The Blood Witch (The Blood Reign Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

“You must find the real prison and make sure the witch cannot break free,” the High Priest told Nicoldani solemnly. “Or if we fail here and the wards are broken to allow the witch to get free, you must stop her from returning and obtaining the staff.”

How Nicoldani was supposed to stop the Blood Witch was beyond him. How was he, being one man, and not even a mordji, or even a priest, supposed to stop the Blood Witch?

The revelation the old priest had given Nicoldani shook him to his foundation. It became apparent that he had been guarding a lie his whole life. Maybe not entirely a lie, a secret perhaps, or the staff, but not the thing he had pledged his whole life for. He had not been guarding the Blood Witch, not exactly anyway. However, the staff did hold tremendous power so perhaps it had not all been entirely in vain. But what was he supposed to do if he found the witch? The Blood Witch had destroyed entire armies and laid waste to the land.

“If she awakens and is freed,” the old priest continued his voice trembling with fear and strain, “she will only be a faint reflection of what she once was. Enough time has passed that it may even be possible to kill her, or at least capture her. But, if she regains the Staff of Power….. then may the Gods help us! You must ensure that this never happens!”

The old priest hesitated for a moment before he finished. “If the witch does break free there is still another small hope. I’ve studied the histories and prophecies my entire life. I have found one small passage that might be of use.”

“One will rise from obscurity,

One that stands between Light and Dark,

between Day and Night,

between Good and Evil.

The One will be the Savior and the Destroyer.”

“What does that mean?” Nicoldani asked the old priest in bewilderment.

“I do not know,” Tarnus conceded glumly. “I have spent many years trying to puzzle it out. But I have to admit I have failed. Originally, I think people believed it referred to King Erlandas, but I am not so sure that is the case. My best guess is this One spoken of can wield the staff of power and confront the Blood Witch. No one but the witch has ever been able to use the staff. Many have tried and been destroyed as a result. Perhaps this One can harness its power. However, that is only my supposition. I do not know any longer. I fear we have failed.” With those final words High Priest Tarnus slumped back in the chair and breathed his final breath.

Were the words of the priest just more subterfuge, more stories, more myths? Nicoldani was confounded and crestfallen, struggling to make sense out of any of this. Nothing made sense anymore, all he knew was he was being sent away from his duties as he had always known them. Nicoldani had known his duties well up until this moment but nothing had prepared him for this.

With that small fragment of knowledge….somewhere to the northeast, perhaps in the forsaken lands, Nicoldani left Gethseena like a thief in the night, seeking what no man but him even knew existed. But in his heart he felt that he should have remained with his brothers to fight or die. He suspected the rest of the Tovani brotherhood had been slain in the attack, and the chamber sealed and flooded. If so, then at least that should stop the witch’s followers from getting to the priests and the staff. He supposed that was why they had crafted the holding in that manner, to isolate the priests.

The Priests of Ashteri were a different breed of men. They dedicated their entire lives to the Gods and nature. They gained their strength and power in their magic from the earth, heavens, nature, and most importantly from their unfailing dedication to the Gods.

A priest of Ashteri could sit atop a snow-capped mountain wearing only his skin, in conditions cold enough to freeze a normal man solid, with no ill effects. He could walk through raging fire completely unharmed or even go without food and water for months. Nicoldani was sure the priests could survive in the submerged cavern indefinitely or at least long enough for help to arrive from Dallonburo.

As long as the priests maintained the ward the witch could not break free. It would take the witch’s followers months, if not more, to move the boulder, drain the cavern, remove the spikes, and dig their way through the fifty feet of rock to get to the cell. That is if the traps had been sprung. But Nicoldani had faith in his brothers. They would have ensured the traps had been sprung no matter what the cost.

Perhaps if the fanatics did reach the cell and found the witch was not there, they would leave the priest unharmed. Perhaps, but more likely they would torture and kill them in an effort to find out where she was. If they were able to steal the Staff and somehow get it back into the hands of the witch…….. Nicoldani couldn’t worry about that now.

In any case, Nicoldani did not think the fanatics had reached the priests, at least not yet. He suspected that he would somehow know if they broke through and killed the priests. Then again, the priests were no easy meat, being very powerful in their own right. If the Tovani thinned the fanatics’ numbers sufficiently, the priests might be able to hold off the rest. Nicoldani still held out a sliver of hope for them.

After Nicoldani had left Gethseena, he set out to the northeast, traveling the East Road through many small cities, which turned into towns, eventually becoming villages as he got further from Odessia. There was no Queen’s guard to patrol the roads this far out, not even a Queen to rule the land and maintain proper order. It seemed these people ruled themselves.

Nicoldani had been set upon by bandits several times on his journey. The bandits however, sorely underestimated him. He had been the high commander of the Tovani; a few bandits were no match for him.

The last encounter with bandits had come three days prior. This bunch had actually managed to catch Nicoldani with his guard down, which was not an easy thing to do. But he had become weary and preoccupied with his failures, which allowed the bandits to catch him by surprise.

Nicoldani had been riding along lost in thought when an arrow suddenly pierced his shoulder, almost knocking him from his horse. However, his instincts took over and he allowed himself to fall to the ground.

The bandits approached carelessly, thinking Nicoldani was either dead or badly wounded. To their surprise, they learned quite quickly that he was not. He neatly dispatched all six of the bandits in short order, two of which never even had time to draw their short swords. Not that it would have done them any good if they had. Either way they would still be lying dead in the road all the same.

It was then Nicoldani decided to remove his cloak and tabard with the sigil of the Tovani embroidered on the breast. It had become a source of shame for him, one he was not worthy to wear any longer. It wasn’t the Tovani that gave him shame, just the fact that he had deserted them, at least in his own mind, and no longer had the right to be called Tovani.

He rolled the cloak and tabard and stuffed them into his saddlebags. He considered burning them, but in the end thought better of it. Someday he might be able to regain his honor and the right to wear them once again, but his hope was slim.

In place of his Tovani cloak, he donned a plain grey cloak that he removed from the largest of the bandits. Even then, the cloak fell short on him and was tight around his chest, but it would have to do for now until he could find another large enough to fit him properly.

Nicoldani was a large man by any measure, standing nearly two heads taller than most men. His shoulders were wide and his arms were corded with heavy muscles. He was a formidable man, and looked as if he had been carved from stone, despite the fact that he was advanced in years. Many younger men had died at his hands, but none that didn’t deserve it.

These particular bandits had not been particularly successful in their trade. Nicoldani only found two gold crowns and ten silver pennies between the lot of them. He felt no remorse at relieving them of their belongings, at least the ones that he could make use of. After all, dead men didn’t need possessions any longer, and it wasn’t as if Nicoldani had robbed them. They had attacked him, and would have killed him, but instead they had been the unlucky ones, and now were no longer in need of their earthly possessions.

Nicoldani cut strips from one of the bandit’s shirts to make a bandage for the wound he had taken from the arrow. He snapped the shaft off clean just below the fletching, and then pushed the arrow the rest of the way through to avoid further damage. Attempting to pull a broad-head arrow out of flesh the way it had gone in was much harder, and did more damage than to just push it out the rest of the way through. The wound itself was little more than a scratch to Nicoldani. It had caught him just below the left shoulder and had missed any vital organs. He had survived far worse and lived, but the wound needed tending to avoid infection. The task was second nature to him since he had tended wounds many times, and he handled it deftly.

The next day after the attack from the bandits, Nicoldani had come across the village of Nilan where he met an old man who had said Bethvain was supposed to be off to the east, past a village called Kingston, or Krapston.. or something like that. At least the old man had heard of Bethvain and King Erlandas, even though he kept correcting Nicoldani. “It is Botvan, castle Botvan,” the old man insisted. “And his name was King Arland.”

Nicoldani finally gave up trying to rectify the old man’s mistake. These country folk out here had probably never even seen a book. It was a wonder the old man knew the names at all. But he was the first person yet that Nicoldani had encountered that did know of them.

The old man told Nicoldani that the stories he heard as a young child, said it was off to the east somewhere in the mountains. “Was supposed to be a great bowl in the mountains or some such,” the old man said. “Overflowin’ with lush green forest, giant fruit trees loaded with the sweetest tastin fruit anywhere. It’s summer all year round. Not too hot mind you.” The old man lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “and purtty girls runnin’ all round.” He made wild circling motions with his hands.

When Nicoldani asked the old man where he could find the place, the old man laughed uproariously and said, “if you do find it let me know.” He barked another laugh and lowered his voice again, “just don’t tell no one else. Don’t want no one else hornin in on our purtty girls now.” He continued to laugh as Nicoldani walked away.

Nilan was a fair size village with many shops and a few taverns. Nicoldani visited a few of them, and continued to ask around discretely. Two or three other people agreed with the old man that Bethvain, or Botvan to these people, was supposed to have been in the mountains off to the east. They also agreed that it was a myth, and had never really existed. It was just a story told to entertain children.

Even more troubling, was the number of village folk that Nicoldani had run across, not only here in Nilan, but in many of the villages and towns he had been through on his journey, that were willing to speak the Blood Witch’s name. That sort of thing could be expected in the large cities. City folk kept to themselves for the most part. They thought themselves more progressive and educated than the people that lived in the country, more able to tolerate differing points of views and beliefs. If it didn’t affect them directly, they turned the other way in an effort to stay out of it. You could often times find a raving madman in any large city who preached the ways of the witch. Even the Queen’s guard and City Watch would let them be if they didn’t cause too much trouble. It wasn’t until they started gaining large numbers of converts and breaking the peace that they would be dealt with.

Small towns and villages were different though. Small town folk knew each other’s business, and often times made it their own. They had little tolerance for fanatics spreading discord. Overall, they were a superstitious lot as often as not, and even mention of the Blood Witch in a small town or village could get you killed. Many a small town folk had been dragged to the town square and been beaten, stoned, or in some cases hanged, just for mentioning the witch’s name, or speaking of her without enough contempt and disdain. Just the fact that people out here even dared speak of the witch at all was a troubling thing indeed. Not to mention the fact that Nicoldani had even heard one or two of them actually speak her name. It had been when they thought no one else was listening, but still it was troubling to Nicoldani all the same.

Equally as bad, were the reports of raiding by the Yeshada out of the Saibani Mountains. The Yeshada, or ice trolls, lived to the north on the other side of the mountains; Nicoldani however had traveled a great distance north as well as east on his trek, taking him within fifty leagues or so of the Saibani Mountains. The Yeshada usually kept to their own lands. Only on rare occasions would they venture out to raid one of the frontier mining villages on the southern slopes of the Saibani Mountains. But the reports Nicoldani had been hearing were of numerous raids on many of the villages.

The world seemed to be dwindling into chaos. There were reports of a large army of Suchbaatar massing on the northern borders of Odessia. After the last major battle almost thirty-five years earlier, in which Nicoldani had fought, Berrysia the Queen of Dallonburo, had reached a tentative truce with Suuk, the leader of the barbarians. However, there was always tensions and skirmishes along the border, but usually no large battles.

From the rumors Nicoldani had been hearing lately, there were thousands of the Suchbaatar massing on the border, and both countries were preparing for an all out war. As best as Nicoldani could make out of the time-line it had started about the same time as the attack at Gethseena. If the rumors were true then it was dour news, since it meant there would be no help from the Queen’s guard for the Tovani and priest at Gethseena. Nicoldani hoped his brothers could hold out.