The Nightblade Read online

  Firebound Books presents

  THE NIGHTBLADE

  M.S. OLNEY

  fireboundbooks.com

  Matthew Olney lives in Bristol with his partner, Chloe. By day he works as a copywriter for a financial company, but at night he writes novels.

  Matt graduated from University College Falmouth with a degree in journalism, and has had news stories published in a number of regional newspapers.

  msolneyauthor.com

  Books by M.S. Olney:

  THE SUNDERED CROWN SAGA

  Heir to the Sundered Crown

  War for the Sundered Crown

  TALES OF DELFINNIA

  Danon

  The Nightblade

  UNCONQUERED

  Blood of Kings

  TERRAN DEFENDERS

  Terran Defenders

  Terran Defenders: Genesis

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  Prologue

  The small boy hummed to himself as he walked across the field. He enjoyed the way the long grass tickled his bare feet, and the softness of the earth between his toes. He had been walking most of the day, but thanks to the vitality provided by youth he did not yet feel tired. The view from the field was beautiful. Being located in the foothills that surrounded the small town of Midlake, it offered the lad panoramic views of the shimmering waters of the three great lakes. Behind him were the dark ominous trees that marked the borders of the Fell Forest.

  Nearby, he could hear the bells of the cows that he was tasked with keeping a watchful eye on. The animals happily munched their way across the field, and their odour carried on the gentle breeze that rolled off of the distant lakes. The day was hot and sunny. Insects flitted to and fro, and the sounds of birds filled the air. All in all, the day was perfect.

  The boy was just eight summers old and wore the clothes of a shepherd. His loose white tunic was offset by a pair of scruffy grey trousers, and on his head he wore a straw hat that was slightly too small for his head. He leant down and picked one of the pretty blue wildflowers that grew at the edge of the fields. He placed it gently into the small pouch tied haphazardly to his waist. Looking inside the pouch, he was happy to see that he had now collected quite a nice variety of flowers. His mother would be delighted with them.

  A noise like something moving quickly through the undergrowth caused him to look up. He tilted his head to listen … There it was again, only this time it came from behind him. The hair on the back of the lad’s neck began to stand on end; something wasn’t right. It was at that moment that the boy realised that he had wandered further away from the town than he had ever done previously. A sense of panic began to fill him. His mother had always told him to go no further than the third field over from the edge of town. He was in the fourth!

  The cows began to moo and stamp their feet. The boy could see that many of the herd had begun to move back towards the town, as if some instinct told them that they should not be so far from it. The animals grouped together, their sounds of distress growing more frantic. All fears forgotten, the boy ran towards them; he couldn’t allow the herd to stampede. If he did, and they caused damage to Farmer Wold’s fields, he would be in for a world of hurt.

  The sound of something moving through the undergrowth came again, only this time louder. The boy slowed. Suddenly it had grown cold, so cold that goose bumps had formed upon his skin. A strange white mist began to flow from the trees that bordered the field, like water in a river. Soon the mist had overtaken the boy and the panicking cows. It grew thicker and thicker until the lad could not even see his own hand held in front of his face. His breath now came in clouds of steam as its warmth reacted to the now icy cold air. The fear returned like a worm knotting in his guts.

  The cows began to make horrible noises, and the lad swore he heard what sounded like something eating loudly. He ran towards the noise, the mist hiding the horrors ahead. He slipped on something sticky, and with a cry crashed to the ground. He used his hands to right himself, but they too now felt sticky. He held them up to his face and screamed. They were covered in blood. He looked down: his feet were bloody too, and so was the ground all around him.

  As quickly as it had come, the mist began to dissipate. The boy was breathing rapidly, terror in his heart. He watched the mist retreat back across the field and back into the tree line from whence it had come. He stifled a scream. Something was moving in the mist, something tall and cloaked. It vanished back into the forest. The mist cleared to reveal the cows … or rather what was left of them.

  Each of the beasts had been devoured so that only their bones were left. The grass around them was painted red with their blood.

  The boy screamed.

  “Curse the mage who tore asunder the very sky. Their arrogance has unleashed the Fell Beasts of the Void. Our doom shall surely follow”

  – Tracitus, 1st scholar of the Nivonian Kingdom

  1.

  The town of Midlake was quiet. Just the way Alther liked it. The old man had come to the town a few months previously and had decided to settle there. The warm and fresh air would be good for him, his physician had said. After the life he had lived, he was due some peace and quiet in his twilight years. He walked down the town’s main street towards the Riverman Inn. At his side trotted his loyal four-legged companion, Oscar. The grey and white mongrel had been at his side for many years.

  Every night since he moved to the town, he would take himself and the dog down to the inn for an ale and a smoke of his pipe. Some might call him a loner, but even someone who enjoys their own company needs to be around other people sometimes. He wore a long black cloak over his white tunic, and black trousers to keep out the night’s chill. On his feet he wore boots made of leather. The inn was the perfect place to hear the news of the day, be it small town gossip or of events taking place in the wider world. He nodded and raised his walking stick in greeting to Tomas Hick, the town butcher and fellow regular at the inn.

  “Heading towards the Riverman, Alth?” Tomas asked as he removed his bloody apron. The sun was going down and the twin moons were beginning their nightly sojourn across the blackening sky. With the number of carcases hanging from hooks on his stall, it looked as though the butcher had been busy.

  “Aye, that I am,” Alther replied gruffly.

  “I guess I will see you there in a few, then.”

  Alther nodded before moving on. He knew that most of the folk thought him more than a little strange. They knew nothing of his past. Heck, they didn’t even know his last name. That was the way he liked it. He didn’t want people to know; it would lead to them asking him questions with answers that small town folk would not want to hear.

  He passed the old book shop and crossed one of the small stone bridges over the stream that split the town in two. In the centre of the stream was a small islet upon which stood a huge monolith. Alther stopped beneath it like he did every night and placed a hand against its surface. On closer inspection, the stone had runes carved into its surface. Some looked like writing, whilst others were of intricate designs. The meaning of all lost to the passage of time. Alther whispered a prayer to the heroic god Niveren before continuing on his way. He knew what the stone was, what it was for, even if most of the folk living near it did not.

  Finally, he reached the inn. It was the second largest structure in the town, after the mayor’s hall. It was solidly built out of carved granite, and its roof was made of thatch. A fence ran around the side of the building to provide its customers with a place to sit outside on warm summer nights. The inn’s sign hung from a post that towered over the cobblestoned road. Emblazoned upon it was a drawing of a man dressed in waders with a fishing rod held over his shoulder. The character looked friendly and welcoming: he had a smile and his red rosy cheeks suggeste
d that the inn was a good place to get drunk. As he reached the path leading to the front door Alther paused. There was a light flickering through the inn’s front window, but so far the inn sounded quiet. Just the way he liked it. Satisfied that he would be able to have a peaceful night, he walked up the path and pushed open the oak door.

  “Aha, welcome, Alth,” greeted Erin the barkeep.

  Alther grunted a greeting in response and headed to the bar. He looked around and was satisfied. The main room was dominated by the solid mahogany bar and the granite fireplace that stood on the opposite wall. A fire flickered within, casting the inn in a warm, cosy light. A picture hung on the wall above the fireplace. The image was that of Midlake from a distance. Little fishing boats were in the waters and a lone traveller was striding down the path towards town. It was a good painting, nothing spectacular. Other things hung from the inn’s walls. There was a massive cod in a glass case – the winning entry in the inn’s annual fishing contest – and on the wall above the door hung a sword made of silver. Since arriving in town, Alther had always wondered about the weapon; it was out of place in so peaceful a place. To his knowledge, the place had never been affected by the wars that often plagued the realm. Located as it was between the cities of Bison and Kingsford to the west and east, and the Marble Shore to the south, all routes towards it were well defended.

  “Will ye be having your usual, Alth?” Erin asked as Alther propped his walking stick against the wall and hung his cloak from the coat rack next to the door.

  Erin was in her forties, a kindly woman who had been nothing but friendly to Alther, despite his aloof demeanour. Her red hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore a long blue dress which reached down to the floor. Over that, she wore an apron which was covered in what looked like gravy. Her eyes were big and brown and sparkled with a hint of mischief. Alther respected the woman. It was hard enough being a widower, but she was one that ran an inn and could handle the advances of drunken fools.

  “I will, thank you, Erin.”

  “Could I interest you in some of my famous duck pie? It’s fresh out of the oven.”

  Alther hesitated.

  “C’mon, you’re all skin and bones. A good hearty meal will do you no harm. I’ll even chuck in some raspberry pie in free for afters,” Erin pressed.

  Alther’s stomach growled loudly causing him to blush. Erin laughed.

  “Well I guess that decides that,” she said as she poured him a pint of Robintan ale.

  “Go on then, I am a bit peckish,” Alther grumbled.

  He reached into the pouch at his belt and took out three silver Delfins, which he placed on the bar.

  Erin handed him the ale and tucked the coins into the wooden cash box under the bar.

  “Go take a seat and I’ll bring your food out to you.”

  Alther nodded and walked over to his favourite chair. The old worn armchair was in the corner of the room and away from prying eyes. Even on a busy night, he could sit there and be unmolested the entire evening. The warmth of the fire still reached the corner, but most folks favoured sitting at the bar or at the small table which lay in front of the fireplace. As he walked past, he noticed that the game of chess between Garen the stable master and Cron the bookstore owner was still in mid-swing. No doubt the two men would show up later in the evening to continue their game.

  He settled down into his chair and took a swig from his pint. Next, he took his pipe and tobacco from the pouch on his belt and set about lighting it. Before long, he was puffing merrily away and savouring the smell and taste of the smoke filling his nostrils. Fresh air was all well and good, but nothing was more relaxing than the smell of Westerland tobacco. Erin returned from the kitchens. In her oven-mitted hands was a plate covered in a delicious-smelling, gravy covered pie. Alther’s stomach growled again and he licked his lips. Oscar wagged his tail and sniffed, it wouldn’t be long before the dog was looking at him with pleading “feed me” eyes.

  “Here you go, Alth. Tuck in and enjoy. It probably won’t be long before the usual rabble arrives,” Erin chuckled.

  As if on cue, the inn’s door opened and in walked a group of men. Alther rolled his eyes at the innkeeper, and she stifled a laugh. He recognised each of the men. There was Garen and Cron, who, as usual, were bickering over something petty. Behind them was the butcher Tomas, a pipe already lit between his lips. Each of the men nodded in greeting to Alther, before taking their usual places at the bar. It wasn’t long before they were pestering Erin for drinks. Alther ate his pie, savouring every piece of it. He took a large piece, blew on it to cool it, and then offered it to Oscar, who devoured it in one bite.

  Alther settled into his chair and continued to smoke his pipe. The warmth of the inn, and the ale and the pie that was now in his belly, made him drowsy. He almost nodded off when something that Garen said caught his attention.

  “… the poor kid was terrified. Sami said that he’d never seen anything like it. The whole herd was gone – eaten! There was blood all over the field.”

  “What rot. You and your bleddy stories, Garen,” Tomas scoffed.

  “Tis not a story. You ask Sami when he comes in; he’ll set you straight. Something evil happened in that field, and that poor wee lad witnessed it. His mother said that he hasn’t said a word since he got home covered in blood,” Garen argued.

  Alther puffed on his pipe and closed his eyes.

  Not here, he thought to himself. Don’t get involved. It’s probably just some silly story the boy made up.

  “Well, it’s not the first time something weird has happened out that way,” Cron interjected. “Remember that pedlar that came to town a few months back? He vanished without a trace. According to my mate down in Estran village, the fella never arrived. They searched the Old Road for him, but all they found was scraps of clothing.”

  “Pah,” barked Tomas, “that fella could have gone anywhere. Perhaps he went north towards the Weald and Ridderford. A pedlar would get a lot more coin there than that a dump of a village.”

  Alther rolled his eyes. As with any small town, the locals were fiercely loyal to their own town and hated their neighbours. The rivalry between Midlake and Estran often saw the young men meet for dust-ups in the fields surrounding the lakes. Despite that, Tomas did have a point. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Alther chose to believe that the pedlar had gone north. To believe otherwise meant that something more sinister had occurred. The days of looking for trouble were behind him.

  The night went on. Garen and Cron played their game of chess with the bookstore owner emerging the victor. The inn grew busier as more of the town’s workers popped in for a pint before returning home to their families.

  The conversation that had taken place earlier had been forgotten as the ale had flowed. That was, until near closing time …

  Garen was back at the bar, his bleary eyes attesting to the amount of alcohol he had consumed. He waved to Erin.

  “’Ere, Erin. Have you seen Sami tonight?” he slurred.

  Erin put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

  “My, you are drunk, Garen. If Sami had come in, you would have seen him, you silly bugger.”

  A look of confusion crossed Garen’s face as his booze-addled brain slowly digested what the innkeeper said.

  “Oh yeah, suppose you’re right,” he said goofily.

  The rest of the night passed by, and it was after midnight when Erin rang the bell to signal last orders. When that happened, it was the cue for Alther and Oscar to leave. He downed the rest of his ale, tucked his pipe back into his tunic and headed towards the door. He took his cloak from off of the peg and wrapped it around his shoulders before leaning down and picking up his walking stick. To anyone observant, they would have noticed that the top of the stick was made of silver and looked more like the hilt of a sword than a walking stick. Waving goodbye to Erin, he opened the inn door and stepped out into the cool night.

  “Come on, Oscar, let’s get home to bed.”
>
  * * *

  Farmer Sami stood in the fourth field and scratched his head. Blood covered the field, and the bones of his entire herd of cattle were scattered about like broken toys. His father, Niveren bless his soul, had always told him to leave the field alone. Like a fool, he had ignored his warnings, but how was he to know what would happen? He had let his cows and sheep graze in the field numerous times over the years; what was the point of having land if you couldn’t use it?

  He’d spent the night drinking at home, unable to face the questions of the townsfolk. The last thing he wanted was people to think ill of him or blame him for what happened to the boy. He knew how folk liked to gossip. After a few hours of drinking, he had found enough courage to inspect the field, so now here he was.

  In his right hand, he held a rusty iron-tipped spear, and in his left a flaming torch. He made his way across the blood-soaked grass, his boots squelching with every footfall. There was a patch of open ground between some of the bodies. Curiously, the grass appeared to be covered in frost. He bent down and placed a hand on the ground. It was cold and flecks of ice still remained upon the grass. A shiver ran up his spine.

  “What could have done this?” he muttered.

  He jumped at the sound of snapping twigs. Spinning around, he faced the forest that bordered the field and held his spear at the ready. The temperature tumbled, making his breath appear as mist before him. Ice crystals began to form in the hairs on his arm and on his skin. He began to step backwards, fear gripping him.

  From the trees came a roiling white mist that enveloped the field. Sami turned and ran, all courage now gone. He cried out as he tripped over a cow carcass and landed heavily onto the grass. The force of the fall sent the spear spilling from his grip. Desperately, he scrambled back onto his feet and began to run once more. He ran as quickly as he could, but the mist moved faster. Behind him, he could hear a whooshing noise, as though something was chasing him down. The entrance to the field grew closer. He began to shout, hoping that his wife Clara would hear his cries. The thing behind grew closer until he could hear what sounded like material flapping in a strong wind. He was so close to the gate.