Stormblade

8

There was no light at all. There had been none since he became aware of being in this place. Hauk didn’t know how long ago that was. He was neither bound nor chained, yet he could not move. He lay on damp stone and cold seeped into him, twining around his bones with a fever’s grip. It seemed as if he had never been warm. His memories were all of a bone-deep terror, dying—and a question, endlessly repeated. Where is the sapphire-hilted sword?

He had died twice since finding himself here. His first death was swift and agonizing, with cold steel in his belly and his blood rushing out of him. The second time, he lay in the eternal dark and felt death’s slow approach. He’d sensed its remorseless hunter’s stalk, heard it coming for him like a summer storm rolling into a valley. Though unbound, he had been helpless to move and he lay in the darkness, listening to death’s approach. Voicelessly, he had prayed to every god he thought would listen. Death still came, its footsteps like thunder, its voice like a dirge calling his name.

Between his two deaths lay the one question: Where is the sapphire-hilted sword?

Hauk never answered. He did not even permit himself to think the answer or remember the sword or the tavern girl to whom he’d given it. Whoever could kill him twice could snuff out the light in the girl’s green eyes like a man pinching out a candle.

Whoever could kill him twice could pierce her heart with only his will. Like a dagger flying, silver in blue-hazed smoke, through a tavern. Why anyone should want the sapphire-hilted sword so badly, he did not know.

So, he existed in a wasteland of waiting and terror. He did not know when he slept or when he was awake. The darkness bred nightmares and the same evil dreams that haunted him sleeping haunted him waking. Yet now, in the wasteland, Hauk slowly became aware that he was not alone. A change in the feel of the air around him brought the sense that something or someone moved, though only slightly, nearby. Someone breathed in the darkness. Harsh gasping echoed around him, and by this he knew that the place he was in had walls. A voice muttered and whispered. Fear crawled through Hauk and settled, cold and heavy, in his belly.

This was not the merciless voice that had asked about the sword. That voice had been hard, as sharply edged as steel. This voice was different: thinner, broken.

Or was that his own muttering, his own whispering?

Light exploded in the darkness, sending shadows leaping up the walls and arrows of fire into his eyes. Hauk roared in pain. He had no ability to turn his head, none even to close his eyes. The light was quickly doused. The fire-edged image of a dwarf, crouched on the floor by his feet, lantern held high, burned behind Hauk’s aching eyes.

“Who … ?” he moaned. No answer came but a sharply drawn breath and the soft scuffing of booted feet on stone.

“Who are you!” A sob. A low, tormented growl. Silence. Hauk was alone again in the wasteland.