Sight returned to the dead man.

Lying upon a bed of lilies, his gaze was met by the somnolent eye of the moon drifting towards the west. Stars flickered as candles in the quilt of night, beacons guiding the weary moon to its diurnal repose. Envy had flared within Izrak’s mind, now replaced by cool sympathy. The moon’s journey was not yet over, and many long hours remained until its passing.

An echo; a thought; a memory called to the dead man from the ether. Izrak clutched the worn pouch at his hip. Please… let me stay. Let me rest here… a little longer. A task; a purpose; a promise grasped him by the hands. Cila… And the dead man rose to his feet.

Standing upon the shore of the dreaming lake, Izrak cast his gaze out over the tranquil waters. The surface of the water was glass, a vast plane of black jade reflecting a dull, silver gleam. With fingers yet closed around the pouch, he took a step towards that frosted void.

Where are you?

“I am here, father,” the voice came, a tinkling of bells, as gentle waves rippled out from a dim point of brumal light deep below, “Where you left me.” The point of light expanded, growing ever more intense as it climbed towards the surface.

Izrak’s grip on the pouch loosened as a cloud of coruscant luminescence emerged from the lake, then coalesced into a blinding flash, dimmed and began to take form as a delicate figure stepped onto the pulsing waters.

A girl—no, a woman—stood before Izrak. Golden locks enwreathed a porcelain face, and eyes of emerald dawn peered into the empty pits of his own. High cheeks flanked a thin nose, set atop a long, slender neck. She was clothed in a flowing gown of glittering starlight. The woman’s smile was wistful, the corners of her lips heavy, as though weighed down by a wisdom that is born only of sorrow and understanding. Just as her mother used to smile… at me… Though aged ten summers, she was wholly the image of the daughter lost to time and haunted memory.

“What you have done, father, cannot be undone. You must accept this,” Cila said, her spectral form hovering just above the water, hair and gown billowing on ethereal winds. “You cannot save her.”

Izrak looked away.

“Not as you are.”

The dead man turned his dark gaze upon the shade.

“You carry an evil of the old world, an abomination that will lead you only to temptation. To destruction.” Cila closed her eyes, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Can you let her go?”

Witch-fire smoldered in the pits of his eyes. Izrak ensnared the pouch at his side. “I… No…” He tore down the hood of his cloak, pressed his fingers against his skull. “No! I cannot!”

Her smile faded, and Cila glared at the dead man. “You must.”

A soulless groan fumed from Izrak as he dropped to his knee. “I promised.”

Black clouds thundered into the valley, the earth shaking under salvos of concussive force as golden spears of lightning lanced through the darkling sky. The windmill squealed as wrathful gusts tore at its battered sails, ground its rusted hub, and the waters roiled beyond the spirit, whipped into a primal fury.

“It was a false promise. You were bound by chains of perversion and darkness.” Cila’s voice clapped as the thunder above. “You are a slave!”

Hellfire blazed in the dead man’s eyes. “What choice did I have? Were we meant to allow evil to prevail?” Izrak’s quivering fingers squeezed the pouch, its charnel contents clattering together.

“No, father, you were not. But you traded one evil for another, and in so doing, you all lost your way.” The fiery spirit held out her hand. “The path is not closed to you,” she said, and the fires dimmed in Izrak’s eyes. “Free yourself. You know the way. You have always known.”

The dead man stood, ripped the pouch from his belt, and with faltering steps, shambled into the waters. Tendrils of sickly green ghost-light burst from the pouch, coiling around his limbs, his neck. Serpents of Hell, the coils constricted, dragging Izrak to his knees. Frothing waves lashed at his waist as he was dragged lower still. Fire blazed anew in his abyssal pits as he clawed at those wicked energies—those eternal chains.

“I was meant to serve one greater than you,” he growled, struggling against the revenant serpents. His roar challenged the thunder for supremacy. Izrak began to rise, but quickly subdued, was forced back down, his head just above the surface. The fires in his eyes flickered out. His body calmed. Not by my own power… “No more,” the dead man whispered, and allowed himself to be pulled under.

Izrak surged from the depths, his chains broken.

Cila began to sink into the calming waters as her father stumbled towards her. “Let her go,” she said, hand outstretched. “Leave her in the past.”

Glancing at his pouch one final time, remembering whose malevolence it held, Izrak placed it in Cila’s hand, pressed it to her palm. He knelt as the spirit sank lower, still holding her hand.

Crystal waters caressed her cheeks as Cila gazed at him. “At last, I see you as you were,” came her voice, dreaming, as her eyes closed, “in those summers long past…” And she drifted into the depths.

Izrak doubled over on the shore. His eyes widened as he gazed upon the glassy reflection resting on the water’s surface. The image of a man returned his stare. With flaxen hair falling in lazy waves to his shoulders, and eyes of jade peering over high cheeks and a broad nose, Izrak lifted his free hand to his face, traced a clean-shaven jaw, felt the fingertips brush over flesh.

A faint smile touched his lips. I knew you, once… The image flickered, began to fade. For centuries, I sought to bring you back. He pulled his lips taut, closed his eyes. I tried. So many times… Izrak looked upon his reflection. Yet that was another time, another life. I cannot change what I have done. The dark powers cannot forgive, cannot redeem. Evil offers no respite, only… A faint azure gleam kindled in his eyes.

The image of the man vanished, and the face of death smiled at him once more.

A sudden weight materialized in his grip.

Izrak stood, drawing a sword from the deep.

The rune-engraved blade was broad, razor-edged—unbreakable. I knew you, once… in another time, another life. Thunder cracked and the blade’s runes gleamed gold under the lightning as it streaked across the sky. The warrior ran his fingers over the inscriptions. Mercy… Vengeance… My father’s sword.

“Spazislova—The Word of the Redeemer.” He pressed the hilt to his brow. Although, a blade reborn ought to bear a new name, a new purpose; the Redeemer spoke His Word, and the people of this land heeded it not. He offered His mercy, and being rejected, promised a time of retribution, of vengeance. “A new purpose. A new name.”

A memory swelled within Izrak’s mind; a morning on the riverbank, he and his daughter sat watching the swift waters course as blood through the veins of a land returning to life. She asked about her name, what it meant; Cila, he said, is a word from the old tongue; perhaps an odd name for a girl, he confessed, but one that has proved true all the same.

The cold blaze of cerulean fire ignited in the hollows of his eyes. Izrak’s grip on the hilt tightened as he looked upon the gleaming blade. Cila. The warrior uttered a single word as he thrust the sword skyward: “Power.”

A bolt of golden lightning cleaved the heavens, plummeting in a crackling arc, crashing upon the blade, surging over its gleaming edges. Izrak’s body quaked under the force of the strike. A moment, a lifetime, passed. And another began. Energy crawled on spider legs over the blade as the warrior’s cerulean glare burned furiously. He swung the blade down in a resplendent arc; that same instant, a fusillade of thunderclaps hammered the valley, and a wave of pressure rolled over the lake, no longer dreaming.

And the darkness covering the land of Enostran trembled…

Imperceptible to all, but Izrak Laav.

IX

Old Ways

Unbound by wanton hunger, by false promise, the warrior stood upon the blooming shore. Lilies danced about his boots, their pearlescent petals shivering under the ringing hum of Cila’s might as shadows retreated from the shore, fleeing over the clearing to cower within the dark refuge of the forest. Izrak ran his hand along the length of the blade.

For centuries, his mind had been broken, lost in a black labyrinth of uncertainty, of fear, of rage. Shackled with hatred, driven by the lash of his faceless masters, he had wandered Enostran with perverse intent and an empty hope.

No more… Izrak pressed the blade to his brow. He sensed Cila’s thirst for retribution pulsing, quivering through the blade like an arrow set to a drawn bowstring. The mist surrounding the lake cleared, revealing a great temple looming over the far shore. A wan figure, clothed in muddied white, flitted across the shore towards the ancient structure.

A new purpose…

“Elishei. I will not abandon you.”

The lilies ceased their dance. Izrak saw their petals reaching like fingers towards a point behind him. The warrior spun about with sword raised. Several paces away, the forest spirit stood, a hand pressed to his side, the leaves of his crown rustling in the brittle breeze.

Izrak leveled the point of his blade at the spirit. “I am through with you, Old One. Stand aside, or I will destroy you.”

The spirit seemed to look past him. “You already have…” he said, as if to himself.

Izrak tilted his head, lowered his sword.

“I told you to leave, warrior, that you interfered in matters that did not concern you. Those of the living.” The spirit stepped forward, lifting an accusing finger. “For you are an abomination, born of fear and faithlessness. Blind with hunger and rage, you have led them here, brought death to the girl.”

“Led whom here?” Izrak said, peering left, then right, into the woods.

“I no longer possess the strength to fight them…” The spirit’s gnarled fingers clutched the robes of moss at his side.

“Your only concern should lie with me, Old One.”

The spirit chuckled, a popping of branches. “And so, it does.” His gaze bore into Izrak. “What is it you seek, warrior? You cannot erase your crimes. There is no going back.”

Izrak stepped closer. “No, there is not.”

Shifting his gaze, the spirit peered at the gleaming sword. “Perhaps,” he looked at Izrak, “you may yet find what you seek.” Lifting his head to the sky, the spirit let his hand fall from his side. Amber tears of sap seeped from a deep, penetrating wound.

Izrak stared at the wound, then glanced at his sword. “It seems my search will be a long one.”

“Such is the path you have chosen.”

The warrior sheathed his blade. “What is your name?”

“I have many names. Every tree of the forest bears my signature, as numerous as the stars above,” the spirit said, sweeping a hand over the valley. “Though, you may call me Shuvo, as I am called by the people of this land.”

Looking away, Izrak was quiet for a time. He plucked a lily from its bed. “What will happen to the forest?”

Shuvo smiled. “I do not know. Like any young bird that leaves the nest, it must learn to fend for itself.”

The warrior remained silent, tracing the petals with his finger.

“Come. We must leave. They draw near.”

“Who?” Izrak placed the flower in his satchel and moved towards the spirit. “What else hunts the girl?”

“Demons….”

Shuvo lifted his hands, palms turned upwards. “I will do what I may to obscure the path.” Mists rose to surround the lake once more, shrouding the far side in a gray haze. “I shall go on ahead, that the child be not alone.” The spirit’s body burst into a howling column of air, rising into the night. “Follow, swiftly, to the temple.” His voice flowed back in waves over the waters. “And pray to your god, your Redeemer, that they do not find us.”

The warrior shot off like an arrow into the mists. Izrak’s hand tightened on the grip of his sword. No, Shuvo. Cila thrummed with furious anticipation. It is they who must pray.

***

Trust is a double-edged sword. In untrained, careless hands, trust becomes as dangerous to one as to the other. Often, one attacks when they should defend, parries and ripostes, when they should bind and cross over. Trust demands years of practice, and a firm grip by both hands, that it may be relied upon for protection and safety.

Unlike a sword, however, how one trains to trust is not clear; there are no manuals from which to practice the forms, no instructors with which to hone techniques. As with love, only hard-won experience, and countless wounds, can teach. And like love, with courage and faith, one may learn to trust.

Such were the thoughts of Izrak Laav as he emerged from the woods, and stepped into a large glade, a natural courtyard laid out before the lakeside fane.

Cyclopean slabs of cracked stone fifteen feet in height, as old as the earth itself, were arrayed in a circle around a massive oak whose age counted millennia. Standing at two hundred feet, the thick branches and spiraling boughs formed a canopy of verdant dusk; giant acorns hung within the boughs, emanating a soft, golden light. Even one such as Izrak marveled at the beauty of the scene as he stepped between the stone sentinels.

A stone altar, darkened red by countless sacrifices, stood at the base of the trunk. A bed of moss and leaves lay atop the altar, and lying upon the bed was Elishei, eyes closed, breathing faintly.

A flash of steel, and Izrak’s sword was in his hand. He rushed to the girl’s side, reaching out to her. What is this?

“Fear not, warrior. The girl sleeps.” A current of air flowed down from the boughs, and from a swirling mass of leaves Shuvo materialized near the altar. “Not a drop of virgin’s blood has wet this stone in five-hundred summers.”

Cerulean flamed in the warrior’s eyes. “And it will be five hundred more before I see this child sacrificed! You will not have her life to save your own.”

A shiver ran through the eldritch oak. Shuvo stepped forward, hands uplifted. “You must not take—”

“Enough, Shuvo.” Izrak’s voice was a grinding of stone. “You may spend whatever time you have left in peace, but if you continue to stand in my way, I will end you now.”

Elishei stirred, rolled to her side.

Shuvo glanced at the girl. “Izrak Laav, you must listen to me.”

“I am taking Elishei home.”

“No!” The terrified shriek came from atop the altar. Izrak whirled to face it. Elishei sat huddled, knees pulled into her chest, a trembling hand pointing behind him. “Don’t let them take me! Not again.”

Branches snapped as long nails raked over stone. Izrak spun about to find Matvan, Vasi, and Resh, shirtless with trousers in tatters, standing before the temple slabs.

“What?” He glanced at Shuvo, then at the haggard men. “What are you doing here? I told you to go back. It is not safe.”

Resh’s eyes glittered darkly as he drew his fingers over the gashes in his chest. “No, it isn’t.”

Vasi stepped forward, his red hair bristling, lips drawn back in a ravenous grin. “There you are, little rabbit. Oh, how much trouble you’ve caused us…” He looked at Matvan and groaned. “Let me take a bite. Just one.”

For a moment, the older man stood silent, chest heaving, the veins of his neck bulging, writhing like worms. “Orved wants her back. Unharmed… Whole.”

A guttural snarl rumbled from Vasi’s throat. “To the devil with Orved. All he feeds us is rotten scraps! I want something fresh.” He leered at Elishei, drool spilling from quivering lips. “I want her.”

Throwing off his cloak and satchel, Izrak sidestepped in front of Elishei and dropped into a low stance.

Vasi snorted. “That won’t save you. Not from me.” A quivering tremor shot through his body. He lurched forwards, bones cracking and reforming, as he sunk into a bestial crouch. “No mortal weapon can!” Vasi snarled and slammed his fists into the earth as a coat of blood-red fur erupted from his flesh. He leapt to his feet as his arms extended, elongated fingers ending in black claws long as knives; his lips peeled back to reveal a muzzle of jagged fangs; yellow eyes shimmered in the faded glow of the oak’s seeds.

The monster’s laughter pitched to a blood-chilling howl.

“I’ll pick my teeth with it,” he growled, lips contorting in a mockery of human speech, “when I’m done with her.”

Vasi’s charge was a rubrous blur. Izrak narrowly ducked his sweeping claws, their tips tearing the leather cap from his head. The warrior shot upwards, Cila rising in a silver arc as the blade’s edge carved a crimson path through Vasi’s chest.

The demon leapt back, groping at the wound. His hand came away slick with blood. Panting, his baleful glare snapped back at Izrak. A feral roar exploded from Vasi as he charged with renewed fury.

Izrak met the demon’s assault with a thrust. But Vasi sidestepped the warrior’s blade, batting it aside. Razor claws raked through Izrak’s mail as he leapt away. Before he could recover, a blow slammed into his chest, sending him crashing against the oak’s great trunk. Dozens of fist-sized seeds plummeted from the shaken boughs, each landing with a dull thud as Izrak fell to the ground.

Dazed, Izrak clutched at the trunk, struggling to rise. A girl’s scream ripped through the turbid silence of the fane. He looked towards the altar. Vasi stood before the blood-drunk stone, lifted a flailing Elishei. The demon’s maw seethed with slaver as he drew in his prey. Azure fire blazed in Izrak’s eyes; the warrior was on his feet in an instant.

A bolt of shadow, Izrak lunged at the demon, sword held overhead; he swung. Cila struck like lightning as the warrior cleaved through Vasi’s forearms. Elishei fell to the ground alongside the severed limbs. Vasi staggered backwards, howling in agony as dark blood poured from the gaping wounds at his elbows.

“Resh!” Matvan shouted as he metamorphosed into a sable lupine monstrosity.

Resh howled, sprang forwards as golden fur spread over his form, fangs dripping as he and Matvan raced towards the wailing Vasi.

At that same instant, Shuvo dug his fingers into the soil. The wooden cords of his arms rippled, writhed, and tendrils of iron-hard roots and vines burst from the ground beneath Matvan and Resh, slithering about their limbs, constricting, pulling them down into the dirt.

Amber lifeblood spilled from Shuvo’s wound, and the roots and vines began to wither, barely withstanding the beasts raging against their verdant cage.

Near the altar, a wrathful Vasi trembled in pain, and with a desperate howl, made a final lunge for Elishei.

Izrak stepped in, driving Cila’s blade, between shattered teeth, through the monster’s quivering maw. Vasi’s yellow eyes fixed upon the warrior as his body shuddered with violent spasms, then glazed over and rolled back into his skull. The beast’s corpse fell to its knees, and Izrak pulled the blade free as it slumped to the ground.

The massive bole of the oak groaned under unseen strain. Shuvo stood, stumbled back.

Elishei scrambled over to the spirit.

The roots and vines entrapping Matvan and Resh began to fall away, and the monsters tore themselves free from their grasp. They crawled from the earth like demons out of Hell. Barking ferociously, they assailed the warrior.

A whirlwind of death surged across the temple grounds. Izrak danced through a haze of slashing claws and snapping fangs. Cila’s song gave rhythm to the warrior’s strikes as her edge whistled through the air. Dark blood drizzled over Izrak’s shredded armor as he rained cut after cut upon those abominations. Yet, the fury of their attacks only grew with each wound the warrior inflicted.

The winds shifted, and Izrak was driven back under a flurry of savage swipes that rent his pallid flesh.

Izrak staggered, and in a mad rush, the demonic pair charged the warrior, forcing him to the ground. Matvan wrenched Cila from Izrak’s grip, tossing it aside, where it clattered on the ground next to Elishei. Resh’s fangs sank into Izrak’s shoulder as Matvan’s claws closed around his skull. Rending, crushing, their blasphemous strength strained the limits of his preternatural durability. Cerulean flashed in the pits of his eyes as he roared.

Gripping Matvan’s neck with his free hand, Izrak yanked down and smashed his head into the demon’s muzzle. Matvan reeled and the warrior drove an armored knee into the sable beast’s chest, sending him sprawling. That same instant, he pummeled Resh’s golden head with an iron fist, turning his near eye to pulp before the monster rolled away, whining. Izrak quickly fell upon Resh, locking his skeletal fingers around the demon’s throat.

Suddenly, Matvan seized him, dragging Izrak away from Resh. Resh was still coughing, gasping for breath as Matvan’s jaws closed around Izrak’s skull. Something cracked against the beast’s head. Matvan snorted, released him.

Izrak looked towards Elishei. The girl snatched another giant seed from the ground and hurled it at Matvan, this time striking him on the nose. Matvan whined, closed his eyes in reflex.

Rising, Izrak sent his fist crashing into Matvan’s jaw, shattering fangs and bones. The beast staggered back a step, two, and the warrior tackled him. Izrak pummeled the demon’s head with a hail of blows, then tore into Matvan’s throat with his teeth.

“Warrior!” came Elishei’s cry.

Eyes blazing, Izrak looked at the girl, his crimson teeth dripping gore. Elishei held Cila in trembling hands. Am I no different? His eyes dimmed. No more… I am a monster no more! Izrak jumped to his feet.

Elishei threw the sword. “Catch!”

Wheezing, whimpering, Matvan rolled over, trying to crawl away.

Izrak caught his sword, and in a single motion, buried Cila’s blade through Matvan’s heart. The monster’s claws raked impotently at the soil, then settled into deathly calm.

Even as the warrior ended Matvan’s wrath, Resh recovered and charged Elishei. Shuvo lunged into his path. With a bark, Resh clamped his jaws on the spirit’s shoulder, twisted, and hurled Shuvo towards the trunk of the oak, tearing his arm from his body. Resh bit down, and Shuvo’s arm splintered between his teeth. His feral gaze snapped back to Elishei.

“No!” Izrak shot towards the beast. He was too slow. Resh held the girl close, a single, long claw caressing Elishei’s pale throat.

Hackles bristling, Resh growled. “Throw down your sword, grave-spawn! She goes with me. Or…” He pressed the point into her flesh. Drops of crimson rilled down her neck.

Grip tightening on Cila’s hilt, Izrak snarled, stepped forward.

Resh, his ears tucked back, pressed his claws to Elishei’s chest. “I’ll tear her apart in front of you!”

Izrak halted, his eyes smoldering. He looked upon the runes of Cila’s blade, repeated their inscriptions like a chant in his mind: Mercy… Vengeance… Mercy… Vengeance… Shuvo was leaning against the ancient oak, staring back at him. His wound had stopped bleeding; the flow of amber reduced to a trickle.

Izrak turned his blade down and drove it into the earth. He took a step back.

Winds began to flow over the temple grounds. Shuvo chanted in low tones carried on the sighing currents, mingled with the soughing of the boughs in the vast canopy overhead. The pale light of the glowing seeds flickered, brightened as Shuvo’s body dissembled and merged with the oak.

Black clouds of mist gathered about the temple’s cyclopean stones, rising to obscure the moon’s glow, and shrouding all beyond the light of the oak in unnatural darkness.

“What is this?” Resh said. He tightened his hold on Elishei.

The shrieking winds were the only reply.

Shuvo’s voice came to Izrak as a whisper in his mind. My time is over. I can give you one chance. Are you ready?

The warrior’s gaze was fixed on the demon. I am.

The light of the seeds flared brilliant white for an instant, then absolute darkness descended upon the temple grounds. Even Resh’s lupine eyes were blind to all around him.

Izrak’s undead sight was unhindered.

He watched as the beast looked about with furtive glances, huffing the air. Resh growled, backed away towards the altar. Silently, the warrior pulled his sword from the ground.

Resh stumbled into the altar and lost his hold on Elishei. The girl slipped under his arm and scurried away. He lurched towards her. “I smell you. You can’t—” But he never finished.

Izrak flew through the shadows—death’s swift messenger—a dirge singing on Cila’s edge as the blade split apart Resh’s skull. Izrak tore the blade free. The demon’s corpse fell twitching upon the altar, a final sacrifice to the passing of old gods—and old ways.

About the Author:

Lee Patton is a Christian and Army veteran from North Dakota. His work has been published in The Literary Fantasy Magazine and The Penmen Review. Fascinated with mythic tales of mighty heroes and dark terrors, Lee dwells in the realm of fantasy, where faith and courage are carried on the edge of a blade. In his free time, Lee is reading vintage Sword & Sorcery, exercising, and learning the Russian language.

Heed The Call and discover more at: Deathless Realms – Fantasy Tales of Lee Patton.

X

Threadbare

Cold light spilled into the clearing beneath the oak as the black mists lifted from the stones surrounding the temple. Slowly, the mists expanded, thinning as they drifted towards the canopy. A gust of wind sighed through the leaves; and borne away upon night’s last breath, the disembodied vapors dissipated into the gray of approaching dawn.

Elishei huddled against the ages-old tree. She faced away from the altar, weeping into her arms.

Izrak looked upon her for a moment. He can no longer hear you, child. His hand drifted towards his belt. Why do we cling so tightly to the dead? The warrior’s fingers closed around what was no longer there. No. Not the dead. His hand moved to his sword, grasped Cila’s hilt in a tight embrace. We cling to the memory of life. It is there that we find our power.

Lifting his cloak and satchel from the grass, Izrak approached the girl with apprehensive steps. “Elishei.”

The weeping ceased. Her form went rigid.

“Are you hurt?”

Elishei pressed her shivering body against the oak, said nothing.

“We must leave. This is no place for you to linger.”

Elishei peered over her shoulder at the corpse upon the altar, then at Izrak.

“Those monsters can no longer hurt you, child.”

Eyes wide, Elishei shrank away. With a tremulous voice she asked, “What about you?”

Izrak was silent as he threw on his cloak, its thick canvas spilling over the tattered remains of his armor. The warrior glanced back over his shoulder at the savaged remains of his lupine foes.

“Matvan claimed to be your father. He—”

Elishei shot to her feet, facing him. Her cheeks were flushed, her fists clenched. “That monster was not my father!”

“No, Elishei, of course not.” Izrak moved closer. Elishei flinched, her eyes darting to the warrior’s sword. Cila pulsed with gentle force. Izrak drew the sword slowly and thrust it into the ground. He took another step. “Who were they? Why did those demons hunt you?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Shuvo was going to help me. Help us.” Tears returned to her eyes. “Now he’s gone,” she said, voice weak on her lips. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“You are from Novogor, are you not?” Izrak said, holding out his hand. “Come. I will take you to your parents.”

“I’m from Ryaz.” Elishei sniffled, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “My parents are dead.”

“Forgive me, child.” Izrak lowered his hand. “Do you have no other family?”

“Just my brother.”

“Where is he?”

Elishei blanched. “He has him. The sorcerer…” Her breath now came in rapid bursts. “I need to go!” She stumbled forward, stopped, swayed, holding her head. Her voice was frail. “I need to save Grigor…” Elishei took another faltering step.

“Elishei, wait. You must calm yourself.”

“I… need to… the others…”

Izrak reached out, caught the girl as she nearly fainted. She breathed deep, steadying herself against him. “Elishei, do not fear me.” Her grip tightened on him. “I mean only to help you.” She nodded her head against his chest. Holding Elishei’s shoulders, he stepped back. “Now, tell me what happened. Where is your brother?”

Elishei wiped her eyes with pallid hands. “They took us from Ryaz and sold us to the sorcerer. He still has my brother.”

“A sorcerer? In Novogor?”

“Yes. They called him Orved.”

Izrak stared for a moment, then shook his head.

“They took us to an old castle in the city. He kept us in the dungeons. There were others, too. Other children. Sometimes, they took one of them. We never saw them again. But the chanting. And the screams,” the blood drained from her face, “the screams never stopped…” Elishei’s voice trailed off as her body shivered.

Izrak knelt before her. “I will not let them take you again. Now tell me, how did you escape?”

“A friend.” Elishei calmed, the color returning to her face. “One of the sorcerer’s… men, Gromm. He helped me. Said it was all he could do. He told me to find help. But those monsters found me in the city. They chased me into the forest, and—”

“You chanced upon me.”

“Shuvo found me after I ran from you. He told me not to trust you. That you were one of them.” Elishei bit her bottom lip and looked away. “He swore to protect me.”

“I see…” Izrak stood. The warrior looked to the east, saw pale gold light creeping tentatively into the temple grounds as the sun’s crown peeked over the eastern hills. “Do you trust me?”

Hazel eyes sparkling greenly in the light of dawn, Elishei peered into the warrior’s hollow eyes. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Doesn’t seem like I have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.” Izrak reached into his satchel. He withdrew the lily, held it out to her. “Yet, you would be wise to trust me now.”

Elishei reached out, hesitated, then took the flower. “It’s beautiful. But why?”

“It was her favorite.”

“Who’s?”

Izrak faced the east, his hand resting upon Cila’s pommel. “Come. I will bring you to Ryaz. I will return to help your brother once I know you are safe.”

Elishei circled in front of him. “I’m not leaving without Grigor! I’m going with you. Besides, I can help.”

“No. I promised to protect you. I cannot risk Orved capturing you again.”

The girl started to turn. “I’m not leaving without my brother.”

“Wait.” Izrak took her hand.

“Let go of me!”

Izrak held on as Elishei tried desperately to pull away. “At least let me take you back to the church. You can wait for me there.”

“No!” Elishei faced him, face flushed, chest heaving. “You want me to trust you? Let me go. I can help you. Just like before,” she said, pointing to Matvan’s sable corpse.

Izrak let go of her hand. He looked at the blood-soaked carcass. Cila thrummed at his side. “So be it. But you will stay at my side and do exactly as I command. Agreed?”

The girl nodded. A shadow of a smile touched her lips as she set the lily in her hair.

“Very well.” Izrak turned towards the lake. “Let us leave this place. I must tend to my armor. You must wash and rest.”

“But we—”

“Must be prepared and rested. You will need your strength, child. Your journey is far from over,” the warrior said as he guided Elishei towards the lake. “And I fear my battle has only just begun.”

***

Elishei stirred as she lay in fitful sleep beneath an ancient pine. Her fingers sank into the shade-dappled bed of needles upon which she slept; a wan cry passed her lips, fleeing some strange, new nightmare that tormented her repose. Or perhaps, it was an old, familiar nightmare; that stalks one through alleys of dusk; that hunts one through forests of night-veiled terror; that lurks under one’s bed whispering portents of doom—the nightmare that stands over one waking with a mirthless smile and eyes of dread promise.

Izrak crouched, pulled his cloak up over the girl’s shoulders. A small comfort, for one so haunted. Elishei’s fingers relaxed as the trembling of her body ceased. Although, a little comfort was all she ever asked. Elishei drew the cloak tight and, after a moment, her breathing calmed. Izrak piled a handful of wild berries and a pair of apples he had gathered beside her.

Izrak rose, then approached the diamond-studded waters glistening in the pale gold of early morning. Long blades of green grass damp with dew lapped against his boots as he came upon a fallen log near the shoreline.

He unhooked Cila from his belt, placed the sword against it. After setting his belt and satchel on the log, he doffed his jerkin. Naught remained but soiled leather strips held together by threads. Izrak salvaged the largest pieces to be washed and used as wrappings for Elishei’s battered feet. Setting the leather aside, the warrior then removed his armor, laid the chainmail out before him. The mail had fared but little better; although, the sleeves remained mostly intact. Izrak would use those to repair the gashes in the torso. But first, the mail needed to be washed. Reaching into his satchel, he withdrew pliers, a hide pouch containing spare rings, and a cloth rag. Izrak kneeled by the cool water, soaked the cloth and wrung it out.

The warrior heard a raven’s caw, the flutter of wings; for an instant, all sound and light faded, dimmed, as though the world had plunged into frigid depths, only to rise gasping to the surface. A troubled sigh passed between his teeth.

Izrak rose, turned to greet his visitor.

Olesia stood beside the dreaming girl. The Omen glanced down at Elishei, then back at the warrior; her stormy eyes drowned in a sadness that did not belong to her. Olesia lifted her hands from beneath her cloak and signed: She looks so much like her.

“Yes,” Izrak said as he returned to his equipment. He sat, ran the cloth over his blood-encrusted mail.

The Omen stepped silently to Izrak and sat before him. Is that why?

“I could not leave her.”

No. You never could, Izrak Laav. Olesia’s gaze passed over the unadorned belt, bereft of the worn pouch that had clung to it for so long. Where is Kalis?

“Where she belongs…”

Izrak hung the bloody cloth over the log, gathered the pliers and spare rings and set to repairing his mail.

Olesia climbed to her knees and unclasped her cloak, letting it fall into a black pool about her. The black silk of her blouse shimmered in the sunlight beneath a dusk-gray sarafan trimmed in black lace and embroidered with eldritch patterns, which served purposes other than decorative. From her satchel Olesia drew a roll of dark leather. She spread open the roll before her; inside were scissors, several straight and curved suturing needles of various lengths, and a spool of tenebrous thread that looked as though it were spun from the very fabric of the Void.

The Omen took a small, curved needle in one hand and pressed the point to her fingertip. A crimson teardrop welled about the tip of the needle, then rilled up along its length until the needle was coated in blood. The blood dissolved, as if absorbed; the needle flashed pale green, then returned to its natural dull metallic sheen.

As Izrak finished his work—what little he could do—Olesia threaded the witch needle with the darkling thread. Her own hair… Is there nothing they will not take from us? Olesia’s hand fell on his arm. The warrior looked up from his work. She was smiling.

Rise, Izrak Laav. It is your body that now needs mending. The ritual will take time, for the wounds you have suffered are many. Tell me your tale. Tell me how you came to be protector of this girl…

Izrak was still as he finished his tale, while the Omen finished her final suture.

The warrior said nothing as Olesia packed her tools away. Whatever effect his tale had had on her remained a mystery. Still, he could not escape the feeling that she understood more than mere appearances suggested. Izrak gathered up her cloak and stepped towards her. Olesia turned so her back faced him. Placing the cloak over her shoulders, Izrak fastened the clasp. As he did, Olesia leaned back, letting her weight rest against him. His hands lingered on Olesia’s shoulders for a heartbeat, for two, for three, then slid down her arms as he held her.

After a moment, Olesia faced him. Tears shimmering with faint hues of green, yellow and pink—an aurora spilling out over oceans of pale night—rolled down her cheeks. You do not know what it is you set out to do. Not truly.

“Zheso’s fate is no longer my concern,” Izrak said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Let our masters send their assassins. I will sow the earth with their bones. I am no longer a tool… no longer a slave.”

Death at the hands of your own would be a mercy… Head lowered, the Omen backed away. You have changed, Izrak Laav, it is true. You have regained a power once lost to you. Hope bloomed in her face, fleeting, then wilted into despair. Yet even with your sword, it may not be enough. I do not know what Orved wants with Elishei. But I know what horrors await you if you challenge him, for his powers are beyond even you, Ferryman. I know that he is one of the masters. Orved Sepah is one of the High Priests.

Azure rage flashed in the pits of Izrak’s eyes. Cila’s blade rattled in its scabbard. “How long have you known?”

Olesia looked away. I learned of his identity soon after my voice was taken.

“Why did you not tell me?”

I was afraid of what you might do if you knew the truth. I was afraid of what else they might take from me… I was afraid that I would lose you.

Cila’s trembling ceased as the fires dimmed in the warrior’s eyes.

“This is not the world we fought for. This is not the world we sought to build. High Priest or no, Orved’s evil cannot be allowed to endure. I will not abandon Elishei and Grigor, the other children.” Izrak held Olesia’s head in his hands. “Nor will I abandon you.”

***

The sun was approaching its peak when Elishei woke. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, blinked and found a gathering of apples and berries. Her mouth watered as her stomach growled; the girl grinned wolfishly. It had been almost two days since she had last eaten. Elishei’s face pinched at the memory of the slop fed to her in the sorcerer’s dungeon. Seizing an apple, she devoured the fruit in seconds, shoved a fistful of the berries into her mouth with no care given to the good manners her mother had spent years trying to teach her.

A pit formed in her stomach as a warm tear trickled down her cheek. Elishei wiped it away, ate a few more berries—one at a time.

She paused, furrowed her brow, as she was about to eat the last apple. Did the dead man gather these for me? Elishei peered through the skirt of pine boughs hanging about her. Where is he?

Taking the apple, Elishei wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and slipped out from under the tree. The dead man was not difficult to find.

There—she saw him seated on a log near the shore, laying strips of leather over the bark. He was not wearing his armor. Her eyes widened at the sight. Elishei might have assumed, even expected, to find a skeleton. Instead, she saw a body, with flesh and thew—though his flesh was pale, withered and stretched over muscles that looked dried and hard as ironwood—like that of a normal man. Taking a few steps closer, she noticed that the dead man’s flesh was webbed with black stitching, as if he were an old doll held together by threads. There are so many… A shiver laced her spine with black threads of its own.

After a few deep breaths, the girl moved towards him. As she drew near, Elishei heard the dead man singing—verse intoned on death’s whisper from an age forgotten:

There, upon the cold shores of Akheron

The Ferryman broods and suffers and waits,

For some poor soul to cross his haunted path

Which he travels endless; this is his fate.

And to cross his path, means swift and sure death,

Even as the pale River ceaseless flows,

For his tread is ghostly, blade hissing breath

Look not, you shan’t see him! Death’s pale shadow.

Flee if you dare, but know the price is paid,

For a soul, led from blood and broken bone;

And rich with burnished coins, dread mien inlaid

He ponders, who’ll be left to lead his own.

Elishei stepped beside him. “Who’s the Ferryman?”

The dead man was quiet for a moment. “A myth…” He stood, faced her. “How are you, child?” His gaze flicked to the apple. “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” Elishei’s eyes lingered on the eyeless pits of his skull. It was hard not to stare, not to get lost in that hollow gaze. How can he see? What does he see? Prickling warmth flooded her cheeks. She held out the apple. “I saved this for you. Do you still… eat?”

“Not anymore…” With a soft laugh, the dead man sat on the log and gestured in front of him. “Lay down the cloak. Sit and eat your apple while I wrap your feet,” he said, nodding to the leather strips.

Elishei sat as she was bid. As the girl ate, she was surprised at the dexterity of his skeletal fingers, possessed of a gentleness that bordered on the ethereal. Although, she also sensed old wisdom, and a dread power contained within those hands. She had not forgotten what his fists had done to the monsters. And what they had done for her.

“I’m sorry, warrior,” Elishei said as he finished binding her footwraps. “I never thanked you for what you did. For saving me. I haven’t even asked your name…”

Tying the last knot, he looked at her. “I am called Izrak Laav.” He stood, offered his hand. She took it and Izrak helped her to her feet. “And you are welcome.”

Standing quietly, wrapped in the cloak, Elishei watched as Izrak donned his mail and fastened his sword belt around his waist. Right. She removed the cloak, held it out to the warrior. “Here.”

Izrak shook his head. “Keep it, child. The chill of spring is still in the air. And a girl should not go about in a threadbare gown.”

Elishei blushed, giggled. “Do you feel it? The cold?”

“I do not. Although, I still remember the way it feels. A phantom chill… We undead are haunted by the memories of past sensation.”

“You mean like looking at a painting—of a river—you can hear the water, smell the tall grass on the banks.”

“Just so,” Izrak said as he placed his satchel over his shoulder. The rings of his mail clinked as it slid into place at his side.

Elishei smiled, then asked, “Why do you wear armor?”

“For the same reason as any warrior,” Izrak said as he took his gloves from his satchel and pulled them over his hands. “And because even the dead wish to hide their scars…”

Elishei touched the lily nestled in her hair. “Izrak, who is Cila?”

Izrak turned away, his hand resting on his sword. “She was my daughter…” Without looking back, the warrior moved towards the forest. “Come, child. We must go.”

XI

Death's Passage

Elishei followed Izrak through the forest, skirting the edge of the lake. For long hours, the warrior did not speak, but moved with the steady, silent march of inescapable time. They stopped for a short rest after reaching the opposite shore. As Elishei let her feet soak in the water, sipping some of it from her hands, she watched Izrak. Still, he said nothing, standing motionless among the lilies, staring out over the lake. Then, without a word, they traveled on. Shadows lengthened, and the red-tinged sun settled towards the horizon, as Elishei and her deathless guardian once again came to the Old City.

Izrak wanted to go around, but Elishei insisted they go through. It would be faster, she argued, and told him that Shuvo had shown her a quick path through the city. Izrak remained wary of the idea. With his strength and demon-killing sword, Elishei did not understand what gave the warrior pause. She assured him that all would be well, that she felt safe with him.

At last, the warrior relented. And as the sun peeked through the curtain of the western hills, they passed into the city.

Staying close behind the warrior, Elishei guided them through the dark, labyrinthine streets. Sword drawn, Izrak listened long before crossing dusk-veiled alleys, casting furtive glances around every corner. At one such crossing, near the city’s edge, the warrior peered into the shadows of an alley. Elishei peeked from behind him, saw nothing. Izrak hissed a warning and pulled her back as he pressed their bodies against the wall. A minute passed and he looked again. He told her to run and took off. Elishei did not look back until they were well beyond the city. She wondered what Izrak had seen, what could cause him such fear, and was about to ask. But she thought better of it.

The girl did not really want to know.

Dusk passed, and the sleepy eye of a gibbous moon was waking over the eastern hills as the earth-steppers came to the old church of the Redeemer. There they would rest for the night.

Izrak led the girl to the room in which he had found her the day prior. The room was dark but for the moonlight, tinted by stained-glass hues of red, blue, and green as Elishei lay wrapped in her cloak upon the decayed rug. Izrak sat in the shadows, back against the wall opposite the door, his sword lying across his knees.

Though she was tired, a nagging question kept Elishei awake. With a sigh, the girl rolled over to face him.

“When we met, where were you going?”

“I was traveling to Sevast, looking… for an old friend.”

“Is he like you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been to Sevast, once, when I was a little girl. My papa had to go to find work on the fishing ships. After my mom died… He said the pay was better than anything in Ryaz. Since there wasn’t anyone else to take care of Grigor and me, he brought us with him. We got to stay with his friend, Fanas, and his wife, for a few moons while he was gone. Zarai was good to us… I miss her.”

“What happened to your father?”

“… Some thief killed him. A few days after we returned home.”

“I am sorry, Elishei…”

“Why did you chase after me? Was it because of your daughter?”

“… You are so much like Cila. More than you can ever know… I saw her in you. So I pursued you, hoping that I might be able to save a life, instead of taking one. In so doing, I thought to redeem whatever remains of my soul.”

“Did you?”

“No…”

Elishei watched as Izrak traced his fingers over the blade. She swore the runes were glowing faintly, a ghostly blue luminescence that could be mistaken for the moon’s light.

“Not yet.”

***

Novogor had changed during the intervening decades since Izrak had last seen his ancestral home. Walls the height of three tall men, built with massive logs of pine and spruce, fortified the city. Although, the sections of the wall housing the gates and their towers had been rebuilt with white stone that shone golden in the early evening sun. Cathedrals whose age was passing into antiquity rose above the walls, gold-domed and decadent from lack of care. Fanes of strange gods old and new now festered among the shadows cast by the once great churches. Magnificent stone palaces sprawled atop hillocks among a lattice of wide avenues that descended to the muddied, rutted streets of the merchant’s quarter; from which, an endless flow of carts traveled to the docks at Novogor’s southern tip, where low-decked junks with square, battened sails floated down the Algov to unload cargo brought from the Satar Empire in the east.

Yet it was into the city’s northern quarter—the oldest part of Novogor—where Elishei led Izrak.

Past crumbling structures choked by the ramshackle hovels of the peasants who existed there, the warrior and his charge moved through narrow streets and twisted alleys, accompanied by the clatter of shutters, the slamming of doors, and the whispers of the curious few who had grown accustomed to the sight of death’s passage. Izrak took the lead, for Elishei’s destination was now clear. And as evening sank into twilight, the brace of wanderers approached the ancient Tower of Rognai.

Izrak and Elishei took shelter in the shadows of an abandoned hut that offered a clear view of the stronghold. Built by the warriors of the Redeemer’s Crusade, Rognai had witnessed the passage of nearly five centuries. Drawing on the western influences of its architects, the stronghold was a pariah among others of its kind in Enostran. At fifty feet, octagonal in shape, the Tower of Rognai had once been a symbol of might in a land besieged by the evil of the Great Serpent. Cyclopean stone blocks formed walls rising thirty feet, lined with crenellated parapets. Rognai’s main gate, flanked by machicolated towers standing thirty-five feet tall, was closed off by thick, iron-banded oak doors. A trio of men armed with spears and short swords stood before the gate. Izrak spotted a pair of archers atop each tower.

“We cannot go that way. Too dangerous,” Izrak said. “If I was alone…”

Elishei lowered the hood of her cloak. “They brought us in another way. A small gate on the other side of the wall, closer to the tower. I only saw one man guarding it from the inside. And there’s a hidden passage near the gate that goes into the dungeons. Gromm showed me. That’s how I escaped.”

“I know of no such gate.”

“Maybe they built it recently?”

To smuggle Orved’s prisoners in secret… “Lead on, child.”

Elishei smiled, nodded, and they slipped out of the hut into the gloaming.

***

Cautious, Izrak stepped to the edge of the small grove screening the postern gate. He pointed at the gate. Elishei nodded as she crouched beside him. The gate itself was little more than a large wooden door, but there was neither handle nor any apparent way of gaining access from the outside.

“How are we going to get in?” Elishei whispered. “Can you force it open somehow?”

“Not without alerting anyone nearby,” Izrak said as he handed his satchel to the girl. “Wait here. Do not move until I call you to me.”

“Where are you going?” Elishei hissed through her teeth as the warrior dashed to the wall beside the postern.

Reaching it, Izrak removed his gloves, tucked them inside his belt. After studying the wall for a moment, he lifted his hand and ran his bare fingers over the stone until the tips snagged. Such a wall would be unscalable by mortal hands. Yet the dead may take paths forbidden to the living. With the grace of a spider crawling on its web, Izrak climbed the wall in mere seconds. Raising his head slowly over the parapet, he looked for any patrols. Spying none, the warrior swung his legs over the side, landing in a crouch upon the wall walk.

Izrak peered over the edge toward the gate. Just as she said. Only one man stood guard on the door, facing away. A ghost upon the wall, the warrior clung to the shadows cast by neighboring buildings as he climbed down part way, then dropped silently to the ground below.

The instant he landed, Izrak darted towards the guard, closing his fingers as a vise around the man’s neck. Breath squealed from the man as Izrak’s hands tightened. A sharp crack silenced the guard and his body went limp. As he lowered the body, Izrak heard the rustling of brush and the tread of boots approaching from behind.

“Oy, Pavil! Careful where you step over there.” The newcomer laughed. “I left a big— What the hell!” the guard cried as he drew his short sword and charged.

Unsheathing his sword as he spun about, Izrak parried the guard’s overhead strike. In a single motion, Izrak thrust, sending Cila’s blade through the man’s throat. Blood spurted from his mouth as he pawed at his neck. Izrak withdrew his blade, and the man crumpled.

The warrior waited, listened. No one else appeared.

Izrak approached the gate, drew back the bolt and pushed it open. He beckoned to Elishei. “Quickly, child.”

“How did you—” the girl started to say as she ran over.

“Quiet,” Izrak said, taking her by the shoulder, guiding her through the portal. “Move. Do not look down.” Elishei blanched when she saw the blood on his sword but did as she was told.

“Where is this passage you spoke of?” Izrak asked when they were past the gate.

Elishei rushed by him, pointing to where the second guard had emerged. “Over there. Behind those bushes… What’s that smell?”

“Watch your step,” Izrak said, following close by. As they moved through the brush into a small clearing, he suddenly tugged Elishei to the side. Before she could say anything, he asked, “Where is it?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, then: “There. Under that grate. Stairs go down to a tunnel that’ll take us to the dungeons.”

“I see it.” Izrak tried to lift the grate. The crosshatch of iron bars groaned but did not yield. “Locked…”

Elishei bit her lip, brushed the hair out of her eyes. “One of those guards probably had the key.”

“I told you not to look.”

“I didn’t. I’m not scared. I’ll go and check.” She started to turn but Izrak placed a hand on her shoulder, held her in place.

“No need.” The warrior faced the grate, taking his sword in both hands. He lifted the blade to his forehead, uttering an archaic prayer. The runes on Cila’s blade flashed with azure fire, and Izrak smote the grate. Cila cleaved through the iron bars as a scythe through wheat. The sundered grate fell to the landing with muffled clangor.

“Stay behind me,” Izrak said as he stepped onto the stairs, Elishei at his back, and with Cila raised before him, they descended into the dungeons of Rognai.

XII

Ferryman

All that awaited Izrak and Elishei at the bottom of the stair was the stench of death and human waste. A portal opened upon the dimly lit landing, which they passed through into a large sluice chamber. Extending several yards before them, the chamber was lined with rough stone pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling just visible in the dim light of the torches below. Shallow gutters filled with sewage emptied through narrow drains set into the walls.

Standing among the shadows at the far end was a large iron door, a faint light emanating from beyond the threshold.

“Through there?” Izrak asked as they stepped further into the chamber.

Elishei simply nodded, her face pinched from the malodor.

As they approached, the chamber echoed with laughter and the screech of rusted hinges; Izrak seized Elishei, pulled her with him into the cover of an adjacent pillar as the door swung open. Two swarthy men entered, cudgels and daggers hanging from their belts.

“I’ll give him that! He got a good shot at you. Don’t deny it!” the lead man said, laughter dying on his lips.

The second man spat, rubbed his jaw, said, “Lucky’s what it was… I’d gut the little bastard myself, but the master will do far worse.”

“True, that,” the leader said as they turned, headed towards a side passage. “Maybe he’s not so lucky after all.” His laughter drifted back from inside the passage.

“Too bad the rat’s sister isn’t here to hear his screams…” the second said, following. Elishei gasped, but Izrak held her, covering her mouth as she struggled to run off. The second spoke again: “Speaking of rats—where is Gromm, anyways?”

“How the hell should I know? On an errand for the master, I expect. He probably…”

The rest faded away with their footsteps into silence. “No, no!” Elishei groaned as she broke from Izrak’s hold and rushed towards the door.

“Wait, child,” Izrak said, chasing after her into the next chamber.

Wide eyes peered out from gaunt, grime-covered faces, over tiny hands gripping the bars of the cells of a vast, circular dungeon. Some whimpered, faint cries escaping their cracked lips. Others reached grasping hands at Elishei as she flitted between the cells. Most of the captive children remained silent. Checking the last cell, Elishei turned to Izrak, her breathing coming in short bursts.

“He’s not here… Grigor!”

“Quiet,” Izrak hissed, clutching the girl’s shoulders to calm her.

“Let go!” She shrugged off his hands, faced away and moved deeper into the chamber.

“Elishei, you must—”

A pair of giant hands, gnarled and sickly, seized Izrak by the shoulders. Then, he was hurtling through the air; plummeted to the floor. The warrior rolled to a crouch, his sword held out before him. What is this new horror?

Looming over the center of the chamber, rising a head-and-a-half taller than Izrak, a malformed giant stood on mismatched legs, one longer than the other and thick as the trunk of an oak, his barrel chest heaving with each labored breath beneath a coarse tunic stretched too thin. His massive, corded arms quivered with ogreish strength; his small, furious eyes glittered darkly under a sloping brow.

“Do not touch her.” The giant’s voice was an earthquake.

Elishei whirled about. Realization smacked her face. “Izrak, wait—”

Too late. The ogre’s charge was a rockslide. Izrak could do nothing but roll out of his path. As the warrior rose, he slashed at the oversized leg. Cila’s edge bit deep. The ogre roared, swung at Izrak, his great fist slamming into the warrior’s chest like a battering ram. Izrak crashed into the wall, slumped to the floor in a daze. The impact wrenched Cila from his grip, the sword clattering to the ground beside him.

Thunderous steps: Izrak looked up, shifted his head to the side as the ogre’s fist hammered the wall, pulverizing the stone blocks. The ogre lifted his fists overhead, roaring as he brought them down. Izrak evaded obliteration, rolled towards Cila, lifting the blade as he leapt to his feet. The warrior had barely recovered when the ogre swung again. Ducking the strike, Izrak shot forward, slashing at the ogre’s smaller leg. Bellowing in pain, the monster dropped to his knee; unable to support the weight, he fell to his hands.

Sword in hand, using the crossguard, Izrak drove his fist with bone crushing force into the ogre’s head. Blood streamed from his mouth; he roared, struggling to rise. Again, Izrak struck with an iron fist. The ogre lurched forward onto his hands, head lowered, and his neck exposed.

Azure flames ignited in his eyes as Izrak lifted his sword overhead. He swung—the blade stopped, edge ringing, a hairsbreadth from Elishei as she clung to the ogre’s side, shielding him.

“Izrak, don’t!” she cried.

The ogre blinked and shook his head, gaped at Elishei kneeling beside him.

“Gromm… I’m sorry. This warrior, Izrak; he’s helping me. He came here to free my brother and the others. And you, too.” Elishei peered back at Izrak, lips tight, eyes narrowed.

Izrak nodded, sheathed his sword. “Forgive me, Gromm.” He moved to Gromm’s other side. “Let me help you.” Together, Izrak and Elishei helped the giant to his feet. Izrak tore strips from Elishei’s cloak and quickly bandaged the wounds on his legs.

“Thank… you…” Gromm said as he steadied himself against the wall. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Gromm,” Elishei said softly. “Please, where is Grigor? What happened to him?”

A dozen children now stood at their cell doors, the staccato of their excited whispers puncturing the silence of the chamber.

“Grigor… with the master… In the ritual chamber.”

“Where, Gromm?”

The giant gestured to a set of iron doors at the other end of the dungeon.

“Can you walk?”

Gromm nodded.

“Free the children,” Izrak said, looking at Elishei, “take them, guide them out the way we came. Wait for me in the grove beyond the wall. Gromm will keep you safe.”

Elishei grabbed his arm as Izrak stepped towards the doors, her eyes glistening with tears.

Izrak held her cheek. “These children need you. Your strength will give them courage. I promise you, Elishei, I will bring your brother back to you.”

The girl wiped her eyes and smiled.

Gromm waited with the children clinging to him near the dungeon entrance. Elishei glanced one last time at the warrior, then joined the others as they fled.

Izrak faced the entrance to the ritual chamber. And I will drag Orved’s black soul screaming across the River.

***

Izrak Laav stepped into a long antechamber, bereft of light but for the putrid green luminescence seeping from the man-sized vats lining the walls at even intervals. Caution guided his steps as he proceeded further. A tangled mass of cables and tubes, like the choking roots of the Dead Woods, splayed out from the bases of the vats, connecting to various apparatus of alien and sinister design. What evil lives in this place?

Eldritch tomes and alchemical implements infested the walls. Meat hooks hung from chains in the ceiling that clinked softly with a rhythmic sway, generated by the vibrations of an almost imperceptible flow of blasphemous energies.

A black iron door, illuminated by the dim glow of violet flames burning in lamps mounted on either side, stood closed at the end of the chamber. The vats near the entrance had been empty except for the vile fluids contained within. Yet, as Izrak neared the door he saw that the vats, here, were anything but.

What sickness has festered beneath our feet? Inside each vat were the mutilated, deformed bodies of children in various stages of transformation. Although, none of the—experiments—appeared to have been successful. The children showed no signs of life.

Izrak wished that he could feel the shock, the despair, the cosmic sorrow born of such horrifying affliction, that it could only be remedied by a single, final plunge into the Void—into the depths of eternal madness. But the only thing Izrak Laav felt was wrath; the blood that no longer flowed through his veins boiled; the heart that no longer beat hammered against his chest; the tattered remains of a soul, clinging to the last vestiges of humanity, burned with a heat that could no longer be contained.

Izrak’s roar exploded from within, his eyes erupting with the cerulean flames of judgement, the runes of Cila’s blade ablaze with the light of holy retribution; the warrior’s battle cry was a thunderous horn blast, heralding the end of days, and the coming of Orved Sepah’s final doom.

Turning to the door, Izrak lifted his sword and struck. The blade sheared through the metal, the force of the strike blasting the door apart into molten halves. Izrak surged into the ritual chamber.

At the center of the octagonal chamber was an altar of gleaming obsidian. A pentacle engraved around the altar’s base emanated a hellish glow. Lying upon the altar was a young man of seventeen summers, black haired, covered in a dark ritual garb that clung to a body coated with sweat and delirium. Grigor!

Grigor’s deep amber eyes rolled over, fixed on Izrak.

Standing over him was a man clothed in black robes trimmed with cloth of gold; a gold circlet crowned his head, adorning his brow with a sanguine ruby. His silver hair was close-cropped and unkempt. At once in the prime of youth, and yet, in the ancient depths of age beyond counting, the smooth, pale skin of his narrow face was framed by low, sharp cheekbones, set with a long sloping nose and thin, pale blue lips.

The sorcerer intoned a chant that was reaching a crescendo; held a dagger above the boy, its tip poised to plunge into Grigor’s heart.

“Orved Sepah!” Izrak brandished his sword. “Your end has come.”

Orved looked down upon the warrior, sneered. “Has it?”

The warrior lunged. The same instant, the pentacle at the base of the altar flashed crimson; the sorcerer lifted his free hand towards Izrak, made a fist.

Izrak was bound in place, petrified by some unseen force. His body shook with the strain of his futile attempts to free himself.

“Miserable undead wretch!” Orved’s laughter skittered across the walls of the chamber. “You dare turn your blade against me, your master?” His laughter ceased. The sorcerer tilted his head. “Although, you grave-spawn are a rebellious kind. Effective, to be sure, but unruly. No matter. Your time will soon be at an end… Ah, yes, the Ferryman himself. Izrak Laav. Should you not be fetching the soul of the Black Bear? Yet you are here… Did Elishei bring you to me?”

Grigor groaned at the mention of his sister’s name, writhing atop the altar. Orved slapped him into silence. Izrak raged against his invisible chains.

“It must be. Then my wolves have failed me… Did you slay them, Ferryman?”

Izrak’s deathly glare was his only reply.

Orved scowled, pressed long fingers to his lips. “I see. Disappointing. I raised them from pups, yes. And they displayed such promise. More so than Gromm, certainly. All he managed to do was—survive. Took me hundreds of trials, hundreds of sacrifices… My demons are so greedy with their knowledge. They simply will not accept the souls of adults. Still, it works to our benefit. The children are far more—malleable.”

“Silence, you heretic fiend!” Izrak’s fury drove him. He managed a quaking step forward. “You sell the souls of those the Redeemer has charged you to protect. And for what?”

“Power, of course. The Light has long since abandoned us. What good is faith in an absent god? Who is there to hear our prayers? Who is there to protect us in time of utmost need?” Malice split the sorcerer’s face with a wicked grin. “The Redeemer? No… The Dragon. Ah, yes, he listens! He grants his favor willingly, real power… to those who are willing to pay the price.”

Orved flicked his blade across the palm of his hand, lifted it overhead. Blood rilled down his arm. The sorcerer uttered a spell; the lines of the pentacle flared, and cords of dark energy burst from the ground, coiling around his arm. Orved aimed his hand at Izrak, and tendrils of blood and shadow shot from his fingers to strangle the warrior’s limbs and neck.

Izrak felt his strength waning, as if the sorcery binding his soul to his body was being undone. Orved was siphoning the necromantic power that animated the withering undead.

The warrior fell to his knees. Cila grew heavy in his hand. His vision faded.

The words came to him on motes of light from the dark. Izrak uttered the prayer his mother had taught him as a child. She said this prayer would always protect me. Four centuries have failed to prove her false…

Cila’s runes flared as Izrak lifted the sword, began to rise.

Blood flowed freely from Orved’s hand. Shaking from strain and anger, the sorcerer dropped the dagger, redoubled his efforts to subdue Izrak.

Behind the sorcerer, Grigor stirred at the clangor of the steel upon stone. The boy looked down, staring at the dagger, his eyes glazed in stupor. His gaze drifted to the sorcerer, followed the lashes of his spell to the dead man, watching listlessly as Izrak once more began to fade.

Then the boy’s eyes cleared, shooting back to the dagger. Grigor seized the blade and plunged it into the sorcerer’s back.

Izrak felt his strength surge back into him as Orved howled in pain. The sorcerous tongues enveloping him loosened. The warrior shot to his feet and, with a flash of Cila’s blade, severed the tendrils of Orved’s spell.

The force of Orved’s dark sorcery rebounded, transfiguring his wounded hand to red crystal that then crawled along his forearm, cracked, splintered, and shattered. The sorcerer cried in agony, clutching the jagged stump.

Seeing his chance, Izrak charged the sorcerer. He thrust at Orved’s heart.

Orved lifted his remaining hand and Izrak’s blade was turned aside by the sorcerer’s barrier. Dark energy crackled with arcs of pale green light.

Izrak lifted Cila overhead; the runes blazed, and the blade flashed a brilliant white. He brought down his sword and shattered the barrier.

Orved fell back against the altar, pleading for his life.

The warrior approached Orved, silent as death’s whisper. The sorcerer screamed as Izrak lifted him bodily by the throat and drove Cila’s blade through his black heart. Orved’s screams died on the edge of the sword; his body withered, turning to dust in Izrak’s hand.

***

Izrak Laav stood upon the porch of the old church, watching the children play with Gromm in the light dappled shade of the willow. Color had returned to the bark, and young leaves were budding on the branches swaying in the morning breeze. Beauty yet remained in the world. Peace is still possible.

Izrak felt a happiness he had not experienced for years unremembered. At last, he had something to smile about. Izrak chuckled quietly to himself as Grigor emerged from the church.

“Elishei is feeling better,” Grigor said as he stood beside the warrior. “She’s asleep now.”

“Good. She can finally rest, knowing that you, and the others, are safe.” Izrak looked at the boy—the young man—still amazed at his resemblance to Ryol. Even his bravery, his fighting spirit, is every bit the son that I remember…

Grigor faced the doors, ran his hand over the burning swords engraved upon them. “Thank you. For saving my sister, for looking out for her.” He glanced back, cheeks flushed and smiling. “And thanks, for coming back for me.”

Izrak turned to him. “I am leaving tomorrow. It will be for you now to protect your family.”

The young man breathed deep, released it.

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Come with me.”

Izrak led him to the side room. Inside, he gave Grigor a short sword scavenged from one of Orved’s brigands. Izrak spent the next several hours training him in the basics of swordplay. Grigor learned quickly. Somehow, Izrak had known that he would.

Later, Izrak sat beneath the willow, while the others ate their evening meal, watching as the sun took root in the hills, and twilight bloomed in the west. Elishei appeared, sitting beside him without a word. After a moment, she leaned over, resting her head upon his shoulder. They remained that way for a time. For how long, Izrak Laav cared not…

Izrak spoke first: “Have you decided?”

Smiling, the girl nodded. “We’re going to stay.”

The warrior was silent.

“Where will you go?”

“Sevast.”

“To find your friend?”

“No.” Izrak closed his fingers around Cila’s hilt. “I expect he will find me.”

Epilogue

Gray waves lapped against the wharf as a dog licks its chops in anticipation of a long-awaited meal. Grave clouds of steel closed in, laid siege to the moon, cutting off its waning light; mounting winds stirred the Tyomnimor, the roiling waters of the Dark Sea heralding the storm massing in the east. Izrak Laav stood upon the wharf, black cloak billowing, a flickering shade against that sea of darkness.

On his palm rested the Coin of Akheron. Never, it seemed to him, had one weighed so heavily. For every decision has a price. And the price is paid. Izrak threw the coin into the harbor, the sound of its passing lost among the churning shadows below.

“You are, and have always been, a sentimental fool, Ferryman…”

The warrior turned to face him—at last.

A bear’s skull mounted on his right shoulder, joined to a cloak of black bear hide rippling over a mail coat of black steel, Zheso Strakh stood atop the embankment, embers of bloodstone witch-fire smoldering in his eyeless pits above his wicked grin of jagged teeth.

The barbarian undead leapt from the embankment, landing in a crouch. Zheso rose to stand a head taller than Izrak. The pilings of the wharf shook beneath his tread as he approached, lifting the battleaxe from his back.

“And you have not lost your fondness for drama, Black Bear.” Cerulean fire kindled in his eyes as Izrak drew Cila.

Zheso halted, lifted his chin. “Pretty sword.” He brandished his axe. “Though I wonder if she has any bite.” Not looking away from Izrak, the barbarian reached into a pouch on his belt, said, “You made quite a mess back in Novogor, Izrak Laav,” as he withdrew a Coin and tossed it onto the planks between them. “I have been offered a chance at redemption. My place in the order will be restored. All I must do… is destroy you.”

“Is that all?” Izrak assumed a fighting stance.

Zheso stepped forward, lifting his axe overhead. He swung, the head biting deep into the wood as its edge sundered the coin. Leaving the axe where it stood, the barbarian came before Izrak. “To Hell with the order.”

Cloaks fluttered in the wind. The pilings groaned against the rush of the waves. Izrak grunted, sheathing his sword.

“What will you do?” Zheso asked.

“I am leaving Enostran.”

“And your Omen?”

Izrak turned back to the sea. “Olesia is securing our passage to Satar.”

“The Empire is poor refuge,” Zheso said as he moved beside him. “That land is tainted by sinister gods and foul sorceries.”

“Yes. And I see now that Enostran has become no different. Satar’s influence is spreading, and I fear the High Priests have been corrupted. Orved was creating soldiers, building an army of demons. His sorcery was of the Dragon. Of that, I am certain. Garyn’zmei survived. The priests have betrayed Enostran, betrayed our home. I know they plot the destruction of The Call, but for what purpose, I am unsure. Yet, I do not intend to wait. I shall seek the Dragon’s heart in the east,” lighting arced across the clouds; the sky shuddered under the roar of thunder, “and tear it out.”

Zheso said nothing.

A moment passed, and Izrak said, “Come with us, you, and Silisa.”

“No,” Zheso turned and loosed his axe, slinging its haft over his shoulder. “As you said, this is our home. If you are going off to play the hero, you will need us to deal with the priests.” The barbarian moved towards the embankment. “The Dragon’s heart is yours, Ferryman.” Zheso glanced back at Izrak. “Leave its heads to me… All this talk has made me hungry. It is time for the Black Bear to hunt.”

VIII

A Blade Reborn