The Heart of Night, chapter 1.

NOW1


The look in his eyes was so cold he could have frozen the mountains himself. The hard white peaks rose and cascaded around him, immovable and uncaring. And yet, their imposing enormity had no hold on Orian. The mountains would endure, maybe even outlast him, and yet he knew he was stronger. His heavy boot fell down and struck the tight-packed snow. His pace was strong and steady, dull but unwavering. The mountain was powerless beneath his feet.
His slow breath puffed in white clouds beneath the cloudless sky. Orian went where he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted. The mountains could not stop him, just as the sea hadn't stopped him, or the spinning of the world, or even the armies of Dunshur. Orian would keep on walking until his boots had worn out the earth — so some said — and not all thought this was a good thing.2

The black curtains of night began to fall around Orian as he scaled a lonely peak, dragging his boots through the weary snow. He stopped, dropped the leather bag that had been slung around his shoulder and started to make camp for the night. There was no wood to build a fire on the barren mountain, so Orian pulled the string that had held the leather bag closed and took out a couple of flat stones, which he used to build a little stone basin. From a pouch on his hip, he took a small glass flask and poured a little of the clear liquid within on the stones. He carefully put the flask back in its pouch and bent over the rocks to inspect them. They had already started to absorb the liquid. Orian softly whispered a few strange words and a tiny flame licked from his fingers, igniting the rocks. Orian remembered a time when he had been surprised to see rocks burn, but now he knew that it wasn't the rocks that were burning – just the liquid from the flask. Eventually the liquid would be all burned up, but the rocks would emit a warm glow for the rest of the night. 3

Orian sat down in the snow and rummaged through the leather bag. He pulled out a thick hide blanket, which he wrapped around himself, and a small leather bundle. He put the bundle in front of him and carefully and neatly unrolled it. There was a small flask of oil, an assortment of small brushes, two pieces of fine cloth, and a quartet of metal tools. 4

Orian started where he always started; with his sword. He slid the longsword from the scabbard on his hip and placed it on the unrolled leather bundle in front of him, carefully lining up the blade with the edge of the fabric. Crescent, the blade was called. It was a magical blade, but even magical blades needed maintenance. Its dark hilt was engraved with spiralling grooves and the long blade glittered in the light of the fire like polished silver, reflecting the orange glow in exactly the same way as it had reflected the fiery sunset on one particular, long-gone evening in the Lands of the Lasting Sun, far away across the seas. For an instant he was there, the vividness of the recollection undiminished by the distance in both time and space, standing on that distant shoreline with Crescent held out before him, pointing over the waves and into the low, warm sun as a comforting hand rested on his shoulder. It was a warm memory. Orion pushed the flickering recollection away and focused on his work, turning Crescent in his hand. It was a heavy blade which most people would swing two-handed, but Orian had trained himself to use it with one. He ran his fingers along the blade, satisfied to feel the sharpness almost piercing his skin. It was a thirsty sword, but Orian had tempered it. It now obeyed his every command.
People had told him it was impossible to temper a magic sword. Those weapons have a will of their own, they had said. They choose their wielders, not the other way around. But as Orian had pried the blade from the Orc chieftain's claws, he had felt no resistance. Even so, he had treated the blade with great care at first, not certain if it would betray him as it had betrayed the Orc — and had most likely betrayed the poor sod whom the Orc had taken it from. The blade had been somewhat unruly and uncomfortable at first, but it had never disobeyed him. He had continued to treat it with respect, yet he had also showed it a brief glimpse of his power – and it had quited down at once.
Now, it was as subtle and subdued as any normal blade, unless Orian told it to do otherwise. He picked up one of the small brushes and meticulously scrubbed the blade clean of any dirt. Then, he took the bottle of oil and let a single drop fall onto the edge of the sword and, using one of the pieces of fine cloth, rubbed it into the mystic metal of the blade. There was the faintest sound as he did so, almost as if the blade was singing. It sounded pleasant to Orian and a rare smile appeared on his thin lips. 5

Finally, he returned Crescent to her scabbard, and produced from the bag a bundle of cloth. He unrolled it and looked upon the thing he had come into these mountains to get. It shone in the starlight like a shard of broken glass, waiting to pierce someone's heart. It was a small dagger with a black and silver blade and a blood-red grip. Bloodbane, it was called, and the myths stated that this dagger had once been used to cut out the heart of a demon-god. Orian looked at it closely, trying to imagine what powers it held. He let his fingers hover above it, but it did not speak to him. It was like a closed book, resisting his investigating touch. After a couple of minutes, Orian shrugged and placed the dagger on the unrolled leather, lining up the blade with the edge of the cloth, like he had done with Crescent. He bent to pull a small knife from a scabbard on his ankle. It was a fine silver blade, but it was not magical or legendary, merely expensive. Orian rolled it in the cloth and stowed it away in the leather bag. He picked up Bloodbane and cleaned and oiled it in the same manner as he had done Crescent. When he was done, he slid it into his ankle scabbard, in place of the silver knife.
Cut out the heart of a demon-god, Orian thought again. His right hand crept to his chest, where the black rock hung on its adamantine chain. Hadn't Dunshur called it the Heart of Night? Orian's fingers touched the glassy surface and a shiver went down his spine. The coldness of the mountains had not bothered him, but the freezing touch of the obsidian stone cooled him to his core. He wanted to let go, to pull back his hand and continue with his cleaning ritual, but for some reason his fingers lingered on the dark glass. It took a physical burst of effort to rip his hand away.
Orian shook it off and started to undo the straps that criss-crossed his chest. One by one, his many pouches and holsters came loose and he lined them up on the ground in a pre-determined and well-practised formation. Finally, he took off Axam's Wall, the mail hauberk which he always wore unless he was bathing, sleeping or cleaning it. It was as much a part of his everyday clothing as his boots. It was no ordinary mail hauberk, however. Its faint golden shimmer betrayed its enchanted nature and it had adamantine plates offering extra protection to the lung and heart area, as well as a pair of shoulder plates engraved with the golden Imperial dragon. Orian placed the piece of armour on the ground and started to clean it. He brushed and wiped, taking care to get every piece of dirt and grain of sand out of the intricate mail pattern. He carefully oiled the joints of the plates with his custom made oil, being careful not to use too much, and applied a thin film of it over the entire surface of the mail. 6

As Orian sat working on Axam's Wall, the wind picked up and pushed his silk shirt flat against his skin. Deep down he felt his body react to the pinpricks of cold, but he showed no outward sign of discomfort. As his clothes were pressed tightly around Orian by the wind, they clearly revealed his muscled body beneath. He was not a tall or a broad man, and his posture was somewhat less impressive than one might associate with a man of his legendary reputation, being mostly average in size. But his slim form was clearly well toned and trained, with curves of muscle showing through the shirt. 7

Orian's face was thin and serious, and his skin dark for Imperial standards – a tanned brown often associated with the people from across the Southern Sea - with his dark eyes looking intently at his work – eyes that if seen in the bright light of day would actually reveal themselves to be a deep blue. Almost nobody had gotten close enough to see that in a long time, however, and those that had, had not dared to look into them. Orian caught a shiver running up his spine and stopped it halfway. For a moment he considered moving closer to the glowing rocks, but that was not his way. It would mean moving his carefully arranged things, and more importantly, it would mean breaking his routine. He always sat this far from the rocks, and for good reason. At this distance the light was just right for his work; bright enough to see what he was doing, but not so close that the reflection would blind him.
All included, Orian's things were worth more than several large cities, or maybe even a small country. After all, any one of his artifacts could topple a kingdom. He had dreamed of doing that a few times, but that too was not his way. Carrying these powerful items required great discipline and unwavering principles. If he were to let his fantasies dictate his actions, he would be no better than those he had killed to acquire the coveted relics.
When Orian was done with his cleaning ritual, he put Axam's Wall back on, systematically put his tools back in the leather bundle, and rolled it up. He shoved the bundle into his bag and put it under his head, wrapping the thick blanket around himself, and gripping Crescent tightly. 8

Only now did he allow himself to move slightly closer to the warmth of the rocks. He let himself drift to sleep, keeping one well-trained ear open. In the stillness of the night he thought he could hear Crescent purring softly on his chest. The strange idea occurred to him that Crescent might have purposefully reflected the firelight in such a way that it reminded him of the evening in the lands across the seas, as the memory had certainly given him a little warmth in the icy cold rocks. Aside from Crescent, there was also the black stone doing its almost imperceptible steady thumping where it hung on its chain. The dagger strapped to his ankle, however, was silent.9

Orian rose with the sun. The rocks had cooled down and he collected them into his bag. Then he began his equipment check, starting with his boots and ankle holster, and working his way up. After checking he still had all his possessions, he set off down the mountain. He had come for Bloodbane, yes, but he also liked the loneliness of the snowy peaks. It saddened him that he had to return to the civilised world, but he couldn't stay out here for ever. Even legends needed to eat – and sometimes, just sometimes, even though they loathed to admit it – they needed company.
Downhill the going was fast and Orian strode the distance away as the sun climbed into the sky. The leather bag clunked against his back with every step and he tightened the strap a little. That was strange. The strap setting should have been just right. Maybe he had lost a little weight on his journey through the mountains. After all, he had been gone for for almost two months now with nothing to eat but snow and the occasional mountain hare. The exact location of the buried ruins had been harder to find than he had expected. 10

After he had finally found them, the digging had taken days. He had even had to spend a fireball to blast away a section of ice. Counting the research he had done in advance, cross-referencing sources and travelling from library to library, trying to track down the location of the legendary ruins, it had cost him almost a year in total to find the dagger. Of course, there had been undead waiting for him inside the buried ruins; which was about the only thing in the whole affair which had gone as Orian had expected. Expected or not was irrelevant, however, because Orian was always prepared for anything.11

Orian stopped for a second and stooped to draw the small blade from its sheath. As he walked he looked at it again. For a weapon supposedly used to kill a demon-god, it was oddly silent. At least the blade was balanced well enough to be used as a throwing weapon. He flipped it a couple of times in his hand, feeling the weight of it and observing it as it tumbled through the air. Magical weapons had a tendency to behave strangely if they wanted or if the wielder wasn't in control – Orian suspected that they somehow bended the laws of nature – but the dagger appeared to be completely normal. Still, he wouldn't be foolish enough to trust it with his life. Not yet, anyway. 12

Orian paused as he saw Thinway Pass ahead. He slid the dagger back into its sheath and took a deep breath. Beyond the pass was Whiterock Valley, and the mountain town of Whiterock itself. That meant civilisation, and people. People he had risked his life a thousand times over to save - which, in the darkest corner of his mind, Orian had maybe started to regret.13

There was a road leading down from Thinway Pass into Whiterock Valley, and Orian followed it with heavy feet. There were trees and bushes now, but they were still white, like everything else. Through the snowy treetops he could see the distant walls of Whiterock. The town had walls to keep out the roving bands of mountain bandits, and this was just one of the many reasons Orian had started to dislike the people he had once saved. For some reason they were just so damned passive. The bandits had always been there, but instead of rooting them out, the villagers had just built walls. Orian had once asked the Count about this, and he the man had replied that they would eventually get around to it. The town had its own militia, and in Orian's eyes they should be more than capable of doing the job. Of course, the Count had needed all his men to protect the town from Dunshur's black armies, back then. 14

It had been many years since Orian had saved the world now, however, and still there was no sign the town would ever seriously attempt to get rid of the bandits. Maybe it was his own fault. Maybe the people of the Empire had become spoilt by the heroes. Maybe they had come to rely on people like Walken and himself to do all the dangerous work. People called these years after the rebuilding was done the Golden Age. Orian thought they should be called the Complacency Age.15

Orian heard the sound of snow crunching under feet that weren't his. At the same time, Crescent vibrated in her sheath. The sensation was almost imperceptible, but Orian had become so attuned to the weapon – or the other way around – that he could feel her every move. He let his hand glide to her hilt and let it rest there. No need to pull metal just yet. Out of the white bushes came a quartet of shaggy men. A scouting and mugging party of bandits, Orian knew. They would watch for caravans and trader parties to rob, passing on word if they spotted one, bringing in more raiders to overwhelm the guards. They must have figured that Orian, by himself, was an easy target, and that they needed no reinforcements. The four men blocked the road.
“Gimme your things or there will be blood,” the lead bandit said. Flakes of snow fell from his scruffy beard as he spoke. His three companions surrounded Orian. They were armed with axes and simple swords, wearing some basic type of warm but easily pierced leather armor.
“Do you know who you're talking to?” Orian asked out of mere curiosity. He realised it was the first time he had heard his own, slow, steady voice in weeks.
“You look rich,” the bandit said, “that's all I need to know.”
Orian could tell them who he was, but would it make any difference? Even if they would turn tail and run, was that what he really wanted? Another plan occurred to him.
“Look,” he said, “I will let you live if you tell me where your base of operations is.”
The bandits laughed, just for a moment loosening their grips on their weapons. Orian needed no such distraction, but it seemed like a good enough moment as any. In a flash, Crescent was in his hand and he was flying forward. The blade went clean through the lead bandit's chest. There were cries of surprise and shock from the others as they realised what was happening. Orian pulled the sword out, stepped back, whirled, and decapitated the bandit who had been behind him. The last two tried to flee, but Orian grabbed the nearest by the collar of his leather vest, pulled him back and planted his foot on the bandit's kneecap, breaking it. The man screamed and his axe dropped from his hand as he fell down. Orian let himself drop with the bandit, landing his knee across the bandit's throat to keep him pinned to the ground, while he shoved Crescent in the snow and pulled Bloodbane from his ankle. The last bandit had managed to put quite some distance between himself and Orian, running like a man who had the hounds of Hell on his heels. Unfortunately for the bandit, Orian was much, much faster than the hounds of Hell. Orian flicked his wrist and the small blade flashed through the air, spinning perfectly along the path Orian had intended, and catching the bandit squarely in the neck. The fleeing man flopped face-first into the snow without a sound. 16

The bandit under Orian's knee struggled in panic.
“Stop moving,” Orian said simply. The bandit obeyed.
“Tell me where your base of operations is,” he ordered.
“Will you let me live if I do?” The bandit's eyes were wild with fear. “I promise I won't rob no one no more!”
“No,” Orian said. “That offer has expired. But if you tell me, I will let you keep your soul.”
Orian could see disbelief in the bandit's eyes at first, but then he whispered a few strange words and the man's eyes widened with raw panic. Orian knew what the man was seeing. It was an illusion spell Orian had picked up somewhere along his travels, turning his eyes from their usual dark blue to a hellish burning red.
“Over yonder ridge!” The bandit blurted, “caves under the mountains! Only one way in and out hidden in a copse of trees!”
“Only one way in and out, huh?”
The bandit nodded frantically.
“How many inside?”
“The caves are huge,” the bandit swallowed, “a hundred and half, about.”
Orian got up, pulled Crescent from the snow and stepped over the bandit, casually cutting the man's throat as he passed. Ignoring the gurgling sound behind him, he walked to where the running man had fallen, crouched beside the corpse and wiped the blood from Crescent on the dead bandit's clothes before returning her to her scabbard. After that he retrieved Bloodbane from the corpse's neck. The blade had now been tested in combat and had performed well, although Orian could have pulled off the same move with his old silver knife. He would have to do some more testing with the new blade to find out its exact workings.
For now, he went into the bushes the bandits had appeared from to check their tracks in the snow against the information the bandit had given him. It appeared to be correct; the bandits had come from a nearby ridge. 17

Orian crossed the distance in half an hour. With the information from the bandit he knew where to look for signs and tracks, and he easily located the copse of trees. There was probably a lookout somewhere nearby and chances were they had already spotted him, but Orian was not worried. 18

He found the entrance to the caves. There was nobody there, meaning that the lookout had either gone inside to warn the others, or that they were somewhere else, at a location that would let them observe the entrance from a distance. It didn't matter.
A hundred and fifty, give or take. Orian was tired and this detour had put him in a foul mood. He could go in and fight them all, but some of them might escape, and even if they didn't it could easily take a couple of hours to find them all in the darkness of the caves. Orian sighed and observed the entrance, noting that a heavy door blocked the way in, probably locked. There was an outcropping of rock that loomed over the entrance. Orian played with an idea in his mind as he looked at the grey stone that overarched the only way out of the caves. 19

He reached in a pouch that hung on the hip opposite Crescent and took out a ball of rolled parchment. There was arcane writing on it, seemingly chaotic but written by Orian himself in a precise and intricate pattern. Orian held the ball before him and spoke an incomprehensible word. The parchment burst into flame, but the fire did not hurt Orian's hand. He stepped back and hurled the burning ball at the outcropping of rock. The fireball grew larger and brighter as it tumbled through the air, drawing in oxygen and burning through the mystical symbols on its parchment, unleashing the destructive energies that had been contained in them. Orian had created a new, miniature sun, which would only last through its maiden sunrise. 20

The searing ball of fire exploded against the mountain, shattering rock and sending up massive clouds of steam as the snow evaporated in an instant. Orian waited patiently until the clouds had dissipated and saw that the entrance to the caves had become buried under a massive pile of destroyed rock. There was no way anyone could clear that from the inside, and the bandits in the caves would simply find themselves trapped. Maybe they would starve, or maybe they would start killing each other. Orian did not care. They would not be coming out this way, that much was certain. 21

Fireballs were expensive, but this one had saved Orian a lot of time and effort. He tried not to think about the fact that it could also take hours to replenish his supply of fireball spells, especially since he had also used one to get into the buried ruins earlier. For now, at least, he could go on to Whitestone.
Or could he? There was still the matter of the lookout. Orian supposed one or two bandits could do little harm, especially if they had seen their lair destroyed, but leaving loose ends was not Orian's way. 22

Discipline. Thoroughness. If you do something, then do it; don't half-do it. He knew what had to be done.
Orian looked for recent tracks around the buried entrance, and came to the conclusion that if there was indeed a lookout, they had not been stationed directly around the entrance. There were no recent tracks to indicate anyone had gone in or out in the last half hour. That meant that if there was a lookout - there probably was - they were still out there. They must have seen Orian by now – fireballs had the drawback of not being very subtle – and the lookout could either be running away or about to avenge their friends.23

The latter turned out to be the case as Orian heard a sharp whistling and instinctively ducked. An arrow flashed over his head and nailed a tree behind him. He looked up and saw two figures higher up on the ridge. His feet were moving before he had formulated a plan and he found himself loping up the slope. Another arrow came to meet him, but Orian had already estimated its trajectory and allowed it to bounce harmlessly off Axam's Wall's breastplates. Its enchanted metal could stop a whole lot more than a flimsy iron arrow fired from a cheap short bow. The bandits might as well have been shooting at a stone wall. Empowered by some stupid surge of courage, they stood their ground and tried to fire another volley of arrows, but Orian was upon them, Crescent flashing out and spattering smooth arcs of crimson blood onto the snow. It was over in a second and a half. Orian wiped the blade on their clothing as he had done before, and spotted a small pipe protruding from the snow. He approached it and saw that it was a ventilation outlet for the cave system below. It must have doubled as a way for the lookout to warn those within. Just to be sure, Orian plugged it with a boot taken from the dead lookouts. 24

Now he could go. He checked to see if he all his equipment was still where it was supposed to be, and if he hadn't dropped anything during his crazy charge uphill. He started at his boots and worked his way up. Everything was still there. Orian turned and started down the ridge as he heard muffled cries coming from the ventilation pipe behind him. He tried not to think about how it must have been to be trapped in there with no way out but death.