Dar'kblade
an excerpt

Aiudrin gazed up into the mountains, hoping to work out how close to evening it was, but the view didn’t help him much. He wasn’t used to the method of telling the time using the Point like the inhabitants of the Dar’klands were. He figured that it was close to three in the afternoon, but that was more due to the position of the sun in the sky than any kind of pointing skill, as the natives called it.
His feet ached, and the sweat from his brow kept dripping into his eyes, stinging and forcing him to stop frequently. He didn’t think he’d make it before nightfall, and he doubted he’d survive another night in these barren lands. He knew what flew through the skies here in darkness and his chances of avoiding them yet again were virtually non-existent.
He glanced to the rip in his shirt that one of the beasts had caused. Luckily, nothing more than a graze to his chest had been made, but phantom pains surged through his chest muscles, as though a large wound lay there, bleeding and festering with every step. He supposed it was some sort of detrimental effect from its attack, and that lesser men would probably die from such false injuries.
He picked up his pace, reminding himself that lesser men wouldn’t pause to wonder about the mysterious side-effects of monsters if they had important messages to convey, especially considering he’d lost his mulde, a horse-like animal used as transportation, to the dar’kragon that had tried and failed to rip out his heart the previous night. On the horizon, set against a backdrop of giant mountains, the city of Thuril glittered in the distance, an enchanting reminder that he was near to completing his goal, and that contemplation was not helpful.
The message he had been charged with delivering had already been relayed from Ælira to the patriarchs of Caruwyn and Julbak, and now only Thuril remained. The four points of the nation of Kyraea were marked with these four great cities, Julbak and Thuril to the north, and Ælira and Caruwyn in the south. Thuril was the only city in the Dar’klands, and so he’d left this journey until last, fearing the stories he’d heard about the cursed lands he was now stood in, full of treachery, pain and despair, stories he’d heard from being a child growing up on the cobbled streets of Ælira. But a message such as this needed to reach even across the desolate wasteland to this outpost of times past, and he only had a few hours before dark fell and the land became Death itself.

Half an hour passed, and Thuril glinted brighter, closer, more invitingly than before, but after such a long stretch of solid walking Aiudrin was nearing exhaustion, relying on his last dregs of energy to make it before nightfall, and he was so drained that he didn’t straight away notice the dark blot that appeared in the distance, slowing growing larger as it approached. When he did, he stopped at once.
He had no idea if the blot were human or animal, friend or foe, so he fell to the floor and crawled wearily behind some nearby rocks, and waited.
After twenty minutes went by, and he was cursing himself silently for delaying so long unnecessarily, a figure appeared close by. It was clearly a human, and Aiudrin guessed from the posture of the shape that it was a male. Whoever he was, he’d stopped and was looking for something, his hand to his brow, scanning the area. Aiudrin knew that it was he the person was looking for, so he climbed out from behind the rocks.
“Who are you?” he said suddenly, in what he hoped was an imposing voice, hoping to surprise the stranger. The figure replied in a language he couldn’t understand, so he repeated his question.
“Ah, the wrong tongue!” the man replied, confusing Aiudrin.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you spoke this language. Everywhere I have tried French, but it never seemed to work.”
“Who are you?” Aiudrin said for a third time, growing impatient.
“I’m Jacques,” said the man. “And you are?”
Aiudrin told him his name, and asked why he was out here in the wastelands so close to dark.
“I was getting as far from that place as possible!” Jacques replied, pointing towards the gleaming city that was Aiudrin’s goal and shuddering.
“Thuril?” enquired Aiudrin. “What business did you have there?”
“Hah, business. I have no business in this world whatsoever, but if I did, I would certainly never try and do business in that forsaken city,” said Jacques. “You were going there?” he asked.
“I am, yes,” replied Aiudrin.
“I would not risk it if I were you. The place is cursed.”
Aiudrin stared at the man, bewildered. Who was he? What did all the man’s talk mean, of cursed cities and other worlds? He burned with questions, but couldn’t seem to express them. And what kind of name was Jacques? No such name existed in the lands of Kyraea and beyond, he was sure of that.
The questions remained unspoken, as the man called Jacques seemed to understand Aiudrin’s confusion and explained his story to him, as best he could.
“I came from a country called France. Have you heard of it? I doubt it. It’s a million miles from here and more and yet somehow only a heartbeat away, too. I don’t know how I ended up here, not properly.
I was a teacher, a linguist, and my head is full of tongues. Not literally, you understand, although it wouldn’t surprise me to find some creature here where that was the case. I lived in Lyons, and travelled to Switzerland on holiday. I went mountain-climbing, by myself, a very foolish thing to do, and got lost. I wandered through some high pass in the hope of finding some village where I could seek a way back to my town and my hotel, but when I came down on the other side, I found myself here.”
“Here at Thuril?” said Aiudrin, looking around.
“Oh no, many miles from here. I believe the place is known as Victory Pass, according to maps I have seen in Thuril.”
“Ah yes,” replied Aiudrin, still amazed. “How long ago was this?”
“Around three weeks ago. Lord only knows what is happening back in my world, I will have simply disappeared. There’ll be all sorts of search parties looking for me… they probably think I got caught in some landslide by now, and that my body will never be found. And I doubt somehow it ever will, now.” Jacques wiped at his eyes, and Aiudrin looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen.
“I made my way across a river, seeing habitation on the other side. The people I met there couldn’t understand me at all though, and spoke in some foreign tongue I had never come across in all my years. All I managed to work out through gestures and quick thinking was that there was some city to the west, and having nowhere else to go, I made my way there,” he said. “It took almost a week, and by then I was half-starved and close to dying. But I met a merchant, selling potions and talismans, who took me to the city that you call Thuril, and that’s where I stayed until today. At first I was greeted well by the leader there, and given a room. But things changed, and terrible things happened, some of which I daren’t speak of, for your sake as much as mine. I finally managed to get out this morning, and nothing would ever make me go back willingly.”
Aiudrin had returned to staring again, unable to speak, and his mind spun with all the man was saying. He reminded himself that he wasn’t a lesser man, quick to trust without evidence, and that only lesser men would leave such a story unquestioned.
“What’s this you keep talking about, this other worlds talk? I don’t… can’t understand what it means.” he said.
“Heh, I don’t know myself, to be sure. But I know that there’s no place like this anywhere where I come from, so I figure it’s somewhere else – some other world. I went to Thuril to try and find a way back, but I don’t know if that’s possible – I’ve come to the conclusion that no one in this world is aware of any others, although I may be wrong. It can’t just be some anomaly; the universe isn’t as illogical as that, and I can’t believe otherwise, I’m afraid. So maybe a better city than that cesspit,” he nodded over his shoulder, practically spitting his words out, “will hold answers, and in that case that’s where I ought to be heading. Some other city… do you know of any such place, a city where I may find answers?”
“Ælira, my home, is the biggest city in the Kyraean lands, and there is a school and library held in well regard across the entire nation. You would be best to go there, if it is answers you seek,” said Aiudrin.
“Kyraea’s the name of this place I’m in then? I’ve never heard of it, but then I doubted I would have done. How far away is Ælira, this city you call your home?”
“You’re in Kyraea now, but Victory Pass and the lands to the east of here is part of a nation called Toskania, with which Kyraea is currently having trouble. Thuril is an ancient outpost from the times before this was all . Ælira is many miles south of here, over the river and past Lake P’Troa; it will take around two weeks to go there.”
“And you’ll come with me?” said Jacques. “It’s hardly wise for me to carry on travelling alone in such an unknown environment.”
“I have a message to take to Thuril, and I have to do it quickly. Time is important. So no, I can’t go back there with you right now, I’m sorry.”
“A shame,” said Jacques, and then paused. “What is this message you’ve got, anyway? It seems strange to send one man all this way with it, if it’s so important. But then maybe that’s how things are done here.”
“I cannot say,” replied Aiudrin. “I’m sure you can understand.”
Jacques nodded. “I didn’t think you would tell me, it’s true, but it was worth asking on the off chance. There’s trouble in Thuril, and I wondered if this message had something to do with it, that’s all.” He tilted his head, as if taking in Aiudrin for the first time. “Who’s your message for? I’m sure there’s no harm in you telling me that, at least.”
“It’s for Lord Feudrik, patriarch of Thuril.”
“Ah,” said Jacques, sighing.
“What is it?” said Aiudrin, worried.
“I’d turn and go now while you have chance. Lord Feudrik is dead.”