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Chapter III
Drennan Randsly rode down the gradual
hill upon which the tiny village of Valdi was built. He rode slowly, thinking
silently about the task he had been given. He was supposed to catch up to
Saeran, his cousin, but his father had not even told him why! It must have something to do with those
black-robed men, Drennan thought.
The sun was beginning to set, and
Drennan was not the best rider in the village. He was not bad, of course, for
all Valdians were raised from birth to care and ride horses. Despite this,
though, Drennan did not wish to risk riding in the dark, particularly with
those men around.
The young boy was just over a mile from
town, when he began thinking about his mother and three sisters. He thought of
how furious mother would be if he left without even telling her where he was
going! If he turned back, he would lose some time, and it would take longer to
catch Saeran, but that was a small matter when compared to mother’s wrath.
Drennan pulled on his horse’s reins and turned back.
He gently nudged Seralia into a trot
and then a gallop, riding swiftly towards Valdi. Seralia was heavy, black, bay
horse. She was named for a word of the ancient Esterelves�"Eastern Elves, that
is�"which meant slow. Drennan did not know this, of course, and just thought the
word sounded pretty.
Seralia’s hooves pounded the yellow
prairie grass, covering the distance quickly, despite the name. Soon Drennan
arrived in Valdi. He noticed a definite lack of persons in the streets there,
likely due to the arrival of the strangers. Drennan again wondered what they
came for.
He rode through the empty streets, the
only thing breaking the absolute silence being Seralia’s hooves against the
cobblestones. When he arrived at the little, thatch-roofed house, Drennan
immediately noticed that something was wrong. The front door was wide open, the
wind pushing it back and forth and making the hinges creak.
Drennan dismounted Seralia and hastily
tied her to a post in the front yard. He rushed into the house, closing the
door behind him. “Mother?” he called. “Odella? Cendalla? Glimma?” he shouted
his sisters’ names. There was no answer, only silence. Drennan grabbed a candle
from a table and ran up the stairs to the next floor. He repeated his calls,
again to no avail.
He searched desperately through all of
their rooms, throwing the doors open and looking inside. He hesitated for a
moment in front of his mother and father’s room, as he was not supposed to go
into it without their consent, but the sheer fright at not being able to find
his family overpowered his parents’ wishes. He checked the room and again found
it empty.
Sweat dribbled down Drennan’s young,
unblemished face. He was almost sick with the worry. Then he heard a rumbling
downstairs. He heard Seralia whinny from outside. And was that smoke he smelt?
There was maniacal laughter coming from
downstairs, and the odor was growing definitely stronger. There was pounding on
the stairs and he heard a man’s voice yelling, “There’s a light up here,
Tradon! I don’t think this one’s empty.” The voice was coarse and rough.
Drennan panicked. He was scrambling
about his parents’ room, trying to find a place to hide from the people coming
up the stairs. Then Drennan saw his father’s ceremonial sword hanging upon the
wall above their bed. William was the Master-at-arms of Valdi’s militia, and
this was the blade he used during parades and other such activities. It wasn’t
a very strong blade, but it was exquisitely decorated, with golden vines
running down the blade itself.
Drennan jumped on the bed and pulled
the blade from its resting place on a shelf above the bed, just as the men he
had heard speaking came into view in the doorway of the bedroom. They were
clothed in pitch-black robes, their pale, scarred faces in stark contrast with
their clothing. There were two men there, and one of them pulled a dull axe
from his side as the other held a hefty mace, its head covered in vicious
spikes.
“Get him, Tradon!” cried the man with
the axe. The man with the mace leapt across the small room and swung his heavy
weapon at Drennan, missing by only a hair’s width as Drennan ducked. Drennan
gripped the blade in two hands and awkwardly slashed at them, over-swinging by
quite a bit. The man with the mace, Tradon, apparently, hit the blade out of
the way and rushed at Drennan again.
But Drennan had dropped the candle he
was holding. It fell to the bed and the wool blankets burst into flames! The
fires licked at Drennan, burning his legs.
Drennan cried out and jumped from the
bed, tears streaming down his young face.
Tradon cursed loudly as the flames
consumed the bed, and him with it. The man with the axe attempted to put Tradon
out, but succeeded only in wasting time. Tradon screamed shrilly as his flesh
boiled away.
Drennan ran around the bed and swung
the sword at the man with the axe, hitting him on the shoulder. The blade
sliced through the distracted man’s robes and cut into his skin. He cried out
and fell down atop of Tradon, also bursting into flames.
Drennan quickly fled the room, speeding
all the way down the stairs and out the door. He found Seralia rearing and
fighting off another black-robed man. Drennan swung his blade at the back of
the man’s knee, knocking him to the ground. Drennan had no time to untie
Seralia, so he cut the rope and leapt onto the horse’s back.
The horse scrambled away, speeding down
the streets and dodging fires springing up everywhere. All round him the houses
of friends and neighbors burned to the ground, robed men ran around everywhere,
pouring oil onto the houses and dropping torches.
There were screams, so many screams.
Agonized and dying screams.
Drennan burst into tears. “They killed
everyone, Saeran! They didn’t let anybody live!”
Saeran sat still on the bench,
dumbfounded. “Don’t say that, Drennan,” he said after a long pause. He had his
hands folded in his lap and he was blinking quickly, fighting back tears. “You
don’t know that. There could be survivors.”
“We never even had a chance, Saeran!”
Drennan retorted through gasps of breath. Tears streamed steadily down his
face, without cease. “I saw the fires and heard the screams, cousin. They are
all dead.”
“Who were these people, Drennan?”
Saeran asked. “Why would they do such a thing for no reason? They must know how
the Gods feel about murder!” Death was not looked upon fondly by any of the
Gods. Saeran was not a particularly devout man, but it did not take a priest to
understand that much.
I’ll never see Uncle William again, Saeran thought. I’ll never ride
bareback through Valdi’s wheat fields, I’ll never taste Aunt Orra’s delicious
cooking again. A single tear pushed its way past Saeran’s blinking eyes
and fell down his face and dripped onto his nose, leaving a salty smell in his
nostrils.
“When did this happen? Just after I
left, did you say?” Saeran demanded a little bit rudely. He was forgetting that
he was talking with a boy whose whole life had just been taken away from him,
whose family was likely all dead.
There was no answer from the devastated
boy, only tears. So very many tears. Saeran gave up his futile attempt and
patted Drennan on the shoulder. All the while he wished that there was someone
there to console him.
“Something is terribly wrong here,”
stated Hathien as she approached the wooden bench. She wore a concerned look on
her face now, and she sat down on the bench next to Saeran. “What has
happened?”
Saeran fought to keep the tears back
for Hathien. He couldn’t let her see him crying. “Do you know of the village of
Valdi? Where I just arrived from?” Saeran asked.
Hathien nodded, her honey-blond hair
ruffling in the light breeze.
“Valdi has been attacked. We don’t know
why, but Drennan tells me that evil men in black robes came and burned the
village down after I left for home.”
Hathien gasped, her mouth dropping a
little. “That is terrible! Is your family all right? What has happened to them?
How did you escape?” This last question was for Drennan.
The young boy pulled his face out of
his hands and his eyes and cheeks were red from all the tears. “My father sent
me away before the battle, but I returned to say good-bye to my mother. Gods, I
hope she is alive!” At this Drennan began crying anew, even more, if that is
possible.
Saeran closed his eyes tight,
remembering Aunt Orra’s lovely face. “She has to be alive,” he said, almost to
himself. “You said that the house was empty when you got there, so they must’ve
escaped!” He was breathing heavily now.
Drennan stood up from the bench,
yelling, “They took my family and killed them! EVERYONE IS DEAD!”
Drennan kicked the ground furiously. His tears poured down his face in a flood,
soaking the dry stones beneath their feet.
Saeran also leapt from the bench. He
looked as though he was about to say something, but then he turned away from
Drennan and Hathien. He sullenly, silently began walking away from them.
“Saeran?” Hathien said. “Where are you
going, Saeran?” She hurried to follow him.
He stopped where he was, but he did not
turn to face her as he said, “Go home, Hathien. This has nothing to do with
you. You do not need to suffer with me.”
“But I…”
“Go home, Hathien.” Saeran then
continued his walk, away from his devastated cousin, away from his concerned
friend. He walked away and left Hathien standing awkward and alone in the
middle of the town square, watching him leave.
Saeran had his nose in a mug of ale,
the liquor pouring down his throat and leaving a bitter taste. He sat sadly on
a bench in the tavern, surrounded by careless laughter and fun. He scowled at
the people who walked past him happily, for they knew nothing of loss.
He slammed his empty mug back down on
the cracked wooden table in front of him. He motioned for a serving maid, a
large woman carrying a tray with several full mugs of golden ale. She
approached Saeran’s table and looked abashed as Saeran grabbed at one of the
mugs, missing and improperly touching her in the process.
She blushed furiously and hoped nobody
saw, but Saeran didn’t care. He’d had far too many by this time to remember
what the word manners meant, let alone practice them. He reached into
his pocket and withdrew several coins and handed them to her. She took the
money and rushed away, almost running.
Time floated past Saeran as drink after
drink after drink was served to him and was poured down his throat. The more
drinks he was served, the less of the drink was actually drank, as much of it
ran down his chin and dripped into his lap.
He heard a musician playing a flute at
the front of the room. It was a song he knew, but he was in no condition to
remember the title. He tried to sing along, and drew many a strange look at the
gargled words he sang. Many of the words that came out of his mouth had little
or nothing to do with the song itself, and a good number of them were words
that should not be said by anyone in public.
Soon enough the tavern was empty but
for him. He sat alone at his table and pouted, for the serving maids had been
warned not to let him have any more.
Cuthric the innkeeper, a regular giant,
strolled slowly over to the table, his feet booming against the hard wood of the
floor. He arrived at the table and wiped his hands on his stained apron.
“What’s the matter with ye, Saeran?” he drawled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen
ye like this, me friend. And that ain’t a good thing, that.”
“Nothing wrong,” Saeran said, his voice
slurred from all the drinks he’d had. “Just having a few drinks here to
celebrate my…my return home.” He was struggling to find words. His mind was
numb.
“I can see that,” replied Cuthric,
laughing. “Well, Saeran, ye’ve got sumthin’ on yer mind, but if ye won’t tell
me, I won’t pester ye. Though, I do know that ye’ve had too many for any man’s
tastes. I think it’s time fer ye t’ head on home.”
“My family’s been murdered,” Saeran
said, finally relenting and beginning his tragic tale. He told his friend of all
that had happened that day, sparing no detail and forgetting nothing. It was an
hour or more before he’d finished, and the barroom was growing quite dark. The
serving maids had cleaned up the place as well as they could and left, leaving
Saeran and Cuthric alone in the tavern.
“Do you want to know what I think?”
asked the giant eventually. Saeran nodded in reply. “I think that ye should go
and find out exactly what happened to yer family. Ye said that yer cousin’s
house were empty when he came lookin’, so ye dunno if they’re alive or dead,
yet. Ye can’t grieve fer ‘em if ye don’ know what happened!”
Saeran sat there quietly, thinking
about this. He knew Cuthric was right. All that Saeran knew about what had
happened to his family, to Uncle William, was that he did not know
what had happened. As Saeran sat there, he thought of what he should do. It
wasn’t long at all before he had a plan. His thinking about this had worn away
his drunken stupor, and he came up with what he thought was a reasonable plan.
In a few days Saeran would set off, by
himself, on the road back to Valdi. When he arrived, he would investigate
Valdi, or whatever was left of it, and he’d find out exactly what had happened.
If he could not find the bodies of his family, he would know that they were
still alive. Or that they’d suffered something even worse than death.
Saeran shuddered. He did not wish to
think of such things.
With his plan in mind Saeran said to
the gentle giant, “You are right, of course. I can’t believe that I didn’t think
of that sooner. Thank you, my friend. I must go now.” With that he stood up and
began walking towards the door.
“Think nothin’ of it! G’bye Saeran
Randsly.” Cuthric waved his farewell, then watched Saeran stagger out into the
street.
Through the dark of the night Saeran
fumbled and stumbled alone. It took an awfully long time, but Saeran eventually
arrived back at his modest home. He pushed through the door and flopped heavily
onto his bed. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t even
taken off his tunic.
When Saeran finally woke, it was with a
pounding headache. He opened his eyes, but the bright light streaming in
through the window pained him. He silently cursed the clear window. He put his
hands to his head and rubbed his temples furiously, attempting vainly to rid
himself of this terrible affliction.
Then he thought of young Drennan.
“Gods’ blood!” he shouted. “I’ve left Drennan all alone in the town square!” He
leapt from his bed and pushed his way through the door of the house, not
bothering to change out of his stained clothing.
He sprinted down the mid-morning
streets where people were just beginning to hustle and bustle over to the
market. He ran and ran until he arrived at the town square. He saw no sign of
Drennan whatsoever. He sat down upon the bench he’d been on yesterday and
waited.
“Where’ve you been Saeran!” cried Lark
Elford as he approached Saeran on the bench. “I found this sorry boy sitting
here last night and he asked for you. I took him to your house, but you weren’t
there. I had to clear room on my floor for him to sleep last night.”
Drennan stood shyly behind Lark,
looking guilty when Lark complained. “I am sorry, Drennan, for leaving you
here,” Saeran apologized. “I was just…overwhelmed. It will not happen again.
Come with me to my house.”
His young cousin turned and followed
Saeran away from there. “Thank you for the invitation,” Lark said
sarcastically, “but I really do have things that I have to do right now.
Goodbye.”
Saeran rolled his eyes and kept
walking.
The army of shadows approached the
large city of Diannan slowly, but steadily. They were intent on appeasing their
master’s lust for blood. At the head of an army again, rode Balahim on his
jet-black stallion. He smiled a mad smirk and held himself high in his saddle.
The first ray of golden sunlight broke
across the horizon as Balahim arrived first at the gates. Atop the high, thick
stone walls stood a single guard. He was supposed to be watching the gate, but
instead leaned upon his spear and dozed off.
Balahim cleared his throat loudly.
The guard stirred back into
wakefulness. “I was just resting my eyes, sir,” the guard said. He did a full
turn and did not see anyone. He shrugged and leaned back on his tall spear.
Balahim shook his head scornfully. “Down
here, friend,” he called to the guard. “We’d like to gain passage into the
city.”
“Who goes there?” the guard called.
“And what is your business in the grand city of…” His voice trailed away as he
saw the sheer enormity of the army standing in front of Diannan’s gates.
“Open the gates, if you please.”
There was a loud clatter as the guard’s
spear fell out of his hand and struck the stone of the wall. “I’m…uhh…afraid I
cannot do that, sir.”
Balahim sighed. “If that is the way it
has to be,” he said disappointedly. He looked back at one of the men sitting
upon a brown horse behind him. Resting on the man’s back was a large yew bow.
“Take him out.”
The man took the bow from his back and
pulled an arrow from his quiver. With the arrow nocked, the man pulled back on
his bowstring and loosed it. It pounded into the guard’s chest and he fell
down, off of the wall, his iron chest plate clattering against the ground.
“I did not want to do it this way,
but…” Balahim shrugged. “Ready the battering ram!” he called to the soldiers.
It was not long before the gate was
swinging open.
The army of shadows�"all they were was a
dark fog along with a tattered cloak and a weapon�"marched into the city on
incorporeal legs. These spirits were all but dead, the embodiment of the souls
of the damned, men who had cursed themselves in life, and so had forsaken
themselves in death. Shades of violence, deceit, and hatred, they would serve
their master, Varkanah, until eternity had passed into nothingness. Accursed,
they would scour the land for Varkanah’s will.
With each sacrifice in his name, the
memory of the Forgotten One, of Varkanah, was growing. His appetite, his
hunger, his lust for the souls of men was growing. After claiming William’s
soul, the bravest, purest soul of them all, Varkanah demanded more. He seemed
to recall, from ages long past and forgotten by mortal man, that royalty seemed
to taste better than common men. Varkanah wanted the Duke of the Glasshore
Province.
Diannan was the capital of the province
of Glasshore, the southwester-most province in Terrilor. The large city�"fourth
largest on the continent, in fact�"was silent now, men resting in their tired
homes with their families, preparing their bodies for another hard day at work
the next day. A hard day of work that would never come.
A light flickered in the window of a
home near the gateway. Three Memories�"that is what the mortal disciples of
Varkanah had taken to calling themselves�"approached the house, but Balahim
rushed to stop them. “Do not trouble yourselves with this one.” He gazed
lustfully at the lighted window. “Let me handle these people.”
The three Memories saluted to Balahim
and watched him pass before turning, and running to another house.
Balahim slowly opened the door,
listening as the old iron hinges creaked and groaned, hoping that the noise
would wake the rest of the family. When the door was opened enough, he poked
his head into the house and said loudly, “Is anybody home?”
“What do you want?” demanded a burly
man, standing in front of an overturned chair. He had apparently been
interrupted during his breakfast. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Ah, it is good to see some one who is
awake in this town.” Balahim stated, walking through the doorway and into the
man’s house. “What time is it, do you know?” ’
The man hesitated before saying, “Not
quite dawn. I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in my house?” He looked
frightened at the man, robed in black, who had entered his home. He could see
Balahim’s slicked back, pitch-black hair and his neat goatee. Balahim’s eyes
were glowing bright red.
“Do you have a good memory?”
The man stood silently.
“The Forgotten One wishes to be
remembered. Do you know who I speak of?” Balahim took another step closer,
brushing away his black cloak and revealing the hilt of his longsword.
The man shook his head.
“This is too bad.” Balahim sighed. “The
only way for you to remember Varkanah is for your blood to be spilt in his
name. It’s a shame really, as I liked you somewhat. Oh well.” Balahim withdrew
the longsword, its blade gleaming in the pale white light of the lone candle in
the room.
“What are you…?” The man fell silent as
Balahim’s blade plunged into the deepest recesses of his entrails. The poor
man’s blood spilled onto his wooden floor.
Balahim approached the candle, took it
in his black leather glove, and lit the curtains on fire. He hoped that the
flames would spread as he hurried out of the little house.
The agonized screams of hundreds of
burning peasants, merchants, and nobles alike filled Balahim’s ears as he
walked into the smoky street. There was chaos in the city, buildings burning
down everywhere, soot flying and landing on Balahim’s face, but he did not
mind. In fact, he felt exceedingly comfortable in situations such as this.
He strode down the empty streets of
Diannan, his cloak fluttering behind him in a light breeze. He chuckled to
himself a little, as he watched a woman screaming and running through the
streets, her hair on fire, before she received a blade in the gut.
It took a little while, but soon
Balahim was at the great doors of the Castle Diannan. Inside this building
would be the Duke of Diannan, Lord Bareld. Upon the doors was an image of an
eagle soaring above turbulent waves of the sea, the sign of House Bareld.
Standing in front of the doors were two
frightened guards. They wore golden-yellow tabards over old iron cuirasses and
they each held a long-bladed pike in their hands. One of the men said
nervously, “You cannot come into the castle. His grace, Lord Bareld, does not
wish to be disturbed during his sleep.
Balahim had no time for idle talk
though. Without stopping his walk, he raised his palms into the air and chanted
ancient words, words that few could understand anymore. He could feel sheer
power rushing through his veins, flowing out until it reached his palms, where
it culminated in a hot, violet flame. The balls of fire shot out from his hands
and crashed into the guards, setting their gold tabards alight and sending the
two men screaming into the streets.
Balahim pushed the doors open and
marched into a large entryway. The floor beneath him was of polished stone, and
there were rugs all over the floor. His leather boots did not make a sound as
he stepped on the woven rugs.
He drew his longsword and felt the
power surge through him again, channelling into the blade. The hardened steel
of the sword caught purple fire and Balahim slashed at guards as they
approached him, doing a graceful dance as he slaughtered them.
He couldn’t do this much longer. Though
this power was a part of his soul, fastened to his very being with an
unbreakable grip, every use of it nauseated him. With every ball of fire he was
becoming more and more tired, as if a part of him left with the spell. He
almost regretted casting the spells, for having that power near to him was
intoxicating.
He choked down the nausea and pressed
forward, using magic to cut through the guards like a knife through jelly. He
pushed through a magnificent set of heavy iron doors and into a great hall. The
room was empty, but for a few servants. He approached one of them, a young
woman, likely just into her twenties, and said, “Where can I find the Duke,
Lord Bareld?”
“You cannot see Lord Bareld, he is
sleeping,” she responded. She leaned on a broom and looked at Balahim. She
gasped. “Who are you?”
“I am Balahim,” he replied, “Prophet of
the Forgotten God Varkanah. Take me to the Duke, now.” His words were
icy cold, and the woman felt that she had no choice other than to do what he
asked her to.
She led him through a series of
hallways, up stone stairs, and through rooms large and small, and of every
sort. She stopped in front of a small, unadorned door.
“My Lord Bareld has no great love for
material things.” She pushed open the door and allowed Balahim in. He stabbed
her, just below her chest.
“What do you want?” asked a short, plump man. He sat upright in
his bed, reading a book by light of several candles. Lord Bareld looked up at
Balahim. “Well? You cannot just stand there all day. I shall call the guard, if
need be.”
“There is no need for that, my Lord,”
Balahim said, approaching the bedside. “There are no more guards to call,
anyhow.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Duke.
Then he saw the sword buckled to Balahim’s waist.
“Praise be to the Forgotten One, may
his memory return, and all that.” It was getting a little bit boring for
Balahim, saying the same thing to every one he killed. “Your blood will be
spilled for Varkanah, blah blah blah.”
The duke tried to say something, but
was cut off as Balahim’s blade slid through his throat.
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