The Soulblade's Tale Read Free

into motion, Heartwarden’s power fueling his thrusts and swings. The first hand to reach for him fell twitching to the floor, followed soon by its owner's head. More of the walking dead reached for him, and Nicodemus’s sword blurred as he hacked a path through the corpses, trying to reach the warlock. 
    But more of the dead came for him. 
    And the corpses he had cut apart began to reassemble themselves. Arms crawled back to their sockets and reattached themselves. Headless torsos reached down to retrieve their heads. Nicodemus cut down four more of the animated dead, but soon all the corpses he had hacked apart regained their feet.
    He backed away, heart racing with just a touch of fear. He had slain dark elves and orcs in battle, had even helped the Magistri overcome an urdmordar.
    But how could he kill something already dead?
    The warlock laughed, beckoning. More of the corpses appeared on the stairs, descending from the Tower’s upper levels, their eyes blazing with emerald flames. 
    Nicodemus stopped at the edge of the stairs. The walking dead were creatures of magic, and it would take Heartwarden’s magic to defeat them. He drew upon the soulblade’s power, and his mind reached out, touching the chains of power binding the dead bodies. He sensed the spell, cold and dark, that forced the corpses to walk and fight. 
    Nicodemus drew more power into himself, as much as he could hold, until his mind seemed to burn with it. Then he charged through the chamber, striking every corpse he could reach, giving them just as a tap with his blade, the sword’s power pouring into them to fight against the warlock’s dark magic. The corpses stopped for a moment, the fires in their eyes flickering, and the warlock took a few steps backwards. 
    “Fool!” shouted the warlock. “You have not the power to banish them back to the grave. Kill him! Kill him now!”
    The walking dead Nicodemus had touched did not respond.
    They turned, burning eyes falling upon the warlock, and attacked. 
    The warlock shouted in alarm and gestured, green fire bursting from his fingertips. Some of the corpses fell, consumed by the flames, but others kept coming. The warlock backed towards the stairs, the fires crackling from his hands, his full attention upon the walking dead. 
    So it was easy for Nicodemus to circle around and plunge his sword into the warlock’s back. 
    The warlock shuddered, clawing at the air, the green fire around his fingertips dying out. 
    “Master!” snarled the warlock, gesturing at the ceiling. “Master, aid me!”
    Then the warlock slumped forward, falling off Nicodemus’s sword. The fires in the animated corpses’ eyes flickered madly.
    Then they fell motionless as the dead warlock’s spell expired. 
    Nicodemus looked at the slain warlock for a moment, and then up at the ceiling.
    The orcish warlock had called out for his master. And he still felt the source of dark power radiating from the top of the Tower, like a freezing gale blowing from the mountains. 
    Another warlock. That was the only answer. The dead warlock must have been serving a more powerful one. And unless Nicodemus slew them both, his Trial was incomplete. 
    He cleaned the blood from his sword and started up the stairs. He passed through more chambers, each one littered with crumbling bones, the wind moaning through the empty windows. 
    Then he entered the chamber at the Tower’s crown, and saw the crimson light. 
    It filled the chamber, painting the marble walls the color of blood. An altar stood in the center of the room, beneath the Tower’s dome, and upon that altar rested a gemstone the size of Nicodemus’s fist. The blood-colored light poured from it, as if a fire raged within the stone's depths. 
    Even from across the room, even without using Heartwarden, Nicodemus felt the raw power of the thing, the sheer arcane potency. 
    It was a soulstone, similar to the soulstone embedded at the base of Heartwarden’s blade,