Chapter 8: Devils in the Dark (Continued)
Sorry I didn't manage to get another update in this past week. Work has been busy.
However, happy Birthday to me and happy birthday to you. Here is a longer update than is typical.
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Thin, preserved strips of flesh peeled away from the golem’s chunky hands easily. The stars before Tobus’ eyes were exploding more and more rapidly with each passing breathless moment. He could not scream. He could not verbally pray and knowing his own Lord so well, he knew that it would be useless to do so were it possible. Suffering was a part of life, a major part of life for the weak. If it were His will to die, so it would be.
For the first time in Tobus’ life, regret and disappointment gripped his heart.
“Release him,” hissed a nearby voice. The meaty claw opened and the ground roughly caught the priest. His knees buckled and the world spun end-over-end until he was sitting upright, between the thighs of the monstrosity.
“Get up,” the raspy voice ordered. Tobus breathed deeply, too deeply for his location and had to choke down a small amount of bile. The scent of preserved decay surrounded his head like a cloud. It smelled of wetness and earth and rot. “Return to your positions,” the voice sounded again. “Do not move unless the chalice is disturbed.”
Tobus’ eyes opened in awe as he realized not one of the guardians had descended upon him—four had. Four flesh-crafted golems were stationed in this seemingly empty tower. Four highly expensive creations—things he had only ever heard of in passing at the temples in Norda Saam—lurched back to their positions surrounding the circular table. The empire, no, his God, truly was powerful to give such blessings to his servants. Blackrose then must be a powerful member of the clergy.
“GET UP,” the voice hissed again. A pallid, oval shape leered out of the gloom of the shadows. The hard angles of his nose and jaw were emphasized by a set of beady, dagger eyes that cut through Tobus without any effort and the cold reflection of the far away torch light off Blackrose’s hairless head.
The sounds of dripping gripped Tobus’ ears as he struggled to take in more air—air which shimmered and felt more malevolent than all the hate in Blackrose’s eyes. Tobus noted the ritualistic dagger in the other priest’s hand—covered in blood. The dripping was two-fold in its origin. Somewhere behind that priest, near the golems and probably near the aforementioned chalice was the other source.
Tobus spooked as the wind—was it really the wind?—began to murmur around the interior of the tower, spinning rapidly like a vortex. Blackrose’s bald, oblong head tilted his head as if to listen. The murmuring rose to a wailing and was joined by multiple screams. Tobus’ blood curdled.
The ceiling of the tower was beginning to fill with a strange mixture of dancing light—hopefully from the moons. Something important was happening, Tobus felt, as the wind increased again in intensity, filling his ears with a roaring and coalescing to near-physicality. Suddenly, he lurched into the air, the preternatural wind holding him in the air.
Fear spurred Tobus’ heart to a rapid pulsing.
Blackrose let out a hoarse laugh. “Not this one. Too frail, too frail. It is not his task and he will be dead soon.” The sharp lines of his mouth drew into a feral grin. “I am Nar’za,” he bellowed over the rising cacophony of the wind. His head had resumed its natural angle, his eyes needling into Tobus’ flesh. Tobus barely held back the bile as the wind lifted him to perfect rigidity above the floor, his toes dangling inches above the stone. “Why are you here…” Nar’za began to question, his head tilting ever so slightly again, listening intently, “…Tobus?”
Tobus moved to lift his arms, to cover his ears, to drown out the maelstrom and the screams of agony but the wind stalled his movement, snapping his arms behind, near to their breaking points. Pain lanced down the nerves in his arms, gripping his back in spasms of pain. Warmth spread along his thighs, filling his robes with moisture.
“You are here,” Nar’za continued with his head cocked, “to deliver a package. A package you have been intelligent enough not to open.” The light along the ceiling—a red and silver blending—danced fluidly, rippling and casting odd contrasts of light and shadow over the entire room. Out of the corner of his eye, Tobus thought he saw the maelstrom draw itself into a shadowy form, vaguely human in shape, but when his head turned he saw nothing but empty space. “You did, however, manage to poison an entire ship of fishermen. Good for you.” The sardonic smirk was unmistakable.
Tobus felt a shifting in his satchel and then the package he was meant to deliver drifted through the air and to Nar’za’s extended hand. The package was open a half-second later, his captor eagerly pouring through the correspondence. A darkening frown spread across his features as the second scroll was read until finally, Nar’za looked at Tobus. “Your god has reserved a special place in Hell for you. You may go,” he hissed and turned, moving toward the stairs.
Father Matlick clenched as the maelstrom spun him around and his ears filled with the whistling wind which almost formed a hoarse, “WHAT?!,” before his aged knees were slammed into the floor and he collapsed on all fours. The wind pulled away from the priest, seemingly to follow Nar’za up the staircase. Tobus struggled for the handle to the door and pulled it open as quickly as possible. He struggled to his feet and passed through the portal, drawing the door shut as he cast one frightened glance back at the unmoving statues of sewn flesh.
* * *
“All of the lands were created by the gods. They belong to no King,” Cassock retorted with a cocky sneer. “We shall pass.” Aramil stepped closer to the young priest, hoping to reinforce their resolve with strength in numbers. A guttural laugh was the only response.
“These lands are the King’s. This Empire is his. And it is on his lands you trespass.” Cassock opened his mouth but the knight in black and crimson continued, “Should you travel any farther onto the King’s lands, I have been granted the authority to serve as judge, jury and executioner for your crimes.
“I have taken the time to inform you of the possible crime you are about to commit. Any further action on your part will result in an immediate judgment of guilty. The punishment for your crime will be a sentence of death to be executed, so to speak, immediately.” The hunger spread again into his every limb. Orrin ripped the helmet from his head, tossing it to the ground. With a quick movement, he slid from his steed and unsheathed his blade. He gritted his fangs, obvious bloodlust burning in his eyes. Although he struggled against it, he felt the beast growing within. Their pungency was too much. “Execution,” he restated. “Unless…” his words trailed to nothingness and he waited.
“We will not,” Cassock blurted but was cut off as Aramil placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What are your terms?” Cassock’s mouth dropped open as he turned and stared at the half-elf. Aramil ignored the gaze and again opened his annoying mouth, “You wouldn’t say ‘Unless’ unless there were some way we could peaceably pass on the King’s lands. What is it you want? Money? Women?” Cassock’s eyes grew larger and larger as his hand gripped the mace tighter and tighter.
Orrin laughed again, which drew the priest’s gaze to him. “I want you to
join me.”
Cassock’s mind screamed as his vision dimmed around the pin-prick red eyes of the knight. The command—more powerful than any natural request or order—reverberated in his mind, demanding control of every part of his being. The assault was nearly overwhelming.
“
All you need do is join me,” Orrin the Red repeated and Cassock felt his control slip further. The vampire then turned his gaze to Aramil, his hypnotic eyes swallowing the half-elf as easily as the eyes of a puppy could capture the love of a child. “
We could be allies. Your power multiplied by my own. Our strength would be unstoppable. Just think of it.” Orrin inched closer, his mouth half open, his tongue lolling about behind the fangs.
“Yes,” Aramil murmured. “There’s no reason for us to fight—except as a team. We could use your power just as you could use our aide.” The half-elf turned back to repeat louder his epiphany to the others, exposing his neck to the bloodlust-driven demon.
The pulsing of Aramil’s neck artery drove the vampire’s lust beyond controllable. His mouth opened to its full extent and he was suddenly in motion, darting forward.
The red eyes glowed and shifted in Cassock’s mind’s eye, but another symbol was rising to consume the command. Cael’s holy image grew around the red light, adding strength to the priest’s already amazing will. His arm danced out, the heavy mace extending to his full reach and he felt a shudder in his arm as the head impacted with the undead’s face.
A howl erupted in the night air as Orrin fell back, fetid blood oozing from mouth and nostrils. The lust thrummed through the vampire’s every muscle. He issued another command while he maintained his last shreds of humanity but Cassock’s response was not one of acquiescence. Another heavy blow landed solidly against the vampire, knocking him back another step. Cassock stepped in.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?! Aramil’s hands latched around his ears but the voice that twisted his stomach and split his head was from within.
AID YOUR TRUE ALLY, it shouted again—effectively ending the control that had been asserted over his will. A faint regret lingered in his mind, but Aramil found that emotion displaced as the powerful weapon he held pierced the vampire’s flesh again and again.
Zayda and Anastrianna joined the fray, closing around Orrin. Weapon thrust after weapon thrust fell again and again on the creature. The ground was soaked with the blood of the undead—of its victims. Orrin tried to raise his weapon, only to have it knocked away by a fierce blow by Cassock.
The Red shrunk beneath a thrust of Zayda’s sword and his flesh shifted, becoming mottled with fur and his arms expanding to take the shape of leathery wings. He sped up—his new body that of a bat—toward freedom.
The stars in the sky were suddenly drowned out by the brown of cloth. Orrin squealed in anger as the haversack caught him. Ana held her prize to the ground as Cassock and Aramil pummeled it ceaselessly.
“Quickly,” Cassock grumbled as he grabbed the satchel and moved to the forest line. He cast a traitorous look at Aramil but said nothing as the half-elf followed him. Along the edge of the tree line, a small stream fled toward the nearby lake. Cassock thrust the haversack below the waterline and opened it.
A few minutes later, the priest pulled the satchel, now empty, from the water. He stood, Aramil following suit. The half-elf could not react quickly enough as a mailed fist launched out, batting him against the back of his skull. The world spun for half a second and he heard the priest’s words, “Never disobey me again.”
Aramil blinked and realized he was on the ground as Cassock walked away. His mouth flopped open and closed like a fish on dry land.
IF YOU KNOW WHAT IS GOOD FOR YOU, YOU WILL NOT SAY ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, the metallic, female voice calmly stated. The half-elf nodded.
“Let’s go,” Cassock yelled. “We’re almost to the spire.”
And probably already too late, he thought as he saw Enoch and Styg embracing in the heavens.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
