The Soulblade's Tale (2 page)

He took a few moments to catch his breath, keeping a wary eye on the rest of the ruins. No other orcs appeared to challenge him. Orcish warlocks often compelled obedience from lesser Orcs, but perhaps the warlock had servants left to throw at Nicodemus. 

Nevertheless, overconfidence was the epitaph of fools. 

Nicodemus took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on Heartwarden, and kept going. Soon he stood at the front steps of the Tower, the cliff yawning away to his right. 

A perfect place for an ambush, but neither orc nor man appeared. Nicodemus ascended the steps, keeping a careful eye on the windows, and entered the Hanging Tower's great hall.

The chamber was magnificent, built with all the craft and skill of the dark elves. The high, narrow windows must have once held stained glass, but now had a splendid view of the chasm and the mountains beyond. The stonework had been carved with intricate reliefs of strange and alien beauty.

But Nicodemus had not come here to admire the architecture.

The bones lying scattered across the floor reminded him of that. 

He drew upon his sword’s magic. Heartwarden granted its bearer many powers, and among them was the ability to sense the presence of dark magic. His mind reached out, seeking, searching.

It found power at once.

Dark power, cold and corrupted, reeking of necromancy and blood spells. The sort of power an orcish warlock would employ. 

And even stronger power coming from the top of the Tower. A thing of dark power and corrupted magic, the merest sense of its presence made Nicodemus's skin crawl. And yet...it did not seem so dark, so twisted, as the orcish sorcery...

Enough. The warlock almost certainly waited above. 

Nicodemus took the steps to the Tower's next level, senses both physical and magical strained to their utmost. So he smelled the foulness in the air, the stench of rotting meat, a reek that grew stronger with every step. 

He reached the second level, and the source of the stench became apparent.

At least thirty dead bodies lay strewn on the marble floor, men, women, and children alike. The missing travelers from the road, no doubt. All of them had been dead for some time, and the vile smell filled the air.

The warlock stood in their midst, watching Nicodemus. 

It was smaller, less muscular, than the other orcs, and wore only ragged furs and greasy black leather, his arms and face and chest covered with intricate tattoos. Smaller the orc might have been, but the warlock's sorcerous power could kill a dozen armed men in a few heartbeats. 

"So," said the warlock, his deep voice carrying an odd buzz. "One has come at last. Come to repay me for my depredations, to avenge these poor slaughtered little lambs." 

"Then you do not deny it?" said Nicodemus.

"Such hypocrisy, human," said the warlock. "You mourn for their deaths, yet you come for my head? Do you come to avenge them, or for your own glory?"

"My own glory," said Nicodemus, stepping over a dead man. "But after seeing these children...I would slay you, even if I received no reward for it. Even if I would suffer for it." 

"How noble," sneered the warlock. "But perhaps the slain do not need to be avenged. Perhaps they enjoy the service of their new master, and will rise to defend him."

"I think not," said Nicodemus, advancing another step. 

"I think so," said the warlock, and flung out his hands. "Arise! Arise, in the name of your master! Arise and slay!"

Green fire snarled and snapped around the warlock's fingers. 

Nicodemus felt a surge of corrupted power wash over him, through him.

And all around him, the corpses stirred.  

A dead man reached for his boot, and Nicodemus jumped back, the warlock laughing at him. The corpses rose to their feet, their movements jerky, as if invisible strings pulled and tugged at their limbs. Green flames burned in their dead eyes, and they staggered forward, reaching for Nicodemus with hands blackened by rot. 

He exploded into motion, Heartwarden’s power fueling his thrusts and swings. The first hand to reach for him fell twitching to the floor, followed soon by its owner's head. More of the walking dead reached for him, and Nicodemus’s sword blurred as he hacked a path through the corpses, trying to reach the warlock. 

But more of the dead came for him. 

And the corpses he had cut apart began to reassemble themselves. Arms crawled back to their sockets and reattached themselves. Headless torsos reached down to retrieve their heads. Nicodemus cut down four more of the animated dead, but soon all the corpses he had hacked apart regained their feet.

He backed away, heart racing with just a touch of fear. He had slain dark elves and orcs in battle, had even helped the Magistri overcome an urdmordar.

But how could he kill something already dead?

The warlock laughed, beckoning. More of the corpses appeared on the stairs, descending from the Tower’s upper levels, their eyes blazing with emerald flames. 

Nicodemus stopped at the edge of the stairs. The walking dead were creatures of magic, and it would take Heartwarden’s magic to defeat them. He drew upon the soulblade’s power, and his mind reached out, touching the chains of power binding the dead bodies. He sensed the spell, cold and dark, that forced the corpses to walk and fight. 

Nicodemus drew more power into himself, as much as he could hold, until his mind seemed to burn with it. Then he charged through the chamber, striking every corpse he could reach, giving them just as a tap with his blade, the sword’s power pouring into them to fight against the warlock’s dark magic. The corpses stopped for a moment, the fires in their eyes flickering, and the warlock took a few steps backwards. 

“Fool!” shouted the warlock. “You have not the power to banish them back to the grave. Kill him! Kill him now!”

The walking dead Nicodemus had touched did not respond.

They turned, burning eyes falling upon the warlock, and attacked. 

The warlock shouted in alarm and gestured, green fire bursting from his fingertips. Some of the corpses fell, consumed by the flames, but others kept coming. The warlock backed towards the stairs, the fires crackling from his hands, his full attention upon the walking dead. 

So it was easy for Nicodemus to circle around and plunge his sword into the warlock’s back. 

The warlock shuddered, clawing at the air, the green fire around his fingertips dying out. 

“Master!” snarled the warlock, gesturing at the ceiling. “Master, aid me!”

Then the warlock slumped forward, falling off Nicodemus’s sword. The fires in the animated corpses’ eyes flickered madly.

Then they fell motionless as the dead warlock’s spell expired. 

Nicodemus looked at the slain warlock for a moment, and then up at the ceiling.

The orcish warlock had called out for his master. And he still felt the source of dark power radiating from the top of the Tower, like a freezing gale blowing from the mountains. 

Another warlock. That was the only answer. The dead warlock must have been serving a more powerful one. And unless Nicodemus slew them both, his Trial was incomplete. 

He cleaned the blood from his sword and started up the stairs. He passed through more chambers, each one littered with crumbling bones, the wind moaning through the empty windows. 

Then he entered the chamber at the Tower’s crown, and saw the crimson light. 

It filled the chamber, painting the marble walls the color of blood. An altar stood in the center of the room, beneath the Tower’s dome, and upon that altar rested a gemstone the size of Nicodemus’s fist. The blood-colored light poured from it, as if a fire raged within the stone's depths. 

Even from across the room, even without using Heartwarden, Nicodemus felt the raw power of the thing, the sheer arcane potency. 

It was a soulstone, similar to the soulstone embedded at the base of Heartwarden’s blade, but…twisted, corrupted. Warped, somehow.

He took few steps, not wanting to get too close to thing. The power beat upon his brow, and Nicodemus drew on Heartwarden’s magic, using its power to sense the presence of spells. His mind reached out, probing the stone, testing the nature of the magic that bound it. 

He gazed at it in amazement.

The soulstone had been infused with raw life force. Out of stolen life force, Nicodemus realized. The warlock must have captured the life forces of his victims, feeding the energy into the soulstone to create a reservoir of power. But such a feat would take subtle skill. The warlock's powers had been strong, but crude. Nicodemus doubted that the orc had possessed the skill to create something like this. 

So who had fashioned it? The warlock's master? Another warlock, one stronger and more skilled?

Or worse, a dark elven wizard? An urdmordar?

A footstep clicked against the marble floor. 

Nicodemus whirled, raising Heartwarden. A shape in a hooded cloak came up the stairs and stopped. 

"Name yourself," said Nicodemus. 

The figure sighed, drew back the hood, and Nicodemus found himself looking at the face of Alexius, Magistrius of the Order. 

A man known throughout the realm with his subtle skill at magic. 

"I hoped you wouldn't have to see this," said Alexius.

"Magistrius?" said Nicodemus, blinking.

Alexius sighed again, shaking his head. "Why couldn't Arban have listened to me? There were any number of tasks suitable for a young Swordbearer’s Trial. Why did he have to send you here, of all places?"

"You made this," said Nicodemus, pointing his sword at the soulstone, "didn't you? Out of stolen life force?"

Alexius said nothing, his face tight with strain. 

"And that's...and that's how you've been keeping Julia alive?" said Nicodemus. "You've been killing the travelers, stealing their life force, and feeding it to Julia." 

"It was necessary!" said Alexius. "I had to save her. My family is gone, Nicodemus. My wife died of plague. My sons fell in battle against the orcs. Julia was all that I had left, all that I cared about." 

Nicodemus shook his head. "But to serve an orcish warlock..."

Alexius laughed. "Is that what you think? That I serve that wretched creature?" He strode to the altar and the glowing gem, holding his hand over it. "I found the warlock, I defeated him, and I forced him to serve me. He gave me the spells of blood sorcery that I needed. And I used that knowledge to save Julia, to keep the disease at bay. But still it was not enough. I needed more. Something capable of curing her. So I twisted the fragment of a high elven soulstone to create this...thing." He looked at Nicodemus. "You judge me? I did what was necessary to save her. You would have done the same, I think."

"No," said Nicodemus, angry now. "No. I saw the corpses of the women, Alexius. Of the children. You murdered them, stole their lives to save Julia's."

"If you truly loved her," said Alexius, "then you would understand."

"Julia would not want to bathe in the blood of innocents to save her own life," said Nicodemus. 

Alexius's face hardened. "Then you intend to tell Dux Arban?" 

"I must," said Nicodemus. "This...this travesty cannot go unpunished."

Alexius stepped closer. "Then you would let Julia die?"

"Julia is already dead," said Nicodemus. "She was dead the moment the disease took her. What you've done...what you've done has given her a few months of additional suffering in exchange for innocent blood."  

Alexius grimaced. "So be it. I will not permit you to threaten my daughter. I will not!"

And the Magistrius Alexius drew a sword and jumped into the air, moving with spell-enhanced speed and strength. 

Nicodemus just got his blade up in time. Alexius struck again, and again, his blade flickering and stabbing like a storm of steel. Nicodemus backed away, whipping Heartwarden back and forth in a frantic effort to block. Somehow he managed to keep Alexius from skewering him like a roast. He stepped back and drew Heartwarden’s power into himself, preparing to attack. 

Alexius thrust out his palm. 

Invisible force hammered into Nicodemus, throwing him towards the wall. He fought back with Heartwarden’s magic and managed to cancel the spell, skidding to an awkward stop a few feet from the altar. Alexius had been a Magistrius for years, and his magical strength and skill was considerable. 

Nicodemus could not match him.

But Nicodemus was younger, stronger, and a better swordsman. If he could close with the older man, Nicodemus could end the fight.

Alexius stalked forward, blade drawn back, hand raised in the beginnings of another spell. Nicodemus charged, and leaped forward in a magically-enhanced leap, both hands around the hilt of his sword. Alexius’s eyes widened in surprise, and he only just got his blade up in time to parry. The shock of the blow knocked the older man back on his heels, and Nicodemus struck again and again, putting all his muscle and Heartwarden’s power behind the blows. Alexius’s face tightened with strain, sweat pouring down his face.

Nicodemus drove Alexius against the far wall, preparing to finish the fight. 

But Alexius dodged and threw out his hand, unleashing his power. His will struck like a falling boulder, and Nicodemus hurtled backwards to land hard against the altar. He shook off the blow and staggered back to his feet, sword raised to block any following attacks. 

Green fire crackled around the fingers of Alexius’s outstretched hand, the same green fire Nicodemus had seen the orcish warlock use. 

“Orcish blood spells, Magistrius?” said Nicodemus. “Have you fallen so far?”

“I’m sorry it has come to this, Nicodemus,” said Alexius. “In a just world, you would have been my son by marriage. But it is not a just world, is it? If I must choose between your life and Julia’s, I will choose Julia’s. And if I must kill you…then why should your life go to waste, when it might save Julia’s?”

A chain of green fire erupted from his hand.

Nicodemus called on Heartwarden’s power, but he had never seen a spell like this. Alexius had taken the warlock’s sorcery and improved it, refined it. The chain of emerald flame wrapped around Nicodemus’s throat, and he fell to his knees, gagging. His stomach churned with nausea, and he felt a horrible cold numbness spread through him.