BLACKBLADE: VENGEANCE OF THE NECROMANCER Chapter 1 The Black Lighthouse Howling winds drove waves against jagged rocks with a thunder that drown out the raging storm above. Only a desperate man would brave these waters; a desperate man or a mad one. Draven Winterborn, who suspected he was both, gripped the oars tight as the rowboat crested another wave then fell once more into inky darkness. In the distance he could just see his goal; a burning ember of blue fire hung in the storm black sky. Draven hazarded a glance back and thought he saw the lights of the Lonely Voyager, but he couldn't be sure. Captain Odomo had called him a fool chasing after death, and offered no promise to wait for his return. Draven wanted to believe that Odomo would not abandon him, but he could not convince himself of it. Another wave lifted the rowboat up and sent it hurtling towards the rocks that shielded the tiny island. Draven let go of one oar and gripped the other with both hands, ramming it into the spur of rugged stone, cracking the blade, but sparing the small boat the worst of the impact. Not all though; the boat was splintering, taking on water too quickly, and it would not be seaworthy much longer. Worse the waves had claimed his other oar the moment he given up his grip on it. Lightning flashed as the wave collapsed and he caught glimpse of the sliver of beach that was his goal. Every facing of the island was sheer cliff except this spot, which lie at the end of a short channel. Draven had one chance to make it into that channel, and even if he did he would risk being dashed up against its rough walls. Throwing his all into paddling, one broken oar better than none at all, he moved himself into what he could only hope was the right position. A fresh wave rose beneath him and Draven prayed to every god and goddess he could name. The tiny boat crested the last wave and he plunged forward into total darkness. Lightning flashed again and it was clear Draven was off his mark and out of time to correct it. The boat turned as it slide down the wave, with only one oar he couldn't keep it on line. The rocky wall of the channel rose up ahead of him. He gripped the boat's rails tight and threw his weight away from the wall; the boat slammed into the wall bottom first and exploded. Draven fared only slightly better and was caught in the surging wave. It pushed him up the narrow channel; spinning him around and slamming him into the far wall. He gasped for air and thrashed about, but the sea had him now, and the freezing water robbed him of his strength and forced itself down his throat. The wave receded and dragged him with it, but this time Draven caught hold of the channel wall and clung like a barnacle, refusing to be dragged out to open water where he would surely die. Lightning flashed again and he saw that he was only twenty meters from the end of the channel, where the waves crashed into a small beach. A fresh wave approached and he threw himself into it, riding it up the channel. The wave slammed him in the rocky shore and Draven felt his elbow crack against stone and white hot pain exploded behind his eyes. He flailed desperately, trying to catch a purchase on anything as the wave receded and tried to drag him back out to sea. The pain in his arm was agonizing, but he caught a jagged rock and clung tight until the wave was gone. Finding his feet, Draven ran for higher ground, desperate to escape the next rush of surging water. In the darkness he could not see the lip of wave-carved stone that marked the transition from beach to the safety of the island itself, but his knee found it well enough. He grunted with pain and flopped up on to the ridge, rolling in as another wave crashed below. Draven felt a slight surge of victory; he had survived the Iron Sea to arrive on Shipbreaker Isle. His quest was nearly complete. Panting, his body aching, Draven slowly climbed back to his feet. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He could see the lights of the Lonely Voyager off in the distance, growing smaller with each passing moment. So Captain Odomo had chosen not to wait. Draven couldn't blame him; he didn't believe he'd survived the trip either. He winced as he tried to lift his arm; touching his elbow gingerly with his fingers confirmed the worst. It was broken; bone through flesh, blood seeping down the sleeve of his jacket. He checked his belongings; his sword and dagger still hung at his hip. He reached for the sword strapped to his back but caught himself; glancing over his shoulder he could see that the cloth it was wrapped in had come loose in the water and now sagged down, exposing the sword's pommel and hilt. Draven breathed a sigh of relief; it would have been a terrible irony to come so far only to die within sight of his goal. Gingerly, he unbuckled the sword, swinging it out and away from himself and dropping it to the ground. With great care he untied the cloth and unrolled it, making sure not to wicked thing. It was a longsword, about three feet long, with blade so black it seemed carved from obsidian. He searched around for a stick and settled on a long, thin bleached white bone. Using the bone, he lifted the sword up enough to straighten out the cloth beneath it. Then just as carefully as he'd unwrapped it, he rolled the sword back up in the cloth, then secured it across his back again. Turning inland, Draven caught sight of his goal; a finger of deeper darkness reaching into the night sky capped by sphere of blue flame. The Black Lighthouse. Every sailor who plied the Iron Sea knew to keep the Black Lighthouse on the horizon; the waters around it contained countless hazards and horrors. It had cost Draven a small fortune to hire Odomo to take him within rowing distance of the island, and still the crew of the Lonely Voyager had seemed to grow more mutinous with each hour as they approached the dreaded isle. They would have never taken him as far as they had if they suspected the truth of this place. Draven slowly picked his way across the craggy island. Nothing grew here, there was not a trace of life, yet between the endless jagged rocks he saw broken and splintered bones and skulls. Some he recognize as human and beast, others were altogether unknown. The footing was treacherous and several times he fell; slicing open his hands and knees on jagged stones. The ground rose slowly as Draven approached the tower, and he found himself climbing on all fours as much as walking. Every misstep sent fresh shocks up his arm. At last he reached the tower. Lightning flashed and revealed its sinister lines; rugged and rough like the island around it. The Black Lighthouse did not appear to have been built so much as exploded from the island as if by sheer force of will. It flared near the top, it's parapets jagged teeth of broken stone. Floating above the tower, clearly visible for miles yet casting almost no light, was the sphere of blue flame that gave the Lighthouse its name. Legends about the origins of the Lighthouse abounded, but Draven had learned the truth. He knew the Lighthouse by it's true name: Ebonhold, the Tower of the Necromancer. There was a arched doorway, roughly carved from the stone so as to suggest a grinning skull. A pair of heavy wooden doors, fashioned from some black wood and fitted with black iron trimmings, were set in the arch. A faint line of blue light traced the divide between the doors; a second line demarcated the threshold itself. As Draven approached, the doors swung open, bathing him in pale blue light. Draven reached awkwardly for his sword with his right hand; his sword arm was broken. Steeling himself, he stepped into the Tower of the Necromancer, unsure of what he expected. Chapter 2 The Tower Beyond the black doors lie a large chamber that was barren except for two torches in scones; one on either side of the room; each of which burned with the eldritch fire that capped the tower. A staircase ran along the inside wall, leading up or down as he choose. Up seemed the natural choice and he headed that way, but as he reached the middle of the room a gust of wind swept through the place and the heavy doors slammed shut behind him and he nearly jumped out of his skin. His sudden jerk sent a fresh wave of pain down his arm which left him little energy to be afraid. Fear was certainly warranted. Draven hadn't been able to learn much about the Necromancer, only that he was an immensely powerful wizard who had lived for hundreds of years. Born of the noble houses of Hran, the Necromancer was supposed to responsible for that dead and haunted land's current deplorable state. Most sages insisted he was long dead, vanquished by heroes of an earlier age. Draven had learned otherwise. He survived, here at Ebonhold. He reached the stair and began to climb. The second floor was completely dark, and though he could make out a faint blue glow near the ceiling where the stairs must continue upwards, he could make out nothing of the room itself. He began to turn around, thinking he would retrieve a torch from the room below, when he heard a soft rustling from near the center of the room. There was a flash of light as a half dozen candelabra burst to life, each laden with two dozen candles burning with blue fire. Draven held up his good hand to shield his eyes. Four of the candelabra marked the corners of the round room, while the remaining two; which were smaller and shorter; rested on a long table carved from the same black wood as the doors. The table was set with a purple cloth and placements for two. The seat nearer to Draven was empty, and a man in black and silver sat in the other. Draven knew he must be the Necromancer. He wore what Draven first took for a helmet that covered the entirety of his head. It was beautifully crafted into the shape of a handsome man's face frozen in moment of serene contemplation, complete with hair, beard and a circlet set with a deep purple gemstone around his brow. Draven realized it was no helmet at all, but an ancient Hranian death mask. The man's clothing was entirely crafted from black silk and leather, covered with tiny silver studs and filigree adornments, and quite fine in its design, though dated by several centuries. He held a glass of dark red wine in one gloved hand. “Welcome to my home, stranger.” His voice was calm, almost serene, but with a sepulchral quality that sent a chill down Draven's spine. “Please, join me.” A second man, clearly a servant, stood at attention behind the seated man and also wore black, though he but was dressed more simply and without adornment. He was old, but powerfully built, with white hair and bloodless gray skin; his face slack and expressionless, eyes showing only whites. A zombie if Draven had to guess, though every zombie he'd encountered before had stank of the grave and hungered insatiably for human flesh, driving it to unrelenting violence, and this creature did neither. Draven cautiously approached the table. “You knew I was coming.” “No living thing comes to this island without my knowledge, or permission. It has been a long time since I have entertained a guest, and I admit to some curiosity. But please, put away your blade and sit.” Again he gestured to the empty chair. “Our dinner grows cold, and Barnabas worked so hard to prepare it.” At the mention of his name, the zombie came to a semblance of life and shuffled forward. Draven tensed and readied his sword as the creature came around the table, but it did not lunge for him with fevered hunger. It only pulled out his chair. Draven sheathed his sword and sat. A silver dome, knife and fork sat before him; a crystal wine jug and empty glass just beyond that. Barnabas carefully poured out a measure of the dark red wine, then removed the dome with a flourish to reveal a small roasted bird dressed with what looked to be asparagus. Draven cast a glance around the room, considered his strange host for a moment, then resolved to eat and drink nothing before him. “And who is it that I entertain?” “My name is Draven, Draven Winterborn. Are you him? The one they say rules this place? Are you the Necromancer?” The man in the silver mask, if he was man, cocked his head to the side and regarded Draven. The mask hid any expression, but the man's body language suggested curiosity, which Draven took as a good sign. So long as his host was curious, Draven thought he was unlikely to strike him dead with a lightning bolt, or whatever horrible fate this particular wizard preferred to inflict on his enemies. “The Necromancer,” repeated his host. “I have not heard that name in centuries. I am Nyrodak Vhül, of the House of Vhül, last of the true lords of Hran and yes, some men call me the Necromancer.” He lifted the glass of wine to the lips of his mask and took a delicate sip. “Is it no longer a name that inspires terror? Has it been so long that you mortals have forgotten to fear me?” Draven shook his head. “A hundred ship captains refused to bring me here, and a hundred wise men begged me not to seek you out, and yes, I am afraid of you. Deathly afraid. But I need your help.” “My help?” The Necromancer laughed, a horrible rattling sound that came from deep within his chest, as if his ribs were clattering against each other. Perhaps they were. “You have made a terrible mistake, Draven Winterborn. I am not a good and kind wizard who comes to the aid of heroes.” The Necromancer stood, looming over Draven. The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight gave his masked face a frightful quality. “I am the thing in the darkness that makes children fear the night. I am that which reduces women to tears and robs men of their sleep. I am terror incarnate, fear itself. I do not help people.” “There is a man I need to kill,” Draven explained. “A man who cannot be killed.” “And this concerns me how?” Draven unbuckled the sword strapped to his back, laying it out on table. He carefully untied it, then took hold of the cloth and with a flick dumped the sword out. Looking at the Necromancer, he said: “I believe this is yours.” “Intriguing.” Vhül sat down and folded his fingers together, contemplating Draven. “The Black Blade. Yes, it is mine, taken from me long ago. And now you return it to me.” “I'm not returning it. This sword kills any it touches. I think it can kill a man who cannot be killed. I need you to teach me how to use it. How to wield it without dying myself.” “Why would I do that?” “Because I will do anything you ask in return.” “Anything?” “Anything.” “Very intriguing.” The Necromancer stroked the metal beard of his metal chin thoughtfully. “And what if I said I wanted your life? That the price was your death, by your own hand, as soon as this man you seek is dead. Even then?” “Even then. Is that your price?” “Hardly. Your death is as meaningless to me as your life.” Vhül leaned back in his seat, contemplating Draven over arched fingers. “You say you will give me anything, but what do you have? Nothing. So you offer me nothing.” “What is it you want?” “I want only to be left alone, to pursue my research. I am done with this world and its inhabitants. There is nothing I need.” Draven's heart sank. He had come so far, but it had cost him everything he had. The Necromancer was right, he had nothing to offer. He was a beggar, groveling at the feet of malevolent indifference. He was a fool. “Please, you don't understand,” he begged, hating the desperate whine that crept into his voice. “It took me years to find this place, to find you. You're my last hope.” “What do I care about hope.” “I can't – I don't have anything left. Nothing but this. You have to help me.” Vhül rose from his seat and Barnabas pulled it away. Draven saw his jacket continued to the floor, sweeping along the ground as he came around the table, his gaze fixed on Draven. He took up the Black Blade; ran his fingers along the blade as he examined it as a craftsman examines his work. With turn of his wrist the blade was now pointed at Draven, its deadly point a mere hair's breadth from his guest's throat. He would not need to drive the blade in; the merest prick was instantly fatal. “You have one word. On it hangs the balance of your life. One word to convince me to spare your life and return this sword to my vaults where it belongs. Tell me, Draven Winterborn, who has spent years searching for me, who would give anything to master the Black Blade, in one word, what is it you want?” A bead of sweat ran down Draven's brow, gathering at the tip of his nose, where it hung precariously as if unsure if it would fall; Draven could not help but feel the irony as his mind went completely, hatefully blank. Six years he had pursued his quest, searching for the means to kill the man who could not be killed. He had betrayed his brothers, stolen, and even killed to learn the Yellow Master's secrets. The wizard who had killed the love of his life. Was that the answer the Necromancer wanted? Love? Had he done it all for love? He knew that wasn't true. He had loved her, or thought he had, but his quest was not for her. This was not what she would have wanted for him. Then for what? Was it justice he craved? To right the wrong the Yellow Master had brought into the world? Draven looked up into the Necromancer's eyes. They were a baleful yellow, burning with eldritch fire. He withered under their powerful gaze, knew they saw through him, knew he could not lie to them. He did not seek justice. Draven had never cared for justice. What fueled him was not noble, he knew that much. Hatred, contempt, these are what fueled his need to see the Yellow Master dead at the end of his sword. Draven knew what the Necromancer wanted to hear. “Vengeance. I want vengeance.” “Vengeance,” the Necromancer said flatly, but the blade did not move. “This man,” Draven explained. “This wizard -” “Enough,” Vhül snapped, but also withdrew the blade from Draven's neck. “I care not for the petty details. Revenge. There is a girl involved, yes? There is always a girl.” “A girl, the only girl, her name -” “Enough! Details, details. Irrelevancies. I have lived nearly a thousand years. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall. There are no new stories for me. Allow me a moment to think.” Draven frowned but bit his tongue and kept silent. The Necromancer's moment seemed to drag on into infinity, with Draven growing more restless and tense with each thundering beat of his heart. “Yes,” Vhül said at last. “I will teach you to wield the sword. More than that, I shall repair your arm, and give you all that you require to take your revenge. I shall be your salvation, the end of your quest. And in return, I will ask for nothing more than the return of my sword.” “Thank you!” Draven exclaimed, leaping from his seat. He wanted to hug the Necromancer but thought better of it. “Thank you!” The Necromancer raised his hand and bid Draven to sit. “A warning. Mastering the Black Blade will require great effort, great sacrifice. You must do all that I say, learn all I demand, and only then shall I let you leave this place. If you are to carry my blade into battle, then you must never fail. Are you willing to do all that it takes to master the blade?” Draven nodded solemnly. “I am.” “Excellent.” The Necromancer retrieved his glass and raised it. “A toast then, to our agreement.” Draven grabbed his glass raised it high. “Cheers!” He tilted the glass back and realized his error the moment the wine touched his tongue. It burned and Draven began to choke; the glass tumbling from his hand and shattering on the floor. A cloud of noxious yellow smoke boiled up from the spilled wine. Draven coughed and gasped as the cloud overwhelmed him. He staggered back and was overcome by a wave of nausea that sent him crashing to the floor. His elbow hit the cold stone and white fire shot up his arm. The Necromancer stood over hm, regarding him curiously. Draven tried to scream, but it only caught in his throat and became a gurgle. Blackness crept in from the corners of his eyes, overtaking his vision, and then he was gone. Chapter 3 The Necromancer Draven awoke slowly, his eyes burning, ears ringing and terrible fire in this throat. There was an intense pressure on his forehead, and his whole body ached and trembled. He tried to sit up but found he was strapped down to a table of some sort. He also seemed to be naked, or at least mostly so. He could feel cold air everywhere and his skin was covered in goosebumps. He could just barely move his head from side to side and tried to get a sense of where he was. There was a stone ceiling. It was wet and dripped with water. Dozens of candles lit the room; these were smoky, fat tallow candles that burned with a merry orange light, not the eldritch blue flames he seen throughout the tower. Occasionally a fat drop would fall from the ceiling onto a candle and he could hear the hiss of steam as the candle was extinguished. He could just make out the top shelves of several bookcases, each was bursting with books, folios, loose papers, and oddities. Numerous bundles of jars and boxes hung in nets from the ceiling. Draven had visited enough sages and hedge magicians over the last six years to have some idea of where he was. This was the Necromancer's laboratory, where he researched his dark art. That Draven was strapped to Vhül's table did not bode well for his future. There was a clatter off to Draven's left, as if someone had dropped silverware in a metal tray, and he grunted. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, and he couldn't form words. “Ah, you're awake,” and Draven realized Vhül was standing at his side. The silver mask loomed over Draven, staring down at his face. “Excellent, then we can begin. But first -” The Necromancer reached up and took hold of his mask, lifting it off his head and revealing his true face. Draven understood his desire for the mask; the Necromancer looked like a poorly preserved dead thing. His skin was leathery and tight, spotted with black mold and rot; his hair little more than a few white wisps clinging desperately to his bare head. He had only a handful of teeth set in shriveled, black gums; his lips little more than tattered strips of scarred flesh, as if he'd chewed them off long ago. The almost missing lips and taut skin left his face frozen with a disturbing perpetual smile that showed far too many rotten, yellow teeth. Eyes clouded by cataracts seemed to stare into Draven with perfect clarity. Draven could not hide his revulsion and tried to look away, but the leather strap across his forehead held him firmly in place. The Necromancer chuckled. “I don't think you will look so handsome as you do now when you are my age, if you are lucky to live that long.” The Necromancer's joviality did nothing to lift Draven's spirits; in fact, it made him want to scream in terror. He did not give the wizard that satisfaction. Calmly, with all the self-control he could muster, he asked: “What are you going to do to me?” “As you asked. If you want to wield the Black Blade, this is where we must begin.” “That doesn't explain why I'm strapped to this table.” “But it does. You see, the Black Blade slays instantly any living being it touches. This was never a problem for my previous champions, as they were dead to begin with. Like Barnabas there.” Vhül gestured to the other side of the table, but Draven could not turn his head enough to see. He assumed Vhül's manservant was nearby. “I've never had a living champion before. I'm quite excited about the possibilities.” “I don't understand,” Draven complained as he struggled against the bonds. Every movement brought shocks of pain from his mangled arm. “Why am I on this table?” “Please, try to follow along. I just explained, the Black Blade instantly slays any living being it touches. Not the the blade itself, the whole sword. Hilt, handle and all. Any mortal man who takes hold of the sword will be slain by it instantly.” “I know all that!” Draven screamed. “Why am I on -” Vhül tapped him hard on the crown of his skull. “Stupid boy, why don't you listen. Isn't it obvious what must be done? The sword can only be wielded by the hand of a dead man. If you are to wield the Black Blade, then you must have a dead man's hand. So I am going to remove this broken appendage of yours-” Vhül pressed his fingers into Draven's broken elbow hard and Draven shrieked in pain. “-and replace it.” “What? No!” Draven thrashed back and forth, trying to squirm free of the leather straps that held him down. “What do you mean replace it? Replace it with what?” His head popped free of the restraint and he could finally turn and look to his sides. To his right was a second table, and on it a nude Barnabas was stretched out. His left arm was missing, from fingertip to shoulder. Draven's mind reeled as he realize what the wizard intended and looked back to the Necromancer, who held up Barnabas' missing limb. “With this, of course!” Vhül's macabre laugh echoed off the walls as he set the dead man's arm aside. He grabbed hold of Draven's head, moved it roughly into position and tightened the strap once more. His fingers pushed into Draven's mouth, prying his jaw apart with surprising strength, and he slipped a rolled piece of leather between Draven's teeth. “Bite down hard on that, it will help. Not much though, no, I'm afraid it won't help much at all.” Draven whimpered and bit down hard on the leather as Vhül turned to fetch something from his tray of instruments. When Vhül turned back he held a short-bladed steel knife with a long, thin handle. He showed Draven the blade, which was as fine and sharp as any he'd ever seen. Vhül smiled down at him, though his torn and shredded lips gave only the subtlest indication of it. “Shall we begin?” The cold tip of the knife pressed into Draven's shoulder and he began to scream. The Necromancer was quite right. Biting down on the leather did nothing at all.