The Black Stalite

The flesh he bore was jet black and his eyes a pair of demonic raging embers.

1

The night echoed as metal grated upon metal. Alondar Trident knelt before a campfire, sharpening his black blade as it laid across his thighs. A bastard sword, forged from obsidian and imbued with dark magic. Etched along the fulmar were red runic letters, enchanting the blade with curse magic. The blade had no name, Alondar saw no need to name a sword. It wasn’t that Alondar viewed his sword as a mere tool. No, it was more an extension of his body. Did one name their arms or legs? That was nonsense.

Alondar ran a finger across the edge of his sword and smiled. Even a magical weapon needed sharpening from time to time. He leaned back against the tree and stared up at the stars.

A light buzzing came as his companion fluttered down on his shoulder. Storm. Her real name was Stjörmen’mörgen, but Alondar found that too difficult to say and so, gave her a nickname. She was a dökkálfar, a sprite from the Dark Realm who often aided Redvanians. She was small in size, not any bigger than a dove. Though she was a tiny thing, she had the appearance of a mature woman with emphasized curves. Her skin was pale white, but sometimes she shifted it to red or black. She usually kept her manifested long dress and large wings red and black.

“Alondar,” Storm began. Storm didn’t speak aloud, she never did. Her voice always came to Alondar telepathically. She only let her thoughts flow into his own when she desired and vice versa. “Why are you doing this? We’ve been traveling together for a few weeks, but I still don’t understand what it is you want.”

“It’s simple, Storm,” Alondar replied. Though he was not born in Redvania, as anyone could tell as his skin was the opposite of the typical pale white they bore, Alondar spoke with a rich Redvanian accent. “I am a servant. I am one of the Low Ones and must avenge the deaths of both the High Ones and the High Queen.” He glanced at her, his crimson eyes sinking into her ethereal form. “The High Queen was a friend of yours, yes? I cannot believe you do not want vengeance? Is that not why you joined me?”

“Yes, it is what I want. But that doesn’t help me understand anything about you, Alondar. You almost seem like a mindless monster. You cut through demons with a single swing of your blade and don’t bat an eye. You shred the throat of a man with your razor knife and again, you don’t blink. Servants are not mindless beings. I admit . . . the High Ones would prefer someone like you as a Low One. They don’t like them to think. They just want the Low Ones to kill. But you’re human. You are no animal.”

“You are correct, Storm. I am human. But, I am a Low One. I am pleased to hear that you think the High Ones would prefer someone like me.”

Storm sighed.

Though Alondar didn’t truly mean it entirely. In truth, he didn’t care. He served the High Ones, yes. But who he really served were the people of the world. Alondar first and foremost wished to bring protection to Redvania by slaying demons. But now, men have entered. Additionally, he slayed demons like the other Low Ones to keep them from spreading across the world.

    Alondar had been adopted by a Low One named Sovar Trident. In those days, Alondar did not know how to even speak. He didn’t even have a name. However, Sovar freed him from slavery. Well, that was how Alondar saw it anyway. Sovar tossed a sword beneath Alondar’s feet and said, “Do not take the sword because it is a gift. It is no gift. Freedom is something only you can choose. Man has turned you into a slave, but that is an illusion. Who are they to say you are not free? Well, boy? Do you dare let them tell you how to live?” Alondar still remembered a gruff smile from the elderly man. “Do you dare let me tell you how to live?”

    Alondar did not hesitate. He pulled the sword up from the ground and killed those who pretended to be his master. He supposed there was some irony that he ended up a Low One. A servant, in many ways. But it was different. It was a choice and he made the world a better place with every demon he killed. Alondar did not care one ilk for the High Ones, he simply did his duty as a Low One. That, was where his true respect lay.

A groaning came from behind and Alondar sighed. Setting his blade down gently next to the fire, he rose, resting a hand on the tree.

“Don’t do this, Alondar,” Storm said, fluttering off his shoulder into the air.

“I do what must be done, Storm,” he answered. “Nothing more.” He stepped past the tree and stared down, looking at his prisoner. A man with brown skin and white hair. Everyone in Altic had the same traits. His hands and arms were bound as he wriggled about on the ground like a caterpillar. His mouth was gagged and his blue eyes stared up at Alondar in terror.

Alondar bent down and unsheathed a knife from his black cloak. He gave it one glance as he flicked his dangerous eyes toward the prisoner.

“This is my favorite knife,” Alondar said. “It is uniquely made. Invented by one of my Low One predecessors nearly 500 years ago. Would you like to see how it works?”

The man shook his head vigorously. Tears leaking from his lids.

Alondar sighed. He bent down and ripped the gag from the man’s throat.

    He breathed heavily and spat off to the side, getting the taste of cloth out. The prisoner said, “P-Please, free me. I tell you again, I know nothing about how to get into King Oardred’s palace!”

    “Yes, I heard you quite well,” Alondar answered. “I don't need reminding of what’s been said. Tell me, do you favor an arm?” There was no pleasure in Alondar’s voice. This was simply business to him.

    “What?” The man more mouthed the word rather than actually saying it. His voice sounded more akin to a frog’s croak.

    Alondar sighed. He then initiated just what his razor knife could do. The top half of the blade tipped down horizontally and then, spun. The blade whirled in a circle, blurring from the speed. Alondar could feel the small breeze conjured by the blade across his forehead.

    “Please!” This time he sounded less amphibian. “I swear to you, I don’t know!” He cried, wriggling on the ground as he futilely tried to pull away.

    “Choose an arm to save!” Alondar gave The first passion he expressed of the evening.

    The man’s face, now red, contorted in an ugly cry. With nothing more to do than to give into Alondar’s demands, weeping the man yelled, “left!”

    And so, Alondar cut his bonds with the twisting blade. He clutched the man’s left wrist and slapped it down. The man breathed heavily. Panic surging. But Alondar didn’t cut. Rather, he sliced the rope binding the man’s ankles. Alondar’s blade stopped spinning and retracted, returning to its original form.

    

    “Get up and leave,” Alondar said, pulling the man to his feet. “I will not kill you.”

    The man didn’t run. He seemed to think as if it hadn’t actually happened. If this was a trick or perhaps he had misheard Alondar.

    “What? Did I stutter?” Alondar asked firmly.

    “N-No. But why? You’re the Black Stalite . . . you’re a Redvanian!”

This, concerned Alondar. Not the nickname itself, in fact, the nickname actually brought him some sort of odd pleasure. He liked it. A black stalite was the name of a venomous fish from the rainforests of Kah Sal. No, but what bothered Alondar was that he had a nickname. Because no one should have known about Alondar’s appearance in Altic.

    “It's known that I am here?” Alondar asked. “The people of Altic know?”

    “Y-Yes,” the soldier replied. “You have slain both demons and men here in Altic. The ultimate monster, slaying any in his path. That is what they say.”

    Alondar grimaced. “That is a lie,” he said. “I have not slain any men in Altic. I have killed some Altics in Redvania, but not here. Not in this kingdom. Demons on the other hand . . . I have slain any I have seen.” Perhaps those who have seen me slay demons spun up such lies, Alondar thought. It made sense. They all ran in terror when they saw his black face and red eyes. He would be lying if that hadn’t pained him. But, he had overcome such prejudice before. Besides, this time . . . he was a monster. For he came to slay the Altic king for his crimes. 

    “Very well,” Alondar continued. “There is nothing more to be said between the two of us. Away with you.”

    “Y-Yes, thank you, sir!” The man then turned, running off. But not without tripping over himself several times.

    “You actually let him escape?” Storm asked, landing back on Alondar’s shoulder. “I cannot read you.”

    “He didn’t know anything. There was no point to hold him anymore and, Storm, you may not think I feel anything when I kill. But that is a lie . . . and I never forget any of them. Be them beast or man.”

2

The sun had risen over the Altic kingdom and once more Alondar traveled the land. He found it sensational that grass could be so green. In Redvania, grass was either a gray or brown and crunched like old bones when stepped upon. The waters were also a dull color and murky with no life to them. That was not so here in Altic. The rivers and lakes of Altic were pristine and glassy cyan. Alondar had never washed his face with clean water before.

This brought an interesting question into the equation. Why did King Oardred want Redvania? Redvania was not a prosperous land and was where most of the demons came from and resided in. Yet, Oardred made war with them. Wishing to conquer the kingdom. There had to be a reason.

Alondar considered resting for the afternoon, but a strange sight caught his eye. Down a beaten path were rose petals. The pattern was too consistent that it had to have been intentional. More than that, these were freshly scarlet roses. Meaning they had been dropped somewhat recently.

“Alondar,” Storm said, hovering above and staring to where the beaten path led. Deep into a forested area of aspen trees. “I didn’t think it would be possible here in Altic, but I sense dark magic. There is something evil in those woods.”

Alondar gripped the hilt of his sword slung over his back and began to draw. Metal grated upon wood as his blade screamed free. “Then I must slay it.”

“This is not your task,” Storm reminded him. “If you hadn’t stopped to slay every evil thus far then we would have already disposed of the king. We’re close to his palace already. Let’s just finish your job first.”

“No. We are close, so I will head there once I deal with whatever dark force lays in these white woods.” Alondar would not leave any evil lurking by to harm others. He refused to be a passerby.

Storm shook her head.

Alondar followed the petals and beaten path, heading into the forest. Sunlight leaked through above, lighting the way. But this did not last long. A thick mist soon enveloped them, groggy and sinful—Alondar cringed at the evil he sensed in the air. His eyes glanced to his blade, noticing no droplets of condensation. This was no ordinary mist.

Alondar kept his blade high as he stepped through the darkened forest, eyeing any possible enemy. His heart thumped as he twisted his blade occasionally to different trees, only to find tied bones rattling against the trunks.

    Then, thudding footsteps from behind. Alondar whirled, pointing his blade in the direction. A deer, passing by. It vanished into the mist a moment later, but Alondar soon heard a thud.

    “It collapsed,” Storm whispered. Though there was no need for her to when her voice could only be heard by him.

    “There’s a sickness here,” Alondar whispered. He bent down, grazing the grass with his fingers. “But the grass is not dead. Nature survives, but animals do not? Strange and I . . .” No, Alondar was wrong. He had considered himself impervious to whatever magic lurked in the air, but he felt his lungs begin to burn.

    Storm cried, but Alondar held a hand up for her not to worry. He whispered a spell in the black tongue and pressed his fingers to his chest. A red flash went into him and he could feel the pain beginning to subside. As with every time he used magic, he felt his eyes strain with fatigue. Alondar did not come by his crimson eyes by birth, rather they were implanted into him to supply him magic powers he did not naturally possess. A gift he had been all too eager to accept, but the process of receiving them had not been kind.

    Alondar grunted and brought his attention back up. The magic still rippled in his lungs, keeping him vigorous in this place. “Magic caster!” Alondar bellowed. His voice ringing through the abyss surrounding him. “Show yourself! For I have slain many demons and black magic users! Let us make peace if we can!”

    Storm snorted, presumably believing Alondar’s plan to be foolish. But, a shuffling could be heard ahead as a hooded figure stepped forward. Their face could not be made out, but under their cloak black leather armor could be seen and a rapier clipped to their belt. Opposite of their sword was a brown leather sack tied to the belt with what seemed to be dried blood at the base.

    “Who are you?” a woman’s voice asked. It was muffled a bit and young. “Those are cursed eyes in your skull . . . And a cursed sword. Ah, demon slaying runes. Interesting. Well, I am not a demon.”

    “I know. I can see that now. I assumed you weren’t, but it was a possibility. Regardless, you are using black magic here and I cannot allow that.”

    “Ever the saint you Redvanians.” She chuckled. “Ironic, isn’t it? The whole world thinks you are barbarous demons and yet, you are the reason there aren’t more barbarous demons in their homes.” 

    “Doesn’t matter. Surrender quietly or die.”

    “You are . . . a boring one, aren’t you?” The woman shrugged and sighed. “Well, fine. But I want to know what it is you are doing here in Altic?”

    “The High Queen and the High Ones were murdered. I am here to avenge them by killing their king. That is my mission.” Though Alondar cared more about the war that rampaged through his homeland. The Low Ones thought similarly. Assassinate the conqueror and perhaps the rest shall flee?

    “Oh? King Oardred?” Her voice seemed . . . excited. Anticipation, perhaps?

    Odd, Alondar thought. He nodded.

    “Oh goodie! Please, let me join you! He’s the one who cut off my head!”

    Alondar froze. “He what?”

    “Oh, right, the hood.” The woman pulled back her hood, revealing a bloody severed neck. The blood was crusted and had turned almost entirely black. Flies buzzed around and it was only then that Alondar noticed the stench. Alondar then realized why the woman’s voice sounded so distorted and muffled. Her head sat in the bag at her waist.

    “Curse magic,” he said. Curse magic could do the impossible, but legends said every spell you used would cause your soul to be tortured in hell more. But there was no way for the living to confirm that.

    “Yes,” the woman said. “I used a curse spell to keep myself alive, but,” she shrieked a laugh. “I can’t find a spell to get my head back on!”

    “A shame.”

    “So.” She jabbed a finger toward Alondar. “If I help you kill the king, you will help me find a spell that will get my head back on my shoulders. Ay? Deal?”

    Alondar sighed. He didn’t see the point of making a deal with this woman, but she had agreed to stop casting her black magic. He shrugged. “Have it your way. Do you know a way into the palace?”

    “Yup. How do you think I got my head lopped off the first time? I tried to assassinate the bastard!”

    “Oh? Why is that?”

    “Because, King Oardred murdered my mother. Twenty four years ago he raped her and ten years ago he killed her. Why? Because I was ill and she came to him for help.”

    “And your mother was a servant,” Alondar stated.

    Storm gave him a frown. “That was rude!”

    He ignored her.

    “Yes,” the woman replied sadly. She shrugged. “It was as simple as that.”

    “What is your name?”

    The woman did not answer. She began uttering a spell. The mist began to clear out. At last she said, “Morvana. Yours?”

    “Alondar. Alondar Trident, but lately your people have been calling me the Black Stalite.”

    She snorted. “Don’t call them my people. My father is Altic, but my mother isn’t. I don’t claim him as my father anyway.”

    “Hm? Is that how you know black magic and curse magic, perhaps?” Alondar asked. “From your mother?”

    “That’s correct. I’m Redvanian! I’d say that I would stick out more than you in one of the Atlic cities.”

    Alondar snorted. “Obviously, you're headless.” Though he knew she referred to her pale skin.

    She laughed anyway.

    “You are already more humorous with this random lass,” Storm said, a tinge of jealously in her voice. She then made herself visible and looked at Morvana, raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Storm!”

    “Oh!” Morvana’s hands went up in surprise and her concealed head likely smiled. “A dökkálfar! How lovely macabre!”

    Storm frowned.

    Storm didn’t know it, but dökkálfars had a horrible reputation outside Redvania. They were known as devious sprites who haunted people’s homes, invaded dreams, and poisoned kings. A saying outside of Redvania was “Blame it on the dökkálfar.” Break your mother’s vase? Blame it on the dökkálfar. Kill your cousin? Blame it on the dökkálfar. 

    “Why don’t you just use this dökkálfar to kill the king?” Morvana asked, pointing at Storm. “It’d be much easier.”

    Alondar turned, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. “Dökkálfar are pure creatures. They don’t perform the many devious antics you’ve heard about.”

    “Oh . . .” she trailed off in disappointment.

    “Enough, let’s hurry on.” Alondar sheathed his blade. “I want to deal with King Oardred hastily.”

3

Alondar, Storm, and Morvana crouched low as they stared at marching troops leaving the white palace. The pearl white gates trimmed gold spread open like a crow’s wings as the soldiers poured out in their proper lines. Sunlight reflected off the tall towers and turrets of the palace as night came slowly.

Alondar grimaced as he glanced at Morvana’s headless neck. The stench was gone at least, Storm had used a non-pungent perfume from her dust to wipe away the smell of decay. With no smell at all, their detection from the enemy would lessen. The last they needed was for someone to catch a whiff of them.

“Let’s go,” Morvana complained. “I am tired of waiting!”

“Don’t be such a child,” Alondar replied. “We move at nightfall. I am not taking chances. At least you wore the right color for the occasion.”

She snorted. “Of course, I’m not an idiot . . . and don’t think I am just because Oardred bested me. He is not so easily snuck upon nor is he any slouch with a blade.”

“So I have heard and so you have said, over a dozen times. You have also mentioned he uses light magic. Calling upon some greater god above, as if such a thing were possible.” There were gods, Alondar was certain of that. But any god of goodness, purity, or light? That was laughable. Such a thing couldn’t exist, but it did make Alondar wonder what Oardred’s power source was.

Finally, the sun had set and Morvana would be the first to rise to her feet. “All right,” she said. “I’ll show you the way in.” She dashed across the grass, keeping herself low as Alondar followed with Storm fluttering close behind.

She led them to the palace wall and reached a palm forward, straight through.

Just as she said, Alondar thought. She destroyed the former wall and made an illusory one. Smart thinking, Alondar had to admit. Though impressive to not get caught when she first broke in. Well, Alondar realized, she never said whether anyone saw that part.

Morvana bent down, pulling a manhole off an entrance into the catacombs. She probably grinned as she glanced at Alondar then began climbing down the ladder into the bowels of the earth.

Alondar followed, dropping as he reached the last few rungs. His feet splashed shallow water against the wall as he landed. Removing an unlit torch from the wall, he snapped his fingers alighting a bright orange flame.

“Basic magic too?” Morvana asked. “I’m impressed!”

“Basic magic is what the Low Ones excel at,” Alondar answered. He began to lead the way, but Morvana quickly took the forefront. She didn’t stray too far ahead so she could use his light. Alondar glanced back at Storm, noticing she created her own light. Red flashes danced on the catacomb’s walls and ceiling.

“Stop,” Morvana suddenly said. Her arm held out caught Alondar by surprise as he bumped into it. He became alert as he realized what made her halt. A low growling sound. Slowly, Alondar slid the torch into Morvana’s hand and reached up, gripping the hilt of his sword.

Alondar and Morvana didn’t make a move or sound, but Alondar could hear the subtle fluttering of Storm’s wings like heartbeats. And then, a new sound. Not quite like rushing water, but a quick contained sound of air. Breathing, from large nostrils. Large paws could be heard as they stepped through the catacomb, lapping up water and claws clanging against the stone. Alondar determined it to be a four limbed creature, most likely a canine. No ordinary canine, of course. The sounds were too loud to be anything smaller than a demon-type of canine. But what confirmed it more than anything was the stench. It wasn’t quite the same smell as rotting flesh, certainly nothing like Morvana’s own smell. But rather, it was more like burning flesh. Alondar was certain that was what hell smelled like.

The creature gave one final sniff, then bounded. Alondar did not wait. He charged the beast as it came and unsheathed his sword. His black blade gave a horrifying cry as it left the sheathe, as if it were perplexed at the thought of having to take yet another life. As Alondar drenched himself into the darkness, only the red runes on his sword glowed and, his red eyes.

In the darkness, Alondar thrived, and in it, he could see decently well. The creature he leapt toward was as black as the surroundings making it difficult to outline. Red eyes, much like Alondar’s, were clearly seen. As well as the pearl white fangs and flashing red tongue batting out of the mouth like a final flame flickering in a campfire.

Alondar’s blade struck true. The black sword adding a new color to the catacombs as it drove into the muzzle—violet. That confirmed it for Alondar. There was only one type of demonic hound that had violet colored blood, the vitriol. A demonic canine with poisonous claws and fangs.

    Alondar spun around the beast as it fell forward, injured in the snout from Alondar’s deep blow. Before it regained its footing, Alondar shouted, striking for the neck. Foolish? Foolish. Alondar’s sword drove down into the black fur, but it did not bite deep. Alondar had been stupid on two accounts. One, a vitriol’s fur was not normal hair. Most demonic hounds were, but Alondar forgot that. A vitriol’s fur was more akin to armor than anything else with black flecks of apparent hair sprouting across its body. The armor-like skin was less evident on the face and that, was why Alondar had forgotten. His second mistake was the size of the hound’s neck. He overestimated his strength to think he could cleave through a neck the size of three barrels.

    The dog attacked. The side of the vitriol’s head slammed into Alondar’s chest, knocking him back against the catacomb wall. He slid down, his vision spinning. The next which came was the tail, the armor hair, like needles, drove into his skin and spun him off to the side, causing him to drop his blade.

    “Alondar!” Morvana yelled.

    “S-Stay back!” Alondar yelled. The pain and energy it took to say it wasn’t worth it. It finally dawned on Alondar that Kind Oardred probably knew about Morvana’s secret entrance and that was why he put this vitriol down here. Alondar’s face contorted to anger as he flexed his right hand. It felt wrong not to have his sword in hand. But there was no time to roll for it, the hellish hound moved again.

    Alondar screamed. Not in anger or terror, simply a battle cry. He met the beast head on and unsheathed his razor knife. He leaned to the left and allowed himself to be snatched in the jaws of the vitriol. Upturning the knife in hand, as his arm was being devoured by unrelenting daggers of teeth, Alondar rammed the blade into the vitriol’s skull. He screamed as he pulled the knife back out, feeling the dog loosen its grip. He threw it in again and again, all in the same spot. Precision was important and one of the many skills beaten into Alondar when he trained to become a Low One. Once more, he jerked back, violet blood splattered onto his arm and face, and slammed down again. This time, initiating the spinning blade that shredded and grounded the brain of the beast.

    The vitriol now entirely let loose its grip on Alondar’s arm and gave a terrifying howl of pain. Alondar tugged the knife back, tumbling down into a puddle. The creature moaned, collapsing to its side and whimpering. Purple blood trailed down the floor, mixing in with the dirty water Alondar laid in. He heard the footsteps of Morvana sprinting up behind him.

    She gasped as she saw his state. “O-Oh my, Alondar!” She knelt down behind him, staring at his mangled arm.

    Alondar examined it too. Cringing at the sight, pain, and stench. The arm was completely ruined, large gashes with red and violet blood from both himself and his enemy. He hadn’t even realized until now that below the elbow, his arm was turned backwards. He nearly fainted then and there from the sickening agony that pumped in his arm. He no longer had adrenaline to support him.

    “C-Cut it off,” he managed, falling onto his back. He didn’t even care that water slipped into his ears from the puddle. “The creature was poisonous. I’ll die from its venom if you don’t cut it off.” He considered a curse spell, but there was no time to contemplate options. Thinking cost lives.

    Morvana stood up, grasping Alondar’s sword. Her rapier wouldn’t do.

    “No, wait!” Storm yelled.

    Morvana didn’t listen. She sliced Alondar’s arm off without hesitation right below the shoulder.

Alondar groaned, he didn’t yell, but it hurt. Oh it bloody hurt.

    “Alondar,” Storm said, crying as she fell down to his wound, beginning to heal it with her magic. “I might have been able to heal you.”

    “N-No, you’re wrong, Storm,” Alondar replied. “I am well aware of what dökkálfars are capable of and I know you cannot heal poison. But we’ll keep my arm. If we can reattach a head to Morvana, an arm shouldn’t be so difficult.”

    Storm nodded, tears still streaming down her milky face. Soon, Alondar’s short wound was cured and Storm fell asleep.

    “Let’s rest a while,” Morvana said, plopping down on a dry spot. “She’s exhausted.” She handed Alondar back his sword. He took it graciously and slid the blade back into its scabbard.

    “Thank you. You cut it off without a second thought.”

    “Well, I figured it’d be stupid to second guess the monster killer. Besides, you knew you’d lose that arm, didn’t you?”

    “Yeah.” Alondar had purposely leaned to his left to use his arm as a distraction. The moment he had dropped his sword, he had planned to use his arm as bait.

    “Well, should we turn back? Do you really think you can defeat King Oardred with a single arm?”

Alondar set the butt of his sheathe through the puddle onto the stone floor. He then used its weight to help him to his feet. “Yes, I do.” I have to.

4

Morvana halted the others as they reached an intersection in the catacombs. From where they came, the catacombs split down into two halls forward and to the left. To their right was a ladder leading up to an exit.

“This’ll be the fastest way to the throne room,” Morvana said. “Well, assuming Oardred is there that is.”

“We’ll worry about that if the time comes,” Alondar replied.

She nodded, which was odd to watch with no head. She then climbed up first, pushing the manhole out of the way, and Alondar shortly after. They were in a rectangular room with a giant red curtain draped to the right of them.

“Where are we?” Storm asked.

“The church,” Morvana whispered.

The curtains suddenly drew open. Kneeling before an altar to their right was an elderly looking man, his eyes closed and his hands clasped together. However, Alondar realized he wasn’t elderly, just Altic. His long white hair draped back over his shoulders. He opened his eyes, glancing up at them. His bronze face seemed kind with his trimmed white beard, but Alondar knew better. Alondar didn’t need to see it to confirm his suspicions, but the man rose and slipped his crown back onto his head.

“King Oardred,” Alondar said. So he was at prayer, not in his throne room. Alondar eyed the pews behind the king, vacant. “We are alone here?” Alondar stepped down a set of stairs and unsheathed his sword. He kept a few feet of distance away from the king. The other two closely followed him behind.

“Yes,” the king said. His Altic accent was peaceful and serene. There was no trembling to the king’s voice. He was a perfect calm. The king’s bright blue eyes glanced to Alondar’s left side. “I wasn’t aware the Black Stalite was a one armed warrior.” His eyes matched Alondar’s gaze. There was humor there.

    “But, you do have crimson eyes and black skin. Not as black as some have exaggerated however.”

Alondar gave a hideous grin. “Your guard dog was the one who tore this arm off.”

“Heh, yes, I see that. It seems you are less skilled than I had hoped. I will give you a chance to retreat. You cannot best my power. Not the strength supplied to me from God.” He said the word ‘God’ as if it were the name of his god.

“What is this god you speak of? Where exactly do you draw your power from?”

Oardred smiled. He held out his hand. “Would you like to see an example? Give me your arm? Surely you kept the severed limb?”

Alondar frowned, not knowing what the king was playing at. Alondar hesitated, but reached for his bag.

“Don’t listen to him!” Morvana screeched. “He’s nothing but a snake!”

“You.” Oardred was taken aback. “You are that girl from before? Who claimed to be my daughter? How are you alive?”

She pulled back her hood, revealing the nasty wound. “Curse magic.”

“Ah, well, I can have that healed for you too. Assuming you’ve kept your head.”

“Screw you!” Morvana dashed, unsheathing her rapier. Alondar yelled at her, but she didn’t obey. Morvana jabbed her blade for Oardred, but the king nimbly evaded and unsheathed a pearl white sword of his own and ran it into her lower back.

“Morvana!” Alondar yelled, taking a step forward.

“Enough,” Oardred said. He kicked the girl off his blade, dropping her onto the marble floor. Slowly, a pool of blood began to fill beneath her. “She’ll live, Alondar.” He set his sword against a pew and held out his hand again. “Give me your arm and I’ll drain the poison from it, then, I will reattach it. No, not me. But my God will do it. I am his instrument.”

“Why?” Alondar asked, scowling.

Oardred smiled. “Do you not want to see my God’s power? It’s no trick.”

Alondar reached into his bag and grabbed the arm. He approached Oardred. I should just kill him and be done with it. But . . . could I really win with one arm anyway? Some gambles are worth taking.

“No, don’t!” Storm said.

“It’ll be all right, Storm.” Alondar handed the arm to Oardred who held it with both hands. He closed his eyes and began muttering in a language Alondar did not understand. An aura of yellow light surrounded the arm and streams of violet mist fell from the gashes. Soon, those wounds began to heal and even the bones snapped into place. Alondar was enthralled.

Oardred then directed Alondar to come closer. He did. The king placed the arm against Alondar’s shoulder. He felt pain at first, but soon an unnatural twisting ground into his arm and shoulder. Muscles and bones were tied back together like threads and soon, he was whole again. Alondar stared down in awe at what had been done.

“W-What did you do?” Alondar asked.

Oardred took a step back and smiled. “I did nothing. It was simply a miracle from God. Now then, assassin. I offer you a second gift.”

Alondar met his eyes.

“You probably want to know why I attacked Redvania,” he continued. “Well, the High Ones and the High Queen were evil.”

“Liar!” Storm spat.

“Misconceptions have always existed about us,” Alondar replied. “We are not evil.”

“You?” Oardred said. “Probably not. Other Low Ones? Certainly not. But, the leaders of your nation and even those who will come to replace the previous ones are evil.” Oardred smiled. A knowing smile. “The demons which you so desperately slay and try to keep contained in Redvania were summoned to this realm by none other than your High Ones.”

Alondar froze. He had always wondered where the demons came from. In truth, with contracts to the Demon Realm . . . it was possible to summon demons. What Oardred said made too much sense that Alondar couldn’t even pass it as a doubt. But . . . what about the rest of the world? Oardred sought to conquer other lands too, not just Redvania. Was Oardred just trying to get inside Alondar’s head? After all, this man is a murderer and a rapist.

Alondar didn’t know. He was off balance before this man. But what he did know, was that his people died every day. Alondar sought peace by slaying demons, but he would not hesitate to kill any man who tried to harm his people either. This was their leader. This was their commander. The one who murdered the High Ones and High Queen, bringing death and destruction to Redvania. Alondar could not let this man live. No matter what he may say.

“Liar!” Storm suddenly yelled at Oardred. “You’re a murderer and a liar!” Storm fluttered down to the side of Alondar’s face. She jabbed a hand at the king. “Kill him Alondar! Kill him now! That is your task! That is your mission given to you by the Low Ones! Avenge the High Ones! Avenge the High Queen!” She was furious, in a complete hysterical fit of rage. But could Alondar blame her? After all, she had been a close friend of the High Queen.

Alondar, did not hesitate a second more. He swung. His obsidian sword clanged as it hit the metal of Oardred’s white blade.

Oardred smiled. “So? You don't believe me?” Oardred asked.

“It isn't a matter of belief,” Alondar replied, angered. He was furious. At everything. Everyone. The High Ones, the High Queen, the Low Ones, Altic, Oardred. His eyes narrowed. This man dares to try and put on a façade of holiness and purity?! “At the moment, I have this task to perform!” Alondar gripped his sword with both hands and pushed Oardred away.

The king nodded. “I understand. Just as long as you believe my words. I have been waiting here for you, Black Stalite. Now let us see if you have the skill to defeat me!” Oardred ran, swinging his blade for Alondar. The Low One dropped low, pirouetting to the side as Oardred’s sword hit the marble floor. As he spun, his sword flew for the king’s face. The king attempted to duck, but a deep wound bit into his cheek.

Alondar heard air cup around Oardred’s blade as it swung for his back. The Low One pulled his blade back vertically, blocking the blow. Alondar twisted around and slammed his head into the king’s. Flesh tore across Alondar’s forehead as the edge of the king’s crown bit into him. The symbol of kingship flew to the side, clattering across the stone floor. Alondar kicked and slashed, placing Oardred off guard. He then raised his blade, swinging down for a final blow.

Oardred moved quickly, dodging to his left. His fist came, punching Alondar in the solar plexus. The Low One’s breath caught as he took a step back and barely had enough time to defend himself from the king’s next slash. Alondar twisted around, trying to gain a bit of distance between himself in the king.

However, Oardred summoned a blast of white light that showed like a bubble bursting. Alondar was flung backwards, knocking into the side of a pew. Alondar struggled back to his feet. I’ll purge this filthy light with my black magic! Alondar charged, pulling back his left arm as a black ball of energy formed. He tossed the black magic toward Oardred.

Oardred laughed as he destroyed the energy with a flash of white light. “Black magic is weak against—” He paused. A cloud of smoke had manifested when the two energies met and Oardred, had lost visibility of his enemy.

This had not been the case for Alondar. His crimson eyes caught the silhouette of the king and he dipped down low, swinging hard. Alondar’s black blade ripped through armor and flesh as he cut through half of the king. The king doubled over, tripping to his knees as he became visible again. He coughed out blood as he dropped his sword. Alondar kicked it aside.

“I-Is it true?” Alondar asked. He towered over the king, lowering the tip of his blade to Oardred’s throat. “Did you invade Redvania because we are summoning demons? Is it true?!”

Oardred did not meet Alondar’s gaze, but he gave a bloody smile and said, “Yes.”

“It’s not true!” Storm yelled.

“And the other kingdoms and nations?” Alondar asked. “Why those?”

He did not answer. Only, “F-Finish me, Black Stalite.”

He doesn’t have one, Alondar thought. He hesitated then swung. His blade made a slick juicy sound as it cut through the neck, plopping the head to the ground.

“Please, Alondar,” Storm said. Floating toward him with concern. “You mustn’t believe anything that man said. He’s a murderer, rapist, and liar.”

“I-I know,” Alondar said.

Storm then flew down to begin healing Morvana.

“I know,” Alondar repeated. But that time, Alondar was certain Oardred told the truth. He was a difficult man to read. What truths had he said and what were the lies? Alondar couldn’t tell, except for that last word. “Yes.”

    Guards suddenly burst through the room and cried, naming him monster and murderer. Alondar had no time and wrenched Morvana to her feet and escaped.

The man I killed today was evil, that much, I am certain of. But . . . what of my own people? Yes, they are mad. They are vile and villainous. I think I knew all along, but turned a blind eye. My job has been to slay evil. To kill demons. Well, if the next High Ones and High Queen should be any different . . . then I shall deal with them next.