A Sacrifice for Varkanah: Chapter One

The peaceful farming community of Valdi is beset by a group of cultists who serve a god unknown to them. William Randsly must lead a group of militia-men against against this evil cult.

A Sacrifice for Varkanah

By: James D. Swinney

Chapter I

 

Dusk settled on the small town of Valdi as the short line of men-at-arms prepared themselves for bloody battle. The watchmen had seen the men in black robes approaching only moments before, and a palpable sense of menace seemed to herald their approach. There was still a vague hope that these men would prove to be friendly, but the demeanour of the man who rode at the front of the group quickly quashed that. The head of the evil looking group was riding an enormous jet-black stallion, a cloak, darker than midnight fell from his shoulders, shrouding his very being with mystery.

“Be prepared men!” shouted the Master-at-arms of Valdi’s soldiers, William Randsly. He stood in the center of the line, about a pace in front of the rest of the men, his hand resting on the pommel of his plain longsword. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind, a tradition of his before battle. “If these men are hostile, then we’ll have to fight them.” Gods, let them not be hostile, William thought.

 There were some muttered responses from his soldiers, but most of them were just frustrated because they hadn’t seen who their dark enemy was yet. “…No point…kill us all…” William heard one of the men mumble to another. The master-at-arms sighed. It was always an ill omen to hear men complaining before a fight. They’d already lost hope.

William wasn’t with the watchmen who’d seen the robed men, because he was busy seeing off his favorite nephew Saeran. He now regretted Saeran’s leaving, as William could’ve used him for more manpower. This was, for many of his men, their first battle. Of course, it might well be their last battle, based on the reports he’d received.

Although William hadn’t seen the enemy, his scouts reported that their force was very large. “You there! Drennan!” he called to his oldest son, who was running home. “I need you to chase after Saeran and bring him back here. He could help us. He went northwest, to Rosehollow Village. You know the way.”

Drennan nodded. “Yes, father,” he said. The boy hesitated, and then said, “What is going to happen, father? Who is coming? What do they want?” The boy looked worried. Being raised in the tiny, peaceful village of Valdi, he’d never known violence. His young mind couldn’t comprehend what these men were coming for.

“I know not, son,” replied William sadly. “But I do know that everything is going to be all right. When you catch up to Saeran, bring him back here. Go now, son. Gods give you speed.” William bent down and embraced his son gently.

Drennan blinked away a tear, then bowed respectfully to his father and ran off towards the famed stables of Valdi.

Unfortunately, William did not know that everything was going to be all right. Quite the opposite, in fact. William knew that his group of minimally trained warriors couldn’t possibly hold off the approaching company of evil men. They would lose the battle and their lives as well.

Even so, William wasn’t going to give up on them. He would take as many of the enemies as he could. He would die for these men, but he wouldn’t let these black-robed brutes take his family as well.

“Hold your ground men!” he called to the soldiers. “Don’t do anything until I return.” They muttered angrily again. William ran across the now deserted cobblestone streets of Valdi, his heavy leather boots slapping against the dirty stones of the road.  It was not long before he arrived at a modest wooden house, with a thatched, conical roof. The windows were dark, and William silently hoped that his wife and children hadn’t left the house without telling him. He quickly pushed open the door and walked into the entryway, wherein a single candle was flickering dimly.

“Orra!” William called for his wife, “Where are you, Orra?” The master-at-arms was becoming nervous. “Orra?” Please be here, William thought.

 Orra, a lovely lady who had been married to William for twenty-three years now, walked nervously into the dim entryway. She wore her long blonde hair in the typical Valdian fashion, braided down to her waist. Her dark blue gown, embroidered with white flowers, appeared black in the shadows of dusk. 

“What’s happened? Are they here yet? Who are these robed men?” she urged him. Her deep blue eyes were frantic with worry. She nervously patted her gown.

William hesitated. This could be his last chance to say good-bye to his beautiful wife. After a long pause he spoke again, his voice calm and rational�"the very opposite of how he was feeling, “Nothing dear. I don’t know who they are or why they are coming. All I know is that you need to take the children and leave.” He choked. William wished he could tell his love why this was happening, but he truly didn’t know.

“Go south, into the Westerhaven Woods. Drennan is gone after Saeran so don’t wait for him. Goodbye love,” he raised his hand in the air, preventing any interruption she could make. “Goodbye.” William took Orra up in a loving embrace.

“I will wait for you there, my love,” Orra Randsly whispered in her husband’s ear. “Please, please be careful. You can’t leave me to raise the children on my own.” She sobbed.

William gripped her even more tightly. “Do not worry, dearest. I will find you when this is all said and done. I promise you that, if nothing else.” He let out a long, ragged breath. “I wish things didn’t have to�".”

“Do not tarry here, love, with me. Your men are waiting for you.” She stood on her toes, pressing her lips against William’s, successfully silencing any arguments he might’ve made. It was passionate, the kiss of separated lovers. “Go.”

William nodded. Then he turned and walked out back into the darkening streets of Valdi where his loyal soldiers awaited him.

The dark army was less than one hundred yards away from where William stood with his awkward platoon, when they suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. The man on the largest stallion rode his horse farther ahead of the rest of his soldiers, into earshot of the men of Valdi. “Good evening, people of Valdi!” the man cried, loud enough for the soldiers in Valdi to hear, along with many of the people of the small village.

“Who are you and what do you want? We are just a farming community, and we’ve got nothing special to attract the likes of you!” William called back just as loud, but quite a bit less forceful.

The man laughed coldly, throwing back his black hood. His hair was, as far as William could tell, just as black as the robe. “We are but the clergy of the church of Varkanah, the Forgotten One. We come to bring back the memories of our God, memories of blood and death!”

Who is the Forgotten One, wondered William, and what does he want with Valdi? “You will not find death here, neighbors. As I said, we are a farming community. If you need food, drink, or a place to lay, that we can�".”

“No, you village dog! You cannot give to us what it is we want.” The man’s voice was growing angry. “Your souls must be taken away from you by force of arms!”

Our souls? “That’s it, men,” William said quietly to the men-at-arms. “Ready your weapons.”

Valdi’s somewhat pathetic militia was, for the most part, clothed in either leather or mismatched, rusty iron armor. The swordsmen drew their weapons, plain and short, forged in the also somewhat pathetic smithies of Valdi. All of the archers pulled back on their bowstrings with much difficulty, took aim, and fired at the enemy. A select few of the arrows actually hit their mark, sending five or six men out of a group of about one hundred flying out of their saddles. The death of these men seemed to infuriate the leader, and he kicked his mount into motion, his soldiers following soon after.

William quickly whipped his plain longsword out of its equally plain sheath. He cast away all thoughts, other than that he had to fight. “For Valdi!” William cried, starting his run forward, towards the charging enemy. He began running down the gradual hill in front of the village, crushing dry, yellow grass of the prairie.

“For Valdi!” the soldiers behind William repeated fiercely. They followed the master-at-arms down the hill, yelling and screaming passionately all the way.

Unfortunately, passion does not win a battle. The enemies were mounted, and when the heavy horses crashed into the front line of footmen, many Valdians were killed. The leader of the enemy soldiers leaned down in his saddle and slashed at the men of Valdi with his sword, killing many.

William hacked at one of the enemy horse’s legs, ignoring the beast’s shriek and decapitating the man on the dying creature as he fell to the earth. A spear flew through the air next to William, its head catching the leather of William’s cuirass and slicing into his flesh.

William shrugged the pain away and thrust his sword into another enemy’s chest. The man let out a gurgled cry as blood poured out of his mouth. The sight of the dying man would’ve made William wretch at a normal time, but he ignored it and pressed on.

All around him his men were dropping dead. There had only been thirty-seven of them in the first place, so they were exceedingly outnumbered. Now there were twenty-five, now seventeen. William kept fighting, all the more furious now from the inevitable loss of the battle. He was going to lose and likely was going to be killed, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

William fought his way through the enemy ranks, cutting down man after evil man with his longsword. He fought his way toward their leader. William beheaded another of the enemy, blood splattering on his face. He wiped the blood away and kept on.

But by the time he arrived near the leader, he was the only Valdian left. There were still about eighty enemies left alive, and they formed a large circle around him. The leader rode into the middle of the circle, near William, and said, “You fought bravely, villager. Unlike your soldiers, who screamed and ran as soon as I came near them.” He chuckled. “You’ve bested twenty of my best soldiers, villager. What is your name?”

William glared at the man hatefully. He kept his mouth closed. He was not about to give this disgusting man the satisfaction. One of the enemies walked up and kicked him in the shin. Under the man’s robe was a steel boot! “Arrgh!” William cried out in agony.

“What is your name?” the man asked again, slightly frustrated this time.

William fell to the ground and clutched his bleeding shin. The skin of his leg was torn and bloody, making William’s face go pale. “William,” he gasped. “My name is William. Master-at-arms of the militia of Valdi.”

“Well, William, you have fought courageously for your people. For this, I will grant you a special honor. You can watch your village burn.” The man smiled broadly. “Go men!” he called to his soldiers. “Have your fun with the villagers, but get back quickly. Varkanah is waiting.”

The men called out their excitement, began lighting torches, and then ran towards the little village with whoops of glee.

William lay on the blood-soaked grass, sobbing silently and praying that Orra escaped from Valdi with the children. His shin bled furiously, but he didn’t notice the pain. The pain of the wound anyway. All he felt was loss.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the loss of blood and the pain all over his body overcame William. He passed out on the newly crimson wheat fields of Valdi.

 

 William’s throat burned as a fiery sweet liquid was poured into his mouth. He spluttered and coughed. The pain from his shin and the rest of his body was strangely dulled, though. “What is this?” William coughed.

“It’s the blood of children,” stated the leader of the villains as he stood over William. “Mixed with peppers and water.”

William gagged and tried to spit it back out.

“Don’t worry, William. It’s not going to kill you!” the man consoled him mockingly. “Ah, child-blood is the sweetest kind. I am Balahim, prophet and speaker of the great, forgotten God, Varkanah. By his glory I lead these men to victory against the cursed forgetfuls.” He hawked and spat at the ground near William’s head. “Varkanah demands that the world be cleansed and his memory be revived. He will become the King of All once again.”

 The smell of smoke filled William’s nostrils now. He looked behind Balahim and saw the village of Valdi, or what was left of it. William saw the fires raging, consuming the buildings and houses of those he had held dear to him. He heard the screams of dying friends. Tears streamed down William’s face.

“There’s no sense in crying over it. My soldiers made sure that they couldn’t escape the fires. So only those who weren’t slaughtered by my soldiers will die this way.” Balahim smiled again, his teeth tinted with a slight red color. William gagged again.

Then Balahim mounted his giant steed and laughed at the poor man on the ground. “All right, men!” he called to the soldiers who had just arrived again from burning Valdi. “I hope you’ve had fun. Bind this man! We will take him to the shrine!” Balahim shouted confidently.

Three men surrounded William, holding ropes and cloths in their hands. One of the men shoved a cloth in his mouth and tied it around his head as the others tied his arms together behind his back. Still another tied a tight knot around William’s legs, purposely putting the rope into the torn flesh of his shin. The man grinned and laughed, showing his stained teeth.

William grunted in pain as the three of them lifted him, the ropes tearing into the flesh of his arms. They had brought a single wagon with them to carry supplies, so they tossed William into it. He landed with a thud atop of a pan, its handle stabbing into his back.

“How can this have happened?” mumbled William, trying, but failing to ignore the pain that shot through every part of his body. “I should’ve died along with my men. Why, Gods are you letting this happen?”

The roads outside of Valdi were made solely of dirt and the land was hilly and uneven, so there were many bumps in the road. Every time they hit a bump some part of William’s body filled with agonizing pain. He cried out and yelled each time it happened, until finally one of the enemy soldiers climbed into the wagon, took the pan out from under him, and brought it down heavily on his forehead, knocking the poor man unconscious once again.

When William finally woke from his fitful slumber, he found that they had traveled for many miles already. The sun was just rising by then, and Balahim had called for the men to start moving again. William struggled painfully to get a look over the side of the wagon, and when he did he saw that they had stopped on the sandy shores of the enormous Glasshore Lake.

Glasshore Lake! William thought. They must’ve been traveling for at least four days already, for Glasshore Lake was over twenty-five leagues from Valdi! William wondered how he’d not waken before now.

“Wake up fool!” said Balahim to William, “We are only a few hours from the shrine, and you must eat something if you are going to be of any value to Varkanah.” Balahim handed him a flask of the same fiery liquid he’d given him three days earlier.

William took it from Balahim and noticed that his hands were unbound now, but not his legs. There was still no chance for escape. William looked into the flask, saw the drink, and dumped it out over the side of the wagon.

The normally courageous commander was terribly afraid. What did Balahim mean when he was talking about taking their souls by force? Who was Varkanah?

He pondered these questions as the wagon lurched back into motion and the group marched behind Balahim and his warhorse. The morning changed into a blisteringly hot afternoon.

The heat exhausted William despite the fact that he was doing naught but lying down. The horse pulling the wagon he was also exhausted and was having difficulty keeping pace with the rest of the army.

Balahim called for a stop. He rode his horse quickly over to the wagon, dismounted, and climbed in. He cut the bonds on William’s legs and said, “You are going to have to walk now, maggot. This horse is slowing us down to much. Get out of the wagon, now!”

William obeyed and struggled to stand up. His legs were stiff and aching after all that time of being tied together. He climbed out of the wagon as Balahim slit the throat of the horse. “We do not need the supplies anymore,” he heard Balahim mumble.

The army began running again, Balahim in the lead. William struggled to keep up with the slow pace of the mounted men, but he was dead tired. His vision went hazy, and he began tripping over his own two feet.

“Pick up the pace mongrel! You are slowing us all to the point of walking!” said one of the robed disciples with a growl. The look in his eye was frightening. William summoned up the last reserve of his energy, and ran.

The weary warrior suddenly tripped over a large boulder that he hadn’t seen. “Auggh!” he screamed in pain. When he fell, William broke his ankle. He yelled and screamed, clutching his foot that was facing the wrong way.

“Shut him up!” the robed men called. One of them walked over to William and snapped his ankle into the proper position. William screamed again. The annoyed disciples beat him savagely, until he lapsed into unconsciousness for a third time. They picked him up and continued the long run, suddenly wishing that Balahim hadn’t left the wagon behind them.

 

When William opened his eyes at last, his head pounded with a fury. He rubbed his temples, but it was to no avail. When he looked around, he saw that he was in a terrible place. Several feet in front of him was Balahim who, at his full height, looked enormous. But Balahim wasn’t what William was staring at in horror. Behind the robed prophet there was a massive stone statue, the stone it was made of entirely black. It had four muscled arms, thicker than trees, it had horns and violently red, ruby eyes. Those eyes seemed to be fixed on William. 

William Randsly was not a short man, but the statue behind him was so tall that four Williams stacked on top of each other would barely reach the giant’s waist. The fiendish statue held a claymore in two hands, and a shield in the others. He was poised for battle.

At the foot of the statue there were piles of corpses strewn around wildly inside of pools of dried blood. Every body had an open wound on their necks, given from a very sharp blade. William knew then what they were going to do to him. He knew what they meant by taking his soul away. They were going to kill him

There was a small plaque at the bottom of the statue, and while William tried unsuccessfully to decipher it, Balahim cried, “Varkanah! Listen to what I have to say!” He paused. “It has begun! With the killing of this man, your memory grows stronger! No more shall you be the Forgotten One!”

The evil men dragged William to his feet, then pushed him up to the foot of the statue, up to Balahim. The prophet drew a long, gleaming dagger from its concealed sheath. It was the same thing he had done to those poor souls laying on the ground.

“Praise be to Varkanah, Lord of Hell and God of Blood!” Balahim cried as he approached William with the dagger.

William thought of Valdi. He thought of his soldiers who died to protect the town. Had they died in vain? They lost their lives and the town was burned anyway. Balahim stepped closer.

He thought of his family. He prayed that they had escaped, but he did not hold out any hope. They had probably roasted alive in his house, if they had not suffered a much worse fate. He would join them soon. He wondered if Drennan had found Saeran or not. William was glad that Saeran had left before the raid and that Drennan hadn’t been with the people of Valdi.

The valiant warrior silently wished that things could’ve gone differently. He wished that he could’ve beaten the robed men and saved his town, but as Balahim drew nearer, he knew that this could not be.

The prophet of Varkanah lifted the dagger, muttered praise to his god, and said to William, “You are lucky to be able to be able to die this way. It is a privilege to give your soul to the Forgotten One. You are helping to bring back his glorious, bloody memory.” Balahim smiled evilly, and then slit his throat swiftly. William did not scream as died.

William’s blood trickled out of the wound, pooling around Balahim’s feet at the foot of the shrine of Varkanah. It was spilt for Varkanah. He was the twentieth man who died for the evil deity.

The disciples cheered. “Praise be to the Forgotten One! May his memory never die!"

Author's Note

I'd be much obliged to you all if you'd provide constructive criticism, real, helpful advice. Not just "This is good" or "This sucks" (though the former is preferable to the latter!). Thanks!