Dark Blade

by Steve Feasey

  He approached the edge of the circle, careful not to step too close. His hands were shaking uncontrollably now and he clasped them together. There was, however, nothing he could do to calm his heart, which hammered away almost painfully inside him. Drawing a deep, shuddery breath, he threw his arms open and intoned the words, taking the utmost care with both the pronunciation and the metre of the spell.

  The air inside the salt circle seemed to change. It was subtle to begin with, a tiny shift in the quality of the light, as if something had momentarily passed in front of a window. But as he watched, black swirling smoke emanated from the phylactery and filled the space – a slowly churning cylinder of darkness that stretched from floor to ceiling. Slowly it began to coalesce, gathering together and solidifying until it finally formed the terrible thing he’d dreamed of summoning all these years.

  With torn and rotted clothing, flesh hanging from a skeletal figure, this spectral corpse, the lich of Yirgan, the last great mage, was nothing short of terrifying. It floated in the air before him, taking in the young human through baleful eyes set into a face that had completely decayed on one side, revealing the skull beneath. More than a hundred and twenty years had passed since the sorcerer had died, and the sight of him now filled Kelewulf with both fascination and revulsion. Except this was not really Yirgan. This was his soul, his spirit, that he’d carefully hidden inside the phylactery after his death, waiting and hoping for a moment like this to come along – when some mage, drunk on the possibility of power, would free him.

  Trying to look braver than he felt, Kelewulf lifted his chin and dared to look back at the lich.

  ‘I have summoned you,’ he said, doing his best to mask the fear in his voice.

  The sound that filled his head was like a long and drawn-out groan. ‘Why?’

  ‘I desire knowledge. Knowledge of the sort you possessed during your time on this earth.’

  ‘Such knowledge is power.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But …’ The lich seemed to grow, the smoke that gave it its form darkening further until a huge figure loomed over the youngster. ‘Knowledge alone, when it comes to majik, is not enough. To use it I must have a physical form here, and as you can see, that I do not have.’ The lich gave him a knowing look. ‘How are we to resolve that?’

  It was the question Kelewulf had been expecting. He knew what the lich desired above all other things. The words he chose to use now were critical; the slightest slip would result in his undoing. Swallowing hard, he summoned up his courage.

  ‘I … I will give you physical form again in this world.’ He gestured down at himself. ‘You will inhabit this body. It is strong and young, and would be a fine vessel for your powers, but –’ he held his finger up, stressing the rest of the sentence – ‘you cannot inhabit it as a controlling force. You will be a partner, not a possessor. You will protect this corporeal form in every way you can. This must be our covenant. You might have cheated death once, Yirgan, but I doubt that the same opportunity will be afforded to me if you misuse this human body.’

  The lich stared down at him through long-dead eyes, and Kelewulf fancied he caught the hint of a smile form on the creature’s lips, or at least what was left of them. ‘What would you do with such knowledge?’

  ‘Make this world tremble.’

  The lich tilted its head. ‘How?’

  ‘By completing your work. I wish to return the god Lorgukk to this world and show its pathetic inhabitants what real power is.’

  The wraith shook its head. ‘If I could do such a thing, do you not think I would have done so at the height of my powers? When I had this world trembling at my feet?’

  ‘The tales say that you tried, that you were close to achieving your goal, before you were killed by the gods for doing so …’

  ‘I was close, yes.’

  ‘Then now is the chance for you – for us – to try again. New religions are springing up, and with them the belief in the old gods is on the wane. So are their powers. This time we will succeed.’

  ‘You are bold, young mage.’ The spirit seemed to be thinking. ‘My return to this world will not go unnoticed. There will be those who will try to stop us.’

  ‘We will wreak havoc on the Volken people and anyone else who seeks to stop us. Together with Lorgukk, we will usher in a new age. A new power.’

  A sound, like a wave pulling back from a pebble-strewn shore, filled Kelewulf’s head, and it took him a moment to realise the lich was laughing.

  ‘You have a dark heart, boy. Perhaps as dark as mine once was – when I had one.’ It looked down through its own smoky body at the wooden phylactery. When the lich looked back at Kelewulf, it seemed to have come to a decision. ‘I have been trapped for too long, in a place so terrible that the human mind would tear itself apart trying to imagine it.’ It paused, but Kelewulf could tell it had already made up its mind. ‘Very well, young necromancer-to-be, I agree to the conditions of our covenant. Let us join together and create the havoc you seek. Let us rule these petty humans with a reign of terror.’

  Kelewulf hesitated for a second; he knew that Yirgan, while living, was famed for his trickery and his cunning mind. ‘Be aware, lich. I have read the Book of Roth’gurd well, and I have learned the Spell of Revocation. If I believe you have reneged on this agreement in any way, I will use it to return you to that terrible place you spoke of. There will be no third coming for you, Yirgan. If I send you back again, your dark soul will remain in hell forever.’

  ‘Naturally. I would expect nothing less from as formidable a partner as you.’

  Kelewulf could not tell if the lich was mocking him or not.

  ‘Well?’ the lich asked.

  Steeling himself, Kelewulf stretched out with a foot, placing it inside the salt boundary before dragging his heel back to break the salt circle. As he did so, a wave of icy cold struck him like a slap. Opening his mouth to gasp, he almost managed a scream as the smoky creature poured through that hole and entered him, filling him with a terrifying coldness that permeated first his lungs, then his blood, and then every part of him.

  The boy wobbled on the spot, but managed to stay upright.

  Where shall we start? asked the voice inside his head.

  ‘With the seat of power,’ he answered. ‘I have business with the rest of the Rivengeld family. They have taken what was rightfully mine, and even though I had no wish to rule, I will nevertheless have them pay.’

  Faun Forest

  8

  Fleya sat in a small clearing in the woods. It was two hours before dawn and the ground was sodden with the night dew, the moisture soaking into her woollen garments and boots. The witch, deep in a trance-like state, hardly noticed. Her senses were all turned inwards to the bright thing at the centre of her being: her majik.

  It was by no mere chance she had chosen this forest to live in, and she allowed the power that resided in the place to enter her soul, revelling in the beauty of the woods, and the wider world. Other similar forests were revealed to her, and she understood that she was being given glimpses, not of other worlds exactly, but of alternatives to this one where other Fleyas existed. She might have stopped to marvel at this, but she could not allow herself to become distracted. She was at her most vulnerable now, in a place between this realm and the one she was trying to reach, her mind open to attack.

  She allowed her psyche to fly out, up and up, beyond the physical, out beyond the stars and galaxies to a place of pure energy. In her mind’s eye she pictured it as some vast and swirling cloud of colours and sounds. All of majik was here. And danger – that was here in abundance, too.

  Infinitesimally small. After all these years practising majik, that was still how she felt. Like nothing more than a fleck of desert sand before a wild and frenetic storm that threatened to pick her up and toss her away. She wondered at its might, its power, knowing, too, that it would engulf and destroy her if she did not proceed with the utmost caution. Because a part of her wanted
to surrender, to throw herself into that beautiful storm and be one with it.

  This was the Art. To avoid being devoured and destroyed by it was what set apart apprentices from the true masters. Not that Fleya considered herself a master; nobody should think they were ever in complete control of majik. That way lay madness and ruination.

  Fleya blindly reached down for the article at her side. She unravelled the scroll, holding the blank parchment in front of her.

  ‘Show me,’ she whispered, concentrating her will on the thing in her hand. At first the scroll remained blank; then, slowly, an image formed on the surface. Fleya dipped her head, her milky white eyes taking in what was shown there.

  The young sorcerer of Lann’s vision was before her. One look at his face was enough to identify him as a Rivengeld. She racked her brains until it came to her: Kelewulf. The son of the former king. They had met, a year or so ago, when the new king, Mirvar, had summoned her to discuss a disease that was sweeping through Stromgard. During her brief visit, she was aware that the boy had done his best to keep his distance from her. When they were finally introduced, she fancied she understood why: he was fascinated by the Art, but did his best to keep this interest concealed from those around him. She’d felt him reach out into her, probing her mind for what knowledge and abilities she possessed.

  It was not unusual for practitioners of the Art to do this when they met, but it was usually done with a form of mutual psychic consent. Instead, Kelewulf had bullied his way into her in a way that was not just clumsy, but ill-mannered. Blocking any further attempts, she felt perfectly entitled to reciprocate the act, and reached into the youngster in the same way. That brief encounter had left her unsettled. There was something dark in the boy, something he kept well hidden from those around him. But it was there to see for anyone with the ability to do so. Kelewulf desired more power. This, in itself, was not unusual among those who studied the Art. What alarmed Fleya was the impression that he had begun to seek it in areas of majik that were best avoided. Going down that road – into the darker realms of the Art – was fraught with danger.

  After her meeting with the king and his advisors, she’d had it in mind to talk to Kelewulf about his interest in majik and to warn him away from the darker forms of the Art. But he had left the city on an expedition from which nobody knew when he might return. Her encounter with the young sorcerer had left her with a bad taste in her mouth that she’d done her best to forget. Until now.

  Now it appeared that her foreboding about the young man and the risks he was taking had been well founded. For the boy she could see was not alone. A dark spirit had invaded his body. An icy shiver of fear snaked through her and she almost lost her control. Kelewulf had somehow summoned a lich, the undead spirit of a powerful sorcerer – and not just any sorcerer. The boy had brought the necromancer Yirgan back! The young fool had willingly allowed the lich to possess his physical body, giving the thing a presence in this world again. How could he have been so stupid? To invoke the necromancer who had almost brought this world to its knees; a man who had made the gods themselves tremble and quake until they were forced to intervene and kill him. It was … lunacy.

  Allowing the scroll to slip from her fingers, she hurriedly sought out Stromgard with her mind. The city was in a state of mourning. Anger and sorrow were powerful emotions, and it felt to Fleya as if the place were awash with both right now.

  Visions flashed before her – appalling visions. The cold, dead body of the benevolent king, Mirvar Rivengeld, lying in state. His son, Erik, being dragged away by guards, accused of his murder. And a girl, Mirvar’s youngest child Astrid, fearful and sitting atop the throne in a reign that had already courted controversy. Stromgard was never short of people who would happily take power, and Fleya saw members of the royal court already plotting against the young queen.

  All of this, she was sure, could be laid at Kelewulf’s door. But she could not see where the necromancer was now.

  Feeling her strength abandoning her, Fleya let out a sigh and withdrew back to her own body, struggling against the waves of nausea that swept over her as she did so. Exhausted from her efforts, and wanting nothing more than to return to her cabin to sleep and reflect on what she’d learned, she slowly and unsteadily got to her feet.

  A crescent moon provided meagre light to the dark and foreboding woods around her, but she liked the way its silvery glow gilded the canopy of leaves above her head. She froze when she heard the unmistakeable sound of a snake in the branches of a nearby tree. When she turned to look in the direction of the noise, she saw an old woman standing beneath the creature, looking back at her. Dressed in dishevelled clothing, her face obscured by the tattered hood of a cloak she wore about her shoulders, the woman leaned heavily on the staff she grasped in her gnarled hand, as if she might fall to the ground if the thing were not there.

  Anger ignited inside Fleya. ‘What? No golden-haired, golden-eyed idol for me? Or do you just use that particular manifestation to trick young boys into making terrible choices?’

  The old woman chuckled and straightened up a little. Pushing the hood back, she revealed a wizened face. The snake stretched out towards her from the tree and she lifted a hand, lowering the thing down on to her shoulders, where it, too, stared back at Fleya, its tongue testing the air between them.

  ‘I thought this would be more to your liking, witch. After all, if you strip away the majik, you and I would look remarkably similar.’ The old woman’s cruel laugh turned into a nasty, wet, coughing noise, and she spat on the ground before her.

  ‘What do you want, Rakur?’

  ‘To help.’

  Fleya gave a humourless snort. ‘Help? Like you helped Lann? No, thank you. I think he and I have had enough of your meddling to last us a lifetime.’

  The haggard old woman seemed to consider this for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was low and Fleya had to strain to make out the words.

  ‘You seek a young necromancer. You know what he and the foul lich did before leaving the place you call Stromgard. The fate of the Rivengelds, the capital, the Volken people and maybe the world lies in the balance right now. So I suggest you be careful when refusing help that is offered.’

  Fleya forced herself to forget her anger and pride. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

  ‘The other Rivengeld boy, the prince who is now a king – albeit one in chains – is accused of murdering his father.’

  ‘He didn’t do it.’

  ‘Many believe he did. And there are others who would, despite his innocence, like to see him blamed for the deed. His sister cannot protect him for much longer. She herself is in danger.’ The god lifted a hand to stroke the snake. ‘Unless something is done to help them, neither has more than five days to live.’

  A cold wind blew in through the trees, stirring the overhead leaves and sending a small shiver through the witch.

  ‘Kelewulf and Yirgan’s lich – where are they?’ she asked.

  ‘The imprisoned boy Erik knows the whereabouts of the necromancer. The young sorcerer and he spent time there as small boys.’

  The witch was silent for a moment as she took this information in. Eventually she shook her head and gave the god a stony look. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Why did you give the devil sword to Lannigon?’

  ‘Because he needs it for what lies ahead.’ A smile played at the edge of the god’s mouth. ‘Who knows? You yourself might need it in the not too distant future. Perhaps all our destinies are now tied to that sword and the young man who wields it.’

  Fleya glared at the god, who laughed.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you, witch? That is a sensible position to take. I am not to be trusted … most of the time. But ask yourself this: if I am the villain of this piece, why would I intervene at all? Why not let Lorgukk and his creatures from the Void simply enter this world unhindered?’

  ‘I despise you gods and your meddling.’

&
nbsp; ‘Then you must be glad that our time in this realm is coming to an end. Perhaps, however, some of us are unwilling to leave this world in the hands of a creature as vile as Lorgukk. Perhaps some of us have come to admire the chaos and madness that is human life, and want it to continue in order to see what they are truly capable of. Who knows what they might achieve if they are left alone to explore their own fates? They might build cities in the skies, fly inside the carcasses of giant silver birds. They might even travel to the very stars.’ The god smiled at her, revealing a toothless mouth. ‘But none of that will come to pass if the dark god is allowed back. Humankind will be crushed and enslaved. You know this to be true, Fleya. Just as your sister knew it.’

  Fleya studied the ground at her feet, lost in thought. When she looked up again, the god was gone.

  Away from the small clearing, the forest was dark, but Fleya could have found her way back home with her eyes closed. Her encounter with the god had dispelled some of the fatigue she’d felt, and she replayed their conversation as she walked, considering everything she’d been told. She still didn’t trust Rakur, but she had no choice but to listen to him now. One thing was for sure: she and Lann must journey to the coast, to the city of Stromgard. There, they would have to get an audience with an imprisoned prince. And they must do so in less than five days.

  Lost in her thoughts, she was not aware of the creatures lying in wait to attack her until it was too late.

  Lann was in a deep sleep when he woke suddenly to the sight of the house wight looming over him. Halbe’s shadowy face was so close it was almost touching his own, but no breath came from her open mouth. When he cried out in alarm, the wight momentarily disappeared, winking out of existence before reappearing again almost as quickly. Lann started to mumble an apology, stopping when he saw the extreme distress on the spectre’s face.