The Black Blade of Giria
The prey looked to the shadowed corner. A barely audible creak drew his attention to the darkest space of the room, whence the huntress studied him. He turned his head away, assuming his work. The room was dark, but the huntress’s sharpened vision could see the walls made from creamy wood and the polished black stone floor. It was furnished with elegant lounging chairs framed in scale-printed metal and plum velvet cushioning. The vizier’s desk was made from the same iron and shaped in a flat arch. The desk chair had a high back with a decorative serpent head with its mouth hanging open, baring black fangs. The walls had metallic light fixtures shaped as a curved serpent holding dim glass orbs in their mouths.
The huntress looked from the high ceiling corner of the remote office, calculating when to strike at her defenceless victim. She wasn’t always a mindless predator; she once had a family; she was once a fledgling and she once had a friend. But that was all stripped from her. Now, she was left with her daggers, her psionic mind and a possessive oracle master.
Vizier Surus was alone in his office that night. There would normally be a dozen zealots around him. However, this night, he needed to be alone to complete his work without the prying eyes of others, even his protectors. He was suspected for sacrilege; defying the divinity of the Twin Serpents was punishable by death. The huntress remembered the words spoken by her master, Oracle Charr, who assigned her to this task: make my enemies suffer.
By the laws of Giria, all who are accused of crimes are innocent until proven otherwise. Unfortunately, that was only put into practice by those who are worth the resources for such trails. The vizier would have been considered for such rights, but Oracle Charr knew the vizier was in greater favour with the Council than himself and he must be eliminated to preserve his seat. The huntress didn’t ponder whether the vizier was a better Girian than Charr, she didn’t care if he would’ve been a fairer leader, she didn’t care whether his partner or offspring would mourn him if he were discovered dead in his office. The huntress was not a person, she was a living dagger for the Oracles to use and abuse.
She watched his movements. He was tall, but his limbs lacked muscle. Surus would have a superior reach. However, strength and speed were in the huntress’s favour. He held no weapons on his hips, but she couldn’t detect whether he had any concealed armaments. The vizier carefully packed the scrolls in his tunic. She could sense he was becoming weary of the environment. Gripping the framework of the ceiling, she was careful to remain in the shadows as she crawled above to her prey. The huntress’s stealthy confidence began diminishing as her leathery armour creaked with each motion.
Surus froze his fumbling through the scrolls to listen. He must have sensed something was in the room with him. He suddenly rose from his chair and lifted an armful of crumbling documents. This was the only opportunity for the huntress, a chance for a clean ambush. The vizier tilted his head above him, his face inches from hers. He quickly reached down underneath his desk for his dagger, but she got it first. The huntress unhooked her legs from the ceiling and landed with both feet clamped on the Surus’s shoulders forcing them down. She straddled on the vizier’s chest as he thrashed around, trying to reach for her face, but she pulled out a golden dagger from her belt.
“This belongs to you, Vizier,” she said as the Vizier shrieked, his hands shielded his face from the inevitable, “Oracle Charr sends his regards to the Twins.” the huntress plunged the shiny knife into his chest, piercing his heart.
“The Black Blade…” Surus’s voice died as she pushed the dagger further in.
Pressing the blade deeper, blood began pooling from his neck, and his thrashing finally ceased. The huntress was not a person when hunting, but still, she didn’t desire her victims to suffer. It wasn’t compassion or explicable emotion; it was her efficiency that mattered most.
She took great care when standing, not wanting to step in the blood that could be tracked outside this office. If she were caught, Oracle Charr would renounce his personal assassin and the only suitable place for her would be the dungeons. The huntress slipped her way back into the shadows, creating a psychic camouflage allowing her to blend in the darkness, a vital skill she had to learn as fledgling back at the Academy over a decade ago. Running across the walls and skittering along the ceilings in the dark made her feel like a death incarnate.
Once the huntress slipped past the guards from the military tower, she was greeted with the chill of night’s air. Giria had the protective energy dome surrounding it, but it couldn’t completely keep the denizens within free from the elements. On the hottest days, those who strayed too close to the outer ramparts of the Black Walls would burn their skin as its black metal would drink in the heat. She almost began to chuckle at the memory of the Walls; recalling her time in the desert wilds during the hot weeks and how many fledglings must have died during the brutal challenge. She was one of the few who survived. When she reached the Walls, she was immediately rushed off to the oracle’s care centres to recuperate before beginning working for her new masters.
The huntress stopped her speedy escape from the armoury. There was enough distance before finally breaking the psychic camouflage. She stood on top of a hill beside a familiar light-deprived forest. She knew if she trekked straight through this section, she would reach the Academy. However, her master was waiting for her return - and he was not a patient Girian. As she stood watching the still grey branches and reminisced on the days of her stolen youth, a commotion broke her reminiscing, and her attention snapped back to the tower. The huntress ducked, her body responding immediately to the sounds, almost planting her face into the golden and orange flowers growing from the grass. She watched guards shouting amongst each other in loud grunts and sign language.
“Was the Blade here? Did the Black Blade penetrate our base? Did anyone actually see the Black Blade?” The guards shouted. Though tempted, the huntress dared not penetrate the thoughts of those guards. Otherwise, it could reveal her position.
A powerful thought bore its way into the hunter’s mind. Excellent work, I can already feel them rushing about the tower like frightened ants!
Thank you, master, the huntress beamed back.
Well, are you waiting to be discovered? Return here immediately for a proper celebration, Von-wratha, Oracle Charr transmitted.
With a simple command, she opened the door to the shadows and returned to darkness.
~
The oracles lived in the centre of Giria. Their high tower twirled to the heavens with large metallic red serpents interlocked with bared fangs at any who looked to their frightening glory. Von-wratha finally reached the base of the great Spire. She watched the giant red fangs reflecting the neon lights before stepping off the neat cobbled path into the bushes. A waft of freshly picked sun-peaches touched her delicate nose. The orchid farms were not far from the scarlet gardens, a flutter of excitement rippled inside her at the thought of tasting the seasonal fruit. Girians needed less than a few bites of food a day, most of their hunger was satiated by the Twins, so it was told.
For Von-wratha, hunger was even rarer. She had trained to be resilient to the painful emptiness in her gut and had often gone for weeks without a lick of food while on various missions. Of course, fruit as sweet as a sun-peach, was suited only for nobles and oracles. Her master would be generous enough to give Von-wratha the bruised and over-ripe pieces. Perhaps Charr had saved one untouched peach for her in his office.
She encircled the structure to find the hidden entrance to the Spire, which was designated for prisoners and assassins, something the oracles didn’t want commoners to see. Like that could tarnish their ‘glorious’ reputation, Von-wratha thought to herself. She found a large black boulder that stuck awkwardly out of place in the structure. It overshadowed a subterranean space where an angled trapdoor sat which would lead past the dungeons. She frequently passed through this doorway. Her quarters were also below ground, the oracles wouldn’t dare share the same levels with someone as lowly as her, but she stopped caring many years ago. The halls were so small and narrow, many would assume them to be more like tunnels if it were not for the burning torches on either side of the walls. She swiftly went down a small stone staircase. The narrow halls lead to a long chamber with high ceilings and wider walkways. To her left, were one storey stone archways with steps leading to the lower sanctums of the spire – directly to the dungeons.
Von-wratha may have been a cold murderess, but the dungeons made her blood freeze. She hastened her walk past the arches. The distant and muffled moans coming from the black shadows beyond the lower stairs made her feet work extra hard to move faster. Being in the sheer presence of those dark halls would make anyone sense a pure malevolence and evil manifesting in the blinding shadows. The dungeons were far more than a place of prisoners and wardens; there were demonic energies that ran through anyone who drew near the unnatural darkness. Von-wratha hated this place. She would pass the archways several times a day and every time she would become more uncomfortable.
She moved like a desert spider, with light and ease with each step so none could hear anything but the whooshing wind. Von-wratha climbed up another set of stairs across the chamber. They twirled up, higher and higher until she reached a closed wooden doorway before her. In Giria, wood was a rare commodity from the desert and was only given to those who sat on top. There were large red gardens that took up much of the cities centre, but those trees would take many years to grow if they were ever cut down.
To others who looked upon the door, it appeared to be a simple plank of wood sitting inside an archway. However, she knew that this gate was bathed in strange magic infused by the oracles. In the centre, a brass knob was shaped in a snake head with two emerald gems studded within each eye socket. They glowed as Von-wratha approached it. She reached out two fingers to press into the strange stones. She felt a small click inside the mechanism, and then the wooden door gently swung open.
Inside was a tiny room that could barely fit four people. Each surface was plated with a creamy brown glass that had sparked a tiny white light. The door closed unassisted when she stepped into this small room, and a second later, a strobe of white light appeared around her. Von-wratha caught her reflection in the glass as the strobe gradually increased its intensity. Her pale grey face was lined with black tattoos stretched from her navy hairline down past her jaw. Similar black tattoos lined all around her arms, legs and around her torso mostly hidden from her usual black leather tunic and grey cloth leggings. After every kill, she would receive another tattoo, especially if she had slain someone of notoriety. Von-wratha looked at her reflection a little longer and noticed her natural silvery orbs had dimmed, and her sharp and slightly skeletal features became even more noticeable. She sighed and thought that she had aged decades in the last few years.
The dazzling strobe vanished, and the wooden door swung open to reveal an entirely new chamber. She stepped outside the glassy closet and strolled into Oracle Charr’s office. He sat on the other end of the room on an ornate metal throne behind his wide and semi-circular desk with a bowl of half-eaten sun-peaches. Typical, she thought. He looked to Von-wratha as she entered. The light from the setting sun-bathed the room and accentuated an excited grin on his narrow face.
“Well done! Well done, my blade!” Oracle Charr hastily stood and walked around his obnoxiously large desk with his arms extended out.
Von-wratha said nothing, she was forbidden to speak to an Oracle unless directly given permission, even with an oracle as personable as Charr. His tall and thin frame was draped with elegant white and light grey robes flowing behind him as he excitedly rushed over to Von-wratha. He was the youngest in history to be initiated in the Council and the most powerful as he liked to boast. He kept his blue-black hair short and slicked back on his head. His exceptionally pale grey skin contrasted his black tattoos that extended from his widow’s peak all the way down to his upper chest. Oracle Charr’s symmetrical face was sculpted like something from stone, and almond-shaped eyes were a brilliant emerald, something scarce and desirable for Girians. Despite his undeniable physically attractive qualities, Charr was a ruthless and power-hungry leader. He enjoyed tormenting his enemies and humiliating them at every presented opportunity.
“Tell me, blade, what did he say once I had given him my regards? Did you make him suffer?” he said as his hands gently gripped around Von-wratha’s solid biceps.
When she began serving Charr, she was highly unaccustomed to his enthusiasm and personal boundary invasion. After many months, she had finally overcome his habit of touching others when he was pleased - or when he was angry.
“The vizier hadn’t had a chance to utter a single word when I killed him with his own dagger, master,” Von said straightening her posture. Charr’s grip on her arms hardened, his eyes widened, and his grin became more devilish. She had hoped that her words would sate both questions: they didn’t.
“But did you make him suffer?” he whispered through his teeth as his eye’s continued to bore into Von-wratha’s stone face. He wanted to hear every detail of the slay. With every second that she delayed giving into his sadism, the harder his grip became, like a petulant brat. Charr didn’t seem fazed at the fact that Von-wratha’s work was so easily discovered. He rather enjoyed the name commoners had given his favourite pet, ‘the Black Blade of Giria.’
“His dying groans were gargled by blood. It was slow,” Von replied, she gave him his treat for the day.
Charr rolled his eyes back and exhaled his sweet breath. “Wonderful. He is no longer an obstacle for us. Now, I have a reward for you,” he pulled his grip away from her arms and leant against the edge of his desk.
Von-wratha’s tattooed brows shot up, hoping there would be another unspoiled bowl for her. “The peaches?”
“Oh, no. You deserve something far better!” he tapped her shoulders with a cheeky grin, slid his left arm across her upper back and began pulling her forward to the desk. “You have worked for me for many years, which rose my rank into the Oracle Council. I must credit you for all that hard work, Von,”
Von-wratha silently waited for the catch, Oracle Charr never offered gifts unless it benefitted himself.
“It’s time for you to meet the prestigious, the illustrious Council!” he said throwing his arms up in the air. There was a slight tone of sarcasm in his voice. Charr wouldn’t dare take that tone in front of Council members, but Von-wratha was another silent piece of Charr’s furniture, which was the best place for her to be.
“Thank you, master. It would do this servant a great honour,” she said trying to hide her contempt for the people above.
“Oh, don’t worry, Von. They’re not that bad, unless you count that neurotic, Razza. Just don’t make direct eye contact with any of them and speak only when spoken to. Not all of them are as progressive as me,” he said with a slap on her forearm.
His hands were smooth and soft, as if he never worked a physically demanding day in his life. Were all oracles born elitists and driven by ambition? Were they so far removed from the world that they don’t know what colour the desert sands are? Von-wratha continued to wonder. A thought trickled through her subconsciousness, what if she practised her telekinetic energy to pinch Charr’s heart artery; but then he probably didn’t possess one, and too many questions would linger about his death if she had.
She followed him to the centre of the office and pulled her long navy hair over her chest. Her hand gripped onto one of the tied strands. She nervously inhaled knowing that Charr’s ability to teleport made her stomach turn each jump. With the mysterious psychic knowledge only bestowed by the Twin’s to their direct speakers, Oracle Charr lifted his right hand which was emanating a pulsating green glow. He snapped his fingers, and the two Girians were sucked through an airless hole in the fabric of the universe. Von-wratha held her breath and her stomach twisted. Not a moment later, they were spat out in an antechamber Von-wratha didn’t recognise.
The metal walls were crafted by ancient Girians that lead to the ceilings which seemed to pass beyond sight. A navy mist flowed above mimicking the sparkling night skies. As she stared at the strange dark cloud, she felt rejuvenated in its presence, ceasing her nausea and empowering her senses. The circular structure had beautiful empty thrones sitting in a wide circle with giant navy serpent heads levitating above them. There were no windows in this sanctum, and Von-wratha was perplexed whether they were in the highest room of the Spire or in a different plane entirely.
The polished white marble floors contrasted with the grim colours of the antechamber. They reflected the figures of over a dozen people standing in small groups silently talking amongst themselves. Oracle Charr seemed unfazed by the instant transport and confidently strolled to the centre of the antechamber where most people stood. Von-wratha felt like her innards were twisting themselves into their original place as she followed sheepishly close behind Charr. She kept her stare to the reflective floor. Others must have assumed she was showing respect, but instead, she concentrated on keeping herself from spilling her stomach contents. A small smile curled up on her face at the thought of such a mess in this antechamber.
“Honoured ones, I bring my most devout and favoured servant before you,” Charr said with a smile in his voice as he gently nudged Von-wratha into full view.
Even with her head low, she could still feel many eyes glaring at her. She could feel some attempting to scan and probe her mind, while others came up and physically touched her arms and shoulders. One oracle walked into her view of the floor, their three-toed feet were bare, slender and very pale. Their breath on her head smelt of sweet herbs and their white robes reminded Von-wratha of a valley of desert roses.
“She is unimpressive,” a smooth voice shot out from behind Von-wratha.
“With respect, you would be wrong to assume that! I present to you, Oracle Razza, the Black Blade of Giria,” Charr chimed with enthusiasm.
“Raise your head,” the sweet voice in front of Von-wratha commanded.
She did what she was told and slowly lifted her head. She could feel her insides become turbulent as Von-wratha mustered control to keep herself from showing weakness to these powerful fanatics. A tall female Girian with moon-white hair stood before Von-wratha. Her luminescent robes were almost transparent that loosely hung on her white skin. Her face was pointed to a symmetrical v-shape, and her orbs glimmered a blue hue so bright that Von-wratha could barely see her the outline of her eyelids. Von-wratha’s illness relented and was replaced by Razza’s otherworldly beauty and terrifying power.
“So, this is the infamous Black Blade of Giria. The Twins and I could have sworn that blades are meant to be unknown to the commoners, yet why do you insist on unorthodox methods?” Oracle Razza’s voice was smooth and incredibly alluring.
“This servant hadn’t given herself that name. ‘The Black Blade’ was invented by commoners, some think it’s a myth, until it’s not. Let the lowborn fear the legend, it flames the divine power of the Twins,” Von replied with slight pride. She could sense Charr seize up beside her.
Von-wratha sensed the heartbeats of everyone in the antechamber heighten in a melodic thumping. Was this the wrong answer? She worried. Charr would’ve eaten up her words without question.
“Never speak like you’re one of us, ‘Black Blade,’” Razza gently smiled. “There’s a small issue the Council has been facing for some time now. The people of Giria have been forgetting who their gods are and have started following other false gods and their prophets. Their leaders are many, but the one coordinating their movement needs…persuading,” she said with a twinkle in her gorgeous eyes.
“This one isn’t in the profession of persuasion,” Von said.
“Your profession is to do what you are ordered.” Charr said.
“Calm yourself, Oracle Charr.” Razza said without breaking her starry-gaze from Von-wratha.
“A name is needed.” Von said, she anxiously waited to hear an answer until a cackle erupted from behind the white-robed crowd.
That laugh, it was her laugh, Matron Aeos was in the same antechamber. Von-wratha’s stomach released a small portion of sick onto her tongue, she remembered praying to the universe, even to the Twins, should she ever meet her cruel matron again she would end the crone’s revolting life. Yet, Von-wratha wouldn’t dare in front of the Council or entertain the idea around Razza.
The laughing matron stammered through the crowd. She had a severe limp, and her hunched back became more apparent. Beneath the black hood, Matron Aeos’s eyes flickered their sinister red, and her wrinkly mouth opened. “Your prey’s name is Nalax.”