The Demon's Blade (5 page)

"Then you see the problem," the old man said in resignation.

"What can be done then? Is there a way to destroy the sword?" Darien asked.

The old man hung his head and shook it dejectedly. "No, I have no knowledge of any art in all the world that is able to destroy it. There is no fire hot enough to melt it, no stone hard enough to grind it down and no force powerful enough to break it. It was made by the magic of the ancient Elves. If there is a way to destroy it, then they would know of it, yet they are long gone from this world. The few Elves who remain possess precious little of the wisdom and power of their ancestors."

"Then my doom is already decided. How I wish that I had never been born. Would that I had the power to unmake myself and spare the world my wretched existence. I am damned and beyond all hope of redemption."

Darien fell upon the ground again, weeping like a child. For several minutes, he could do nothing but weep, while the mysterious man simply sat there with his head bowed, as if he also were contemplating the hopelessness of it all.

"There is always hope, young one, always, but you must look beyond yourself to find it," he finally said, in a hushed voice, that Darien was too distraught to hear. At that, Ezra stood and knelt over the sobbing young man.

"Though I cannot give you the release you seek and I cannot relieve you of the burden that fate has placed upon you, I will do what I can to help you bear it." Then Ezra laid his aged hand upon the younger man’s forehead and he was immediately thrown into a deathlike sleep.

Chapter 5: Hope

Once again, Darien awoke lying on his back, looking up into the dull gray fog. This time, however, the lesser moon rather than the sun shone through the gray veil. Strangely, though the sun had been dimmed by the fog, the pale yellowish moonlight seemed to be magnified, as though it were reflected endlessly between the tiny specks of moisture. The moss on the rocks which had appeared green in the sunlight, now glowed a pale blue, emitting faint light of its own. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely cricket sang. The half-elf lay motionless for several minutes, listening to the cricket sing its plaintive tune. For a time, his mind was blank, nothing at all in the world besides the fog and the moonlight and the sound of the cricket real to him.

How did I get here, and where is here, Darien wondered? At first, he could only recall vague impressions, disjointed images that had no meaning, and words spoken, but unintelligible. What had happened? The dazed half-elf forced himself to focus on the previous day. He found it difficult, like trying to remember something out of a dream. Slowly, he began to piece together the fragments of memories into a whole. He recalled the battle, the desperate chase, and his conversation with the strange old man. The memory felt strange and unreal to him, as if a great gulf had opened in his mind, separating the now
from the nightmare that had come before. He could no longer feel the influence of the demons. The voices were gone and his mind was calm. How was it possible?

He sat up and looked around. The old man sat on the stone wall, just as he had when Darien had first seen him, head hung down, long, gray, ragged hair falling over his face, perfectly still. Whether he was sleeping or dead, Darien could not tell. He got to his feet, and reached out to touch the sleeping man’s shoulder. But before his fingers made contact, Ezra turned and looked up at him, startling him and causing him to take a step back.

"Ah, you're awake, then. That is good."

"How long have I been asleep?" Darien asked.

"Nearly two days," the man answered. "It was morning when you fell asleep, it is now past midnight on the next day."

"What happened?" Darien asked. "I feel… strange. When I fell asleep I had almost lost my will to the sword. Now I can barely even tell it is there. Did you cast some sort of spell upon me?"

"Of a sort yes," the man replied. "It is not exactly a spell, not as you understand the word at any rate. What I have done is to create a barrier in your mind, a wall against the demonic influence. It is not altogether unlike what the crystal did for your master, but it is not so strong that it will last a thousand years."

"How is that even possible? I have never heard of such a power," Darien protested. "Who are you, that you know so much of demons and this sword? You cannot expect me to believe that this meeting is mere chance."

"I would think one in your position might be less suspicious and more grateful, but I suppose that's to be expected." Ezra sighed deeply and continued. "There is no answer I can give that would completely satisfy your curiosity, but you may think of me as a guardian of that blade, charged with seeing that it does not fall into evil hands. I will speak no more of this."

Darien shifted uncomfortably. "I apologize. I am grateful for what you have done, whether I understand it or not. I should be grateful for any further wisdom you might offer."

"Now there is a more sensible attitude. I accept your apology and will offer you what wisdom I can. The effects of the spell are not permanent. With time it will weaken and eventually the sword's power will overcome it."

"How long will it last?"

"If you do not use the sword, I would guess that it will last many decades, perhaps centuries, should your elven blood allow you to live that long. I cannot say for certain, but there is more. If you use the sword's power as you did during your escape, the spell will fade more quickly."

"So, I just won't use it. That seems simple enough. You said that with time the sword’s power will increase, while the Master’s will decline.” Darien said as he scratched his chin, and, for the first time since he had taken the sword, calmly considered his situation. After a moment, he spoke aloud his conclusion. “I will simply have to stay alive and hidden long enough for him to grow weak enough that he can be killed. That was your plan all along, then?"

"Killing him would still be a great feat, but yes, that was my plan. It is a faint hope, but a faint hope is better than none at all."

Darien sat on the wall next to the wizened old man, wondering what other questions to ask of him. Ezra stared off into the fog, as if his mind were now somewhere far away. Darien looked off into the fog as well, unsure now what to do and where to go. He looked around at the gray, foggy scenery, pondering what used to be there. He imagined the courtyards filled with flowers and fountains, the streets bustling with activity. How long had it been since any man walked upon this ground and how long until the next unlikely stranger might set foot upon it?

"What is this place?" he asked. "Do you know anything about it?"

"A long time ago, this was a city, or rather a part of one. It was the capital of a great kingdom, when all the races were at peace. It was once the greatest city of man. I do not know what its proper name was, but in legend it is known as Sarenna."

"The lost city of Sarenna?" Darien gave him a skeptical look. "I have heard the legend. The people became arrogant and wicked and the gods destroyed the city as punishment. I had always thought it nothing more than an old tale used by superstitious old women to get their children to behave."

The old man chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure it is, but still, the city itself did exist. Most of it sank into what is now Lake Kalena. Whether that was punishment by the gods, or natural disaster, who can say. The place where we now sit was once the high city, where the King's palace stood."

"It must have been a magnificent sight in its day, but like so many of the great accomplishments of man, it is forgotten and left to decay. Men's hearts change as quickly as the wind." Darien had little regard for the race of man.

Ezra sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps, but they can hardly be blamed for that. Most are only trying to live as well as they can, for their short lives. You really must learn to be more forgiving."

"I have good reason to distrust mankind," Darien responded with resentful force. "They fear what they do not understand, and hate what they cannot control. They cherish their own blood and their own ways, ever seeking to destroy what does not meet with their approval. They are judgmental, short-sighted, cruel, and unforgiving. Why should I judge them differently than they judge me?"

"Are those your words, or those of your Master, I wonder? You should beware, Darien the Executioner, for just as using the sword's power can corrupt, so too can the evil within yourself. The monsters we carry with us can be far worse than those we fight against. Too often we overcome our foes without, only to be defeated by our foes within."

Darien did not immediately reply, considering Ezra's words. Finally, he shook his head and said, "Aren't we all equally monsters in the end, biting, scratching, grasping, clawing; doing everything in our power to take more for ourselves? The strong take what they wish, and the weak fight one another over whatever is left, leaving the weakest to perish and die. If we are not the monsters, then who is? I have paid back a hundredfold every injustice I ever suffered at the hands of men. I have grown strong and taken justice for my mother, and I have little doubt there are many who have suffered at my hands who would do the same. The cycle never ends."

The thin wizened mouth of the old man curled into a frown. "Perhaps we are, but we need not surrender so easily to hatred and prejudice. Some things are worth doing whether or not they have any chance of success, but I will say no more. You must find your own path to peace, if indeed there is one to be found." He stood up, leaned upon his staff, and looked up at the sky. "Dawn will not be far off now. You should prepare yourself. The longer you remain here, the greater the risk your enemy will be waiting for you on the far shore."

"Yes, I was thinking much the same."

"It will be an easier swim this time. The water is narrower on this side of the island," the old man said. Then he looked at Darien and asked, "What do you plan to do once you are across?"

The lad paused to think a moment. "I will be hunted by the Master, and the Order of the Golden Shield as well, once they discover what happened. I suppose I will head northwest and make for the city of Mintaka. It is a large city and it will be easy enough to acquire supplies for a longer journey. From there, I will likely go north. Eventually, I should be able to make my way to the Red Mountains. Dwarves rule those lands and they have little interest in the affairs of men. Many of their cities are quite remote and difficult to reach. It is the best place I know of in which to hide from both The Master and the Golden Shield… unless you have a better idea."

Darien peered at the man, waiting for some guidance, but got only another shake of the man’s head, strands of withered hair drifting back and forth with the motion.

"No, I suppose that is as good a plan as any." The old man looked up at the sky again and said, "I can do no more to aid you, but I will leave you with this advice. Avoid conflict and strife. Do not succumb to anger. Do not return to the path your master set you upon, or you will surely lose yourself on it. Above all, do not take life needlessly, for nothing fouls the soul more quickly, or more surely."

He then turned away and walked off. Darien watched the man walk away until his silhouette disappeared in the fog. Off in the east, the morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The blue glow of the moss was fading and the cricket could no longer be heard. There was nothing more to do here. Nothing to do but go forward. He put the morning light at his back and headed off to the west. In the fog he had found new hope — faint, but sure — and this new hope gave him the strength to persevere, to move forward and face whatever future remained to him.

Chapter 6: A Fateful Choice

Thunder sounded in the distance, announcing the impending arrival of a storm in the quiet northern town of Kantu, a common enough occurrence in the north. In another two months, perhaps less, they would bring snow rather than rain, and bury the land of Vorstal under a thick blanket of white until the spring thaw, some five months later.

Darien sat at a table in the Iron Kettle Inn, the liveliest, if not the largest, inn to be found in Kantu, awaiting the soup and bread he had ordered. All around the room, people were making merry and drinking themselves stupid. The Executioner ordinarily disliked such environs. The noise made it difficult to concentrate and the dim half-light of candles and lanterns was worse than darkness to his eyes. Even so, he enjoyed having cooked food now and again, and this inn was frequented by travelers from the south and east. He paid close attention to anyone who appeared to be from lands controlled by the Master, who was known to all outside his domain as the Demon King.

How long has it been since that day on the island, Darien asked himself? He could no longer recall the particular date, only that then, as now, it was in the early autumn. Whether by some side effect of the spell that strange old man had cast upon him, or of the sword itself, he now found it difficult to recall any specific time from before that day in the fog. He remembered the faces, the names, the places, but he was no longer sure of when any of it had happened, or in what order. The events and people from his life before the Demon Sword possessed a strange unreality, a disconnectedness, as if they were someone else’s memories planted in his own mind. He remembered his training, all of his magic, and every skill he had ever been taught, tracking, hunting, combat, geography, military strategy, history, and lore, but when he tried to recall how and where he learned it, he often found that he could not. More than this, there were gaps, empty spaces where something should have been, but wasn’t, and that troubled him most of all. Much of his memory only surfaced in dreams, nightmares he wished he could forget. Only the memory of his mother’s execution felt certain, etched into his soul, impossible to erase.

The last five years, however, were quite clear in his mind. This was the fifth autumn Darien had seen since his escape. He stared out a round, glass window, stopping to consider his reflection. Most of the scars of his youth had faded, and were now barely visible, whether as a result of his elven blood, or some unknown property of the sword, he could not be certain. Only the scar above his right eye remained prominent. His hair was longer now, as he cut it far less frequently, but it remained perpetually spiky and disheveled, as he paid little attention. He was no longer quite as conditioned as he had been, but he had finally grown into his frame. His shoulders had broadened slightly, and he’d gained size, cutting a far more imposing figure now than on the day of his escape.

He gazed beyond his reflection at a scraggly tree growing in a small patch of grass between the Iron Kettle Inn and its stables. Its leaves were just beginning to show a tinge of orange-yellow on their outer edges. The evening sun was setting, casting its last slivers of light down the alleyway, at just the right angle to shine upon the lower branches of the tree.

He had remained in hiding for these five years and so far had managed to remain unnoticed by the many eyes that must have been searching for him. He had never once used the power of the Demon Sword, and indeed he rarely even touched it, instead keeping it sheathed and strapped to his back, even when he slept. He made a modest living from working as a guide, courier, spy, and occasional thief. Not a particularly grand set of occupations, but they fit well with his only major concern, drawing as little attention to himself as possible. He took special care to never use his magic where it could be seen by others, as mages were uncommon in these lands and a mage of even intermediate skill would be noticed. He seldom used anything beyond simple spells, and he rarely engaged in combat, preferring to rely on stealth and superior wit. He was no longer so strong or fit or sharp as he had been when he had been served the Demon King, but he was still a shade. His instincts, his training, and his magical skills remained.

Darien turned away from the window as his food arrived. He thanked the wench and discreetly handed her a piece of silver.

"Any work for me here in Kantu?" he whispered.

"Nothing much for your sort," she replied in an equally hushed whisper. "Just this… there's this half-elf boy staying here talks too much. I heard him talking to a couple of shady blokes about the Duke's castle. Up to somethin’ if you ask me, maybe gonna steal somethin’, maybe already has, but he carries somethin’ with him, pretty trinket. Tries to hide it, he does, but he's no good at it. Made of gold whatever it is. Easy a mark as ever there was, that boy."

The shade did not reply, but nodded in thanks to the portly wench, then turned his attention to the food in front of him. The bread was warm and fresh enough. The soup was thin, but well-seasoned. He had not enjoyed such a good meal in many days
.
Darien had learned to enjoy these simple comforts, as they were the only ones he had. The warm, good food took his mind away from the doom that surrounded him, so he took his time, enjoying his meal
.
When the soup was gone and the bread nearly so, he heard a rustling outside and glanced out the window in time to see a cloaked figure scurrying down the now dark alley. The storm had rolled in and was pouring sheets of rain down onto the town. Who might be foolish enough to be out in such weather, Darien wondered.

Curiosity was soon satisfied, however, as the fellow stumbled into the inn mere moments later, and fell forwards with a crash on the wooden floor. The cloaked figure was clearly a young man, with long blonde hair and bright blue-green eyes. Beyond this, there was little Darien could discern, for the youth was fairly well covered in mud. Darien stared half in curiosity and half in amusement as the young man tried to rid himself of the slippery mud, less than successfully, and finally struggled to his feet. The now red faced lad then walked across the room and into the hallway, toward the guest rooms. Chuckles could be heard throughout the room, as no doubt this lad was the silliest sight seen in the place for a long time. Some of the patrons, who must have been containing themselves out of politeness, burst into outright laughter, as the pitiful figure disappeared down the dark hallway.

Darien sat quietly at his table, as he pondered whether to rent a room, or to make his way back to his secret hiding place. He had plenty of coin, but hated to spend money on something that felt somewhat frivolous. Nevertheless, the storm continued to rage outside and he was more than a little curious about the strange young man. As he continued to mull over the matter, two burly men entered the tavern. They had hairy arms and thick dark beards, wore no armor or uniform, only plain clothes, but each wore a silver ring with a purple gem, marking them unmistakably as the Duke's men. Whoever they were, the Duke must not have wanted them to be seen in full armor.

One of them strode confidently to the middle of the room and raised a hand for attention.

"We're looking for a mongrel half-elf boy. He's wanted for questioning at the castle. Has anyone here seen him?" the man bellowed, as he glared around the room.

At first, there was no reply. The Duke was none too popular and it was unsurprising that no one volunteered any information. Finally, the elderly innkeeper spoke up, in a thin, trembling voice.

"We don't want any trouble here..."

"And you'll have none if you give us the boy," the man interrupted. "We know he's here. We saw his muddy footprints outside. He's a blundering fool besides being a mongrel."

At this, the second man picked up a chair, clearly aiming to smash it against the bar. He stopped when the first man raised a finger.

"Well what's it to be? Where is he, or do we just smash things until we find him?"

The innkeeper did not speak again, but looked down at the floor, where the footprints clearly continued on down the hallway. Muffled laughter filled the room for a second time. Darien caught himself before he could let out a laugh. These hunters aren't much brighter than their quarry, he mused. The two ruffians, however, were not amused.

"Oh you think it's funny, eh, well hold your tongues or we'll beat the smug outta’ the lot o’ ya."

The laughter died down and the two men disappeared down the hall.

Darien listened carefully for whatever sounds might come from the boy’s room. His hearing was better than most men to begin with, thanks to his elven blood, and he could further amplify that with magic. Between the wench's tip and the appearance of the two burly intruders, he had developed an interest in this young man. He heard a gruff voice speaking.

"Just come out, and this’ll be easier. We know yer in there, Jerris. Only a dim-wit half-elf mongrel like you would try to break into the Duke's castle."

The voice was clearly that of the one who had spoken earlier. I suppose he's the brilliant leader of the duo, Darien mused. A silence broke out, lasting perhaps a minute or two, and then sounds of a struggle ensued, lasting only moments. The men soon reappeared, each holding an arm of the young man, who was struggling mightily to escape.

This might have been no more than the end of an amusing, if unimportant evening, but the talented mind of the shade noticed something missed earlier. It was not a thing seen or heard, but a thing felt, a faint, but unmistakable tingling. He had felt this before, when he had finally found the piece of starstone he had used to shatter The Master's crystal and steal the Demon Sword. Whatever the object was, it was just a few feet away, in the vicinity of the young half-elf. The trinket the wench had mentioned; it must be where the stone is! As that thought hit, the shade quickly considered his options. I could follow them easily enough and try to steal it. If they take it to the Duke, stealing it will become more difficult. I could try to extricate this young man, this "Jerris" from whatever peril he is in, but without knowing the exact situation, that may not be wise. The Duke is cleverer and more determined than other northern lords, and it would be risky to make an enemy of him. Then again, it isn’t just the stone, but where it came from, that I’d like to know about. There was no more time, so he made what would be a fateful choice and spoke out.

"Best be careful with that one, he might prove more formidable than he appears."

"What would you know about it, outsider?" the leader shot back. "Ye’d do well to mind your own business. This troublemaker is gettin’ what’s coming to him and ye'd best watch your mouth, or we'll give ya some too."

The two men had stopped and both looked straight at Darien. His simple ploy had worked perfectly and the young half-elf boy did not waste the opportunity. Seeing the men distracted, the boy moved quickly, jerked his right arm away from the leader and grasped a talisman that hung round around his neck. Darien felt the reaction immediately as the boy harnessed the starstone.

A bright flash filled the inn and the two men were knocked upwards and backwards several feet, crashing to the floor well behind the young man. Then the lad ran out the door.

The ruffians quickly recovered from their shock and got up. "He won't get far," cried the leader. "Jorm and Dagg will have him."

There must be more outside, Darien thought. He waited for them to make their exit, then quietly disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, making his way toward the back door. He then moved swiftly out the door and through the alleyway, where the boy had appeared just a little while ago.

Darien looked around, thinking the band of thugs would probably take the youth somewhere out of sight, but instead saw them standing only ten yards or so from the doorway of the inn, in a square with a small fountain. He shook his head. It won’t take long to dispatch these fools, he sighed to himself. The young man was lying face down on the cobblestone street. One of the men held up a torch, which sputtered in the rain, barely managing to stay lit, while another man held a sword to the boy's neck. The rain beat loudly upon the stones. The wind blew hard and cold, and thunder sounded overhead. The four men looked ready to administer a beating, perhaps a fatal one. The shade held his hand out, fingers aimed toward the ground where the man holding the torch stood. For just an instant, the water on the street froze solid and the man slipped, falling backwards and hitting his head hard. The torch he had been holding flew out of his hand, fizzling noisily out as it splashed into one of the many puddles. Darien released the spell and the ice returned to water in another instant.

The other men spun round, but the shade had already slipped back into the darkness of the night, away from the light spilling out of the inn’s open door. The man holding the sword to the boy’s throat lost all focus, raising his sword as well.

They don't even know what they're fighting, Darien whispered to himself, with a muted chuckle. They might be drawing their swords to slash at a slippery street, for all they know.

The men were whirling about, looking around in the dark, so Darien tossed a loose stone up the street. They all turned to the sound of the stone and raised their swords. Darien circled round behind them. No need to waste much more time here, he thought. He ran silently up to the back of the nearest man, reached under his cloak and grabbed him by the shirt at the back of his neck. With his other hand, Darien touched the back of the man's neck, putting him to sleep instantly, and paralyzing him where he stood. The sword he’d been holding fell clattering to the ground. The as yet unknown attacker hid himself behind the paralyzed man’s considerable girth. The leader and his companion were now all that remained.