The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

The card landed face-up, the other worn cards trembling with anticipation in the malevolent winds.

The border of the card was simple, a heavy, black line. A skull, facing in different directions, accented each corner. The center was blank and yellowed—until the yellow began to swirl.

“I don’t like this!” Cassock exclaimed over the gale. Aramil chuckled, fascinated. Spinum had finally approached, cautiously staring at the card.

An image materialized: the face of a beautiful humanoid. Quickly her features grew, casting a warming radiance over the three. She seemed to turn and smile, observing the voyeurs. Her eyes blinked and then flashed wide—

And all of the color drained from Her visage. Flesh rotted, pulling away into the depths of the card. Soon all that remained was a wisp of vapor or fog within the dark borders. The fog twisted, much as the yellow had, forming two deep pockets of blackness—eyes that glared at the companions.

Each shivered uncontrollably. The remaining two cards thumped against the floor, demanding their turn.

But the fog dissipated as well. In its stead, a gleaming shaft of metal—equally bright and dark—materialized. Before their eyes the steel was shaped, folded, bent and decorated.

The image increased in size, threatening to burst the borders of the card.

Wind howled around the three, the piles of weapons and armor nearby creating an unsteady cadence—the sound of an army, a war gone mad. Armor clattered loudly to the ground, all three leapt into the air with surprise.

A blade danced from within the pile, a perfect copy of the image upon the card. It flew toward Aramil, as if the wind itself was wielding the blade as a weapon. Before it reached the rogue, he felt his arm snap out, clamping tightly around the hilt.

His knuckles turned white and he could not relinquish the blade.

The image upon the card faded to nothingness, all except for the border.

The maelstrom pummeled the remaining cards, flipping the next over. This card was not empty within its border, a massive, bloated corpse sat upon a throne of polished bone. The creature animated, drool and puss bursting from its lips to slide hungrily down the decaying flesh of its jaw.

It flexed its claws, scraping at the air in front of it, scraping at an invisible barrier.

“I truly hope that doesn’t wind up in your hand, too,” Spinum jested as he prepared a spell. Aramil frowned.

The beast’s talons shredded the invisible barrier and it reached into reality. Its hands pressed against the floor, skin sliding back to reveal dull claws of bone. The claws pierced the floor as it raised its head from within the card’s borders.

Its eyes bulged, dead and white. Its mouth opened, a pit of eternal darkness and emptiness—a void.

The wind around the trio shifted its orbit, bearing fully down upon Aramil and pushing him toward the open maw.

The rogue dug the tip of the sword into the floor as his feet lifted into the air—holding him parallel to the floor. Aramil’s other arm grasped the hilt, both knuckles purpling…

Cassock rushed toward his friend, Spinum unleashed his spell. The spell harmlessly fizzled and the mage swore just as Cassock hit the invisible barrier surrounding Aramil.

Each cursed as Aramil’s eyes stretched wide in shock. His powerful new weapon teetered, its edge just about to lose its grip in the floor…

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

Jagged razors of teeth lowered from the great corpse-beast’s lips, tearing into Aramil’s ankle. The beast laughed.

The rogue wailed.

The leather of the half-elf’s boot split, turning into nothing more than twisted rags. The broken leather flapped toward the void.

Cassock pulled out a few hairs in frustration and punched the invisible barrier. He screamed and swore. Spinum rubbed his chin—deep in thought.

An epiphany hit both at the same time. In unison, they screamed, “Flip the other card!”

Glancing toward the floor, the rogue eyed the remaining card. It was just barely outside his reach unless he could pull himself closer. The muscles on his arm bulging, the rogue reached for his last hope.

A fierce gust of wind assaulted his body, straining his muscles. The beast’s raucous laughter echoed past the gale.

Once Aramil thought he was close enough, he released one hand. His palm slapped the remaining card.

Cassock and Spinum watched in horror as the rogue’s other hand lost its grip upon the blade.

As he was wrenched backward into the bottomless maw, the rogue seized the other card, flipping it in his hand and brushing his finger over the small, delicate symbol in its center: a lamp.

The lamp swelled and emitted an electric azure puff of smoke.

The creature’s maw closed around the half-elf. But the corpse-beast vanished, leaving Aramil wounded yet safe on the floor. Towering over the half-elf stood a vivid blue-skinned creature. It leaned down, lifting its charge from the floor.

Aramil stared, his mouth open. The creature was easily eight feet tall, if its height could be measured. It had no legs; both were replaced by a vapid fog which tied it to the card.

It lifted its arm, indicating two fingers pointing directly up. “You have two more wishes,” it bellowed. The voice, Aramil thought, was deep and strong and carried a tone similar to that with which he thought a god would speak.

The half-elf’s lips parted, his words barely spilling out. “Can—can—can you tell me what I can wish for?” he stammered.

The djini leaned in, intimidating the rogue with his size. His black eyebrows—the only hair on his body—arched high. “Are you wishing for me to tell you what you can wish for?”

“N-n-no. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Be quick then. I have other business to attend to.” The djinni’s skin flared from blue to red with impatience. Aramil shuddered as he backed off.

Gabrielle, the name pounded into the half-elf’s mind. With her name, a vivid recollection of her death at the Inquisition flashed behind his eyes. If I had had more power… He was unsure if the words were his own thoughts. But he knew what he wanted.

“Make me a god,” he stated coldly. “I wish for the power of a god. I wish to be a god.” Aramil lifted his head nobly.

The djinni measured the little half-elf with his eyes and sighed. “Very well.” With a click of his fingers, light exploded within the room.

Cassock and Spinum rubbed their eyes. The light had cleared…Aramil lay unconscious on the floor. The djinni had one finger still up…

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

Aramil’s eyes flickered open. Dim light filled his vision. Laughter drowned his ears. Where the hell was he? Was the light too dim to see or were his eyes just not opening?

He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He had been in a library—something about a deck of cards. Yes. But the library had not been dim. It had been well lit or at least bright enough for him to notice the opening for a room; a room behind a wall.

The deck—it was all because of that damnable deck! There had been a woman that had become a sword, a corpse that had tried to devour him and a…his mind trailed off…

The light surrounding the rogue increased just enough to note the details. Aramil was slumped against a wall, sitting on a rickety, wooden chair. Around him, dozens of people—Humans!—sat, apparently unaware of the rogue or at least not paying him any mind.

The rogue’s eyes searched for an exit. His eyes followed the walls but there were no doors and there were no windows. Trapped.

Aramil inched up slowly. He needed to move slowly, quietly—to keep them unaware.

The djinn! And a wish. What was it he had wished for? The memory was incomplete.

A shattering snatched Aramil’s attention to a small table. Two brutes, giant men, smashed their mugs of ale together. Their mugs split into dozens of pieces. Each eyed the other angrily—and then both were on the floor: punching, kicking and tearing. A table toppled; patrons watched and laughed.

A tavern. He had somehow made it to a tavern. But where? And why couldn’t he remember how? Something isn’t right here.

Godhood. He had wished for the power of a god. Was this tavern somehow related to that wish? All Aramil had truly desired was the ability to stop death—Gabrielle’s, Ana’s, his own and maybe Cassock’s; if the priest would stop blathering about his god. Cael had let Gabrielle die—if what the priest said was true. Cael could never be forgiven.

A hand snagged the rogue’s shoulder. Automatically, Aramil’s hand reached for the dagger he kept hidden. It wasn’t there. His hand just grasped at cloth. Even his armor had vanished with the journey.

There’s no need for weapons here, a soft voice whispered. As you can see, an arm and hand hidden by gray cloth pointed toward the brawl, there are other, less permanent methods for dealing with disagreements here.

Come sit with me, have a drink, and maybe play a game or two. The rogue could hear the smile upon the voice. Standing, against his better judgment, he followed the cloaked traveler to a small, empty table in the center of the room.

They both sat, quietly peering at each other. The traveler was practically invisible within the folds of his cloak. Deep shadows covered his face, hiding all but a cocky grin. Aramil drummed his fingers against the table. He was uncomfortable with the man’s obvious staring.

You’ll forgive my manners, the traveler said. One of his hands slipped into the folds of his robe. The rogue tensed. The hand came out, carrying two silver goblets and a small flask. Despite its obviously small size, the flask easily filled both of the goblets. The traveler pushed one over to Aramil.

“Where am I?”

A good question. The traveler reached back into his robes—pulling out a velvet sack. Inside, solid objects clacked against each other as it was moved. A better question, though, would be ‘Why’?

“Why am I?” What kind of crazy question is that? No, there is something definitely not right here. Aramil glanced at the traveler’s hands, which grasped the bag. Each hand was a delicate, pure blue in hue. A thick, strange design danced up the sides of the flesh, entwining the fingers with archaic symbols. Definitely not right.

The traveler chuckled. No, not why am I? That question holds many answers—and none that are truly correct. The better question is ‘Why am I here’.

“Fine.” If the strange man wanted to play games—Aramil would go along with it. As long as an exit, preferably a safe and easy exit presented itself soon enough. He glanced around the tavern again. “Why am I here?”

I have the answer to that question. You are here— he paused, as if to give the words more weight, —to play a game. The rogue’s face screwed up into a look of confusion, drawing another chuckle.

The velvet bag spilled open, bones scattered across the table. Each polished white bone had a number etched on each face. You are a gambling man, are you not?

“Well—not really…”

If you weren’t a gambler, you wouldn’t be here. Did you bring your own bones?

“I don’t have,” he started. What was he doing there!? “No. And I don’t have any money or anything to gamble with.” A chuckle was the only response. Aramil felt anger flare within his chest.

I was thinking of gambling for something—a little less materialistic, actually.

“Oh, and what did you have in mind?” Sarcasm and anger laced the words.

Your fate. It’s the only thing worth gambling for. And from the stories I’ve heard, it is what you like to gamble with as well. So, we’ll play for fate.

Now he was astounded. How exactly does one ‘play for fate’? No, Aramil had always firmly believed his fate was his own to create. And now this traveler wanted to meddle with his fate. Something was not right.

“What do you mean? If my fate is on the line, what do I get if I win?” The traveler chuckled again. Aramil was quickly growing tired of it all.

If you win, I will help you out. If you lose, I will ruin you. He lifted his hood, allowing it to fall to his shoulders. The traveler was delicate looking, almost fragile with his thin aquiline nose and large eyes. His orbs were solid silver and framed by the same delicate blue flesh, which also covered his hands. Silver wisps of hair fell to his shoulder, nearly covering the black etchings that drifted up either side of his face. Just above his nearly nonexistent eyebrows, a single symbol was tattooed into the flesh.

Aramil had never seen anything like that traveler before. He immediately felt inconsequential.

What is more, whether you win or lose I will show you how to return home. But you’re probably curious as to what you would lose. That is why I chose this meeting place. The traveler shifted back in his chair. The full sounds of the bar came storming back in—Aramil hadn’t even realized reality had softened.

You see that man over there, he gestured toward one of the two still rolling about the floor, his name is Danbury. He is the great, great, great, great, great-grandson of one of the most respected captains in the entire world. Or at least, at one time his relative was. But you see, that captain saw something—something he could not or should not have. As a result, he was forever after thought a fool and a drunk.

They share the same name. Only, this Danbury wanted to dig himself out of the drunken shadow cast by his forefather. So, he made a deal with me. The problem was he did not win—at least not completely. He played the game; he won some, he lost some. He has since managed to distinguish himself—and end the disgrace that was brought upon his family.

Today, he pays up on his end of the bargain. The traveler turned to watch the brawl. Aramil was compelled to watch as well.

Danbury swung, landing a solid blow against his opponent. The other man stumbled back and away, a dazed, hollow look in his eyes. Danbury stepped in to finish the other man off.

A sound—a repetitive whirring—drew Aramil’s attention momentarily away from the brawl. A handless mug tumbled across the floor, rolling quickly toward the two opponents. The rogue’s eyes lifted, watching in slow motion as Danburry stepped forward for his final swing.

It was then that the sailor, the captain, set his foot upon the moving mug. His eyes opened in shock as his weight shifted backward, his final blow missed by inches. He was carried backward, both legs shooting into the air. Gravity slammed the hearty man headfirst into a tipped-over table and then just as mercilessly into the floor.

The crowd was silenced. The other brawler was beginning to come to—surprised at the silence. Danbury was crumpled upon the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood.

“And…how many times did he lose against you,” Aramil whispered. He was released from watching the brawl and turned back to his silver-eyed opponent.

Just once. Are you ready?

The rogue looked at his side of the table. Six bones had been spaced evenly on each side of the table during the fight. He swallowed hard.

“I can go home, after this?”

Yes.

“Okay…”

Each picked up their bones and tossed them into the air. Time slowed while they fell toward the table, toward an uncertain fate. Aramil closed his eyes and prayed.

Three.

“What?” Aramil’s eyes opened. He glared at the bones.

You won three times. Which means I won three times. The traveler grinned. Three times in your life I will help you. And then there will be three times when you will fail.

“How…how do I collect my earnings?”

Pray hard enough. I might hear you. The traveler grinned and extended one hand toward the rogue’s face. Now it’s time for you to go home. His hand flashed in front of Aramil’s eyes. Aramil’s lids drooped.

Before he lost consciousness completely, Aramil thought he heard, Welcome to the extended family.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

“What in Ara’kull’s hell did you do to him?” Cassock cursed as he knelt over the prone form of Aramil. The djinni just smirked.

Cassock stood, drawing his weapon and pointing it threateningly. “What in the hells did you do to him?!”

“The compact,” the djinni spoke condescendingly, “that I am bound by specifically states in Article Three, Section Fourteen dash One Hundred and Fifty Nine that ‘whilst called to serve upon any of the numerous material planes, the djinni named above, formally and formerly titled as the Bonded Servant, is only beholden to the responsible individual, formally and formerly titled the Master, whom temporarily calls him or her to servitude. A Bonded Servant is therefore not required, by any statute previously created, or any statute that is as of yet created or defined, by the Temporal Registration and Licensing Committee or the Grand High Magister, itself, to perform any function or service to any associates of the Master, which include but are not limited to: friends, immediate family, distant family, enemies, or rivals of any nature.” The djinni shifted his vaporous, blue legs about him as he took a deep breath. Calmly, yet with a disapproving look upon his brow, he crossed his arms and glowered at the priest.

“Uh…” Cassock said as he turned to glance at Spinum. “Can you translate?”

“Basically,” the mage spoke as the words flashed quickly through his mind again, “He doesn’t have to tell us sh*t.”

“Oh.” Cassock turned back to the djinni. “There are ways to make you tell us,” he warned.

“Doubtful,” the genie quipped. “Not that you can’t try. But I’ve dealt with much worse than you throughout the course of my employment. Besides, the code does not prevent me from speaking either condescendingly or sardonically toward you. It is completely within my purview to treat you as the inferior being that you are—within the grand scheme of what was, is, and will be—since it only states that I am not required to speak to you. I do not need to…”

“He’s stirring,” Spinum blurted, ended the outsider’s verbiage. Cassock replaced his weapon and knelt to help the rogue to his knees and then his feet. Aramil was bathed in a blue-gold radiance which quickly withdrew to nothingness as he gathered his wits about him.

“What happened?” Cassock queried.

“My worthy Master,” the djinni interrupted, throwing a childish scowl at the cleric of Cael, “You have one remaining. I do hope that you ask quickly. The compact specifically states…”

“The compact?” Aramil asked groggily.

“Yes, the…”

“It’s the law that binds him to the card!” Spinum screamed.

“Yes, as your scholarly friend says, the compact binds me here. It also gives a limited time during which I must remain here upon—whichever of the multiple Material planes I am on now. So, ask quickly before the period of servitude ends. Or, you could think on it for a time. I would not mind that course of action, at all. You do have to be careful of your wording or phrasing and it is so hard to…”

Aramil turned toward his friends. The djinni continued its speech, completely oblivious or just not caring that he was being ignored. “I don’t know what else to wish for,” the half-elf hissed.

“Just pick something,” Spinum urged.

“I really don’t think you can top godhood,” Cassock added. His head shook slightly in wonder.

“Neither do I,” Aramil agreed. The rogue spun around to address the djinni.

“…what you have to realize is that a camel is not unlike your horse; it is a beast of burden. And he asked for one thousand of them. The sultan did not specify where he wanted them. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when all one thousand appeared directly over where he was,” the genie’s mouth slowed down as he realized they were listening again, “standing.”

“I know what my final wish is.”

“Don’t be rash now,” the outsider said as he chuckled.

“I want Cassock of Cael to have my final wish.”

The djinni’s mouth (as well as Cassock’s) dropped open in shock. “But…but…the compact doesn’t,” he stuttered.

“I wish Cassock of Cael had one wish.” The djinni twitched. “I think you could put it to better use than I,” Aramil added.

“Master,” the djinni said as he turned to the cleric, a look of repressed rage forming in the soft lines of his face.

“I wish we all were gods,” Cassock demanded.

“Very well, master,” the djinni spit. He lifted his arms and a torrent of power washed through the room. The energy tore down the hallways of Llewyllyn Manor, knocking Lady Llewyllyn against the wall. Gravity quickly set about its task, pulling the blonde’s body down the staircase as the energy passed on.

Once she hit the landing, her eyes popped open to catch the last glimpse of the tail of the energy. She quickly hopped up in pursuit,

Cassock, Anastrianna and Zayda all fell to unconsciousness. Spinum watched as the cleric’s knees buckled and he collapsed.

The djinni murmured, “I’m spent.” He spun, the little card—his prison—quivered to devour his essence. He cast a long look at Spinum and leaned in to whisper, “Sorry, my intellectual associate, even my power is limited. Besides, as the smart one, you should know only fools ask for that divinity. You’re better off,” he stated coldly. With a pat on the mage’s shoulder, the djinni evaporated, leaving naught but fading smoke behind.

The three cards lifted into the air, circled thrice in wide arcs, and spiraled slowly to land atop the deck. The old leather wrapping closed around the card, sealing itself back into place.

Aramil eyed it cautiously then moved to snatch the deck. The set of cards leapt across the floor, away from his grasp. He tried again but to no avail.

“It’s no good, rogue. You cannot use the cards again until another person does so. They will keep evading your grasp,” Spinum educated as he reached down easily and lifted the wrapped deck.

“Then use them,” the rogue tempted. “You could wish for godhood, too.”

“It will mean more when I earn it myself. Anyway, there is too much risk.” The wizard slipped the deck into his pocket for safekeeping. “Haven’t you learned anything, yet?” Spinum walked to a nearby table and slumped into a chair to await Cassock’s awakening.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

Cassock felt his body jerk backward, the magical energy of the wish dancing through his nervous system like electricity. Vertigo wrenched the edges of his mind. Shuddering, the priest’s soul seemed to expand, nearly splitting its fleshy prison at the seams. Cassock’s vision dimmed, permitting a brief respite as vertigo’s razor talons loosened their hold.

Slowly, the disorientation passed and the priest’s eyes opened. In the brief span of near-unconsciousness, Cassock had apparently been relocated, either physically or spiritually. The massive library of Llewyllyn Manor was gone; instead he found himself in the center of a great hall. A checker pattern, black and white floor stretched beneath him endlessly, it appeared, in either direction. Ages of dust laid upon the open floor, dancing in a slight, chilled breeze.

The priest turned around carefully, trying not to disturb the piles of aged soil around him. The grand hall was an immense beast, perhaps larger than the dragons of lore. The priest felt as though he had been swallowed by the colossal beast. Staring straight upward in the dim light the ceiling could be discerned, a massive ribcage easily a hundred feet or more above.

A predator just waiting to pounce, thought the cleric. He turned his attention from the vaulted dome to the workmanship surrounding him.

The checkered pattern of the floor was crafted of the smoothest marble. The blackness of the alternating squares nearly void of color was in stark contrast to the seemingly glowing white. The blocks seemed carved by a deity; so perfectly smooth as if to deny a mortal hand had ever worked it.

Doric columns, made of the same pitch black marble, pierced the floor and stretched the impossible height to support the ceiling. Cobwebs covered the columns and trapped motes of dust against the stone. At ordered intervals along the side of the columns, red marble gargoyles were carved as if in mid-climb. If not for the perfect stillness and dull sheen of the unpolished marble, the creatures could be alive.

A shudder passed through Cassock, a feeling of uncertainty traveling upon the chilled air.

Arching bridges spanned the empty air above, lending support to the marble columns. The locations of the arcs appeared random or chaotically placed, like a spider’s web. Upon the bridges perched more of the gothic marble gargoyles; these stared hungrily downward.

The edges of the room slowly made their presence aware to the priest. Massive walls flowed vertically—like water in motion—and grasped the ribcage of the ceiling.

Cassock cautiously paced toward a window in the wall, allowing the dim light to guide his footsteps. As he edged closer, his eyes distinguished the strange detail in the masonry. Twisted, tortured visages gazed outward toward him. The faces exhibited every expression of pain possible. The cleric blinked and paused, for a second the faces seemed to contort. Seconds passed slowly, nearly endless and no more movement occurred.

Carved into the stone walls surrounding the window’s sill were more of the agonized faces. Unlike the sill, the walls allowed enough room for humanoid bodies to connect to the numerous faces. The bodies were also contorted in agony and poised as though attempting to escape the marble.

A breeze poured into the hall causing deep velvet curtains to dance gracefully. The unobstructed view through the window allowed a view of a reddening forest. A gracefully curving hill descended from the hall for some distance and sloped into an extremely large city. All these details, Cassock carefully observed and held onto—locking the sights permanently within his memory.

A great wall encircled the lower levels of the city; its great height allowing only towers to peak above its ledge. Many of those towers were sharp and black. Cassock thought they appeared to slice futilely at the heavens above, trying to tear a hole in the sky.

Rap! Rap! Rap!

Cassock pivoted toward the sound drawing his war-mace and preparing for battle. Along the rear wall of the chamber rested a large black throne. Slowly, the cleric picked his way across the floor and toward the seat.

The throne was easily thrice the height of a man. It was crafted of warped wood and black metal; the material infusing its frame slipped toward the floor in gothic curves. The seat and armrests were cushioned by dark crimson pillows. Each armrest ended in a black marble sculpture of human skulls. From the eyes of the skulls, dim candlelight flickers to light the priest’s destination.

Upon the throne rested a middle-aged man. Silver hair, balding on top, drifted lightly down to shoulder length. The face under the hair was utterly unremarkable except for the eyes. From above a hating sneer, irises of pitch black stare downward.

“Why do you disturb my kingdom, child?!” Upon the brow of the man, a crown carved to resemble thorns perched precariously. As Cassock neared, he could tell the crown while resembling thorns was actually carved from bleach-white bone. The man snorted—breaking the cleric’s attention—and settled backward into the seat, nearly swallowed by the shadows. Impatiently he tapped a gnarled black oak staff upon the floor.

“Don’t make me ask you again, child. Answer the question.”

“I disturb your kingdom because I wish to, milord.” Cassock warily sheathed his weapon.

The old man snorted, nearly choking on some phlegm. "I heard you were an insolent bastard, a worshipper of the dead gods. And you pay your King no respect. These treasons will not go unpunished, Cassock of Cael. I ask again; why do you insist on disrupting my Kingdom?!”

“Cael has deemed the disturbance necessary. And I follow the path my God sets before me.”

A snicker hissed from the shadow of the throne. The King leaned out slightly, a holy emblem of the deity Ara’kull dangled impotently from his neck. "Your god is no more, child. Soon even his flesh will be but ash. Ara’kull devoured his essence long ago. Your insolence will incur the wrath of Ara’kull—my wrath." King Arma leaned back into the shadow. “Unless of course, you submit to the glorious will of the All-Holy.”

Cassock could hear the wicked grin stretch across the yellowing teeth of the man. He smirked in kind and spoke, “I will see Ara’kull’s death long before that time, King. I will spill his blood and end his reign as well as your own.”

With inhuman speed, King Arma hopped from the throne, his long black robes billowing after the movement. Within one blink of an eye, he closed the distance between the throne and Cassock. Hoarse, flat, insane laughter leapt from his mouth while the flesh upon his head began to rot and peel. His skin pulls taut across his skull, stretching tightly as he continues the mocking laughter. The King’s black irises seep outward, devouring his eyes. The only light in the empty sockets is that reflected off pale, wriggling white maggots. The insects feasted upon the necrotic skin surrounding the sockets. A scent heavy with stench and decay engulfed the air around the monarch, pouring into Cassock’s nostrils and forcing him to gag.

“Death overcomes all,” Cassock spitted defiantly.

“Child, you have no power over me. And no power you wield could destroy me. For I am Death. Just as I am LIFE.” The dry voice split into two, parallel but different tones.

“You are nothing but a puppet, fool.” Cassock tentatively returns his hand to grasp the hilt of his mace.

“I AM NO PUPPET. IT IS THE GOD OF MEN THAT SPEAKS TO YOU NOW, CHILD. IT IS THE GOD OF MEN THAT WILL CRUSH YOUR BODY AND SOUL RIGHT BEFORE THIS THRONE. IT IS THE GOD OF MEN THAT WILL MAKE YOU BEG FORGIVENESS BEFORE STRIPPING THE LIFE FROM YOUR BODY AND DEVOURING YOUR SOUL.” An aura of divine energy spasmodically radiated from the un-living corpse pacing in front of Cassock. The creature twitched in anger and rage, dead knuckles turning white upon the black staff.

“EVEN NOW, AS WE SPEAK, THE MOTHER DIES. THE CREATOR OF ALL TORMENT SLOWLY WASTES AWAY. ALONG WITH HER SHALL PASS HER CHILDREN AND BY THEM HER OTHER BLOOD. THE WORLD WILL COME TO DARKNESS AND I SHALL BE THERE. IN THE DARKNESS, I WILL WAIT FOR YOU, CASSOCK OF CAEL. IN THE DARKNESS, I WILL END YOU.” The walking corpse grimaced. Its maggots vanished as the skin upon its face reformed.

“I can give you anything you desire, Cassock of Cael: Wealth; Power; Immortality. All of it could be yours.” The voice returned to its original, single tone. It was the King speaking again, not the fell God.

“Cael provides for me, you insufferable fool.”

“Cael will provide for you no more. The signs and portents are here now. The last and longest Tri’ara[1] is upon us. With the coming of the dark, all of the old gods shall become nothing but ash upon the wind. And there is nothing anyone can do to stop the end-times.

“If you were wise, you would join with me to rule the world after. The new dawn is upon us and you may watch from my side, ruling as an equal. Your father has realized this already, although I had to open his mind for him.” King Arma grinned.

Cassock doubled over in pain as a vision filled his head. Upon a cold, black marble floor his father writhed naked. White-hot brands prodded his already singed flesh. Ara’kull’s holy symbol was burned onto his body.

The vision shifted; Morgan was now strapped to a rack, slowly elongating. Only the skin around the fist-sized symbol of Ara’kull was undisturbed. The rest of his body was split open, like overstuffed garments bursting at the seams.

Morgan’s head jerked backward in agony screaming for mercy and forgiveness. Cassock’s father’s back popped loudly as his spinal cord snapped apart. The man wrenched upward and pleads again for forgiveness, as the last of his life poured from his wounds.

“If I must, I will teach you in the same manner, child. But it need not be such,” the King speaks as the vision ends.

“Now I know you are a liar, false one.” Cassock unsheathed both his mace and sword, holding each at the ready in his hands. A confident sneer and a blood-hungry gleam in his eye break his normally stoic visage.

King Arma laughs and waves a hand quickly in the air. Both weapons vanished. Cassock glanced at his empty hands and balls them up in rage.

“Very well, Cassock of Cael. I will be waiting for you in the darkness. You may go.” The King gestured as if to dismiss the priest; Cassock felt himself slip back into the darkness of unconsciousness. The scene, that image of the cocky and cold smile of the king, was etched into his memory along with the details of the chamber.

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[1] Tri’ara – The last three months of the year. Before Ara’kull, there were 12 months in a year. After Ara’kull was born, the year lengthened by three whole months. This became known as the Tri’ara; 3 months given every year to the world by Ara’kull. The extra time seemed not to affect the life expectancy of any race. So, if an average human lived 30 years before the switch…he would still live for 30 years afterward. The time change does add an extra 7.5 of the old years to his life though. Just a little tidbit for you.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued

Zayda blinked her eyes. The dining table she had been sitting at blurred. Dizzy, she thought. Poison was the next thought that pounded into her mind like a cart driven by a team of horses—fast, relentless, and dominating.

She blinked. It was her only course of action. Powerless, the elf felt the poison—if that were the cause—drown her in unconsciousness.

But it was not pure darkness and absence of thought. The elf could feel and sense, could even see. The colors that swirled in front of her mind’s eye formed a cacophonous brilliance like the dances of her home upon the harvest nights. The celebration of life, their continued life, was both beautiful and savage. These colors were not dissimilar.

And then the savage dance parted like a two curtains drawn aside, revealing reality.

She stood on the edge of the forest, the Draeul forest, her homeland. South, the sloping hills of the human kingdom slid away from her. North, the forest swallowed the horizon, silent but vigilant guards of her home. She stood on the sword’s edge, a part of neither world, her only company a familiar wooden hut.

Zayda glanced at the hut, catching each detail with her trained eye. It looked no different than when last she had laid eyes upon it. She felt a difference, though. Something here had changed.

She stepped forward and reached for the old leather skin that covered the doorway. It was grainy and rough; at least that much was the same. She pushed it aside watched as the light illuminated the floor. The rug that had lain across the floor during her last visit was pushed haphazardly to the side. Leaning against that wall and pinning the rug in place, a rough section of wood with braces rested. It was circular and covered with dirt.

In the center of the floor was a circular hole, piercing the earth. A hemp rope—tied to the hut—descended into that dark pit. The elf glanced carefully over the ledge and noted a flicker of torchlight deep below.

With a sigh, she grasped the rope and flung herself into the hole. Quickly, she descended as carefully as was possible.

She landed with a quiet thump upon the soft earth at the bottom of the rope. The blue light of the world above partially slipped through the vertical shaft, surrounding her head with a nimbus of blue light. She ignored the light. Her eyes were focused on the bent form stretching its withered hands over the wall.

The wall was dirt and stone, unremarkable. But upon that crude surface, some talented hand had etched a tree in silver. The branches curled and uncurled, stretched away from the thick trunk. The detail was magnificent. She leaned in, noting the shifting patterns of ridges upon the drawn bark of the tree. And it seemed to sway, as if a breeze were flustering the branches and molesting the silver leaves.
“You may not find me above,” the withered form whispered. His hands etched an invisible arc over the tree and then slashed downward. “For I have gone below.” He spun, allowing Zayda a complete view. He was old, as old as a human could be she thought. His eyes were bright and blue and shining with a youth never lost. Upon his bald pate, a wreath of mistletoe circled his brow. It was like a crude crown crafted by a child. It was simple; in that simplicity was elegance.

“The branches wither,” he said as he turned back to the silver tree. His fingers rang the lengths of a few branches before shooting down to the base again. “When the roots cannot grow.”

“I know you,” Zayda said. “I was supposed to find you…I can’t remember your name.”

“There is not enough water for the rain and the skies. When the darkness comes, the last Phoee’un[1] dies.” The old man paused, taking a slow, labored breath. Sadness, she thought, infinite sadness. “One year after that last day, all the bonds shall be broke. Both forest and city, devoured by smoke.”

The old man, the druid, turned to Zayda. His radiant eyes locked her in place. “Two questions you may ask, the answers I may tell. Ask quickly my dear, ‘for the world becomes hell.”

Zayda felt the holding power of the gaze waver. She thought quickly and blurted, “Are you the last Phoee’un?”

The old man sighed and shook his head sadly. “The last Phoee’un, the greatest in power, their name will not be known until that fateful hour.”

Zayda scratched her nose with irritation, a very un-elf-like motion. “Then,” she murmured, “then you are obviously talking about the end of the world. How long do we have?”

The druid sighed again and Zayda instantly knew neither of her questions were of any use. Still, he pulled near to her ear and whispered, “Guess I was not clear, in verse two or three. Let’s clear this confusion so you can finally see.” He leapt back and motioned at the silver tree. With a voice as deep as a god, she thought, he proclaimed, “Cold Winter’s approach brings final darkness.

The tree shuddered and twitched. Its silver leaves fell like snow to its base as an oily fluid broke the earth above it, painting the stone black.

“At the end of this year, all people will feel distress. But suffer one year more of pain and hunger, watch the world die, watch the Dark God conquer.”

Zayda had shielded her eyes from the silver tree which had rent itself into many flickering, silver silhouettes of people. Those tiny forms had turned upon each other, fighting and killing all while wasting away. She couldn’t watch.

The silence caused her to look up. She looked into the eyes of the druid, the prophet. The deep blue of his eyes swallowed her. Faintly, she heard the verses again as if drifting over a vast distance to reach her ears. She could feel warmth; he was grinning. Deep down, she knew it would be alright. Somehow, it would all be alright.

The darkness closed in around her, silencing her senses.

-------------------------------------------------------

[1] Phoee'un is the proper name of druids in Norum da Salaex. Phoee is the name of the mother of all the other gods. She is credited with all of creation. The suffix 'un means "child of"; it’s a neuter prefix as opposed to ‘iban (son of) and ‘anda (daughter of). So, Phoee'un means: child of Phoee. They revere Phoee as the ultimate form of nature. She is neither good nor evil, neither lawful nor chaotic. She just is.

[2] General Note: I don’t consider myself much of a poet…especially when it’s on the spot. So, hopefully you’ll forgive my attempts.

[3] IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS BRINGS US CURRENT, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient (Concluded)

Anastrianna held her palm against her head.

Nope, no fever, she thought.

She had to be ill or dreaming. Whatever the case, she knew what she was seeing could not be real. Moments before—before what? Darkness? Absolute confusion and a bout of vertigo?—she had been sitting in the grand dining hall of the Ladies Llewyllyn, feasting on a delicious breakfast and making small talk with Zayda. Of course, that elf was as racist and closed off as they came, so, Anastrianna had done most of the talking. The elf had only grunted in reply; even that response was scarce.

Now, the young rogue was staring at the butchered body of her father. The grotesque scene contrasted sharply against the fresh new walls and floors of the keep in her hometown.

Gabe’s chest rose with a wheezing breath, shuddering violently. It had to be an illusion or a trick of some kind. No man, young or old, healthy or feeble, could have survived the abuse that had been heaped upon that fragile shell of flesh. His skull peeked through flayed layers of flesh. Blood was dried across his body, edging slowly toward rents and fissures in his flesh. Whip markings and knife wounds, Ana realized.

She choked down a surge of bile.

Gabrielle Rowen, her father, breathed again.

A shadow moved into her periphery vision. The form was man-sized and moving with an odd gait. The shadow clung to its edges, blurring the details of its form. Ana still recognized it as both familiar and unnatural.

She stalked away from her father’s body; she was not sure if this was real but if it was, she had no desire to be seen.

You should have listened to my advice, old man, the thing hissed. Ana recognized the voice just as it moved into the light: Leiban Malabrandt.

The Captain of the Guard had changed since last Ana had seen him. He had been dead. Now, he definitely was not dead but neither was his body full of life. He was something else entirely. The wounds he had sustained still showed clear upon his body. The many red, jagged lines where Cassock had painstakingly severed appendages were marred even further by thick black cord. Puss filled one of his eye sockets; the orb in the other remained but was yellow and dull.

A ragged scowl showed the few teeth the Priest of Cael had left intact; many of those few were splintered. His face was tortured—although with what, anger or pain, Ana was not sure.

“Traitor,” Gabe spit. A bubble of blood burst at the edge of his nose, coating his face with a new layer of drying film.

Traitor! YOU were the traitor! You and your whore of a daughter! Leiban leaned down and stuck his meaty fingers into one of Gabe’s festering wounds. Maggots squirmed out of his stitched flesh, wiggling merrily into the crevasse to feast. Ex-Mayor Rowen squirmed but would not scream. I loved her and she betrayed me. You, even you I loved as a father.

“Does that mean you would have poisoned me as well, Leiban? You’re a disgrace!”

The undead stood. He lifted his foot and placed it against Gabe’s throat. You tempt my patience.

“Do it,” Gabe spit. “Do it! I would see that…thing finish what Cassock began. You are a coward and a bully, Leiban. You don’t have the…”

What do you think you are doing? Leiban spun as a shadowy arm lifted upward. Without touching the undead, End-bringer forced him backward roughly. Leiban slammed into the wall and collapsed onto the floor. You do not touch my prisoner. You have already proven your incompetence. The beast lowered its arm and turned its mocking visage toward the prisoner.

If I am such a failure, then why was I brought back, Malabrandt questioned. He knew his mistake as a razor sharp chain shot from End-bringer’s shadowy form, wrapping its serrated edges around his neck and chewing through flesh. Leiban was jerked toward the Inquisitor, his form lifted easily, effortlessly into the air.

The Lord Ara’kull believes in second chances for some of his loyal followers—loyal in act if not will. Yours is a second chance, nothing more. Do not fail. The chain snapped, unraveling and pulling taught before withdrawing into the shadowy folds. Leiban crashed into the door, which opened to allow his exit. As he hit the floor in the hallway, the door simultaneously shut, its bolt snapping into place. It is good to see you awake again, Gabriel. We can begin your reeducation now.

“I don’t know where my daughter is,” Gabe pleaded.

I do not do this for information, Gabe. I do this because I enjoy it. Two chains lurched out of the shadows…

As the chains pounced, Ana screamed. The scream brought the nasty barbs up short. The thing—whatever it was—turned its mask side to side, looking for the source of the disturbance.

Ana felt the world grow black.

* * *​

And suddenly the world became all light and pain, a sharp pain in her arm. Ana lifted her head from the dining table. Lady Llewyllyn scowled at her, the beautiful golden tresses of her hair created a strange concoction of beauty and anger. The Lady’s fingers were clamped tightly around her elbow, pinching the very life from her veins.

Zayda, Ana noticed, was in the same predicament.

“Come with me,” the Lady demanded. Not waiting for a response, she hefted the two women out of their chairs and pulled them toward the staircase.

* * *​

Cassock shook his head slightly as he stood. He was still a bit woozy from the fall, or from the vision. Despite his lightheadedness, he immediately recognized a new power resonating through his veins.

The cleric ducked as the door to the library was nearly torn from its hinges. Lady Llewyllyn stormed in, dragging Zayda and Ana behind her. She forcefully shoved them into chairs and whirled on Cassock, Spinum, and Aramil. Her eyes narrowed, her face flushed.

She lifted a hand toward Aramil, who stood in the entrance to one of the secret compartments. He was flung like a rag doll away from the enclosure. The doors hissed as they closed upon the compartments. A thick thud marked the setting of a lock-bar on the inside; a lighter thud noted Aramil’s fall which he easily shifted into a roll. The rogue popped up onto his feet; he swung his new sword around to a defensive stance.

Cassock and Spinum stood dumbfounded.

Llewyllyn snarled and pointed one hand at the rogue. His body stiffened, the sword fell impotent to the floor.

“NOW,” she bellowed, “You have proven exactly how unworthy of trust your respective races are.” They all eyed her wearily except Aramil, whose face was frozen in shock. “I welcome you into my home. I give you shelter. I feed you. I offer to pay for the gear you have dragged tirelessly behind you for nearly a month. Gear, that I might add, came from murder,” Cassock opened his mouth to speak but she prevented his words by raising her voice even louder. “DEATH DEALT IN DEFENSE, NO DOUBT. BUT MURDER IN THE EYES OF THE KING, IN THE EYES OF HIS GOD, AND IN THE EYES OF THE EMPIRE. HAVE I NOT RISKED ENOUGH FOR YOU?

“No, of course not. You thank me by rooting through my personal possessions like common thieves. If it is thieves you act like, it is thieves you will be. You are all imprisoned within this room for the next twenty-four hours until I decide how to deal with you.

“Pray I am lenient. Pray I find some course other than giving you freely to the Inquisitors.” She turned, as if to go, before she looked back at Spinum. Her snarl deepened.

The mage paced toward her, his hand slipping into his pocket. He pulled out the deck and extended his hand, giving her the deck freely. “I did not use it,” he murmured.

Lady Llewyllyn turned without another word and stepped out of the library. The door shut and locked, trapping the companions in the room. The Lady said a quick cantrip, sealing the exit. With a smile, she walked slowly down the hall to her room, the deck firmly in her hand.

[END CHAPTER]
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I've gone ahead and posted this update a little early. But make no mistake, this is Wednesday's update and you will receive no other on May 10th.

This also brings a conclusion to Chapter 6 (long overdue, I might say). I'm not done updating this SH yet, though. I'm going to go ahead and write up a (brief) chapter of Interludes. Then, I'll hop back to updating my other SH and leave this one hanging for a bit.

Thanks for reading, and welcome back post-crash.

~Fune

 

[HalfOrc HalfBiscuit]

Good stuff, Funeris. (Not that we expect anything else ). And well done on getting us back up to date so quickly.

 

[Funeris]

Thanks HO HB.

Yeah, it took about a half hour per story hour... But, we need to be up-to-date so I can continue on (and not slip back into the shadows).

~Fune

 

[Anti-Sean]

Sweet! Any update that gives us more time with End-bringer is more than welcome! I'm curiious to find out exactly what is up with Lady Llewyllyn, too...