The Demon's Blade Read Online Free

since that day, and after this, it will finally be finished.
    The light from the starstone illuminated the Master’s secret chamber with a quiet, warm glow, shining light on what had been hidden for centuries in shadow. The dark jagged stones from which the room was constructed were colored a deep, unnatural shade of violet-purple, no doubt owing to the enchantments of concealment woven upon them, or perhaps to the residual power of the object contained within the chamber. A pedestal of the same purple stone stood in the center of the room, rising to the level of Darien’s waist. Atop that pedestal, encased in a shiny, reflective, red crystal, rested the Demon’s Blade, the legendary weapon forged by the elves long ago, said to contain the power of the ancient demons. Who would ever have guessed that it actually existed, and that it was the source of all the incredible magic power the Master possessed?
    As he approached the pedestal, Darien reflected on his months of planning. Finding the Master’s secret chamber had been a difficult enough task, but finding a way to break through the crystal that protected the ancient weapon had proved an even greater task. But for a singular stroke of luck in encountering that old dwarf, he might never have found the starstone that he would now use to claim his Master’s prize. Though the Master named himself the Demon King and claimed godhood, he was nothing more than a man, clever, powerful, and ambitious, but still only a mortal. Darien cursed his own foolishness, as he had done some uncounted multitude of times before. No matter, he thought, it will all be irrelevant in a few minutes.
    The crystal reflected his features with a reddish hue. He gazed into it for several minutes, contemplating the child he was, and the man he had become. His own steel grey eyes stared back at him, showing just a hint of his mother’s green. His raven hair, colored like his mother’s, was haphazard, wild, unkempt, and chaotic. His shoulders were uncharacteristically broad for an elf, but no more than average for a man. Years of physical training and life as a soldier in the Order of the Shade had made him lean and tough, with arms like the springy trunks of young trees, and legs like iron rods. His sharp angular jaw was set firm, in stern determination. Darien towered over ordinary men, owing his height, a few inches over six feet, to his elven blood. His otherwise young and fair face bore the scars of battle and brutal training, a slash on his left cheek, a burn mark beneath his left ear, and a handful of others told the tale of Darien’s difficult youth. In truth, he had forgotten where he’d gotten most of them, but there was one, of course, he could not forget. He touched the star shaped scar above his right eye, remembering the day he had been given it, so long ago, yet so fresh in his mind. Hate and anger flamed in his mind anew, and filled him with fresh resolve. Darien the Executioner he had become, in name and in deed, and so he would die as well.
    Beneath his reflection, the Executioner could see the dark shape of the sword encased within the crystal. The blade was jet black, the color of emptiness, like the magic he had become so skilled at. He had delayed enough. Soon the counterspells he had placed upon the Master’s warning enchantments would fade, and the Master would learn what had transpired. He raised the starstone above his head, and it glowed with a bright light all its own. He then focused all of his energy into the stone, and thrust it down into the crystal.
    The impact of the stone upon the crystal produced a terrible sound, screeching like the wails of the dying. No sooner had the harsh screech faded than a shrill whistle replaced it. The light of the starstone traveled down into the crystal, and then outward in thin white lines from the point of impact. It was working. The magics that held the crystal together were breaking down, and it was beginning to shatter. The white