On peaceful eve, ‘neath sun’s last ray
Blood and darkness to end the day.
The road was a little-used one, just a couple of cart-ruts along a grassy path that wound through a forest of oak and birch trees. Yellow leaves fluttered to the ground, catching the late afternoon sunlight. A tiny creek trickled amid ferny shadows, spanned by a small, simple wooden bridge formed of felled logs.
With the sun falling in hazy streamers at their backs walked five black-clad men, incongruous against the lazy green and gold of the trees and twittering birds that hopped across the path. Now and then, one of them spat into the undergrowth.
Their leader strode at the head of the small group – what was left of the once-notorious Bladeshifters – fuming. A knife flashed at his side, twirling absently in his left – his only – hand.
His dark eyes flashed even more fiercely, shaded by a sweep of blond fringe.
His entire body felt as though it was burning from within, filled with a pressure that grew steadily more intense with each passing day. He had lost all of his best, most loyal, and most skilled people – Bloodmoon Grim had been the final straw.
He hadn’t bothered to hang around waiting for Grim or Darkstar to return, figuring they would turn up if they were still alive.
They hadn’t.
Now he was left rolling around with the dregs at the bottom of the barrel: a ragtag bunch of losers who had survived only by virtue of their cowardice.
It occurred to him that he could count himself among their number, but he brushed the thought angrily aside.
If that damned Dragon hadn’t intervened!
If the Dragon hadn’t intervened, he reminded himself, there was a good chance that Flint would have shot his other arm off and demanded to know where his sister was.
Nightwalker snorted a laugh. Too bad, Flint, he thought. Too bad you never knew that she was right in front of your stupid face the entire time…
The expression on Flint’s face had been more than worth finally revealing that little secret. However, it meant one thing was for certain, now.
Flint would be searching for him.
The knife twirled faster; back and forth, flashing in the sun.
He had hoped, of course, that the wretched traitor had died in the fire, but the rational part of his mind told him that if he had been able to escape the conflagration, then Flint would have, as well.
That Starshadow Flint was likely still alive bothered him.
It bothered him a great deal.
He caught himself checking over his shoulder from time to time, and cursed himself for it. Thankfully, the other men were too distracted flicking glances at the sky, thinking the Dragon was coming after them; or else thought he shared their own nervousness. For the love of hell, two of them were stone-cold killers, the others petty thieves, and all of them near pissed themselves every time a cloud passed over…
Nightwalker stopped abruptly at the edge of the old log bridge. His knife went still in his hand. Then he spun.
“We’re going back,” he declared, and started walking back the way they had come.
For a long moment, the four remaining Bladeshifters just stared at him dumbly while their brains struggled to catch up. Then one of them spoke.
“ ‘Ang on,” he said slowly. “I fought we was goin’ to Skywater?”
One of the other men snorted. “You wish!”
Nightwalker stopped again, but didn’t turn. He tapped his knife slowly against his thigh, staring at the sun-dappled road ahead. He didn’t have time to deal with these imbeciles.
“We are not going to Skywater,” he replied calmly. “We are going back to Forthwhite.”
“What the hell for?” a grating voice complained. It was Blackeye, a short, dark-haired, barrel-shaped man who was always lagging behind. He was probably still alive only because he had arrived at the scene far later than everyone else. “There’s a bloody black monster sittin’ on top of the town!”
“I din’t sign up for this!” Horsehair Bill agreed. “I din’t sign up to the Blades for no Draggins!”
There was a chorus of ‘ayes!’ from the others.
Nightwalker’s arm moved with a swift, casual grace, and Blackeye dropped to the ground like a boulder.
He could have killed any one of them: they were all equally useless. But Blackeye was closest.
“You signed up to the Bladeshifters,” he told them as he sauntered over to the still-twitching body, “because all of you are boot scum, with nowhere else to go.” Placing his own black boot on the huge chest, he leaned down and pulled his knife from the man’s throat. Blood spilled into the grass, pooling under the Bladeshifter’s head.
Nightwalker remained in position, inspecting the blood-coated blade with his arm resting on his knee. “And I am your leader,” he reminded them, “because none of you,” he pointed at them with a slow arc of his knife, “have the balls to stick one of these,” he tossed the knife into the air and caught it, “into my back.
“Now,” he went on, in a reasonable tone of voice. “I’m going that way,” he pointed with his knife. “North, to Forthwhite. I have reason to believe that Flint is still alive, and I don’t want him sneaking up on me with that damned Justifier. The rest of you are perfectly welcome to go south,” he gestured again with his weapon, “but you should know that the first man so much as glances in that direction might, if he’s lucky, get about… oh, half a step before ending up like old Blackeye here.”
Nightwalker straightened and shrugged, as though it was of no consequence to him. Which it wasn’t. “Up to you.”
The Bladeshifters were silent. Bill had drawn his mace, but swallowed, looking like he was doubting that decision. The other two were youngsters, just boys, a couple of years younger than Nightwalker, but mentally about twenty years less experienced. They were twin brothers, and barely knew what they were doing in the Bladeshifters in the first place. They simply nodded, looking pale. No one caught Nightwalker’s gaze.
He gave them all a cheerful smile, wiped his blade clean on Blackeye’s leather jacket, then stuck it in his belt. “Good!” He began walking north.
Only to find one of their number who hadn’t been there before.
A small, slender figure emerged from the leafy shadows of a tree.
Nightwalker’s steps, as well as his thoughts, stopped in their tracks.
Darkstar.
He recovered from his astonishment quickly. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The girl slunk tentatively out onto the road, eyeing Blackeye’s corpse. She met Nightwalker’s stare, briefly, before glancing away. “Doing things,” she replied evasively.
“Doing things?” Nightwalker repeated.
Darkstar circled him carefully, nonchalant but guarded at the same time, heading towards the others. She shrugged. “Personal stuff.”
Personal? Her? Darkstar was one of the most impersonal and unemotional people he had ever met.
“Oh?” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “And you can’t tell me what it is because…?”
Darkstar paused in the middle of the group, folding her arms tightly across her chest, as though hugging herself. Flicking her hair out of her eyes, she stared into the gently rustling leaves beside the path.
To her credit, she didn’t tell him it was none of his business. She knew better than that. She was a Bladeshifter: everything any of them did was his business.
And she knew he wouldn’t tolerate secrets, or lies.
Instead, she did the admirable, but not necessarily smartest thing.
She turned around to face him, lifting her head to look him directly in the eye.
“I killed Flint,” she said simply.
Nightwalker stared at her. Her eyes were shadowed, cold and hard, without the slightest hint of remorse. They were challenging eyes; she knew he would be furious, and she didn’t care.
You killed Flint, he thought. You’d stab me in the back, wouldn’t you, Darkstar? You already have.
He had wanted a piece of Flint to stick on his jacket. Wanted it more than anything, and she had taken that opportunity from him. He hadn’t even been there to see the expression on Flint’s face before he died, or the exquisite moment of realisation at who his sister really was.
He eased his body into a relaxed stance, keeping his expression carefully under control. He nodded, and forced a smile. “Well done,” he said. “That bastard had it coming. So!” he swept out his hand, looking around at them all. “Skywater it is then! The taverns await our esteemed company!” He gestured at the girl. “Why don’t you scout ahead, Darkstar?”
Darkstar didn’t move at once, just stared at him, trying to read his expression. Then, glancing aside at the other men, she slowly started walking.
None of the others made any move to follow. Nightwalker shrugged and strolled unhurriedly after her.
Darkstar reached the log bridge and hesitated, glancing over her shoulder.
That’s right, Nightwalker thought, still outwardly smiling. You’ll have to cross that bridge before you can skulk off into the trees, like the little rat you are.
He could see her calculating her chances, whether she was quick enough to make it across or if she should try for the creek…
As soon as she turned her back, Nightwalker slipped his knife out of his belt.
She stepped out across the logs. The creek gurgled beneath her. Butterflies floated amongst the ferns. Then she went for the third option.
There was a soft clink as Nightwalker parried the dart.
Darkstar turned and ran.
She was fast… but not fast enough.
A small, mouse-like squeak left her lips as she pitched forward into the grass beyond the bridge.
Nightwalker continued walking, his boots thumping on the logs. You had it coming too, Darkstar, he thought coldly. You b--
His vision went instantly red as his chest exploded.
The two young Bladeshifters fled, terrified, into the forest in opposite directions, leaving only one man left standing on the track.
Two men.
“Evenin’, Bill.” A badly burned man in a large, scorched hat nodded to the Bladeshifter as he cranked another bolt onto his giant crossbow.
Horsehair Bill was bloodless, his mouth, full of cracked and rotten teeth, open. He dropped his mace and ran across the bridge, leaping Nightwalker’s gruesome body, his horse-hair helmet falling off into the creek, and pelted off south down the grassy road.
That left only Starshadow Flint, standing alone in the long shadows and slanting light of the setting sun, listening to the peaceful chirping of birds, while golden leaves drifted softly around him, coming to rest on the blood-soaked carnage.
Nothing much seemed to have changed. He had thought that assassinating someone – Nightwalker especially – would feel more… momentous, somehow. Just a moment ago was a world in which Nightwalker existed. Now, he didn’t. But the sun continued to set, the leaves sighed softly on the trees, and those still alive carried on living.
Except that now, Flint was finally a killer.
He hadn’t thought he was, until now.
Funny, that.
Hefting the Justifier with both hands, he limped over to the bridge.
Eltorian Nightwalker was dead. Dead beyond any doubt. The bolt had gone right through him, landing in the grass some way ahead. It had made a mess of him.
Flint stared down at the body. This time, there was no sorcerer to save him.
He wondered if even Requar could have fixed that.
Blood leaked between the logs, dripping into the clear water of the creek.
Flint stepped around him and went over to Darkstar.
She was still alive, panting into the ground. To his surprise, her eyes were filled with tears, trailing through her makeup, leaving dark streaks down her face. He was under no illusion that they were for him, however. Or Nightwalker. Or anyone save her own, sorry self.
He looked at her in silence. There was nothing to say. The creature lying in front of him was not his sister. He had come to realise that the quiet, shy, sweet little girl he had known as Sandy had never existed. She was a figment of his imagination.
This thing was a monster.
He bent down and yanked the knife out of her back, causing her to gasp and shudder. Then he lifted the Justifier and pointed it down at her.
He didn’t bother with any last words. One was already etched onto the bolt.
He pulled the trigger.
Then he limped away.
Evil, he thought, as he made his slow way back through the dusky forest to where he had tethered Whitey at the edge of the plains; the evil in Human hearts was much like trigon. No amount of justice or revenge would ever put it right. It couldn’t be destroyed. It would always exist. It just moved around, from person to person, until someone was willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.
It was a cold, dark evening, three days later, when Flint arrived back in Forthwhite. Dark even for that time of year.
It was black, in fact. Black and starless.
Flint had seen the blackness on the horizon as he approached, like a great, terrifying scar between plains and sky. It could be seen for miles. He encountered no one else as he went; the plains were empty under grey skies, farmhouses abandoned. Livestock lay scattered and dead, with here and there the gigantic, gory, half-eaten shells of hillbeasts.
The sky darkened as he went until he seemed to be riding in a black void, with the town an eerie pale jumble of buildings at its centre. Whitey refused to go any further, so he abandoned the nervous horse and went ahead on foot.
Now he stood at the base of the hill, at the town’s entrance, staring up. Curiously, despite the pitch-black surroundings, he could see quite a lot. Forthwhite rose before him, a mound of dead, silent, blocky white buildings, like a vast pile of odd skulls. Strangely, the trees and bushes around the base of the hill were still green, the flowers continued blooming. The summit of the hill, though, was lost in a deep, black fog.
Something stirred up there. He caught glimpses, in the mysterious light, of scales and ragged wings and claws so huge that his chest went tight.
And tentacles. Many tentacles, shiny, iridescent black, winding their way from the top of the hill throughout the town – in and around the houses and shops and carts and trees, like the massive, invasive roots of an appalling tree. Some of them moved, sluggishly.
Flint was afraid. He was deathly afraid, and he had known what to expect, but it had been his decision to come back here.
He only wished he had taken up Grim’s offer earlier.
Tearing his eyes away from the horror on the hill, he forced himself to advance towards the Hungry Deer Inn.
The door creaked open into darkness, and silence.
Flint stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, but there was nothing to be heard. The interior of the bar smelt like old ale and tobacco smoke, and was cold. Freezing cold, as though the hearth hadn’t been lit in years, rather than the week or so since the townsfolk had evacuated. Flint found himself shivering.
He wondered if Grim had been and gone; if he was too late. The thought depressed him, but if that was the case there was nothing to be done about it. He just hoped that the big Bladeshifter had left him a drop of beer.
Stepping inside, Flint groped along the wall until he found a lantern, then rummaged in his pocket for his match tin, and lit it. A bright circle of warmth bloomed outwards, revealing a few nearby tables. The rest of the large room and bar at the back remained bathed in shadow.
Flint moved to his left, to the other side of the main doors, and lit another lantern. A bit more of the tavern came to life.
Strangely, though, the chill seemed to deepen, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. There was a large patch of shadow opposite him, in the far corner of the room.
Something about it was unsettling.
His heart pounded too hard, but he ignored it. Taking a candle from one of the tables, Flint lit it and crept cautiously through the room.
He wondered, watching the shadows, if he ought to have loaded his Justifier first.
And then wondered if it would do him any good, anyway…
He found Grim.
The big, red-bearded Bladeshifter was slumped over a table, in the corner beside a window. A large, glass tankard of ale was gripped in his fist, still half-full of golden liquid. Different sized bottles and pitchers were arranged on the table in front of him, most of them empty.
A second tankard, full and untouched, sat on the opposite side of the table, closest to Flint, in front of an empty chair.
Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Flint reached out, very slowly, and placed his candle on the table, taking great care not to disturb anything. Then he unhitched the Justifier and set it down gently on an adjacent table, followed by his hat.
He moved over to the unoccupied chair that was meant for him, and sat down. Taking hold of the tankard’s handle, he took a slow, steady breath, and looked up again at Bloodmoon Grim.
A tentacle protruded from the man’s back. It was as thick as Grim’s entire body, curving out of the shattered window beside him, black and slick like a monstrous leech. What he could see of Grim’s skin was blue, veined with black.
Flint gripped the tankard as hard as he could manage with his burned, bandaged hand, but it still wobbled as he lifted it.
“Cheers, Grim,” he said, quietly and sadly.
Then he took a long, long drink.