blade. Great stuff’

  Charlie Higson, author of the Young Bond series

  ‘Fans of Rick Riordan and John Flanagan have a whole new world of dark magic, mysterious gods and brave heroes waiting for them’

  Sebastien de Castell, author of the Spellslinger series

  ‘A razor-sharp, spellbinding read full of intrigue and magic. This tale truly takes the crown as the young heir to the likes of A Game of Thrones and Throne of Glass’

  Chris Bradford, author of the Young Samurai series

  ‘The world of Strom is rich with peril, political intrigue, conspiracies and betrayals … Why aren’t you reading this already?’

  Sarwat Chadda, author of the Ash Mistry Chronicles series

  ‘An epic dark fantasy set in an arcane world where kings are murdered, monsters roam and ordinary boys are given extraordinary gifts’

  Mark Walden, author of the H.I.V.E series

  ‘A powerful, compelling story in a world that stays with you’

  Angie Sage, author of the Septimus Heap series

  To Zoe.

  Here’s to a new adventure.

  But without the swords, I hope!

  Books by Steve Feasey

  Mutant City

  Mutant Rising

  Dark Blade

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  A Gift

  Lae Fetlanger awoke with a start. Sitting up, she looked around the room, trying to work out what had pulled her from the deep sleep she’d been in. The remaining embers in the fire still glowed enough to suggest there were a few hours until dawn. Even so, she could make out little in the darkness of her bedroom. Lae turned her head towards the shadowy shape of her husband lying beside her, wondering if his snoring had caused her sudden awakening, but Gord’s breathing was shallow and even.

  A noise outside – a cry – made her pulse quicken, the sound rekindling fragments of the dream she’d been having. Living on a remote cattle farm, Lae was used to the noises of wild animals beyond the safety of her wooden walls, and on any other occasion she might have dismissed this as just that: the screech of a mating fox or a winter owl perhaps. But not tonight.

  She wrapped a blanket about herself, the rough wool itchy against her skin, and made her way through the farmhouse. The front door groaned in protest as she pushed it open into the darkness, and she caught her breath as the icy air rushed in.

  She’d no sooner set foot outside when she heard the cry again. There was no doubt in her mind now that it was the plaintive call of a baby, and she hurried in the direction of the barn where the noise was coming from, ignoring the harsh bite of the cold ground beneath her bare feet.

  Leaving the barn door open behind her, she looked about frantically until her eyes fell upon the little bundle laid on the straw pile inside one of the stalls. The baby was well wrapped up so that only its face was exposed to the night air, and she instinctively bent down and picked it up. There was colour in the child’s cheeks and the skin was warm to the touch; he could not have been out here long. Lae pressed the tiny child close to her body, tucking the blanket around them both. As she did so, the baby stopped crying.

  She hurried back to the house, crying out for Gord. As she re-entered the farmhouse, her husband was on his feet standing in the doorway to their room, hastily trying to pull on his boots. In his left hand was a long hunting knife. His eyes grew wide when he saw what it was his wife was clutching to her breast.

  ‘It’s a child, a little boy. We’re keeping him,’ she said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘He’s a gift. From the gods.’

  ‘Lae …’

  The look she gave him stopped further protest. Gord had not seen that look often but he knew what it meant; there would be no changing his wife’s mind. She had waited long enough for a child, and now it appeared one had been gifted to her.

  ‘We’re keeping him,’ she repeated.

  The Maiden’s Fingers

  1

  The year Lannigon Fetlanger turned thirteen, almost a man in the eyes of his people, was an unhappy one. It was the year that Horst Rivengeld, their beloved king, was killed in battle. But it was also the year Lann was to experience personal tragedy of the worst kind, when his mother died trying to give birth to what would have been his brother or sister had the child survived.

  Lae’s death coincided with the night of the great storm, a storm that would be spoken of in the Six Kingdoms for many years to come. Even the witch Fleya, armed with her majik and her potions, was unable to save the mother or her unborn child.

  Lann would never forget that night for the rest of his life. Banished from the bedroom, he had stood looking out of the kitchen window at the fields outside, doing his best not to get too upset by the sounds of his mother’s cries. Tiny fists of rain beat on the roof overhead, a persistent cacophony that did nothing to ease the tension inside the house, and he prayed to the gods, both the old and the new, that they might ease her suffering. His father, who had been pacing about the house, came into the kitchen demanding Lann close the shutters against the foul weather. It was as he reached through the opening to do so that a dazzling knife of light struck the big elm tree in the yard, forcing Lann to snap his eyes shut against the glare. When he opened them again he could see how a great fissure had opened up down the length of the trunk, as if the thing had been struck with the giant axe wielded by the first god, Og, himself.

  It was a portent, he had little doubt about that, but what it symbolised was a mystery. Unlike the witch across the hall in his parents’ room, he had no skill in interpreting such things.

  The boy was still standing like that, wet from the rain being blown in at him and staring out at the tree, when a loud sobbing noise behind made him turn around. His father was standing in the bedroom doorway, his face streaked with tears. It was only then that he realised that his mother’s cries had stopped. And just as the elm had been split by the lightning bolt, Lann knew his own world had also been torn in two.

  * * *

  Amidst all the grief and confusion of that night, one other memory was etched into Lann’s memory. As the witch, Fleya, was leaving their farmhouse, she stopped in front of him. She was a tall woman with piercing blue eyes that shone with intelligence. Were she not a witch, Lann guessed that men would find her beautiful. She cast those eyes over him, taking in his face before giving a little smile.

  ‘You’ve grown,’ she said, her voice not unkind. ‘How long until your sixteenth year?’

  He hesitated before answering; he knew the Volken people around these parts were scared of the woman, even though he
r midwifery and healing skills had helped so many of them. Rumours about her were rife, and it was difficult to know which were fact and which were fiction. Despite this, Lann lifted his chin and met her blue eyes with his own. She was younger than his mother had been, he realised.

  ‘A little under three years,’ he answered, struggling to get the words out under her intense scrutiny.

  She leaned in close to him and he caught a whiff of lavender and sage. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Hear me, Lannigon Fetlanger, and mark my words well. One day, not too far from now, you will see a star with a serpent’s tail. Beware that moment. Run when you see that heavenly sign. Run for all you are worth. And trust your instincts on where to find safety, or those three years will never come to pass.’ She held his gaze for an instant longer, then turned, pulling the hood of her cape up over her head and sweeping out of the house into the rain and wind before he had a chance to ask her what she had meant.

  The boy watched her leave; she strode past the smoking elm tree without giving it so much as a second glance.

  Gord Fetlanger never recovered from his wife’s death; the following months saw him reduced to a shadow of his former self. He took to sitting about the farmhouse, staring into space and disregarding his work. Even when a wolf pack came on to his lands and killed some of his cattle, Gord could not be persuaded to set off in pursuit of the beasts. Instead, it was the young Fetlanger who joined Orlof, the head cattleman, and the others, camping out overnight in the cold and the rain in an effort to kill the predators.

  Lann and his father had never been close, but now it seemed the boy could do no right in his father’s eyes, and when the pair were together in the house, the older man would ignore him completely, even leaving the room when the youngster entered. He drank more and more, the alcohol causing wild mood swings. Silent apathy would give way to fury in which he would tear the farmhouse apart, resisting Lann’s efforts to calm him down. ‘My wife and son are dead!’ he would howl. The boy knew better than to answer back when he was like this. But the words stung, and Lann wanted nothing more than to point out that he was still alive, that he was missing his mother and that he was in need of a father, now more than ever.

  Two months after Lae’s death, things finally came to a head. His father, drunk on strong spirits, sat by the fire all day staring into the flames. Lann went about his chores as he did every evening, and when he’d finished, announced he was off to bed.

  ‘Wait,’ Gord muttered. He gestured for Lann to come over to him.

  Lann did as he was bid and walked over to where his father sat, slumped by the fire. Gord said nothing, but there was an odd look in his eyes as he glowered back up at the boy.

  ‘What is it, Father?’ Lann asked.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ the man spat back, slurring his words. ‘You have no right to call me that. Just as I have no wish to call you my “son”.’

  Lann stared down at the man, not sure if he had heard him correctly. His father’s words made no sense, but the cruel expression on Gord’s face caused a frisson of fear to snake its way through the boy.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lann asked.

  Gord waved the question away and returned his attention to the fire.

  His heart thumping, Lann stepped between the man and the flames, forcing the farmer to look at him. ‘Tell me.’

  And Gord told him. Told him how Lann had been found that night, a little bundle wrapped in blankets, abandoned in the barn. How Lae had insisted on keeping him, even though Gord knew he would only bring the family heartbreak and bad luck.

  ‘A foundling, that’s what you are!’ Gord finished, sneering back at the boy. ‘A curse, left by evil spirits to bring us misery!’

  Unable to bear any more, Lann ran from the house. The night was dark and he stumbled in the darkness, hot and angry tears falling from his eyes as Gord’s words replayed in his head over and over again. Not wishing to return to the house, he spent a sleepless night in the same barn his mother had first discovered him in all those years ago.

  The next day, Gord had given a brief, muttered apology. ‘Just the drink talking,’ he had said. But his eyes told a different story and they told Lann he’d been speaking the truth.

  Everything changed for Lannigon from that night onwards. The farmhouse felt different, and Lann made a point of spending as little time there as possible, choosing instead to roam the lands that made up Gord Fetlanger’s considerable holding. He liked nothing more than to climb the craggy hills known as the Maiden’s Fingers or ride his pony down to the river where his mother had come to wash their clothes when she was still alive. That was his favourite place. He would sit on the bank and relive memories of her singing to him as she rinsed the garments, her voice mingling with the river’s own song as it tumbled across the stones and rocks.

  He yearned to travel, to get away from this cold place and explore lands he’d heard whispers of. Places that could only be accessed by days afloat on vast bodies of water, or by crossing huge mountain ranges that made the Maiden’s Fingers look like little more than the ancient burial mounds to the east of Gord’s lands.

  Little did Lann know that, all too soon, he would leave these lands; and that the far-flung places of his dreams would become reality.

  Stromgard

  2

  Kelewulf stared at the king’s dead body. Horst Rivengeld had been laid out in his finest armour: the studded black leather ensemble he had died in. The gaping hole where an enemy warrior had thrust a spear through it had been neatly repaired. The blood had been cleared up from his hair and beard, and, were it not for the ghastly grey colour of his skin, Kelewulf might have believed Horst Rivengeld were merely sleeping on the cold stone plinth.

  The boy shifted his attention to his father’s lifeless face. He felt no swell of emotion, no remorse at this man’s passing.

  I’m glad you’re dead, old man, he thought. My only regret is that I was not there to hear you cry out as the spear pierced your side. I would have liked to have seen the look on your face when you gazed into your killer’s eyes.

  Kelewulf’s relationship with his father had never been a happy one. They were too different. Horst Rivengeld, like so many of the Volken people, believed in the way of the warrior. So when it became clear to the king that his son had no interest in the art of war, the man had become desperate, trying everything in his power to change the boy’s nature. When words and admonishments failed to have the desired effect, Horst had resorted to more physical methods. But the beatings, intended to ‘toughen up’ his son, had merely turned Kelewulf even further away from him. The simple truth was that the boy was too much like his mother.

  Queen Elenor’s marriage to the king had not been for love. Instead it had been a political match, intended to mend the historical rift between the Bantusz of the south and the Strom kingdom Horst ruled. As a foreigner, she had little regard for the ways of a people she considered to be barbaric and backward. Rather than aiding her husband in trying to mould Kelewulf into the type of son the king wanted, she turned her son’s mind to books and the power contained in them. She told him about the majik her people had learned, and how they had used it to defeat barbarous invaders like the Stromgardians. She taught him about history and geography. She taught him that true power lies not just in the sword, but in knowledge.

  As far as the king was concerned, Elenor’s actions were not driven by a mother’s love. Instead, he believed she was using the boy as a means to defy him. Whatever her true motives were, they had ultimately cost the queen her life.

  It was when Kelewulf turned twelve that the madness took hold of his mother. Her sickness, Kelewulf was convinced, had been brought on by his father’s mistreatment of them both. And the madness had robbed Kelewulf of the one person he’d ever loved when she’d taken her own life in Vissergott.

  And now the man was dead.

  Sensing someone entering the great hall behind him, Kelewulf was car
eful to wipe away the sneer on his lips, replacing it with a look more becoming of a grieving son.

  His cousin Erik joined him, standing respectfully at Kelewulf’s side as they stared down at the dead king. ‘He died a good Volken warrior’s death,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘In battle. With his axe in one hand and his shield in the other. He will enter the Great Halls and meet the gods as a hero.’

  ‘And that is a good death, is it?’ Kelewulf said, unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘As good a one as any of us could hope for.’

  ‘If that is the case, then I’m afraid my own death will not be considered “a good one”.’

  The silence that followed was uncomfortably long. Erik, like so many of the Volken people, felt uneasy around the pale-faced scholar. The Volken way was the warrior’s way, and Kel was anything but a warrior.

  ‘I’m glad I managed to find you on your own, cousin,’ Erik eventually said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I … I wanted to know how things sit with you … regarding my father’s claim to the throne. While the decision was voted for by the high council, I suspect there might be some who disagree with it. I would like to know if you are one of them. After all, the throne could just as easily have gone to you.’

  Kelewulf smiled inwardly. His uncle, Mirvar Rivengeld, had ascended the throne and this had all but ruled out Kelewulf’s chance of ever taking that role. There had been rumours at court he was unhappy about this. What nobody in this or any of the neighbouring kingdoms could possibly know was that Kelewulf had never harboured any wish to rule over these … savages. No, let his cousin Erik and other oafish axe-swingers like him rule Stromgard; Kelewulf had other, grander ideas.

  Seeing that Erik was watching him, Kelewulf forced his lips into a humble smile. ‘It is the right of the council to vote that the crown can pass from brother to brother if they think it is for the good of the people. The crown is in safe hands with your father. He is a just man and a great warrior, perhaps even greater than my father.’ When Erik put a consoling arm across his shoulders, Kelewulf cringed. He hated to be touched and he wanted nothing more than to peel himself away from the unsolicited contact.