The Demon's Blade by Steven Drake Read Free Book Online

barely audible, then continuously grew louder, until he stopped and turned to face them, when they would suddenly fall silent once again. The Demon Sword’s madness had begun, and it would only get worse, eating away at his sanity until he was left a gibbering madman. He stumbled slowly onward like a drunkard, barely able to keep himself moving.
    As he stepped through an archway into an ancient garden filled with empty fountains and moss-covered planting beds, his mind suddenly weakened. How long can I go on like this, he wondered? A day, a week, a month? What does it matter? What am I doing here? There’s no point in going any further. In his heart, Darien began to understand how truly foolish it had been to take the sword. He fell to his knees and held the point of the blade against his chest, again. He had to find the strength to end his life while it was still his own. Yet, he still could not. It seemed as though his own body had rebelled against him. No matter how urgently he commanded his arms to finish the deed, they would not.
    "Well, finally awake and about, are we?"
    The voice startled him and he snapped back to awareness, wondering who could possibly be here. He looked over to his right, from where the words had come. There, upon a crumbling stone wall, sat an old man. He had a long white beard which hung down onto his chest, and wispy gray hair which fell far down his back. His long gray robes were ragged from wear, eyes nearly the same color gray. He must have been a tall man once, but now bent with age. He held a simple wooden staff in one hand, a twisted thing that might have grown straight from the ground into the man's thin, withered hand. Clearly a homeless wanderer, or a hermit .
    Darien gasped, shocked to find anyone living on the island.
    The strange man continued speaking. "I'm afraid that's not going to work. If you mean to end your life, you'll have to think of something far cleverer. That blade has a will of its own, but you should already know that."
    "Who are you, and how did you find me? Do you serve the Demon King?" The Executioner turned the sword away from his chest and pointed it at the mysterious stranger.
    "My name is Ezra, I found you by looking for you, and no, I do not."
    A wary Darien eyed the old man cautiously, suspecting some sort of trick. The fact that this stranger immediately recognized the Demon Sword did not escape his notice. Few would know more than just the legend of the sword. The Master had guarded his secrets quite closely. Whoever this man was, he was more than he appeared to be.
    "Tell me how you know about this sword," Darien demanded. "Answer carefully, as your position is more precarious than you understand, old man."
    "Oh, but I do understand," the man said, unfazed by the threat. "That sword you carry is the most powerful and dangerous weapon ever created in this world. It is you, I think, who does not truly understand his peril. Powerful you may be, but I think you are in no position to make threats."
    Darien lowered his blade, stood, and calmed himself. "You make a fair point. Perhaps I spoke hastily. My name is Darien, and I have taken this sword from my Master. I evaded capture and fled through the forest in an attempt to escape across the river." He would have said more, but was interrupted.
    "Yes, yes. I know who you are and why you are here. The question is what do you intend to do now?"
    The fugitive half-elf stood open-mouthed, stunned for a moment. The strange old man not only knew about the sword, but also about the man who held it. Nevertheless, this was no time to indulge curiosity. His head now pounded and throbbed with pain that seemed to come from both within and without at the same time. Glimpses of the sword’s darkened world of bone, blood, and evil intruded into his mind, flashing behind his eyes, then disappearing. It did not matter who this man was. Darien had to ask of him the only favor he needed, for there was no one else.
    He fell onto his