Dark Blade

by Steve Feasey

  ‘Were they successful? Did he drown?’ Lann asked, staring at the last panel beside the doorway. It depicted an ocean in the midst of a terrible tempest. There was a vast circular void among the waves, a swirling vortex into which the mad god, carried on the winds, was pitched.

  ‘Some say so.’ The priest paused. ‘Others say he escaped the storm, only to wander the earth for hundreds of years, unaware of who and what he was.’

  ‘And the Dreadblade?’

  ‘Lost. To this world, at least.’ He glanced at the scabbard hanging at the boy’s side. ‘Until now.’

  Lann considered everything the robed man had told him. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘To show you the dangers of what you seek to do. And to show you that defeating the dark god alone may not be enough. The greater battle for you, Lann, might be the one you must fight with yourself.’

  ‘Do you really think I can stop Lorgukk if he is returned?’

  ‘That will depend on many things, Jarl Gudbrandr. But it has been done before.’

  ‘By a god,’ Lann said with a shake of his head.

  ‘Yes, that is true. By a god.’

  Lann turned slowly on the spot, taking in the images one last time. It was not a complete surprise to find the man in the red robes had disappeared when he finished. Even so, he had no wish to stay in this place on his own a moment longer than was necessary. Grabbing the torch, he hurried back along the corridor to the stairs and the exit.

  26

  Fleya had requested that they be alone for the ritual to restore Erik’s memory and, despite the protests of his guards and advisors, the king agreed.

  They both sat on the floor in his private chambers. At any other time, the young king might have relished the idea of being in such intimate company with this beautiful woman. But this was no ordinary situation. Large wooden shutters at the windows banished the daylight, and the only illumination was from tallow-and-beeswax candles that sputtered and spat in their holders, filling the room with an unpleasant, slightly meaty odour. Around the pair, describing a circle on the floor, was a length of hemp rope, tightly knotted where the two ends met. In the centre, between Erik and Fleya, were three items: a dead songbird, a loaf of bread and an empty drinking horn.

  A number of minutes had passed since the two had taken up their positions, and neither had said a word to each other during that time. Indeed, the witch hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d lowered herself to the floor, where she sat with her legs crossed beneath her. Eyes closed, chin tilted slightly up, Erik watched as her breathing became increasingly shallow until it seemed she was not breathing at all. The only evidence that she was even alive was the tremendous heat coming off her, as if she were in the grip of some terrible fever. He had never seen anyone perform majik like this, and it made him uneasy. She had told him nothing about what to expect, and this only fuelled his apprehension.

  Trying to take his mind off things, he took the time to study the woman across from him. Her most striking feature – her eyes – were hidden from him, but even so, he doubted there was a more handsome woman in Stromgard. She could not know it, but the young king felt drawn to her in a way he had not been to any other female before. It was foolishness on his part; he was well aware of the vow that witches had to make if they were to engage in the Art.

  Still, he told himself, there was no harm in looking at her.

  Fleya had not eaten or allowed a drop of liquid to pass her lips at the feast the previous evening or indeed during the entire day. Her physical body protested at this abstinence, but she ignored the thick tongue in her dry mouth and the angry rumblings of her stomach. There would be time for eating and drinking after she’d completed what she needed to with the king. It was complicated majik. Undoing another’s work always was, and this was no backstreet dabbler’s labours she was trying to counter.

  Kelewulf and the lich were a formidable force, wielding considerable talent and power. But it helped that King Erik was such a willing participant. Had he not been, she might have had no option but to force him into remembering, and that was fraught with danger. The complexities of a human mind, and the damage that could be done if the majik were botched, made things extremely complicated.

  She reached out with her mind towards the swirling mass of energy that was at the heart of the Art. Having made the link with that mysterious force, she retreated back into her human body and allowed her physical and psychic forms to recombine. She slowly raised her arms, holding them out towards the king, waiting for him to take them in his own. When she felt his large hands clasp hers, she silently began to recite the sacred words.

  Erik wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen when he placed his hands in the witch’s – a sudden wave of energy, or a bolt of light, perhaps? – but the silence and calm that followed felt anticlimactic. He started to wonder if the spell was working at all when something extraordinary happened.

  The drinking horn had been empty when Fleya had placed it on the ground. Now, as Erik watched, it slowly filled up from the bottom with what appeared to be ale. The liquid increased and decreased in volume, sometimes draining down to nothing again before refilling.

  More incredible still was the loaf of bread. As he watched, Erik witnessed the round loaf become increasingly pale until it was almost grey in colour. The uncooked dough then shrank in size, changing in appearance and texture until it eventually transformed into the flour it had originally been made from.

  As astonishing as these sights were, filling him with wonder and setting his heart racing, it was the bird’s transformation that was truly miraculous. When he’d first sat before it, he’d wrinkled his nose at the creature. It cannot have been long dead, but its body was already brittle and hardened by exposure to the elements. Its eyes had gone, taken by insects or some other feathered creatures, and the bluish-black plumage on its body had lost the shine of vitality. But as he watched, Erik saw both eyes and feathers restored. Blood, too, appeared to fill the creature’s body once more, plumping it out as he stared in disbelief. When it first moved, the king gasped; then the creature pushed itself up with its wings to awkwardly regain its feet.

  It was then that he noticed how charged the air was, like the atmosphere before an electrical storm. The hair on the witch’s head had started to lift, sticking out on all sides, and he felt his own hair do the same. The heat and oppressive air became too much for him, and he was suddenly unable to fill his lungs. He gasped silently for air, like a fish removed from its watery world. Forgetting all about the miracles he had just witnessed, he felt himself quickly slide into a state of panic. His heart raced, hammering a frantic rhythm that demanded oxygen he was unable to feed it. Bright spots of light danced in front of his eyes, and he felt the world slide away from him as unconsciousness threatened. He managed to wrench one hand free, feeling the grip on the other intensify in response. He wanted to get to his feet, but knew it was useless. A terrible rasping croak, like the sound a crow might make, escaped him.

  Eyes still closed, Fleya groped beside her for the knot in the rope. Expertly, only using one hand, she shook the knot free and opened the circle.

  Air rushed in and the pair sucked it in greedily, the world returning with each subsequent breath. The sudden dissipation of the heat sent a cold shiver running through Erik and he looked down at the trio of objects again. The loaf, the drinking horn and the dead bird were exactly as they’d been at the start, and he wondered what sort of trickery had made him imagine he’d seen them otherwise.

  Fleya finally opened her eyes and looked across at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her eyes full of compassion.

  Erik let out a sob.

  He remembered everything.

  The loud knock on his door roused Prince Erik from his sleep. Pulling on a robe against the cold, he crossed the room and opened it.

  ‘Cousin,’ Kelewulf said, standing in the threshold. ‘As promised.’ He held out a small phial. ‘To help you sleep.’

 
‘Thank you.’ Erik took the little bottle and hesitated. ‘Would you like to come in, cousin?’

  Kelewulf nodded and entered, crossing the room to a chair by the window. In the light, Erik noticed how his cousin’s forehead was damp with perspiration.

  ‘You look tired, Kel,’ said Erik gently. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘No, I’m fine … fine …’ murmured Kelewulf. ‘But yes, I – I am tired.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘So very tired.’

  Erik watched in alarm as Kelewulf slumped forward in a faint. He hurried over, getting to his knees before his cousin and lifting his head so he might feel at his neck for a pulse. As he did so he noticed the dark smoky tendrils beginning to escape from between Kelewulf’s lips. And, as he opened his own mouth to cry out, the smoky stuff came out in a great rush and entered him, filling first his lungs, then every part of him with its darkness.

  The memories from that point on were terrible and painful ones. He walked with his own legs, looked out of his own eyes and spoke with his own lips, but it was not he who was in control of these actions. The thing – whatever it was – controlled him entirely, using his thoughts and memories to seem normal to those around him while carrying out the terrible acts Erik would later be accused of.

  He remembered walking into the marketplace and shopping for the ingredients to create a deadly poison. Worse still was how Erik was made aware of the thing’s ultimate intention, and how the creature seemed to revel in the whole affair, keen that Erik should know what he would be making and why.

  He had manufactured the hideous brew in his sleeping quarters, tears blurring his vision. The tears were his own, but the manic laughter that accompanied them was not.

  He remembered too how he’d gone to the kitchen and doused his father’s meal with the stuff. Then he’d taken up his seat by Mirvar’s side and sat watching him spoon the food into his mouth, knowing dimly that each mouthful spelled the end for the man he loved. Except he hadn’t loved him in those moments, had he? His feelings for his father, like those for everyone and everything else, were not his. They were the spite-filled thoughts of another.

  His mind wiped, he had known nothing more, except the grief and horror of finding his father dead. And then the shock of being accused. His cousin and the lich had quickly departed Stromgard and left Erik to take the blame, knowing he would be found guilty of the murder. But he knew where Kelewulf was now. He remembered: a place where they had played together as children, exploring the dark rocks along the shore while his mother watched from above.

  The king looked up at Fleya. The witch was on her feet now, looking compassionately at him. He struggled to identify how he felt about what she’d done. Anger was his foremost emotion; anger and resentment. But there was something else – a kind of relief. At least, awful as it was, he knew the truth.

  He rose and stood before the witch, trying to show strength and bravery as his father would have. But he knew that she could see through this pretence.

  ‘It wasn’t your doing, Erik.’ Fleya reached out and pushed back a hair that had fallen across his face. ‘You were no more a part of those terrible deeds than I was.’ Taking a small step backwards she looked him up and down, and nodded. ‘You will be a fine ruler for your people, my King. Mirvar will be proud of the man he left to protect the kingdom.’

  ‘I appreciate your words,’ he said. ‘And I will endeavour to see that they are borne out.’ Pulling himself up to his full height, the ruler strode over to the window on trembling legs and threw open the shutters, allowing the daylight into the room before turning to face her again. This time his expression was grim. ‘But before I can begin my reign, I must avenge my father’s murder. I know where Kelewulf is.’

  27

  ‘I’m going with them,’ Astrid said, fixing her brother with a look that probably worked on every other person in the kingdom.

  ‘You most certainly are not.’

  ‘You can’t stop me.’

  Erik gave his sister a stony look. ‘I think you’ll find I can do exactly that.’

  ‘They need me,’ she said, nodding at Fleya and Lann.

  ‘You are a princess of this kingdom. You are not—’

  ‘I think we’ve already established I am not really princess material.’ She grinned fiercely when he flushed at her words. ‘I have made my peace with that, brother. I am a shield maiden, though. I am trained in combat and am the best archer in all of Stromgard.’ She paused and shot Lann a look. ‘I’m the best fighter in this longhouse right now.’

  ‘You might be the best archer, sister, but—’

  ‘Best fighter,’ she repeated. ‘With whatever weapon you choose to name.’

  Erik snorted. ‘I find it astonishing you can say such a thing when you witnessed what Jarl Gudbrandr did to the mercenary Oknhammer!’

  ‘Really? Well, let’s see, shall we?’ Reaching into a sack by her side, Astrid pulled out two heavy wooden training swords. Lann just about caught the one she threw in his direction. ‘Well?’ she said to the young jarl. ‘Shall we show our king what kind of fighter you are?’ She nodded at the sword in his hand. ‘Prepare to defend yourself, Jarl Gudbrandr.’

  ‘Astrid, I want you to stop this—’

  The king didn’t get to finish because his sister launched herself towards her opponent. Lann managed to get his sword up in time to clumsily parry her attack. With little more than a twist of her wrist, Astrid jabbed him in the chest with the blunted end of her weapon hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Taking two strides back, she turned to her confused-looking brother.

  ‘That – that doesn’t prove anything,’ he said. ‘Jarl Gudbrandr simply allowed you win.’

  ‘Allowed me to?’ Astrid’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nobody allowed me to win, brother.’ That wild look was directed towards Lann again. ‘Another bout, “champion”?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he spluttered. ‘I mean, look, can’t we just talk—’

  Astrid didn’t wait to hear any more; she moved in to attack again.

  Lann, his chest aching, gripped the sword and prepared to defend himself. He saw her attack coming easily enough: a big swing from the outside towards his shoulder. He brought his own weapon round to block it, but her stroke was just a ruse designed to provoke such a move on his part. Astrid stepped a little to her right, rotating her hand and whipping her sword down in a chopping blow on to his wrist. At the same time she kicked out with her left foot, catching him a painful blow in an area that he definitely did not want to be kicked in. All the air rushed out of his lungs and he folded forward, clutching himself in pain. Astrid, grabbing his injured sword hand, twisted it viciously enough for the wooden weapon to fall to the floor with a clatter. The new pain made him straighten up again, only to find Astrid’s sword at his throat.

  The girl smiled sweetly over her shoulder in Erik’s direction. ‘Want to see some more? Maybe he let me win again. Or was I lucky?’

  Erik sat back on his throne, mystified. ‘I don’t understand,’ he admitted.

  Lann was relieved when the shield maiden removed the wooden blade from beneath his chin and stepped away. His chest, wrist and another particularly delicate region all hurt like hell, and it struck him that he would have died twice over in the last few moments had they been using real weapons. Worse yet was that he knew Astrid had not even been trying particularly hard. Fleya’s amused expression was equally annoying. ‘Oh, I’m sure you find this highly entertaining,’ he muttered to her.

  Another thing occurred to him: the blade at his side had remained completely inert throughout the exchange. There had been no strange whispers or words in his head, no urge for it to be unleashed so it might come to his aid. It seemed everyone and everything in the longhouse were conspiring to make him look like a fool.

  ‘Explain this to me,’ Erik demanded of Fleya. ‘Was it your majik that allowed Lann to beat Oknhammer the other day?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. There is no such majik that I know of.’

&
nbsp; The king waited. Eventually Fleya broke the silence.

  ‘Lann is no traditional warrior, my liege. And the sword he carries is no ordinary weapon. Neither can it be wielded by just anyone. It is an ancient blade that was put into this world for a special purpose, and I still have no idea why my nephew was chosen to carry it. But together they won you back your life and your crown. That is as much as I know. I can tell you no more.’

  Erik considered her response and the words she had used. He turned to his young jarl. ‘Is this true?’

  Lann nodded. ‘It is. I am sorry, King Erik. I am new to this, and it is as strange to me as it must seem to you.’ He frowned, trying to find the right words. ‘The sword … speaks to me. It is an ancient and long-dead language. But at times I can understand it.’ He rested his hand on the pommel of the weapon. ‘The blade scares me, I’m not ashamed to admit that. But it has saved lives. Mine – twice – my aunt’s and yours. It gave me back my sight when I was blind. But Astrid is right, I am no warrior. I hardly know how to hold a sword. As you have just seen, I have no training.’

  ‘If you had drawn the black blade against my sister, would it have killed her?’

  The question caught Lann by surprise, but he didn’t hesitate in his response. ‘No. It would not have harmed Astrid.’

  ‘Another one of these things you simply “know”?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Still, such a weapon is a dangerous thing. Especially in the hands of one so young.’

  ‘Some might say the same of a crown on the head of a young ruler, King Erik.’

  The king regarded Lann for a moment, then surprised them all by bursting into laughter. Nodding his head, he looked at the younger boy again, as if appraising him anew.