The Black Blade

  The black blade swung from the darkness like a headman’s axe. It rang against Miertaz’s shield. He felt it through his arm, his body, felt the metal boss in the shield’s centre cave in. The blow knocked an icy wind from Miertaz’s lungs, and gasping for breath, he thrust his dagger of sun scorched glass, but the glowing blade caught nothing. He didn’t have the strength to summon much more Light, and the dagger had little more than a candle’s glow. The air whistled, and he staggered back. Again, from a new part of the darkness, the black blade carved across his shield and hewed a chunk out. It knocked him to the ground. The priest crashed face-first into a puddle, inhaling in mouthful of dirty water in the process. Miertaz choked, felt the icy water mix with the vomit still in his mouth. Retched out a mix of spit, and spew, and god knows what else onto the ground.

  He didn’t see where the black blade came from next, but he felt every hair on his neck rise as he heard it. The grunt as the blade was hefted up. The shrieking air as it swung down, and soon enough, the crack as it clashed against the stonework, having severed Meirtaz’s neck clean off.

  But Miertaz’s head was still attached to his shoulders. The cracking noise had sounded above him. Reflected in the puddle, Miertaz saw the sword trembling against an invisible barrier, inches away from his neck. This was the arcanist’s work. The fool hadn’t left, hadn’t fled. She’d stayed, saved his neck. Miertaz would be neither the martyr nor the gallant warrior tonight, just a sodding wet imbecile scrambling for life, like the rest of them. Praise Saints.

  He rolled over. The barrier was failing, parts of it dispersing in strange puffs of vapour as it was escaped from the arcanist’s control. The black blade was trapped halfway through its swing. The dark hand holding it was fighting against the barrier. It was gruesome, watching it shake and strain, the brutal gauntlet forcing all that weight down just inches from Miertaz’s chest. He noticed the holes forming above him, piece by piece, pockets where rain slipped through. Soon, there was a hole big enough for the black knight to reach through and choke the life out of the priest, or for Miertaz to fit his own blade through.

  He had little room to move. The barrier was blocking him as much as it was his attacker. Miertaz had to squirm to get his dagger in position, almost felt as if he’d dislocate his shoulder. All the while, the barrier faded away. The dark blade trembled above. He finally got the dagger in position, both hands on the hilt, resting on his chest. Then he thrust. The tip of his sword caught the dark knight in a crack between the jagged plates of the gauntlet. The priest bit down hard, poured as much Light as he could into the glass dagger. A fever raged in his body, his vision went white, but the blade burned hot.

  The night, the darkness around Miertaz howled in agony. The tip of Miertaz’s hallowed blade burnt white where it met the flesh of his attacker. Black ichor pulsed from the wound, spraying Meirtaz’s face, some of it landing on the barrier and becoming suspended in the air. With his eyes closed, Miertaz pushed further, twisted his dagger. The hand of his enemy shuddered, fingers involuntarily twitching, then letting go of the sword’s hilt.

  The arcanist whimpered, the barrier dispersed like a sudden gust of wind, and the black blade dropped harmlessly to the ground. Miertaz ripped his dagger free and rolled. He grabbed the black sword, rose, and stabbed with both blades.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  His dagger shone white and burned away at the darkness like parchment on fire. He felt the Light, the Oath, even a slight nod of approval from Sister Ilas at having not become a cautionary tale for young deacons. As he stabbed with the black blade, it vanished into the dark shroud that was its master. Miertaz gripped the hilt tight, felt it throbbing like a heartbeat. There was power there. He could feel the darkness flowing into his body, cooling the fever, replenishing his strength. It clashed against the Light in him, eliminating each other or maybe replacing both powers with something else. A strange dusky power, not darkness nor light. Miertaz wanted more, wanted to inhale it, have it coursing through his veins.

  Then the black blade was gone. The priest felt weak, cold. His dagger tumbled from his numb fingers. The last of the darkness before Miertaz was burning away. Little more than ash now remained, and a single crooked, rusted gauntlet that lay in a puddle. The dark mist that had surrounded them faded, replaced by the dreary night.

  Miertaz dropped to his knees. He wanted to say that it was done. But it wasn’t. He could still feel the breath flowing through the empty archways and flapping shutters. There was still great evil in Vannarbar, but he hadn’t the strength left to fight.

  “We find the others,” Miertaz said, fumbling for his dagger. “And we leave.”

  “Find them?” The arcanist frowned. She didn’t look so scared now. She was still weary, still covered in grime and blood, but now that the immediate danger was over, she almost looked disdainful. It was like she was one of the lore keepers talking to a deacon who got lost on their way to chapel.

  “Yes. I don’t care for this war.” Miertaz sheathed his dagger and shrugged off what was left of his shield. “I don’t care for fucking Smashednose, or Larker, or Fenris fucking Whiteeyes or… or, whatever you call yourself.”

  “Dasha Dumont.”

  “Brother Miertaz.” He took the gauntlet, wrapped it in cloth and stowed it in a pouch. “You can kill them in battle tomorrow, but tonight we leave this rotten place. I’ve still more work to do, and I won’t be rushed by Smashednose’s bloody plans.”

  “There’s no leaving,” Dasha said. Miertaz looked at her. She was grim now. “I would have left if there was, but once the Darkness has touched you, it draws you closer. I’ve spent the last six hours running for the gates, but I never find them. I’ve been spiralling towards the cathedral.”

  Miertaz frowned. He looked back the way they’d come and was sure he’d found it until he noticed the spiral of the cathedral rising above the other buildings in the gloom. He turned, looked the way they were going and saw the spire standing out in the moonlight again.

  “Cursed,” he breathed, the realisation hitting him. He hadn’t touched the Darkness on his first time in the ruins, only gotten close, felt the cold, the breath, the evil, weighing down on him, realised how helpless he was on his own and had thrown up his ward to keep the darkness at bay. He’d sustained it all the way out of the ruins. It had left him weak, shivering, found by Smashednose like a lost child. It had felt winding, even then, and now, everywhere he turned, he could see the spire of the cathedral rising over the buildings. “I’ll have to cleanse the curse then. But we will still find them.”

  “And what if they try to kill me again?” Dasha said.

  The image of Whiteeyes stalking towards her while he was unknowingly getting shrouded by the darkness was still fresh in Miertaz’s mind. He doubted there’d be much he could do to intervene a second time, doubted the man’s fury had worn off. “Then what do you propose?”

  “If you’re truly neutral, then what difference does it make?” Dasha put her hand out to Miertaz. “You can ally yourself with them, or me. And let’s be honest, who would be the better ally?”

  Miertaz thought about it. He wasn’t quite neutral anymore. Lifting the curse would help Smashednose more than it would Larker, but if he was to leave Fenris and Karlin to their own devices, then it could perhaps balance out using this arcanist to do his work.

  “You are neutral, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Miertaz took her hand and got to his feet. With that lie, he’d just broken his third Vow in one day. Sister Ilas would be impressed.