Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (continued)
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
Crikey! I thought this story was well and truly deceased.
Not quite. Real life just became...complex for 15 months or so
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
Now if only I could remember what the Hells is going on ....
Might I suggest a re-read?
Welcome back and now on with the story...
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Tobus half-stepped, half-fell from the railing of the wooden barge and into the freezing waters of Lake Norda. The men aboard broke out into insulting laughter which, for a moment at least, replaced the priest’s chill with a flaring warmth. A draught or other curative would be necessary for the drill, he acknowledged as he stepped toward shore.
“What of our payment, priest?” shouted down one of the men, obvious contempt dripping from the title.
Tobus grunted and turned toward the ship, shouting, “I’ll pay you when you grant safe passage back to the southern shore.”
“You’ll pay us now, or you’ll walk your way back.”
“Half now, half when we return south,” he negotiated.
“Nay. All of it now, priest. Surely you’re not trying to cheat us.”
“It’s not honorable that you attempt to renegotiate our bargain halfway through the journey,” Tobus admonished with a sneer. “If you’re so dishonorable in this, how can I be certain that you will wait for me here?”
“Don’ speak to us of honor, Priest of Ara’kull. The word is a poison when it passes ‘tween your lips.”
“
Fine.” He pulled a sack of coin from his satchel, careful to hold it at its drawstrings. With a flick of the wrists, the coin leapt into the air and crashed onto the wooden deck of the barge with a heavy clink. “There’s a little extra there to guarantee you’re here when I get back!”
Spiteful laughs erupted from the men. “Aye, thank ye much, priest!” yelled one of them.
“My pleasure,” Tobus murmured as he turned toward shore. Over the heads of the trees, a single spire towered in the distant moonlight. One short leg of this journey remained. Deliver the package personally to Blackrose and then return to town. Taking a step beneath the dark boughs of the forest, a wicked grin split the priest’s face. He wondered exactly how long it would take for the poison on the coin to circulate amongst all the men on the ship and wished that he had enough time to watch their agony.
* * *
“It’s been a ten-night already of near-constant riding,” Anastrianna whined. They all felt the weariness of the road and of travel. New layers of dirt clung to the older layers, slowly darkening the natural hues of their flesh. Soreness reached through their bodies and more importantly through the worn bodies of their steeds. The hard ride had left the horses borrowed from the Ladies Llewyllyn in a weakened state.
“We need to push on,” Cassock reaffirmed. His eyes drifted across the shadowy tops of the trees, noting the unnatural break where a tower pierced the boughs. A dim light flickered within the structure’s topmost window. The cleric cocked his head, catching the sound of faint cries upon the wind. His eyes locked onto the two moons, cresting above the landscape. Styg’s large steel face contrasted sharply with the unusually heavy, red hue of Enoch.
A passage the cleric had been required to verbally recite during his training returned to him like the faint cries on the wind.
When blood and steel meet upon the divine’s field at night, when the weeping of the pure and mother unite, the dead rise to walk again in bodies crafted of flesh or iron. The two moons drew closer, looking to overlap above the tower. His eyes widened.
“We have to go now. There is not much time.” The orbs inched closer. Everyone stared blankly at the priest while he untied his own steed and climbed onto the saddle. “Now, damnit! Get up, there’s no time!” An uncertain look passed between his companions, but they followed his instructions, killing the campfire and mounting their own horses.
Cassock dug his heels into the horses’ flanks and it begrudgingly lumbered into a trot. Like a gentle thunder, the sound of the horses’ pace rolled through the forest, signaling their approach to the tower.
* * *
Tobus glowered at the large man. “I must deliver the package,” he wagged the leather scroll tube at the mercenary, “personally to Blackrose. It has been commanded.” The beast—for it was definitely more beast than man—laughed menacingly, its razor fangs glinting in the torchlight.
“I think not,” the Red’s gravelly voice responded coldly. He extended a hand covered in flesh as pale as bone. Only his lips and cheeks bore a rosy, life-like hue that was, no doubt, caused by a recent feeding. A red glow glimmered in Orrin’s eyes, daring the priest to continue arguing.
The old priest sighed and massaged his temples. “Look, beast,” he spoke but was interrupted as Orrin’s head snapped to the left, focusing on the forest. “What?”
“Guests are arriving.” He lifted a black helm, covering his face. “It seems you can continue with your orders. It is time for me to entertain.” The mercenary leapt down the stairs and sped to a midnight-black steed, mounting it quickly.
Tobus pulled on the heavy wooden double doors of the tower, impatiently. Soon, he would be on his way home, hopefully after watching the rest of the shipmen perish. The priest stepped into the darkened room, noticing a stairway that climbed along the inner walls. The large room was empty except for a circular wooden table supporting a wooden chalice and four large, shadowed forms. The forms were macabre statues of creatures with stitched flesh. He was nearly nauseated by the fine workmanship that captured and accented every gory detail.
“
BLACKROSE!” the priest bellowed and then reactively fell back. Two of the stitched statues lurched forward, their arms reaching for him.