Tale of the Darkblade

Note: Be advised, foul language present and murder described within.

Rathikim stood on the balcony of a nobleman's house, briefly observing the gaiety below, wistful at what his life might have been. His life had led him all over the world but never permitted him to be a part of it. He had played almost every role you could imagine, be it a noble, soldier, musician, playwright, actor, or any of a hundred other trades, a benefit of an unnaturally lengthy youth.

Tonight, he watched with particular interest the musicians playing on the raised dias in the center of the courtyard, keen to study their style even if at a distance, in case he ever returned to this city, not that such was likely. Wherever he'd been sent, whether he wore his own face or another, he only ever came to deliver death to the enemies of his loathsome King and master. Seeing that the party was now in full swing and the guests distracted, or inebriated, enough to ignore the apparent disappearance of a minor noble, his body slipped inside the building itself. Stumbling along like a man who'd drunk more than his share, he pretended to look for the privy, even as his true goal was his generous host's only child.

As he moved through the house, Wrath wondered if he could ever escape this life? Had any of the orphaned children like him escaped? If any had, it never reached his ears, even with his extensive network of spies secreted around the realm he was bound to. Finally, he came to what was supposedly the correct door and pressed it open with nary a whisper from the hinges or even a shift in the air. His eyes pierced the dark room with ease; seeing the sleeping child in his bed, his ears heard the boy's slow, deep, and steady breathing, even as his death loomed not five feet from him. But the boy was not alone in his slumber, as a guard was resting in the corner, an unexpected complication. Perhaps his abhorrent master had overused this particular tactic, but Wrath was already here, the army only a day away, and failure or inaction had not been an option for Wrath in many years. Even the loss of himself would be seen as a minor setback in the course of the coming war his owners wanted with this country. And the bastards believed the death of a child was acceptable to gain the upper hand.

Hesitating as to whom to kill first, Wrath's choice was taken from him by the geas etched over his heart, the heat of Hell itself burning his skin and boiling his blood. Screaming in pain, his fist was driven by the curse's power through the child's head and then his heart, the boy's gore burning and boiling at Wrath's touch. Until a dagger of unparalleled beauty was thrust through the geas' mark, and the heat abated instantly, even as Wrath stared at the shining, dry blade tip poking from his chest.

'I should be dead, and that should be covered in blood,' he thought to himself, turning to face his would-be killer, even as the guard stumbled back, refusing to believe the horror standing before him. What had been an ordinary enough-looking man had lit afire and murdered his charge in front of him, his clothes burning off him as he screamed with the fury of a banshee. Now, the menacing thing before him appeared as a lesser demon of Hell. Tall as any being of the outer spheres, its taught skin the colour of dried blood, clinging like a wet canvas to its muscle and bone, with eyes of polished steel in the dark, staring at him with a warped smile on its face, fanged teeth only just visible in its mouth.

"I'm free?" it said, shifting about in its body before laughing like a child. "I'm free. I'm free," it said, its face turning through every emotion as it repeated itself over and over, staring at its clawed hands and the dagger just visible in its chest.

Until the door of the room came crashing down as the other houseguards responded to the scream of the demon. "Maban's blood. Demon!" the first guard cried as he attacked the half-naked beast. Wrath reacted instinctively, catching the guard's wrist, twisting it over and breaking it before he threw the guard into the others who'd crossed the doorway. Laughing more as he moved under his own accord for the first time in several decades, He ran and launched himself out the window of the room, tattered clothes flapping behind him, as he climbed to the roof before fleeing deep into the accursed shadows of the moonless night. Free at last to act as he chose, not bound to the will of the King he had bowed to since childhood, even as he wished him dead. Now, he was free to act on that desire.

As the morning sun broke the gloom that had hidden him for a time, Wrath was only a few doors down from the sorcerer his contact had directed him to find. Wrapped in a stolen cloak to hide his no doubt rapidly spreading description through the city, he knocked upon the door of the unassuming building.

"Enter." came a voice, at once beside the door and deep in the building. Wrath stepped through the threshold much as he had entered the young boy's room mere hours ago. "Well, this is unexpected. What exactly does your King Herzog want with a lowly sorcerer? I've no value in his invasion." the voice again came from several shadowed corners in the dark building, and the telltale hum of magic was everywhere.

"I'm not here on Imfrid's black business," Wrath spat the name from his mouth, "Not since this freed me from his will." Wrath shifted the cloak to show the dagger lodged in his back and breast, and as he did, the sorcerer snapped into existence in front of him.

"Oh my. It wasn't Herzog you're bound to, but one of the Barons of Hell. Abdiran, if I'm not mistaken." the sorcerer examined the swirling scar's pattern and its breach from the dagger, "And you're not free, or not fully anyway. King Herzog is no longer the owner of your geas though, so long as that dagger is there."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning both will be hunting you and so long as the dagger stays put, you're enslaved only to your word, not another's. That being said," The hum of magic in the building became a deafening roar in Wrath's ears, "I can't let you leave here."

Looking down as he covered his ears, Wrath saw a trapping symbol glowing underneath his feet. Wrath stepped forward, testing the sorcerer's will as he pushed against the invisible walls of the spell. The walls only shifted inward, confirming that this sorcerer was resolute in holding Wrath in his grip. "Then you have something you wish me to do? Or am I to be handed over to the guards?"

The sorcerer let half a smile cross upon his face before he spoke, "I, and I imagine the rest of the city, would enjoy seeing you swing. But I have a different idea. No, I want you to swear to kill the man leading the army that is no doubt approaching our walls as we speak. His second as well. Sow the same chaos in their ranks you were sent to sow in my city, and then return here, that you may answer for your crime last night."

"As you wish, kind sorcerer." Wrath bowed low, feeling the geas fuel him again, his body no longer wholly his own. "Anything else?"