Rise of the DarkWalker: The Chronicles of Carter Blake, Book II

Immense heat baked down on Corath’s head as he staggered to a halt. Waves of heat danced above the blasted ruin of a town in the crater below. Local tales told of a star which fell from the heavens and touched the once massive trading city and a huge explosion which followed after. After the fires had gone out and the smoke had cleared, this desolate wasteland was all that was left of the green and vibrant oases.

People had tried to explore the area, but odd happenings had either driven them off, or they’d vanished. The few that returned had reported work tools randomly breaking, animals spooking and panicking, and slaves screaming of impending doom. Everyone questioned also reported terrifying dreams of getting buried under tiny grains of sand and slow suffocation.

The sides of the crater were exposed rocky walls filled with cracks, crevasses and cavities. A rough staircase was carved into the side, leading down to an adobe clearing covered in sand. Squat adobe buildings huddled around the clearing. The buildings were falling down in some areas with others missing chunks of walls or roofs. The ones he could see were also missing their doors.

‘They’re pretty close to the edge of that crater. I wonder if some fell in?’ Corath shook off the thought. ‘Doesn’t matter. That rogue informed me Carter had been seen here. I will at last kill him for my brother. First, though, I need water. I drank mine too fast on the journey out here.’

He staggered down to the small village. When he reached the plaza, he discovered a crumbling well that had previously been hidden behind one of the fallen buildings. Trickling water could be heard echoing up from the sandblasted basin. A frayed rope was wrapped around a desiccated wooden crank. A chipped stone bucket waved in the hot air. Sweat rolled down Corath’s dry face as he gasped while leaning over the opening.

‘I hope that water down there is still good.’

The rope squeaked as he used his shaking arms to haul the heavy bucket of water up. The faint metallic scent of the water made his mouth pucker as he brought the edge to his cracked and dry lips. The immediate coolness from the water on his lips shocked him at first, but swiftly soothed away the sting from the iron in it.

He drank deeply, the water feeling like a healing potion as it washed down his parched throat. Each gulp felt like life returning to his clenched muscles which relaxed and slowed their trembling.

After drinking his fill, he gazed around him, panting. A building with a small spray of sand coming from the door caught his eye. ‘That one.’

The sand crunched under his feet as he stepped into the much cooler building. The shade from the hammering sun brought the temperature down at least ten degrees. The omnipresent grit covered the floor in drifts and shallows. It piled against three doors to the north, east and west of the wreck.

Corath pulled at the eastern door which opened with a scream of sediment-filled hinges. Inside, the sun fell in the room through cracks in the roof, providing dim lighting, revealing old iron barrels. The penetrating scent of an oily naphtha told him they were filled with lamp oil.

He left the door open and turned to the one to his right. He wiped his arm across his forehead, clearing away the accumulated sweat. Using the bottom of his jerkin, he dried his burning eyes and reached for the iron door. Wrapping his callused hand around the handle, he tugged at the door, but it remained firm.

Corath gritted his teeth and pulled harder. Hinges rattled as grains of sand fell from the cracks around the door but the click of a bolt told him the door was locked. ‘Maybe its age has weakened the lock.’

He braced his right foot against the wall next to the doorjamb, and heaved with all his might. He yelled, veins in his neck and arms popping up as his muscled bulged in his arms and legs. The portal creaked and groaned, but it remained unyielding, resisting his mighty effort. He stopped his effort, and stood with his hands on his knees, panting as droplets of sweat rolled down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. ‘Fucking hell.’

He straightened with a groan and turned to the last door. He yanked on its handle and the barrier flew back, coming off its hinges. He let it go and it hit the sandy floor with a muffled clang. Inside were the broken shells of what had been barracks bunks. The skeletons of the frames were all that remained. A wide crack ran down a far wall. ‘What is going on with that crevasse?’

When he approached, he discovered the crack was an opening in the wall, leading down into darkness. As he followed the passage, he noted a large amount of garbage and other refuse. ‘Seems a number of beings live in this cave.’ A large area opened out from the path he followed.

A faint, sickly sweet stench lingered in the air. A cluster of black, egg-like pustules shuddered and writhed, oozing a yellowish fluid. Several humanoids clustered near the leaking objects. A scabrous black layer coated their bodies. As they trembled, cracks formed in the black, allowing an oily yellow fluid to drip out and splatter in vile pools on the floor.

‘What the fuck?’ He froze, horrified by the sight. A blinking light to his left caught his eye.

A scarlet hued sword with its point rammed into the stone floor flickered with an ethereal light which cast shimmering reflections to the stone of the cave walls. A slow smile spread across his face as he contemplated the weapon. His heart thumped slow and hard, almost in time with the flash from the sword. A deep, primal hunger to possess the blade filled him. His breath quickened, filling his lungs with not just dry, stale air, but also a sense of the power of the mighty blade.

A vision of crossing swords with Carter before he cut the human down with ease passed before his mind’s eye. He could almost feel the balance of the mighty weapon in his hand. The promise of unparalleled strength and victory was nearly on his tongue. The fierce yearning for the sword burned within his blood. It was his destiny and nothing would prevent him from claiming it.

When he stepped towards the sword, the quivering black humanoids shot upright. They spun to face him, revealing their revolting forms. They seemed to be formed of black ash through which yellow ichor flowed like blood from exposed veins. Their mouths gaped with horrid teeth and their clawed fingers looked eager for fresh victims.

The creatures leaped to the attack as Corath charged them. One slashed at him with its claws and he drew his sword, deflecting the strike upward as he ducked under its arm.

He whipped his sword up and around, striking above its groin and cutting upward. His blade screamed as the point dragged against the substance coating their bodies.

He ducked under a wild swing at his from the side head and hook kicked the creature in the belly.

As it fell back against a couple more of its fellows, Corath ran over and gripped the hilt of the sword stuck point-first in the stone floor.

As his calloused hand wrapped around it, he found himself in the forest near his childhood home. Birds sang, whistled and hammered on tree trunks. Cicadas whined as a pair of squirrels chased each other from branch to branch. In the near distance, he could hear the babbling of a brook as its waters rolled over the rocks he’d used to cross from bank to bank. A soft breeze brought the sounds of children’s laughter and adults conversing from his village.

Corath turned in a circle, but there was no sign of the cave or its inhabitants he’d just been fighting. When he faced the direction of the village again, he caught sight of a floating man with long hair covered with a cloak.

Wind Corath could not feel made the man’s hair and cloak dance.

“Who are you, mage?” The elf kept his voice calm. “Where have you brought me?”

“You know who I am, Gorauch.” His voice was low and rich. “Think on it.”

“How in the Abyss would I know you?” Corath scowled. “I’ve never seen you before.”

A small smile grew on the floating man’s face. It became bigger as he saw the growing comprehension on the elf’s face.

“I do know you.”

###

Carter finished cutting the throat of the last demon and sheathed his knife. He yawned and stretched as he cast his gaze over the frozen tableau. Once time resumed, the hundreds of demons would drop dead along with many of their victims.

He headed back to where his wife stood, just as frozen as everyone else. He paused my the moose-headed demon and studied the glowing silvery blue and green tether attached to its back. ‘I wonder…’ He drew his knife again and cut at the light. A frenetic tingle raced through his nerves and he jerked back. ‘Nope. That’s not going to work. I wish I had Belial’s sword again.’

He visualized the weapon, seeing in his mind’s eye the gleaming, double-edged blade adorned with intricate Abyssal runes, the crossgaurd with its intricate etchings and the leather wrapped hilt sweat-darkened from his many battles wielding it over the years. The pommel had a frosted silvery blue gem set in it, the light would gleam and sparkle across its facets.

He remembered the deep, bone chilling cold that raced through his body each time he drew it. The chill was not a mere touch but a penetrating force that seemed to spread with malevolent intent. It would start where his calloused fingers wrapped around the hilt and then it would wind its way up his arm, seemingly turning it into a numb block of ice. The sensation was like being touched by the frozen breath of an ice demon.

His muscles would tighten involuntarily as the wave would sweep across his chest. He’d shiver briefly before releasing the frigid breath he’d been holding in a cloud of vapor. Just as quickly as it came, the hyperborean feeling would vanish, allowing him to fight as normal.

A gleam just to the left of the demon caught his eye. Without thinking, his hand shot forward and he gripped a hilt. As he pulled it to him, the familiar sensation of frozen tingles raced through him.

The cold radiated from the sword’s core, working its way up to his shoulder, and then across his chest, as it spread a paralyzing numbness that impaired his breathing. The frost reached his torso, where it turned his breath into visible puffs of vapor and dulling his senses to a distant, frigid haze.

Carter faced the sword’s freezing grip with an unwavering resolve. Drawing upon his inner fire, he infused himself with an intensity that countered the blade’s icy power. He flexed his fingers, pulling air slowly into his nose and then released it in a burst of exhalation. He gritted his teeth and then spun away, swinging the blade in a sideways figure eight.

As the feeling returned to his body, he lashed out at the tether at the moose-headed demon’s back. It gave way with a snap and Carter landed on his ass. He pushed himself to his feet and stared at the demon. ‘It looks smaller, somehow.’ He then looked back to the sword in his hand. ‘Now, how did I get this? Did I do it be imagining how it looked and felt? Is that a part of my power? The power of the Walker of Worlds? Could I do it again? Can I do it with anything, or just with something that is mine?’

He paused. ‘Wait. Can I do that with Dearbhaile?’

###

“So, who is the Walker of Worlds?”

“A human named Carter Blake.”

Líadan chuckled. “No, irmãzinha, not his name. What does he do?”

“Accordin’ tae tha Vaush-Tauric, he be a guardian of balance to the universe.”

Her older sister’s eye widened. “He sounds like he’s very powerful.”

“Aye, he would be if he knew how his powers worked.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“He was summoned tae our world without knowing who he was.”

“How?”

“A wizard named Mordecai.”

The women paused outside the tavern at the heart of the village, its sturdy stone walls stained with the ages. A faded and chipped sign swinging gently in the mid-day breeze depicted a large ball-like creature covered with drooping eyes and a silly smile next to a spilled tankard of ale.

“The Drunken Beholder, Dearbhaile?”

The other elf shrugged. “I didnae name it. Last I be here was six years ago, and I do nae remember much of the place. I was nae in me right mind at tha time.”

“What happened?”

Dearbhaile reached for the handle of the weathered door. “Inside, first.”

When they stepped inside, they were greeted by the scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, mingling with the tang of spilled ale. Wide open windows allowed the afternoon sun to illuminate the place with various lamps augmenting the light. The wooden beams holding the ceiling were in shadows and a large, cold hearth dominated the far wall, logs rested in a neat pile, waiting for the time for them to be ignited.

The tavern was a hive of activity even at this time of day. Long, scarred wooden tables were surrounded by various villagers and covered with plates of food, spills and tankards. Men and women shared conversation and laughter as two teen girls and a buxom older woman passed between the tables and a backroom carrying dishes, food and pitchers, deftly handing them to the customers that ordered them.

A burly man with a think beard, ruddy cheeks and big smile deftly poured drinks, carried on conversation and distributed plated filled with savory looking pies which oozed vegetables, meat and a rich sauce from behind a crowded bar. Over in a corner, a minstrel plucked a lute and sang a song while enraptured children danced, or sang along.

Above the bar hung a collection of trinkets and curiosities: a dented helmet etched with the holy symbol of Kellün, a bundle of dried herbs, a gleaming sword with a yellow aura, and a faded tapestry depicting a long-forgotten battle. Each item whispered its own tale, adding to the rich tapestry of the tavern's history.

The sisters picked a table in a corner near the window and sat. Líadan turned to her Dearbhaile.

“Is it time now?”

Her sister snorted and shook her head. “Always impatient for stories. You’ve not changed in the last century.”

Líadan smiled as she shrugged. One of the girls came over.

“What can I get you lovely elves?”

“Two tankards of dwarven ale and keep them coming for half an hour.”

She nodded. “Which vintage? We’ve got mountain, jungle and UnderRealm.”

“UnderRealm.” Líadan almost barked out the name. She caught her sister’s raised eyebrows. “What? It’s my favorite ale.”

Dearbhaile chuckled. “Yes, UnderRealm, please.”

The teen smiled and said, “Coming right up.” She headed to a door near the bar.

“Now, tell me about you not being in your right mind.”

“Do ye want the long version, or tha short?”

“As I’m guessing we’re in a hurry,” Líadan paused and sighed, “Give me the short version.”

“That admission hurts, nae?” Dearbhaile said as she winked at her sister.

“You know I love long stories, so quit stalling.”

A grey haired woman set down two frosty metal flagons of a green frothy ale.

Líadan gave a small squeal of happiness and grabbed a cup in both hands. She raised it to her nose and breathed deep. “Ooh, this is a fresh batch.” She beamed up at the woman. “Thank you so much.

“My pleasure.” She returned the wide smile. “Would you ladies like something to snack on while you drink?”

Dearbhaile shook her head as she passed a golden Flair across the table. “Not right now, ma’am.”

She nodded as she lifted the coin. “As you wish.” She turned to the bartender. “Rauk, we have a tab started at table twelve.” Her clear voice carried across the establishment.

“Aye, Lyka.”

Lyka moved off to tend to other patrons and Líadan turned to her sister, green foam on her upper lip, eyes wide.

“Carter…”

Líadan raised her hand. “Wait. Who is he again?”

Dearbhaile rolled her eyes. “He be tha Walker of Worlds.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

Dearbhaile shook her head and continued. “Carter lost his eyes due tae witnessing an angel fightin’ a Crimson Walker an’ he be brought tae me teacher by a half-dragon knight. Tha Vaush-Tauric restored his sight, an’ told him tae choose between savin’ a friend, or endin’ tha war.”

“Admirable that he’d chose the friend, but what has it cost?”

“That be it, he did nae choose Lady Orwen.”

“The queen?” Líadan leaned forward.

“Aye, but she not be crowned yet.”

“Yet there is a war going on.”

“Indeed. That be because of a fight Carter had had with Sir Angriz and meself, leadin’ tae him breaking tha Time Stop.”

“Why did you cast that spell in the first place?”

“I be badly hurt in an ambush set by Belial.”

“The demon prince?”

“Aye. Tae give me a chance tae heal, and Sir Angriz time tae train Carter, I had him set tha stones.”

Líadan raised her hand again. “Wait a second. Did you not consider the ramifications of not only having someone else place the stones, but someone with the power of the Walker of Worlds do so?”

“I was nae in me right mind at tha time. I was seriously hurt.”

“How bad?”

“What do ye know of Belial?”

Líadan grimaced.

“Indeed.” Dearbhaile took a drink of her ale. “This is good.”

Her sister beamed again. “Told you it’s my favorite.”

Dearbhaile resumed. “I be too close when Carter broke the spell, and it knocked us out. When I came to, I had nae idea of who I be, or him. He brought me here tae regain me memory, and sold himself tae Belial in exchange.”

“That is an impressive level of devotion. How long had the two of you known each other?”

“About two months.”

Líadan tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “He’s young, isn’t he?”

“Indeed. He be fourteen when we met.”

“Oh. Adolescent love. How cute. But, shallow.”

“Shallow? Did ye just forget that I said he sold himself tae Belial tae get me memory back?”

“That was stupid on his part.”

“Ye’d rather I not know who I be?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what is?”

“He had no idea if Belial would keep his bargain or betray him.”

“Carter though tha half-demon would betray him, so he made Belial grant his request first.”

“Makes sense.” Líadan raised her tankard, draining it. “What about him was so appealing to you? Was it the fact he’s the Walker of Worlds?”

“Nae. It was a bunch of little things.”

“Such as?”

“Well, things like how he’d always light up when he saw me. Or how he would look for me first in a group. It was also how he wasn’t afraid to make the hard choices and how, even though he didn’t want the cloak of leadership, and found it uncomfortable, he wore it anyway. He was capable of great wisdom.”

“A fourteen-year-old human? Showing great wisdom?”

“Aye. Sometimes.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and raised her own empty cup in the air. One of the girls came over with a pitcher and refilled both their cups before heading to another table.

“He’d lose his temper at bad times, yet he wasn’t afraid to admit when he was wrong.” She glanced over to see her older sister peering at her doubtfully. "It be hard tae explain.”

“Then maybe it’s not love, Dearbhaile.”

The Keeper stared at her sister. “What do ye call it when the first thing on yer mind in the morning and the last thing at night be this one person? When ye find something amusing, or interesting, they be the first one ye want to share it with? When any time they smile at ye, yer heart feels so full of them, ye want to shout to the world how they make ye feel?”

“I would call it love,” Líadan said softly.