by Steve Feasey
‘Lannigon Fetlanger,’ the man said with the hint of a nod in the boy’s direction. ‘I shall call you by that name for now, at least until you ask your aunt for your real one.’
‘Wh-who are you? How can I see you?’ He managed to force the words out despite his fear. ‘What do you want? Am I still dreaming?’
‘Which of your questions would you like me to answer first?’ the man said, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Very well. I will take the questions in reverse. No, this is not a dream, although I fancy you might wish it were by the time we are finished here tonight. As to what I want? Nothing. No, I am here to offer you something: a chance to change your life … again. A change you may or may not wish to accept. But we will come to that, Lannigon.’ He paused. ‘You can see me because I will it. In the same way that I will it, you see me in this particular form at this particular time.’
Lann frowned, only half taking in everything the man was saying; it was too wonderful to be able to see again after living in the world of darkness for so long.
‘As for who I am … I have many names in many different worlds. To your people I am known as Rakur.’
It was as if the world ground to an abrupt halt in that moment. The idea that the being sitting at the end of his bed might be a god was not impossible for Lann to imagine, but what the immortal was doing here was a mystery to him. To those who worshipped him, Rakur was considered both malign and benevolent in equal measure. A trickster not to be trusted because the gifts offered by him always came at a price.
‘Are you here to see my aunt?’ the boy asked in a whisper.
‘Your aunt?’ The god seemed to find this amusing and chuckled to himself. ‘No, Lannigon, I am here for you. Tell me, boy, what do you know about your birth?’
The question took Lann by surprise and it must have showed on his face because Rakur mirrored the expression, a mocking look in his eyes.
‘Nothing? You know nothing about who and what you are?’
Excitement and trepidation built up in Lann at the thought that he might finally discover the whole truth about his birth. ‘My mother was Fleya’s sister, and her name was Lette. I know she, too, used to be a witch but that she gave up her powers to give birth to me. I know that my aunt left me at the Fetlangers for protection.’
‘Protection from what?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What is it that you needed protection from? And why?’
‘I don’t know.’
The god gave a sniff, as if he were less than impressed with the boy’s sketchy knowledge. ‘Lette was a great witch, did your aunt tell you that? Fleya is powerful and wise now, but it was her sister who most fascinated those who knew them both. Her grasp of majik and the control she had over it was matched only by her beauty.’
‘That is what Fleya told me.’
‘Powerful and beautiful. What kind of man could tempt such a woman to give everything up, hmm? Since discovering these things, have you stopped to wonder that? Or maybe you have considered that it might not have been a man at all. Maybe only a god could woo such a woman?’ That mocking look was in the god’s eye again, and the smile he gave Lann sent a shiver running through the youngster.
‘Enough of such things,’ the god said, waving the matter away. ‘Right now they are unimportant. I promised I would return to the reason I am here, so let us do so. Tell me, Lannigon, how did you come to be blind?’
The boy’s head was still spinning from the god’s words, and he wanted nothing more than to return to the matter of who his father might be. Despite this, he answered the god’s question. ‘I … I fell from a tree. When I hit my head I lost the ability to see.’
‘And what were you doing up this tree?’
‘I was trying to get away from something.’
‘Something?’
‘A creature, a thing that was at the same time both man and a wolf.’
‘But it was neither of those things really, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Then what was it?’ A long, uncomfortable silence followed, the god sitting perfectly still as he studied the boy. ‘What do you know about the one your people call Lorgukk?’
‘He is the dark god who rules over the Void – the place he was banished to after he lost the great battle with Trogir. He created a multitude of monsters that he unleashed on earth until they were all driven out following the same battle. He is all powerful in his own realm but, despite attempts to return here, he has always failed to do so.’ Images of the dream he’d been having came back to Lann: the gateway with the impossible blackness at its heart, and the thing that threatened to emerge from it. ‘It is said he will return with his dark legions one day and that the gods will fight one last great battle to decide who rules the human realm.’
A short silence followed until it was eventually broken by the god.
‘It is a good tale, is it not? One guaranteed to keep children terrified in their beds at night. Especially that last part. But what if it were true? What if Lorgukk were massing his apocalyptic army right now, and that he was on the verge of finding a way to bring them across into this realm. Imagine if the monsters of old – giants, wraiths, griffins, harpies, draugr and all manner of hellish creatures – were returned to wreak havoc on the human race that replaced them.’ The deity stared at the boy. ‘Who could stop the dark god and his foul legion if he were successful in returning?’
‘You?’
The god’s laughter – a musical sound – filled the room. ‘You still have faith in the old deities of this world. That is good. But alas, your gods grow weak, Lannigon Fetlanger. The Volken people of this realm hold little faith in their immortals any longer. New religions have sprung up, and as you humans turn your backs on the old gods, so our powers wane. That is why Lorgukk is chancing his hand now. He sees this as his last chance to bring chaos to this world.’
‘What happens if people stop believing in the old gods completely?’
Rakur sniffed. ‘We disappear altogether. From this world, at least.’
Lann sat silently remembering the cruel eyes of the thing that pursued him into the Dark Wood. ‘So that is what I saw on the day I was blinded? One of Lorgukk’s legion? A wyrewolf?’
‘The dark god’s army is largely confined to the Void. Some of the ancient creatures managed to stay here when the rest were driven out. A small number manage to creep across, even now.’ He paused, noticing the confused look on the boy’s face. ‘Occasionally there are rifts created between the two worlds that allow certain opportunistic individuals to creep through, and these fissures become more common as Lorgukk’s might increases in his dominion and this world becomes less stable.’ The immortal studied the boy for a few moments before speaking again. ‘How much would you like to be able to see again?’
Lann stared, startled by the abrupt change of subject.
‘More than anything,’ he whispered, hardly able to get the words out.
With a nod, Rakur patted an item laying across his legs. Lann eyed the thing suspiciously. It had not been there when he’d first woken to find the god in his room.
Pulling back the layers of cloth it was wrapped in, the god revealed a long sword, the scabbard of which was made of a dull black material that appeared more like stone than metal. There were no intricate designs on it; it looked ordinary, in fact, but something told Lann that it was anything but. There was something about it that caused conflicting emotions inside of him: a mixture of fascination and fear that had come on in a rush as soon as the deity had revealed it.
‘What is it?’ he asked, unable to take his eyes off the weapon.
‘It is one of the Swords of Destiny. Like me, it has had many names, but in this world it is known as the Dreadblade.’ He paused, turning to stare unblinkingly at the boy with those golden eyes. ‘The four swords were forged by the god Og when the world was new and an altogether different place from the one it is now. The Dreadblade was wielded by Trogir in the great battle with Lorgukk
. It defeated him. But after the battle the god and his blade were separated. It has stayed hidden for a long time, but now it has woken from its torpor and desires to go about its work again.’
‘Where are the other swords?’
‘Lost. Or destroyed. But the Dreadblade survived.’
‘You talk about it as if it were a living thing.’
‘Indeed. The blade, once accepted, becomes one with the wielder. It has needs … hungers that must be fed. In return it imbues the owner with powers. It could return your sight.’
‘You mean to give me this thing? Why? If it is as special as you say, why do you not wield it?’
‘That is a question I cannot answer for you right now, boy. But know this. The blade will let you see again, but not the world you once knew. No, the world revealed to you will be one in which the things wishing to remain hidden will no longer be able to do so. In the same way that you can see me now, you will see the creatures and wonders of a world that is both alien and familiar to you at the same time.’
Lann stared at the object, unable to believe he was being offered this chance. ‘What must I do?’ he whispered.
‘You must simply agree to take the blade.’
The god raised a hand to halt the youth. ‘There is no going back once you choose to do so, Lannigon. The sword and owner become one, feeding and aiding each other until the bond is severed by death or destruction. The blade is well named and not just for the fear it strikes in its enemies.’
Lann noticed how the deity kept his own hands well clear of the weapon, and it occurred to him that it must be a powerful thing indeed to instil fear in a being as powerful as Rakur.
‘Before I make my choice, I have a question for you.’
The deity raised an eyebrow. ‘Ask it.’
‘Are you … my father?’
The god seemed genuinely surprised at being asked such a thing. The laugh that escaped him had a harsh quality to it. ‘A strange notion, young one. If I were your father, what would that make you? A demigod?’ The deity shook his head, but the look on his face was impossible to read. ‘Such a thing would have no place in this or any other world. A halfling of that kind would be abhorrent not only to the gods, but to mankind.’
‘You have not answered my question.’
‘Mother, father, brother – I could be one or all of those things to you. These terms mean nothing to the gods. We are. You are. That is all there is. That is all there has ever been.’
‘You talk in riddles, god.’
‘I do. It is my way. But riddles are there to be solved, are they not? And the riddler is there to pose the question, not provide the answer.’
‘And will the sword help me to solve the puzzle of who I am?’
‘It may help you to discover such a thing, if that is what you truly want. But mark my words, Lannigon Fetlanger, the answers to some questions are best left undiscovered.’
There was a moment of silence between them, then Lann leaned forward and took the Dreadblade from the god’s lap.
As his fingers curled around the grip of the sword, a wave of energy rushed through Lann’s body, making him cry out in a mixture of joy and pain. In the same instant, the god Rakur disappeared.
Lifting the weapon up before him, Lann pulled the sword free of the scabbard, staring down at the black metal of the blade. He could see. He could see the world again, and the realisation filled him with a happiness that was so great, tears immediately obscured his newly returned vision. Wiping them away, he lifted the blade up towards his face, holding the thing point up. A noise, a long-drawn-out sigh, filled his ears and he was forced to clamp his eyes shut as a thousand images flashed through his mind so quickly they became a blur. The sword showed him glimpses of battles it had been used in, armour it had rent, blood it had spilt, souls it had drunk. The terrible images tainted Lann’s happiness with fear as the weight of responsibility and power he’d accepted finally dawned on him.
Along with the images came a voice, and Lann had little doubt it was the voice of the blade; a deep and sinister whisper in an alien language that had long since disappeared from the earth.
Ish’nukk rahhg.
He shuddered at that sound. At some deep and barely understood level he was aware the weapon was itself satisfied to be once more in the hands of a living, breathing being. He also sensed the longing it felt; a hunger to return to the thing it was forged to do – to reap the lives of the dread creatures for which it was named, creatures who had no right being in this world.
Forcing himself to calm down, he hefted the weapon in his hand, feeling its weight. It seemed to him there were strange symbols set into the dark matter of that blade, symbols that could almost be made out as he turned it this way and that in the dim light, but which always remained just too faint and indistinct.
Lannigon had no idea how long he’d stayed like that, sitting at the edge of the bed staring down at the black blade in wonder and fear, but with the first stirrings of the birds in the forest it slowly occurred to him that dawn must be approaching. He couldn’t imagine anything he would like to see more, his newly seeing eyes filling with tears at the mere thought of witnessing a dawn again.
Returning the blade to its scabbard, he strapped the thing to his waist and made his way through the dark house so he might watch the waking of the world.
Night still had a tentative hold: the shadows thrown to the ground by the trees, the intricate design of the leaves, the patterns of the bark, glimpses of the starry sky through the overhead canopy, the movement of some creature scurrying into the bushes. He was overwhelmed at the sight of even the smallest and most insignificant thing after so much time in darkness, and it was as much as he could do not to cry out with the joy of it.
A thought occurred to him. He reluctantly unbuckled the sword belt and carefully laid it on the ground. Taking a step away from it, he was relieved to find he could still see. Perhaps he only had to be close to the sword for it to lend him its powers. He took another step away, then another. It was as he took his fourth step that suddenly he heard the voice of the sword again, low and urgent. He noted too how his hands had begun to shake and a thin film of sweat beaded his forehead, so great was his physical yearning to have the sword at his side again.
Hurrying over to the black scabbard, something at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Turning to look back in the direction of the cabin, he saw the figure of a girl standing at the window looking back at him. He blinked and the figure was gone. Lann was on the verge of returning inside to investigate when he heard the sound of the wagon coming down the path towards him.
Fleya was driving the wagon too fast and there was a sheen on the ponies’ flanks that suggested she’d sped all the way back through the woods. Pulling to a halt, she leaned forward on the seat, scanning him quickly as if to satisfy herself that her nephew was not injured in some way. When her eyes settled on the sword in his hand the colour drained from her face.
‘What have you done?’ she said, her voice barely audible.
‘I can see again,’ Lann said by way of an answer. ‘The blade, it …’ He stopped, confused and a little scared by what he saw before him. Sitting atop the wagon, the reins clutched in her hands, was the Fleya he knew, forever young and beautiful, but at the same time another vision of the witch presented itself, the two images superimposed on top of each other so he could also see the ancient woman his aunt would be if she were not a creature of majik. The vision reminded Lann of what his aunt had told him about his mother’s rapid deterioration when she’d relinquished her witchhood to give birth to him. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, willing himself not to see the unmasked version of the witch. To his relief, when he opened them again he was faced with the Fleya he knew.
‘Do you have any idea what that thing you hold is?’ Fleya’s voice, usually so calm, was laced with fear.
‘It’s the Dreadblade.’ He lifted the scabbarded sword in her direction, and gasped as he felt
it hum – a galvanising force that knifed its way through him, filling him with alarm and wonder. The Dreadblade recognised Fleya as a creature of majik like itself, and wanted her to marvel at its majesty and power. Unlike its wielder, the blade revelled in the fright Fleya exhibited at having seen it.
Us’dith orgh, the blade’s voice inside his head hissed, and although Lann didn’t understand the words, he knew what the sword wanted. It wanted to be freed from the scabbard it was housed in, freed so the witch could see it and be cowed by its power. Without knowing he’d done so, Lann noticed how his hand had wrapped around the hilt and how he’d already unwittingly pulled free a small amount of the dark blade.
If you bend to its will now, the sword, not its wielder, will forever be in control, a warning voice inside him said. And nothing, not even your precious sight, is worth being a slave to this thing.
Summoning up all his will, Lann forced his fingers to unfurl themselves from the sword’s grip, he placed his hand instead on the large round pommel at the top of the weapon and gently but firmly pushed it down.
He lifted his chin in the witch’s direction. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that sounded much older than his years. ‘It is the Dreadblade. Fashioned by Og to maintain balance in this world by ridding it of creatures from the Void. I am its bearer and its master, and it will do you no harm, Aunt. This I swear on my mother’s soul.’ As the words left his lips, he felt the sword’s influence slowly diminish.
Fleya, too, appeared to sense how, in those moments, her nephew had managed to establish a degree of control over the thing he held in his hands. Her eyes never leaving the black scabbard, she slowly climbed down from the wagon and gestured to the cabin.
They sat across the table from each other, Fleya sipping from a cup of hot chae that Lann had made her. The recipe was one she’d taught him and was supposed to help calm the nerves. Strong daylight poured in from the door and windows at the front of the cabin, illuminating dust motes dancing in the early morning air.
