by R. J. Grieve
“But who could have such power?” Iska asked, perplexed. “There are no women with the gift, and legend has it that when it was created, it took so much power from the three sages who raised it, that it cost them their lives. So how can he do this?”
Callis spread his hands. “I do not know, my dear Iska. All I know is that Mordrian seems confident in what he is doing.” He then turned to Vesarion. “I also have some news for you, heir of Erren-dar. Mordrian is keeping something of great value in the old crypt. I do not know what it is, so I cannot tell you that it is your grandfather’s sword, but the crypt is being closely guarded day and night and Mordrian has been seen making many visits there.” He gave a dry smile. “I doubt he is merely paying his respects to his ancestors. Iska has told you the story of what she saw there. The Prince is dabbling in supernatural powers normally the preserve of the Destroyer and I can see no good coming of it. I think it possible that what she saw there was a Demon of Darkness, one of the Destroyer’s most powerful minions, so clearly the crypt is some sort of focal point for Mordrian’s plans.”
“Then we must go there,” responded Vesarion promptly, “and see for ourselves.”
Hastily, Iska intervened. “No, Vesarion. I must go there, and I must go alone. You cannot come with me.”
“I am not happy with you risking yourself without anyone to protect you. What if you are caught?”
“I won’t get caught. No one has ever caught me.”
She saw him draw breath to protest again and added reassuringly: “Don’t forget that I can move about this city as invisibly as a black cat on a dark night. I will find out if the sword is there and report back to you. Then, depending on what I find, we will lay our plans to recapture it. Don’t worry, I have been in and out of places I was not supposed to go since I was twelve. I am the best person to find out what my brother is up to, but what I must do, I can only do alone. Forgive me, for I know your intentions are good, but you would only be an encumbrance to me. I will leave as soon as it is dark. I’m uncertain how long it will take me, so I think it best if we arrange to meet at Eimer’s tavern for breakfast. I can then tell everyone what I have discovered.”
She glanced at Callis, who had been listening silently to all that she had said. “I take it that no one was aware of my absence?”
“I think not, but one can never be certain of what goes on in Mordrian’s head.” Then reading her thoughts all to clearly, he added: “I missed you terribly, my child. I hope that in some small way that makes up for your undeserving family.” He hesitated a little and she saw that he still had some more news to impart. “I have one other thing to tell you, although perhaps it will not surprise you. Your father’s health is failing. He is an old man now and he keeps ever more to his chambers. His public appearances have become fewer and fewer and Mordrian now represents him in all that goes on. It goes without saying that he has the full weight of his father’s approval behind him, for they have always been of one mind. In my professional role, I have been called to your father’s side many times in the past few weeks, but I doubt there is much more that I can do for him. My remedies appear to revive him a little, but such relief is only short-lived. I fear he may not have much longer left to him. Does….does that distress you?”
Iska shrugged. “You know that he hasn’t spoken to me since I was twelve, and before that, he was merely using me as a means to an end, so I cannot pretend a grief that I do not feel. What concerns me more, is the prospect of Mordrian becoming king. My father tolerated my existence. Mordrian will not. It seems to me, that sooner or later, I am destined to leave the Kingdom of Adamant for good.”
The grille into the back of the crypt was stiffer than Iska remembered, but after some violent tugging, it opened with a rusty squeak that set her teeth on edge. The serene moon that had lit their journey across Adamant, was gone now, sulking behind an overcast sky that bore down heavily on the earth, making the night inky-black. Only someone who knew the palace wall and the parkland beyond with great familiarity could have even found their way to the crypt, and Iska was glad she had discouraged the others from coming. Since her last visit, before she had left for Eskendria, something had changed at the old crypt. Its main door was now flanked by two fully-armed soldiers. She had been told by Callis that it was guarded, but moving with the silence of a prowling cat, she had been alerted to the exact location of the sentries by hearing a soft cough and the clink of armour as they shifted their position during their long stint on duty. Undeterred, she had crept round to the back like a thief.
Once inside, she discovered that the crypt was not in the stygian blackness of her last visit. A faint light glimmered between the tombs. Moving softly between the silent effigies of her forebears, she discovered that the flickering orange light was provided by two torches placed in brackets on the wall beside the tomb of Cordis of Parth, the founder of the Kingdom. He lay in his carved robes, his granite crown upon his head, his empty stone eyes contemplating eternity. This time, the carved effigy did not move, but it was not alone. Its rest was disturbed by the intrusion of four living figures.
Iska darted into the shadow of an ornate tomb, with carved pilasters that allowed her to look round the corner without being easily seen, and gasped in recognition as her eye fell on one of the figures. The same flowing grey robes she had seen before, encased a figure of great height. The same deep hood concealed its face. The same grey gloves covered its hands. If she had been in any doubt as to whether it was the demon, her doubts were soon dispelled, for an invisible but tangible aura of menace surrounded it, indeed, flowed from it, reaching into the mind and soul of the silent watcher, causing her to tremble with well-remembered dread. Iska’s legs began to shake so much that she sank down into a crouching position, holding onto the corner of the tomb for support.
The other three figures stood a little to one side, with their backs turned to her, watching all the demon did intently. For some reason, something in their posture suggested subordination to it, but they were formidable figures in their own right. They appeared to be tall, powerful men, dressed entirely in black from their boots to their hooded tunics. Their hands, like their master’s, were encased in black gauntlets and they were each armed with heavy swords that hung in scabbards against their thighs. What they were watching, equally drew Iska’s fascinated gaze, for a blacksmith’s forge had been set up in the crypt and was glowing with an intense, hellish redness. It painted every silent stone figure atop its plinth with a rim of fiery light. As the furnace flared and the light increased, she saw that the three forms in black had their faces concealed by steel visors worn beneath their hoods. The visors left nothing of their faces visible, possessing only small barred slits for the wearer to see through and similar ones for nose and mouth. Somehow, this transformed the visor into a mask, inhuman in its cold detachment. The polished metal gleamed red and gold, reflecting the light of the furnace, but she thought briefly that she caught a glimpse of eyes behind the barred slit. Yet Iska’s gaze was irresistibly drawn away from them towards the figure in grey as it worked before the furnace. With dreadful fascination, as if under a spell, her eyes fastened on it, unable to look away. Indeed, her whole body seemed to be drawn irresistibly forwards. She caught herself leaning too far beyond the shelter of the tomb and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to move a little backwards into the shadows.
Yet the demon was paying no heed to those around it. It was watching with intense concentration something in the depths of the furnace. Then, apparently satisfied with what it saw, it reached its gloved hand into the heart of the raging fire and lifted out a crucible, filled to the brim with white-hot molten metal. If Iska had needed any convincing that what she saw was neither human, nor even mortal, this was it, for it held the incandescent heat of the crucible without effort or pain. No flame kindled upon it, nor was its glove or sleeve even so much as scorched. As the crucible emerged from the flames, the three figures in black fell to their knees and began to chant s
omething in a language that Iska had not heard before, in deep bass voices that reverberated around the crypt. Seemingly gaining strength from their genuflection, the hooded figure lifted up the crucible higher, as if in offering, and addressed the three.
“You, my servants, the first of the black warriors renewed, will witness the birth of what we have awaited so long,” declared the demon, in a terrible voice that boomed off the walls causing Iska to cover her ears. As it held the crucible higher, for the first time, she could see beneath its hood. In the depths of the empty darkness that lay within, glowed two red eyes, like coals plucked from the furnace, and they glowed with hatred and malice.
Iska was by now curled into a ball with fear, but still she could not look away.
The figure lowered the crucible and poured its contents in a white-hot river into a waiting mould and as it did so, once again it spoke.
“Meet your doom, sword of Erren-dar,” it proclaimed, turning to look into a dark corner beside Cordis’s tomb. Iska almost cried aloud when she saw what she had failed to notice before. There in the shadows, free of its scabbard, hung the sword she had so long sought. It was suspended in mid-air without any visible means of support, its graceful blade shining in the light from the furnace. She had not realised it would be so beautiful. Although it was innocent of ornament, apart from the three etched chalice flowers, its shape and proportions were a perfect study in elegant, yet lethal grace.
Then the Demon of Darkness began a strange hypnotic litany, with responses chanted by the kneeling forms of the black warriors.
“For all that is fundamental to the order of the universe, there is the law of two,” it intoned. “For all that directs the course of eternity, there is the law of two. For life, there is found death.”
“There is death,” chanted the three.
“For love?”
“There is hate,” they replied in unison.
“For light?”
“There is found darkness.”
“For good?”
“There is evil.”
“For truth?”
“There is falsehood.”
“This sword,” said the demon, indicating the shining weapon suspended in the air, “ broke that law. It gained power because it transgressed that law. For it had no counterpart, no darkness. It was alone. It was unique.”
“It broke the law of two,” chanted its acolytes.
“Now that breach will be remedied, for it shall have its dark counterpart, its shadow, and in its shadow it shall meet its fate, for its shadow shall be stronger and shall overcome it.”
With that, the figure in grey removed the still-glowing metal from its mould and plunged it, hissing, into a vat of water. Steam billowed everywhere, arising in dense clouds around the demon, almost obscuring it. When the vapour subsided, Iska saw that the cooling metal emerging from the water was, indeed, a sword. In every respect, except one, it was the counterpart of the sword of Erren-dar. It was the same length, the same thickness of blade, the same shape of hilt, but as it cooled, the one difference became more and more pronounced – the blade did not shine, as its rival’s did. It was not merely that it was dull - it was jet-black, with a darkness that was not natural. Not just black steel, but something else entirely. It was the inky depths of a bottomless well. It was the darkness of a night sky without stars. It was the blackness that can only be found in a void where there is no light at all, and only evil prevails.
The grey figure, taking the burning-hot sword in its gloved hand, carried it to an anvil and picking up a blacksmith’s hammer, began to beat the metal with strokes of such terrifying force that the building seemed to shake to its foundations. Again and again it struck the sword, tempering the blade, sending showers of sparks to die on the cold stone floor. With each blow it repeated the chant, the kneeling figures playing their part, until the whole crypt reverberated with the sound. Iska could feel the power in the chant and sensed that with each stroke of the hammer, that power was being forced into the blade.
At last, satisfied with its work, the demon held the sword above its head, its red eyes glowing in unholy delight, and roared: “Witness the birth of the black blade that cannot be defeated!”
Iska could not prevent herself whimpering with terror.
Suddenly, the demon swung round, its robes swirling about it. “I sense a presence,” it snarled suspiciously.
The three black warriors leaped to their feet and stared into the shadows towards Iska. Together, they too, released a hissing sound that Iska thought she had heard once before but could not identify.
Desperate with fear, her whole body shaking almost uncontrollably, Iska began to crawl rapidly away, keeping to the darkest corners. She dared not stand up and, indeed, did not know if she had the strength to do so.
The black figures fanned out amongst the tombs, searching every corner and hiding-place.
“I sense a presence!” roared the demon.
Iska crawled faster, ignoring sore knees, and reaching the grille, wriggled through it, praying it didn’t squeak again. Once out, she took a deep gulp of cool night air. Then hearing another roar from within the crypt, she scrambled shakily to her feet and fled.
In her blind panic, she forgot to head towards the boundary wall but instead, acting on instinct, made for the safety of her room above the stables.
She ran with a speed only possible in those who fear for their lives. Like a hunted hare, she shot across the grass, the trees of the parkland flashing past her. Abandoning stealth in her desperate need to get as far away as possible, she crashed through bushes, making a straight line for the comfort of the brightly-lit windows of the servants’ quarters. Upon reaching the outer edge of the complex, she still did not stop, but hurtled past the lamp-lit windows and round the corner into the stable yard. She only halted when, in her haste, she collided against the old wooden door of the tack room. Desperately she clutched the familiar handle, holding onto it for support while she sobbed for air. After a moment or two, her ragged breathing quietened and her trembling subsided. Feeling a little reassured by the stillness of the night, she crept to the corner of the stable block and peered back towards the parkland, scanning the dark shapes of the trees for sign of movement. For a long time she watched and waited, her keen eyes searching intently. She knew that in their black clothes, the warriors would be difficult to spot, but Iska had the instincts of a cat and waited patiently, noting every rustle of every leaf until she was sure that she was not pursued. With a wave of relief, she came to the conclusion that they hadn’t seen her.
Drawing a deep breath to expel the last of her fright, she was in the act of turning to leave, when a heavy hand descended on her and grabbed her by the collar. She had already released a cry of sheer terror, when a hatefully familiar voice spoke in her ear.
“Well, what have we here?” it purred. “A little sewer rat, it seems, running along its tunnels, getting into places it is not supposed to be.”
Mordrian, without releasing his grip on her, turned her round to face him. She began to struggle, but soon gave up, knowing that it was futile, for he was a powerful man, clearly in no mood to let her go.
“The little rat has not been much in evidence lately, has she?” he continued. “Or should I call you little thief? Horses mysteriously disappear from my father’s stables. Items vanish from the palace. Food goes missing from the kitchens. I wonder why that is? It’s quite a remarkable coincidence that it only happens when you are around. Of course, I’m sure you have a very good explanation as to why you are skulking around the stables at this hour of the night?”
Iska, with an inward flood of relief, suddenly realised that he didn’t know where she had been.
“I live here, brother dear,” she replied cuttingly.
“Not for long you don’t,” he riposted. “Or have you not been keeping up with events? No, I don’t suppose you have. After all, you only consort with thieves and beggars, so what goes on at court probably passes you by. The
King is ill, and not expected to last much longer,” he informed her, with remarkable lack of concern. “and then, little rat, we both know what happens. You have been an embarrassment to me since the day you were born. If I had been given my way, you would have been drowned in that horse trough within an hour of your birth. A foolish old man’s mistake, bringing a noble line into disrepute, that’s all you are. I have had to look at that mistake for twenty years, but not for much longer. There will be no place in my kingdom for my father’s bastard. Do I make myself plain?”
When she remained sullenly silent, quite deliberately, without any apparent passion, he slapped her sharply across the face.
“Do I make myself plain?” he repeated.
Still exuding defiance, she snapped. “Yes.”
He laughed. “Well, you have gall, if nothing else. My father desperately wanted you to have the power, but I never shared that wish. What? Pollute the royal line with a maid’s brat? Have a little mongrel like you partake of every decision of state? I think not. No, on mature reflection I think it best that you just quietly disappear. You may achieve this yourself, or I will do it for you. I will give you one week to find some hole to hide in, that is so far away from here that I never have to set eyes on you again, or…” he paused, his amber eyes boring into hers. “…or it is sadly possible that some day, when you climb that tree to get to your room, you might tragically have a nasty fall. Such a pity, but accidents happen, after all.”
He released his hold on her collar and deliberately wiped his hand on his sleeve. “So what is it to be? A lost rat, or a dead one?” He laughed again, and as he began to cross the stable yard, he called mockingly over his shoulder: “It’s entirely up to you. One week, that is all, little nobody, one week.”
