DARKSLAYER

The Lightwielder Chronicles:  Book One

by Paul Shope

CHAPTER ONE

            Doren Darkslayer slipped through the ill-lit corridors of the Ichasi Hall of Judgment.  His stride suggested authority, but a cowl hid his face, and he embraced the shadows to avoid attention.  The stealth was unnecessary, however; few wandered the halls at mid-morning.  High Lord Orman held court at this time of day, and most of his subjects chose to attend.  They seemed consumed with a morbid interest to see what harsh judgment he would pass on the unfortunate accused.

            Doren remembered meeting Orman several years earlier, when Doren was no more than twelve.  The fat, pompous man had smiled down at him with half rotten teeth and eyes that searched a person up and down for a way to exploit him.  Even at that tender age, he neither liked, nor trusted, the tyrant.  This was just another assignment, but Doren would enjoy it nonetheless.

            The long, dank corridor opened into the Grand Audience Chamber where Orman’s "court" was in session.  At the far end of the chamber stood a raised platform where High Lord Orman himself sat on an elaborate throne made of black wood and decorated with the bones of some exotic and disfigured beast.  Orman claimed the skeleton was from a mighty animal that roamed near the Northern Crown.  Doren doubted the existence of such an animal as much as he doubted that Orman had ever been farther north than Ansselon.  Nevertheless, the throne was an appropriate addition to the Audience Chamber’s intimidating decor.

            A balcony ran around three walls of the second story, and hand rails along their length were made of the same black wood as Orman’s throne.  The railings were carved with unusual, demonic figures that stared out over the rest of the room, guardians of an evil secret that dwelt here ages ago.  From the high ceiling hung three great chandeliers, wrought from thick black iron.  As there were no windows, the enormous candles provided the only light.  The luminaries melted slowly, adding to the layers of wax at the base of each and occasionally spilling a drop on someone below.  They offered only a flickering glow, however, leaving the chamber in an oppressive half-light. 

            Along the main floor, Doren could see that the walls were constructed from large blocks of a brown stone that was badly cracked and splintered.  Four large tapestries displayed scenes from a famous battle that had now faded to myth--gory massacres mostly, that left little to the imagination.

            Yet despite the unsettling decor, the centerpiece of the morbid scene was Orman himself.  Even from the back of the room where Doren stood, he could see Orman’s appearance had not changed much.  His spike-studded leather armor barely covered his considerable mass; he was even larger than Doren remembered.  His black hair had receded even farther, and it was greased back with an oily substance that also held his short beard to a sharp point.  Yet despite his unsavory appearance, there was something about him that made one avoid his gaze.

            Standing next to him was a tall, burly fellow named Grolin, Orman’s second in command.  Grolin did not relate to the people well, but he was a good deal more evenhanded than Orman.  For that very reason, Grolin was given the authority to pass judgment only on rare occasions.  Orman appreciated Grolin’s strong back and loyalty, but could not abide his less-than-severe sentences.  At the moment, the two men were staring down a poor farm woman who had been late in paying her taxes.  From the sneer on Orman’s face, it looked as though he would likely sentence her to a few days in the Guest House, a place of infamous reputation that did little to uphold its agreeable title.

            As usual, the chamber was packed full of onlookers, crowding the main floor as well as the balcony.  Orman’s subjects did not appear to be prospering under the good lord’s rule.  Most seemed undernourished and had a vacant look about their eyes.  A pitiful way to rule a nation, thought Doren.  But he quickly steered his thoughts from politics, scanning the room more critically.

            Most of the figures crowding the chamber were human, but even in this part of the world, Doren could place several hai’sen.  The hai’sen were a people from far to the east.  For a thousand years humans and hai’sen had traded and gradually began to populate each others’ lands.  The hai’sen stood out above the crowd, being generally taller than humans.  Their faces were long and thin, with a nose that was more of a ridge running down the middle of the face.  A wide, thin mouth created a perfect line beneath the long nose.  Their skin was a grayish color, and many hai’sen said that the darker the gray of one’s skin, the more noble the bloodline.  Doren found that it was mostly the dark-skinned hai’sen who made that claim.

            As he picked out the non-humans in the crowd, Doren noted one hai’sen man standing at the far side of the room.  He wore a plain farmer’s cloak with a thin leather cord strapped across his chest like a bandolier.  The man slowly turned to look straight at Doren.  Their gazes held for a moment, then Doren took his thumb and slowly ran it from temple to chin.  The man turned back to face the front where Orman was sentencing the farm woman.  With a sober expression, Doren did the same.

            Orman was feeling generous; she would spend only two days in the Guest House.  Tears began to fall from her eyes, but wisely, she did not try to beg him for a lighter judgment.  Those who did so sometimes found themselves worse off.  Grolin’s face was a mask of stone for all the emotion it showed, but Doren suspected that he would have let the woman off with a warning.

            Doren began to slowly weave his way through the crowd toward the right-hand wall, the opposite side of the room from the hai’sen man.  In a matter of minutes, he found himself near a large tapestry depicting a bloody scene from some battle he did not recognize.  On the lower half, an army of fur-covered barbarians were engaged in fierce battle with an army bearing insignias he did not recognize.  On the top half, two figures faced off, apparently using some sort of magic against one another.  The face of the first figure bore a striking resemblance to Orman, though the physique was far from accurate.  The man wore a menacing suit of black armor and unleashed a stream of dark energy from his hands.  The second figure was a beautiful woman who countered with a white stream of energy.  According to hearsay, Orman had had the tapestry made as a reminder of the price of failure.  Doren did not know what that could mean, but he was dubious of all such legends, convinced that they were devised to scare children or amuse soldiers.

            For nearly an hour, Doren listened to the preposterous use of law and logic Orman used to justify his rulings.  Worst of all, the people accepted his justice with faint nods of the head, as though their neighbors and friends deserved such cruelty.  Finally, Orman declared the court adjourned, and people slowly filed out through the chamber’s main entrance.  Doren lingered and watched as Orman collected himself and sauntered grandly out the rear; no one was paying him any attention.  Soon the mass had receded from him a few paces.  When no one was looking, Doren slipped behind the tapestry and through a wooden door concealed there.

            The hall beyond was similar to the main entranceway but narrower.  With a glance to the left and the right, Doren walked swiftly down the corridor and paused in front of a large double door with iron bands and an iron latch.  Leaning to the door, he listened, then frowned.  He could hear no sound from within.  Doren paused for a moment longer, listening for any sound other than his own heart beating.  Suddenly, a burst of laughter echoed from an adjoining corridor not ten paces away.  The outburst was followed by the bellowing voice of Orman, and he seemed to be heading in Doren’s direction.

            Doren closed his eyes and took a breath as he grabbed the handle on one of the massive double doors and turned the latch.  The door swung open with a low groan.  The voices were much closer now, as he slipped into the room beyond and eased the door closed.

            The room was disappointingly sparse.  The few furnishings were large and gaudy to be sure, but there was little to choose from in the way of hiding places.  Under the bed--too obvious and too exposed.  Behind the curtains, too vulnerable.  In the liquor cabinet... he would be found for certain.  That left the wardrobe and a chest at the foot of the bed.  Doren quickly moved to the chest and lifted the lid.  A strange and unpleasant odor met his nose, but the chest contained only a few blankets.  Extra bedding, Doren thought.  He slipped inside, assuming that however much the bedding smelled, Orman’s clothes in the wardrobe would almost certainly be worse.  He hunched over into the small space and closed the lid.  He barely pulled the corner of his cloak in before the door opened, admitting Orman and Grolin.  Doren could hear their muffled voices.

            "Aaah," groaned Orman.  "We made it through another one, eh?  Those people... so filthy and wretched.  I can’t stand to be near them."  His voice moved in the direction of the wardrobe.  "Pour me a mug of that ale.  I’m getting ready for my after-court nap."

            Doren could not hear Grolin, but he knew the big man was pouring the drink while Orman changed into his nightshirt.  That was a sight he would never care to see.  He stifled a sneeze from the dust in the chest. 

            "That’s fine liquor... You may leave.  But wake me for lunch."

            Doren heard no response but imagined Grolin would bow and leave promptly to attend to other matters of state; he handled much of the day to day business.  In a matter of minutes, Doren could hear the steady, heavy breathing of the sleeping lord which soon faded into a blaring, noisome ordeal.

            Slowly, Doren lifted the lid of the chest.  Carefully watching Orman’s sleeping form, he stood and stepped out of the box.  The day’s drama had ended, and the time had come for the final curtain to fall.  Doren stole to Orman’s side.  From a pocket within his cloak, Doren produced a dagger which he held lightly as he observed the large man.

            Orman woke to find the dagger pressed persuasively against his neck, and a cloaked figure standing over him.  His eyes were huge with fear and more than a hint of anger.  "Who are you?  What do you..."  A twisting of the dagger convinced the helpless dictator to be silent.

            "High Lord Orman," the cloaked figure said in a low, ominous tone.  "For years, you have committed unspeakable crimes against the people of Ichasi, tormenting and abusing them for your own amusement and gain.  You have tortured thousands of innocent people and killed as many others.  How do you plead to these charges?"

            The pressure eased enough for Orman to answer, "I dispense justice as I see fit.  These people were not innocent.  They deserved every punishment I dealt!  How dare you...!"  Once again the dagger silenced him as the figure spoke in the same low tones.

            "How do you plead?"

            Orman’s wide eyes stared with a mixture of fear and outrage; his large mass trembled with the conflict within.  As Doren watched with cool calm, waiting for an answer, Orman’s countenance began to change.  His jaw went slack as the muscles in his face relaxed and his eyes rolled back into his head.  Doren’s lips tightened, as he pondered whether this might be some trick or whether Orman might be having some type of seizure.  He tried to wait patiently for a few moments to find out--natural deaths were always preferable.

            But at that moment, Orman’s eyes opened to stare directly at Doren’s shadowed face.  At least, they should have been Orman’s eyes.  Instead, they were pure black.  Doren could not help but take a sharp breath at the sight.  Then Orman spoke, but just as his eyes were not his own, nor was his voice.  In a deep, guttural growl, he answered, "No contest."

            The next moments would always thereafter be a blur to Doren, but two things happened for certain.  Doren felt a distinct wrenching in the pit of his stomach and then Orman was standing on the other side of the bed.  He would have looked absurd, his bloated form barely covered by his nightshirt, but Doren barely noticed, wondering instead how he had lost control of the situation.

            As he coiled his muscles for a sprint over the bed, Orman opened his great mouth and bellowed, in a normal voice, "Grolin, Guards, come quickly!"

            Doren had time only to curse under his breath before two guards burst into the room.  They paused for a moment to assess the situation, and Doren was not about to waste the opportunity.  He jumped across the bed and leapt from the chest.  Stretching out his hands, he intended to tackle both guards at once.  The tall one on the left, however, had quick reflexes and skirted to the side.  Unfortunately for him, his grace did not match his reflexes--he tripped over a stool, fell into the corner of the nightstand and was rendered unconscious.  In the meantime, Doren grappled with the other guard, whose blade was knocked away by the impact of Doren’s body.  Doren climbed quickly to his feet, dragging the man with him.  Before the guard could get his balance, Doren slammed him backwards into the liquor cabinet with a grunt, then drew back and gave him such a punch that his head again hit the cabinet.  Eyes dazed, the guard slumped to the floor.

            Doren turned to find Orman staring at him.  His eyes appeared normal, but the madness was there, boring into Doren, seeking to tear at his soul.  Orman raised his arms, hands outstretched.  Doren again felt the twisting of his stomach, but this time, he darted behind the half-open door just as several sharp objects embedded themselves in the wall where his head would have been.  Before he could consider his next move, running footsteps could be heard in the hallway.

            Grolin dashed into the room, his brow wrinkled.  "My lord, I thought I heard..."

            "Behind you!" Orman shouted, but too late.  Doren had grabbed a decanter from the liquor cabinet, and it connected with Grolin’s head before he could turn around.

            Doren sprinted across the room and brought his shoulder to bear against Orman, who crashed to the bed.  In a flash, Doren once again had the dagger pressed firmly to the High Lord’s throat.

            A cold chill ran through Orman as he sensed the icy resolve of the hooded figure.  Between quick breaths, Doren spoke, "It is the finding of this committee that you are indeed guilty of the crimes aforementioned and that you must pay for these crimes... with your life."

            If possible, Orman’s eyes widened even further, the anger becoming more intense, his eyes burning with insane fury.  "You have no idea who you are dealing with.  I will find you.  You will pay for this insurrec..."  The rest of the threat was lost in a gurgling choke as the dagger cut cleanly through the layers of fat to spill Orman’s blood.  His body convulsed with the shock and pain as his eyes held Doren’s.  Orman’s hands reached for the hooded man in a fevered attempt to reverse the fatal strike, but Doren merely took a step back.

            "Do not worry, the blade is poisoned.  You will not suffer long, though the Creator knows you deserve it.  Grolin will make an improvement over your incompetence.  If not, he too will answer to the Darkslayer."

            With that the High Lord ceased his convulsions and lay still as his bed absorbed the crimson stain.  The stream of blood from the gash in his throat began to subside, and the flesh around the wound turned black from the poison.  Orman’s eyes still stared wide with disbelief at the cloaked figure.  Doren looked a moment longer at the lifeless bulk of the ex-High Lord.  Neither relief nor satisfaction touched his features.  "May the Spirit of Light have mercy on your soul," he murmured.

            Suddenly, the room seemed to grow darker and a cold draft made the hair on Doren’s neck stand on end.  He spun with the dagger in his hand, but no one else had entered the room.  A faint voice that must have been the wind whispered, "Darkslayer."  Doren spun back around, but he was alone with the corpse.

            Concealing his dagger, Doren turned his eyes from Orman’s lifeless form and crossed the floor to the massive doors.  He cautiously peered into the hallway.  Seeing no one, he gingerly closed the doors and walked down the cross corridor from which Orman and Grolin had come.  He encountered no one as he crossed through the Grand Audience Chamber and down the entrance hallway.

            Doren emerged from the Ichasi building into the courtyard beyond.  Here servants bustled about their chores and guards bullied prisoners toward the dungeons or the Guest House.  He kept his eyes low as he watched the guards shoving the farm woman.  Her hands and feet were bound by shackles, and she fell to her knees.  The guards kicked her until she struggled to her feet again.  Doren clenched his teeth.  He had not been in time to save her from this pain, but countless others may have been spared.  He turned his eyes toward the main gate as he continued, briskly but controlled, across the open space.

            Suddenly, Doren sensed someone behind him.  A surge of panic welled up inside of him.  He could not be stopped so close to the safety of the street.  If this person questioned him, he would have to talk his way out.  With all the Ichasi guards about, he would have no chance to physically challenge the opponent.

            "Darkslayer," a deep voice murmured behind him.  The word was slightly slurred, as though spoken with a thick tongue--an accent that Doren knew well.

            He heaved a great sigh and turned slowly to face the hai’sen man that had seen him in the Grand Audience Chamber.  Doren’s eyes met those of the tall, gray man.  He was forced to look up at the thin face and smooth head that towered above him.  Doren held his gaze for a moment, then nodded soberly.  The hai’sen responded with a barely perceptible nod of his own, then the two turned and walked toward the gate.