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

Robilar stood, watching the vampire intently. The air around them was thick, oppressive, carrying the faint stench of decay. A distant wind howled through the ancient stone corridors, its hollow sound like a whispered warning. Anila’s eyes glowed with an eldritch green light in hollow sockets, casting an eerie reflection on the damp stone beneath her bare feet. Needle-sharp fangs gleamed in a threatening smile. Her white gown presented an interesting contrast next to her greyish olive skin.

“Robilar. How utterly good to see you.” Her voice was warm, honeyed.

He stared at her, eyes soft as the memories of who she used to be flew past his mind’s eye. And then the one he most tried to forget came back: Her rising from the grave and feasting on the sacrificial infant, the faint cries rising and then fading into silence, before he could stop her.

He swallowed hard at the memory. “Anila.” His voice was cold, and hard.

Anila glanced at Lucien, hanging in mid-air where the Chronomancer’s spell held him. As she walked around the werewolf, her bare feet made no sound on the stone floor, though a faint chill seemed to radiate outward with every step. She noted that Robilar stayed between her and the women with him. “Still protecting mortals?”

“Always.”

“You didn’t protect me.” Her voice raised at the end. She shook her head as she trailed a hand down the partially uncoiled flank of the lycanthrope, leaving behind a glistening line of frost.

Robilar’s shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t protect you. Sangris was the first of her kind I’d ever encountered.”

The ancient being, gaunt and skeletal, with deep-set eyes and a bat-like, almost reptilian visage had Anila in her iron grip. Sangris’ greyish-white face was buried in Anila’s neck, deep scarlet bubbling up from her fangs.

The holy symbol hung in Robilar’s hand, impotent. None of the traditional weapons worked against the primordial vampire.

Anila gazed up at him from under her brow. “You never traveled back to save me, either.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Robilar, you’re a Chronomancer. You think I don’t know what that is?” She watched with a faint smile as his brow furrowed and his head tilted. “How, you wonder?” Her smile widened again. “I know all about you.”

“Do you, now.” His voice deepened as he straightened. “Are you certain of that?”

A chuckle escaped her as she lowered Lucien to the ground. A ripple went through the air, and the werewolf rose smoothly to his feet. “What do you think?”

“You’re toying with things you do not understand, Anila.”

“I understand a great deal more than you think.” She slapped Lucien’s back. “Sic ’em, boy.”

The werewolf leaped at Robilar with a snarl, the sound reverberating off the cold stone walls like the growl of a beast far larger. The Chronomancer raised his hand to cast a spell.

The monster crashed into him in a whirl of snapping fangs and lashing claws. They hit the floor and rolled, both fighting for dominance.

The werewolf used his greater weight to gain the advantage and pinned Robilar’s hands to the ground as he straddled his brother’s hips. As he thrust his muzzle at the Chronomancer’s throat, Robilar’s skull intercepted his maw in a head-butt.

Lucien reared back, howling in pain. Several of his teeth fell out as his head went back.

Robilar shook his bloodied head, trying to clear the crimson from his eyes. He bucked his hips and managed to twist to his side, dislodging the werewolf from where he sat.

Lucien drew back a fist, intending to rake his brother’s face with his claws, but Robilar’s hand flashed out and caught his throat in an iron grip.

The werewolf recoiled and the Chronomancer took advantage of the movement to plant his feet at his opponent’s hips and thrust upward while pulling his grasp down.

Lucien flipped overhead and crashed to the stone floor. Bits of the broken wall danced on the ground.

Robilar kipped up and pushed his fist at his stomach and then thrust his now open hand out. A bright light appeared and a shadowy form stepped out.

###

Angriz’s sword clove through another demon’s skull. ‘I’m glad we don’t need enchanted weapons against the rank-and-file demons. Else an already difficult task would be impossible.’ He pushed his hand through his pink-tinged mane as he jogged forward, searching for the demon’s general. His claws caught on pieces of dried gore, eliciting a growl as pain raced through his scalp. ‘I must cleanse myself soon. This blood is irritating in between my scales.’

A crimson shockwave raced across the battlefield in the distance. The Celestial magic reached into the heavens. ‘Now I know where Azrael is.’ He angled his path to intercept the angel. Around him, the clash of steel and demonic roars filled the air, mingling with the cries of fallen soldiers. The ground beneath his feet was slick with bloody mud while the battlefield choked with bodies, both human and demon.

The general could wait a bit longer. As he ran across the battlefield, cutting down minor demons with ruthless efficiency, he growled at the loss of another of his men.

‘I hope Azrael doesn’t wear himself out. Many of my army need resurrection.” He paused to kill a L’Arc with three economical slices of his sword. ‘If only he’d teach the spell to my mages and clerics, we’d not lose so many.’

He ran through another L’Arc as she attempted to control one of his soldiers. The angel’s resurrection spell didn’t require the highly expensive and rare crushed hypersthene.

The army was slowly being whittled down by the seeming limitless demonic horde. In this war of attrition, his people were being decimated. Each lost solider was like a dagger in his chest.

A Lyxo demon reared up, its three heads snapping at him. With ruthless efficiency, Angriz hacked off the right foreleg, cut one of the throats, decapitated another head and stabbed the third head under the jaw. The point of his sword punched through the top of its skull-plate.

He resumed his jog, pausing frequently to assist a beleaguered warrior. About halfway to Azrael’s side, the quaking of the ground knocked him sprawling. For a moment, the world spun—his vision blurred, his heart racing. He struggled to rise, his muscles protesting. As he waved his hand before his face to clear the dust, a putrid stench made his stomach rebel. ‘No. It can’t be. Not now.’

Out of the swirling dust, the demon emerged—an abomination of twisted flesh and writhing heads. Its scaled body stretched across the battlefield, each of its heads snapping at the battling men, its roars shaking the ground beneath them. The stench alone was enough to bring soldiers to their knees, a sickening blend of sulfur and decay that clung to the air like poison.

Men screamed. “HYDRA! RUN!!”

###

Carter exited the cavern, sweat clinging to his arms and face. The thick humidity made it hard to breathe. Flickering light caught his eye. ‘Why is it always some flickering thing to catch my eye like I’m a magpie?’

He headed closer to it and just off the path he and the elder had cut through the swamp, a swirling portal shimmered with vibrant hues, casting eerie reflections on the dark, stagnant water. Colors spiraled in mesmerizing patterns—deep violets and fiery oranges twisted with emerald greens and electric blues—creating an otherworldly glow that danced across the gnarled tree roots and hanging vines. The mist surrounding the portal seemed to be drawn toward it, swirling with the motion of the vortex, while faint crackling sounds echoed like distant whispers. Despite the swamp's usual stillness, the air around the portal buzzed with energy, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the colors pulsed in hypnotic rhythm. He gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at moment’s notice.

He approached the spiraling light with slow, deliberate steps. His sharp eyes flicked between the twirling colors and the surrounding swamp, keeping alert for hidden traps or ambush among the twisted roots, hanging vines and clinging mist. The twin moons in the sky stared balefully at the scene beneath them. He crouched near a bush when he heard a faint susurration coming from the portal. ‘Where did the elder swamp elf go? I thought for sure he’d wait for me to pass his test.’ He tilted his head as he studied the light. ‘Or is this another test? Maybe the a continuation?’

Carter’s breath slowed as a faint, melodic hum seeped from the portal, curling around his ears like a distant lullaby. At first, it was subtle—a whisper beneath the rush of wind through the swamp—but soon it grew, harmonizing with the rhythmic pulse of the swirling colors. His hand, slackened from his sword as the tones deepened, weaving through his thoughts and pulling his gaze into the heart of the vortex. ‘Why is this so magnetic? I… sense… danger… yet…’

His feet moved on their own, drawn closer with each step, the portal’s glow casting strange, flickering shadows across his armor. His awareness of the swamp faded, the world narrowing to just the sound and light ahead. The hum grew sweeter, almost tender, wrapping him in a comforting embrace, until his fingers hovered inches from the shimmering surface, trembling as they reached out instinctively toward the beckoning glow.

A spark jumped to his fingers, snapping him awake. ‘What the hell—?’ Before he could complete his thought, the vortex leaped forward, engulfing his hand, and yanked him inside.

###

The granite boulder exploded in a storm of dust and razor sharp pieces from the magical attack. As the debris bounced harmlessly off her shield, Dearbhaile was attacked by her sister wielding a curved blade. She ducked under the slash and sidestepped the stab, using the ancient trees to her advantage.

Dappled sunlight alternated between illuminating and shadowing the sisters as they battled. The sunlight flickered across Líadan’s blade, casting shifting glints of gold as it sliced through the air.

Líadan pulled the sword back and whirled her arm around to cut at her sister’s belly with a forehand swipe. Dearbhaile leaped back, sucking in her stomach. Líadan continued the circling of her swipe, and while her sister kept her gaze on the blade, kicked her in the belly.

As the air exploded from her chest, the younger woman collapsed, holding her stomach as electric pain raced through her, and gasping for air. Líadan stared down at her sister with narrowed eyes and shook her head, slamming her weapon into the dirt, point first. “How many times do I have to tell you, irmãzinha? Keep your shield up!” Concern and frustration filled her voice.

Dearbhaile set her jaw as she pushed herself up. “I’m sorry, irmá máis vella. Let me try again.” ‘When she swung her sword with her left hand, she followed it by kicking me with her left foot. Let’s see if she does it again.’

“No. It’s time to eat. We can resume then.” Líadan picked up and sheathed her blade. “I still don’t understand why you want to learn to fight with swords.”

A gust of wind stirred the leaves above, drying the sweat on Dearbhaile’s brow. She picked up a water skin and drank deeply before answering.

“As I already told ye: Travellin’ with Carter taught me tae try tae prepare for anythin’. I might end up in a situation where I be unable tae use me magic.”

“I get the preparing for anything, but how would you ever end up not being able to use your magic?” The elder elf lead the way back to her home. “You’ll never be without your blood.”

A woodpecker’s rhythmic tapping echoed in the distance, mixing with the rustle of squirrels scurrying through the canopy above. The earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled the air as the sisters moved through the undergrowth, their footsteps muffled by the soft, loamy ground.

“What if I be bound?”

“What if you were? Even the little from biting the inside of your cheek is enough to free yourself.”

“An’ if I be also gagged?”

“Use your nails to scrape the flesh from your thumbs.” She looked over her shoulder. “Also, how could you use a sword if you’re tied up?”

“That be a completely different question.” Dearbhaile jogged a little to catch up to her sister’s longer strides. “Yer question’s how could I be prevented from using mah magic. I nevair said I’d attempt to use a sword if I be bound.”

“Okay, I’m confused. If you’re not tied, why couldn’t you use your magic?”

“Robilar says there be things called anti-magic fields. They can stop magiks from working.” Dearbhaile brushed aside a low-hanging branch that almost hit her face, feeling the rough bark scrape against her palm.

Líadan paused as she straightened. “Who is Robilar?”

“He be a Chronomancer friend of Carter’s.”

“A Chronomancer?” The elder woman resumed walking, twigs and dried leaves crackling under her feet. “They are real?”

“He claims he be tha only one.”

Líadan’s hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. “Has he mentioned The Timelord?”

“Nae. Not that I’ve heard anyway.” Dearbhaile hurried and caught her sister’s hand, bringing her to a stop. “Why? What be wrong? Do you think he was lying?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t know. Not mentioning The Timelord is meaningless by itself. It’s a secret prophecy. I’ve only heard of the title, not many details.”

“What did ye learn?”

“The Timelord is supposed to be the one who can restore things to their proper way of being.”

“What be tha meanin’ of that?”

Líadan shrugged. “I never found out. But, it’s a mystery I’ve puzzled over for many years.” She grinned. “You know how I am with mysteries.”

“Aye. Ye’d nevair let them be.”

“That’s right.” She resumed walking. “I wonder if he’d tell me if I asked. Robilar, I mean.”

“Almost anything be possible.”

“I still can’t believe you fell for a human kid.”

“He’s not a kid!”

“He was when you met him. And at your age.”

“Why does this bother you so?”

“Because, irmãzinha, I love you, and I don’t want you hurt.”

“Carter would nae hurt me.”

Líadan’s eyes softened and her lips trembled. “I don’t want to see you shattered when he’s gone.” She swallowed hard.

Dearbhaile’s hand on her arm stopped Líadan. “What do ye mean? Did ye have a foreseein’?”

“Dearbhaile, I don’t have to. He’s a human. You’ll live far longer than he.”

“Nae. I won’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“He’s the Walker of Worlds, remember? When he comes into his power, he’ll cease to age.”

Líadan blinked, trying to understand the implications. “You mean he’ll be immortal?” “What would that even be like?’ She shook her head. ‘The oldest elves lived only six thousand years. We rarely make it a thousand, now.’

“Unless he’s killed, he’ll never die of old age, infirmity, or illness.”

“Which means…”

“We’ll have, at most, a millennium.”

“Does he know?”

Dearbhaile shook her head. “And I don’t know how to tell him either.”