Ruesin crept through the camp, skulking through the shadows and staying out of sight. The soldiers laughed and chatted, all gathered around their fires, the scent of their food making her stomach clench and grumble. How long had it been since she ate more than scraps? The urge drawing her on didn’t diminish, but she could feel it was close. She scuttled into the shadows of a tent, glad that most of the guards were watching outwards, and easy to evade inside the camps.

Some distance away was another war-camp, dozens of fires casting their orange haze into the sky – the opposing army. Who they were, Ruesin didn’t know – there were always battles going on, corpses to loot and scavenge afterwards. These armies seemed larger than any she had seen before, practically mobile towns, thousands of solders all willing to fight and die for some cause or lord, but she had no idea as to why they were fighting. But the impulse had risen within her a few days ago, a calling she couldn’t resist or ignore, drawing her in. The images rose in her mind, even when awake now, a shining edge of darkness, surrounded by a sea of blood.

It was close now, a constant throbbing in her mind, calling to her, making it hard to concentrate. She settled into the darkness, waiting for a guard to pass by – they were almost annoyingly diligent! But beyond the tents of the common soldiers was a section behind a wooden palisade, where the nobles made their camps. It was quieter here, the officers seemingly keeping to themselves or being given orders somewhere, rather than chatting and making noise.

At the very centre was a large tent, larger than most houses, silk of deep blue and bloody red all mixed together in an unnerving weave. Whatever was calling to her was in there, she could feel it. The entrance was magically warded, a shimmering, ice-blue glyph hovering in the air. She crept around to the side, where it was darker, and pulled out her knife to try and cut through the fabric.

It was magically reinforced, as tough as steel, resisting her blade. She circled around it – it was even larger than she’d initially thought, stretching out back, like a portable mansion. She’d heard that the commander was a demon-caller, who travelled with an entire harem to pleasure him, and would sacrifice them when they displeased him, princesses and priestesses from all the lands he had conquered, forced to service and please him. A far cry from her own life, scavenging from the corpses of the fallen, fighting with the other stragglers for the best picks, selling them for what she could get, struggling to stay alive every day.

There was no other entrance, and magical forces held the silken fabric to the ground, making it impossible to wriggle underneath. She circled back around to the entrance – the glyph still hung in the air, angular slashes of icy blue-white signalling some magical effect. But the call, the compulsion, was still there, and so she looked around, and then dashed forward. The glyph flashed but didn’t seem to activate anything.

Inside was a large open chamber, with thick rugs underfoot, and the scent of incense in the air, rich and luxurious. There was a stone altar at one end, black stone slashed through with crimson veins, incense still burning atop it. Ruesin kept a safe distance, not wanting to get dragged into whatever that was. There was no one around – she’d expected scantily-clad queens and spirits, a writhing fleshpit of wanton sex, but this was empty and dark.

There was a vague glow in the air, light shed from nothingness, everything tinged in pale blue, making her feel cold despite the warm air. Ahead of her, curtains of silk parted, the shadows writhing. Were those humanoid shapes making the shadows part, red gleams where eyes should be, horned crowns around heads? A harsh scraping noise made her shudder, a savage sound of metal-on-metal.

She tried to step back or retreat but couldn’t, her body freezing against her will, limbs refusing to let her back away. Only when she moved forward, drawn by a compulsion, could she move again. Incense swirled in her wake as she entered another chamber. The silken curtains dropped back into position and she was in a room filled with thick darkness and shadows. The metallic scraping sounded again, her head clearing somewhat.

There was a man sat there in a heavy and ornate chair. He was dressed in well-made but functional clothing, a warrior taking his leisure, elderly but still solid and strong, with white-streaked black hair held back by an iron circlet. Over his knee was a massively over-sized sword, a two-handed blade that was a cruel-looking thing of savage spikes and curves, a blood-red gem on the pommel seeming to glare at her.

‘My apologies for the theatrics, but they offer me a certain amount of amusement.’ He ran the whetstone over the blade, producing another ear-splitting screech. ‘And you are not entirely what I was expecting, I must say.’

The compulsion, the need to move was slowly fading, some of the haze fading from Ruesin’s mind, and she was better able to take in all the wealth and power this place represented. Despite the fact that it was a tent, the furniture was all solid and sturdy wood, more suited to a castle or manor than anywhere mobile. There was a suit of armour on a stand, a full harness of some dark metal covered with spikes and spines, the metal virtually glowing with protective magics. A bookshelf was stuffed with fat leather tomes, incomprehensible squiggles down their spines. Sturdy chests of wood and metal were along one “wall”, one open to reveal more equipment of war; swords and shields, all carved with magical glyphs and runes.

‘A corpse-crow? Well, there will be good pickings for your kind soon enough. But you will have more important concerns, and enough resources that you will have no need to pick through the dead for a few coins, or to strip a corpse of their boots for a few coins.’ The man’s voice was refined and slightly amused, but didn’t seem patronising. ‘But you will probably think better after some food.’ He clicked his fingers, and another of the walls parted itself, the material peeling back and a woman stepping through.

She was dressed in a sleek and expensive-looking dress, black material clinging tightly to her slender form, slit to the thigh to reveal slender and toned legs with every step. Silver-blonde hair wound about with golden chains caught what little light there was, emerald teardrops hanging from pointed ears. An elf? She was carrying a covered tray, and Ruesin moved her hand towards her knife, just in case – she’d never seen an elf before but had heard stories of their soul-stealing ways, living out in the darkwoods, doing all sorts of creepy things to intruders.

The woman approached, the scent of sun-tinged woodlands moving with her, of summer flowers and budding growth. She smiled at Ruesin before putting the tray onto a table and lifting the cover. Steam wafted out, thick and flavoursome and making Ruesin dribble, her stomach growling again. It was a dense-looking stew, prime beef floating amidst a broth, vegetables as well, the stuff covered with a thin slick of fat. The woman produced a silver spoon and elegantly took portion and raised it to her lips, before offering the spoon to Ruesin.

Without taking her eyes from the man, she grabbed the spoon from the woman and then ate as fast as she could. Even if it was poisoned, the man could probably kill her anyway, and better to die full than weak and hungry. And it tasted so good! The meat was perfect, fat and rich rather than the lumpy gristle that she was sometimes lucky enough to get, and there were all sorts of tantalising flavours amidst the broth, although she was guzzling it too fast to properly notice. And hot as well, rather than cooling stew from an abandoned camp, or tack stolen from a dead man’s bag.

She raised the bowl to her lips and drank off the last of it, before putting it back down. The woman had moved and was now comfortably sat in the lap of the man, his arm around her waist to support her.

She spoke. ‘I hope you enjoyed it. Not many people get to taste my cooking. And herbs from the Forests of Garathorm are scarcely common.’

Ruesin shrugged, not recognising the name. ‘Good meat.’

She rolled her eyes and twisted to look at the man. ‘You humans. Always wanting just meat! And I thought my spell would call one of your soldiers, not some…’ She peered at Ruesin. ‘Some sort of child-waif? Not yet full-grown, I think?’

‘It makes sense to me. Warriors are scarcely likely to have the attributes we need. Cunning, wits and a desire to stay out of trouble seems rather more useful than someone that resolves most problems with violence.’ He shifted around, giving the woman a kiss as he moved so that he could more directly speak to Ruesin.

‘No doubt you’ve heard the rumours about me. Were there more time, it would be entertaining to hear them – some have gotten quite out of hand over the years.’

Ruisan looked sadly at the bowl, wishing it had been bigger, although she felt a lot better now her belly was full. ‘Was expecting more people. Or demons or blood-biters or something.’

‘Yes, some members of my court are certainly a touch unusual. Although I have eliminated many of the more problematic elements. A dalliance with a soul-drainer can be intriguing, but it is somewhat tiresome when they continually reap their way through the officer corps! And this tent is probably a little overlarge for my current needs, but some standards must be maintained. I would offer to summon up a few such beings if you were interested, but I would rather conserve my strength for the battle on the morrow.’ With his arm around the woman, he had put the blade to the side, the pommel-gem seeming to glare at the woman sullenly, indecipherable and eye-burning runes slowly winding around the blade.

‘So what you need me for?’ She held her knife up. ‘I ain’t no sacrifice!’

The elf chuckled. ‘A knife, against Kinnevar Ultremar, the slayer of Seyroon Silverscale? Well, you certainly are a bold little thing, aren’t you?’ She raised a hand, green-painted fingernails starting to trace a languid pattern into the air, before the man pulled her arm aside, disrupting whatever she was casting.

‘Your bravery is commendable, corpse-crow. And will stand you in good stead for the tasks to come.’

‘My name ain’t corpse-crow! And why have you bought me here?’ She didn’t lower the knife but met his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing darkness and power of the blade.

‘There is a task for which you are the best suited. And for which you will be richly rewarded.’ He gestured with his free hand and one of the chests opened itself, to reveal the contents – gold, shining with a bright lustre; coins, amulets, necklaces, gems as well. Even a single gold coin was more wealth than she had ever personally owned! ‘I would recommend the gemstones, personally. Lighter than coinage, and it can be sold in most towns and cities, without having to rely upon the vagaries of coin-changers and the like. And worth more for the size than that spoon.’

He gestured at Ruesin’s belt pouch, where she had shoved the silver spoon after she was done eating. Magical energy lifted it out, holding it suspended in the air.

‘You can keep it if you want, but I really would recommend gemstones.’

She snatched it back out of the air, keeping it tightly gripped to prevent it being grabbed from her again. ‘What’s the deal then? I ain’t yours, you got your own army already.’

‘Well, shall we start with names? And, to help settle your mind, know that I am no binder of souls, at least of living humans. I have no power over you other than what you allow.’

‘And that which comes from large amounts of gold, and having an army. That grants rather a lot of power, I find.’ The elf sounded almost smug as she made herself comfortable on his knees, keeping her feet a careful distance from the blade.

‘Well, yes, but that is scarcely relevant to this conversation. I am Kinnevar Ultremar, you’ve probably heard of me. Or at least I hope my many years of questing and conquering haven’t been an entire waste! For the amount of gold I’ve thrown at bards and troubadours over the years, I should be somewhat renowned. This is Sylvianithiel Patharia, windsage of the Qasari wildwoods – Sylvia is easier to say though. An elven diviner and spirit-talker, and also an excellent cook, although she doesn’t like it when people know that.’ He gave her a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. ‘And so, little corpse-crow, what is your name?’

‘Ruesin.’ She felt as though she should say more, but there was nothing more to say – she didn’t even know where she had been born, or who her parents were.

‘Well, Ruisin, it is a pleasure to meet you. Sylvia’s divinations and enchantments have bought you here – and I have something of a favour to ask. Rest assured, I shall not coerce or pressure you, nor will I lie. This will be something of a challenge. But the rewards are great. Not least, your own survival.’

Ruesin’s eyes drifted over to the chest of gold. With even a single necklace, she would have more wealth than she had ever dreamed of possessing!

‘What do you mean about “survival”?’

A low moaning filled the room suddenly, seeming to come from the sword, until Kinnevar tapped it and the sound stuttered, then silenced itself.

‘It grows powerful, and even more hungry. The timing is rather inconvenient, but now is the time. I have bound it about with the most potent charms I can muster, to make it more malleable, but it is powerful, beyond any hope of true control.’ He sounded regretful, and like he was talking to himself more than her, before rousing himself. ‘There is an item that needs to be taken to a particular location. Although there are certain… complications.’

Ruisan started sidling towards the chest. If she could grab some of that shining wealth, then she’d be better off! He chuckled. ‘Take what you want! I have wealth enough, for myself and to ensure the survival of my descendants, at least those that don’t get themselves killed. But it seems that you are the most suitable for this task. Something of an unlikely saviour, I suppose, but that is oftentimes the way of things.’

‘Just tell her, Kinnevar. This is not the time to be dramatic and mysterious.’ Sylvia wriggled around, looking entirely comfortable on her perch.

‘Considering the reputation your folk have, I find it a little ironic that you’re lecturing me on such things! How long did I have to pursue you through the woodlands before earning even a greeting? Almost a moon, was it not?’

The elf shrugged. ‘The times change, and that was then. This is now, and time runs shorter than anyone else knows.’

He nodded. ‘I assume you have heard the legends of my blade?’ He ran a hand along the thing, and it gave out a low, moaning whisper.

She nodded, slowly and suddenly fearful. ‘The blade of mourn. Lifetaker. Blackrazor. It eats souls and no armour can protect against it.’

‘Something of an exaggeration. Well, for the second point, at least. But yes – it eats the souls of those it slays, and it grows fat and full, ready to unleash its power and summon its siblings for the final battle for this world – I underestimated its greed, and my powers, and fed it too much. It needs to be sealed away until it has weakened, and hopefully someone else can then eliminate it somehow. Sadly, such a thing is beyond anyone’s powers as things are, especially with it being so potent.’

‘What, you want to me carry that thing?’ Ruesin gestured at the sword – it was almost as tall as she was, and with so many spikes and spines that carrying it on her back would result in her getting stabbed.

Kinnevar pressed his palm against the blade, a rune flaring into life and the blade reshaping itself, compressing down into a smooth-edged single-handed blade, the pommel-gem now glinting with an inner light. ‘That should suffice. It is powerful, but I have managed to ward it somewhat.’ It hovered off the ground, before spinning and moving towards her, hilt first.

She didn’t take it, instead moving to the chest of gold and picking up as many of the smallest items as she could, stuffing her pockets and pouches with rings and golden chains, squeezing them as tightly together as she could. ‘So why not get a soldier to do it?’

‘This is not a task for strength. This is a task for someone more used to the shadows, to someone with guile and cunning. And someone that doesn’t have the ambition to raise an empire from the ashes of mine! I have prepared a sanctum near Redcastle, an isolated tomb. There is more wealth there, enough to support you in whatever luxury you desire. And spells to seal and ward the blade, for centuries, if need be. Nothing is forever, but by the time they fade, then perhaps some solution may offer itself.’

Ruesin turned around to find the hilt of the blade still hovering in front of her, the gem glinting brightly. ‘How do I know this ain’t some trick?’

Sylvia rolled her eyes. ‘Simple logic, child. If you were needed for a sacrifice, you would scarcely be offered an option, would you? You may leave now, if you wish and when the battle has finished, pick over the corpses as you desire. Or you can take the blade, and all the wealth you can carry, and fly from this place, to complete a task that might save this world.’

‘Why don’t you take it then?’ She pointed at the elf-woman. ‘You look powerful and stuff.’

Syvlia shuddered. ‘That… thing is dangerous. One such as you could claim it, at least for a while, but it would devour me. Kinnevar was, somehow, able to control it without loosing himself to it – an impressive deed, especially for a human. I don’t think anyone has wielded it for this long since the Black Triad, and they were no more than empty husks by the time they were defeated; barely mortal, mere tools of what they carried. His willpower is impressive, in a way, but highly foolish.’ She gave him a fond kiss on the cheek. ‘Although it seems unlikely, my spells have revealed that you are the most suitable bearer.’

There was a roar from outside, followed by the sounds of an explosion and the clatter and clash of metal-on-metal. A wall of the tent rippled, as a blade sliced through the enchanted fabric, glowing with a harsh yellow light.