Rise of the DarkWalker: The Chronicles of Carter Blake, Book II

“I am the legend you have sought ever since Dearbhaile cast you aside like so much refuse.”

Corath stared at the man floating before him. After a few moments, he realized the mage wasn’t floating, but was perched on the pommel of a sword. A sword that was an exact duplicate of the one he held in his hands. Corath’s mind raced, disbelief warring with the cold dread that seeped into his bones. ‘How could this be possible?’ The sword, the mage, everything defied reason.

In the blink of an eye, the man closed the distance, moving from a rod away to standing mere inches before him, as if time had folded in on itself.

“Do not waste your thoughts on what is possible, Corath.” The mage’s voice was a whisper that seemed to echo inside the elf’s skull. “Worry only about how you will find me.”

The mage extended a long, spindly finger with too many joints bending at odd angles. When it touched the Gorauch’s fevered brow, a cold unlike any other seeped into his skin, sending a shiver down his spine, as though the very essence of winter had invaded his soul.

A flash erupted behind his eyes, and he went flying back on his ass, sliding back across the jagged, hot floor until his back slammed against the unforgiving cavern wall.

Gasping, Corath struggled to regain his senses from the jolt. As the fog in his mind cleared, he looked up to see the creatures he’d been battling all knelt before him.

Ignoring the creatures, he stared down at the two swords in his hands. One was unremarkable in its design, with a blade just shy of three feet long and a crossguard that bore the marks of countless battles. The steel, once polished to a mirror sheen, was now dulled by time and use, its surface etched with fine scratches and tiny nicks, each a testament to the countless blows it had deflected.

The hilt, wrapped in leather that had long since lost its original color, fit comfortably in his hand, molded by years of a firm grip. The leather was frayed at the edges, darkened by sweat and grime, and worn smooth where he had curled his hand around it time and again over the centuries. The pommel, once a simple rounded shape, was now chipped and dented, bearing the scars of battles fought and enemies bested.

Thousands of memories were wrapped up in this ordinary weapon.

The other sword bore a series of wicked barbs along the lower third of its blade, each one honed to a cruel edge that promised pain with every strike. The steel, infused with a mysterious substance, glowed faintly with a reddish tinge, as if the weapon itself had been forged in the heart of a volcano. Three dwarven runes, inlaid in gold, gleamed against the darkened metal, their ancient symbols whispering of long-lost secrets.

The grip, wrapped tightly in red dragonhide, was supple yet strong, the scales still bearing a faint warmth as though the beast’s fiery essence remained. It ended in a pommel carved from a 3-inch-long dragon fang, sharp and lethal, a reminder of the creature's deadly bite. The guard, fashioned from bright red metal, flared out like a pair of leathery wings, each vein and ridge meticulously crafted to evoke the fearsome majesty of a dragon in flight.

This was no ordinary blade; it radiated an aura of malevolence, as if the very spirit of the dragon had been captured within. The barbs, the runes, the fang—all spoke of a weapon designed not just to kill, but to instill terror in the hearts of its enemies. Whoever wielded it would command not just fear, but also a dark respect, as though they had made a pact with a force beyond mortal understanding.

Without further thought, Corath cast aside his ancient blade and stood with the new one in his grasp. As he sheathed it, he finally glanced at the kneeling creatures before him. When he’d approached the weapon earlier, they’d attacked. Now he held it, they bowed. ‘What does this mean? Will they be my minions? Or will they stay here?’ He looked them over, taking in the blacked substance that had ignored the bite of his previous sword and the yellowish ichor that stained the ground with an acrid stench. ‘While they’d make a formidable army, I can’t take them with me, yet. I must find that tomb Teivel showed me. It’s deeper in this hellish desert.’

###

Corath strode through the eerily silent desert, unaffected by the relentless heat. His new sword protected him from the heat with its magic, making thirst, hunger, and fatigue distant concerns. As he walked, the oppressive conditions seemed to melt away, leaving him unfazed and resolute.

A recent sandstorm swept through the area, and the once-shifting dunes had settled into new forms, their smooth surfaces disrupted by jagged outcroppings of ancient stone. In the midst of this barren landscape, a dark opening yawned at the base of a newly formed dune, the entrance to a tomb long hidden beneath the sands. The sandstorm had stripped away the layers of time, revealing the weathered stone archway that led into the depths below.

The entrance, carved from sandstone, bore the marks of age, its surface pitted and worn, yet still adorned with faint inscriptions that hinted at forgotten rites and buried secrets. A pair of pillars, half-buried and crumbling, flanked the doorway, their surfaces etched with arcane symbols of entrapment that had been spared the ravages of time by their entombment. The air around the entrance was heavy with the scent of dust and something older, something that had lain dormant for centuries, waiting to be discovered.

The sun, low on the horizon, cast long shadows across the entrance, its rays illuminating the first few steps that descended into darkness. The tomb, once lost to the desert, now beckoned with the promise of untold mysteries and dangers. The newly uncovered entrance stood as a silent invitation to any who dared to venture within.

Corath paused and studied the weathered runes carved in the door. Cruel time and sand had failed to completely erode the elegance they’d been chiseled with. They were of an elven dialect long lost to history, yet he found they were easily read.

“Hearken and heed this warning: Disturb not the hallowed crypt of the bound Teivel, whose dark dominion once enslaved legions. The ancient wards that enshroud this sacred tomb are both shield and curse, guarding against those who would awaken the slumbering wrath of the imprisoned sorcerer. Tread not upon this hallowed ground, for the fury of the mage, bound by eldritch chains, shall befall any who dare trespass. Let the ancient seal remain unbroken, lest calamity befall thee.”

Knowledge, apparently placed there by Teivel’s earlier touch in his vision, of how to open the door floated up from the depths of Corath’s mind. He brushed his left hand over the door, causing the sandstone to spiral away as if driven by a hidden breeze. A hole, matching the blade he wore on his hip, was revealed. He inserted the sword, which turned by itself, and the door responded with deep thuds and hollow clicks.

After quiet returned to the desert air once more, the sword popped out. He withdrew and sheathed it. As the door settled into the ground, Corath felt a rush of dank, musty air.

‘How does this desert tomb have moisture in it? Did I just breathe in some poison by not shielding my face?’

He entered the tomb, his worry quickly fading as he reassured himself of the legend’s intentions. ‘Teivel wouldn’t have sent me here to die by poison.’

As he crossed the threshold, a dim magical light flickered to life on the ceiling. It barely illuminated enough of the chamber to allow him to see a channel running along the floor from a western location. It lead to long dead and dried vegetation in the room. ‘Water must have run through there, providing irrigation. I wonder what caused it to vanish.’

He stepped further in and a faint waving shadow caught his eye—a twisted shrub, one rod tall, with waxy leaves and foot-long thorns. The plant’s limbs, adorned with ancient bones and armor, were as dangerous as they were eerie.

A thorny vine lashed out, aiming for his neck. Corath ducked just in time, feeling the barbs scrape his scalp. He drew his sword and cut the vine in two, but the plant shuddered and more vines lashed out.

The many remains of victims tangled in the plant’s limbs suggested its vines were quick. Yet, with the mystical sword in hand, they seemed to move in slow motion, giving Corath a crucial advantage. Several rapid slashes removed the threat from the bizarre plant.

‘What a strange guardian. What else might be in here?’

He crossed the rest of the room and entered an archway into a domed chamber. The feeble illumination came from the ceiling, the flickering light scribed across the like scattered stars. In the heart of the desolate chamber stood a weathered fountain, its once-proud basin now a cracked, dusty relic of a bygone era. The stone, veined with intricate patterns, had long lost its luster, replaced by a patina of age and neglect. The sculpted figures, once vibrant with the water's play, were now ghostly outlines, their faces obscured by layers of grime and decay. The air around it hung heavy with the silence of abandonment, and the faintest echoes of forgotten murmurs seemed to drift through the room like wisps of an ancient memory. The fountain's dry bed, cracked and empty, lay in stark contrast to the grandeur it once commanded, a silent testament to time's relentless erosion.

‘This must have been an important feature due to its fairly central location.’ Corath considered the dusty thing. ‘I wonder if this was a natural spring that was turned into this ornamentation?’

He detected runes, a finger in height, ran around the rim of the basin. He again found them easy to read.

“A passage to Lord Teivel is only granted by offering oneself as a sacrifice to the sacred scarabs.”

Two doorways sat opposite of the fountain. Upon entering the leftmost room, he discovered a fresco room, its walls a tapestry of fragmented splendor and desolation. The once-vivid murals, depicting scenes of mythical feasts and celestial battles, were now a patchwork of crumbling colors and half-erased forms, their edges disintegrating like fragile parchment. Chunks of plaster had fallen away, scattering like ancient debris around the room, revealing the faded remains of a grand narrative buried under layers of grime and decay. Shattered pieces of imagery clung desperately to the walls, their vibrant hues muted by the relentless encroachment of time and sand. The room, cloaked in a heavy silence, bore the mournful evidence of its former glory, a cryptic whisper of Teivel’s civilization lost to the desert’s eternal embrace.

He exited and crossed the fountain room to the other doorway. A dark corridor greeted him. As he stepped in, ancient torches flickered to life, granting shifting light to his eyes. The narrow passageway was flanked by walls covered with remnants of ancient tapestries. The drapery, once vibrant with the colors of finely woven thread, now hung in tatters, their images smudged and faded by the relentless encroachment of sand and time. The floor, uneven and covered in a fine layer of dust, was strewn with shards of broken pottery and fragments of decorative stonework, echoing the grandeur that had long since been eroded. The air was thick with the musty scent of ancient decay, and the silence was punctuated only by the occasional drip of distant moisture from unseen cracks. The torchlight, dancing in an unfelt breeze made the tapestries seem to dance with ghostly life before they once again faded into the shadows, as if the tomb itself wished to whisper its forgotten story to him.

The next room was rather ordinary. Another basin sat near the unadorned far wall. When it approached, it brightened, revealing a fountain of shiny black carapaces which surged upwards as if to attack him before they fell back into the bowl.

One raced up the rim. It gleamed like polished obsidian. Its smooth, reflective shell caught the light with every movement, casting deep, shifting hues of midnight blue and green. Delicate, intricate lines traced along the edges, suggesting natural patterns in the way light played over the surface. The scarab’s legs were slender and precise, and its antennae were finely segmented, giving it an air of delicate precision. Its compound eyes sparkled with an enigmatic, otherworldly intelligence. It stared at him for several heartbeats before turning back to join its brethren.

Without hesitation, as if being pulled forward by an unknown entity, Corath stepped to the fountain, and climbed in with the deadly insects.