Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
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IHe's back!
Good to see you, Lazybones.
Delem in the hands of nasty succubus, tortured by demons, and getting nasty thoughts placed into his thoughts... I love it! Of course, considering how long he's been down there, he might have a lot of half-fiend little buggers running around now...
Good to see you, Lazybones.
Delem in the hands of nasty succubus, tortured by demons, and getting nasty thoughts placed into his thoughts... I love it! Of course, considering how long he's been down there, he might have a lot of half-fiend little buggers running around now...
Lazybones
Adventurer
Hey, thanks everyone for the positive posts. Part 1 went a little longer than my typical chapters, so I'm going to break it into two installments, presented today and tomorrow.
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Book VI, Part 1 (post 1)
Goran strode into the chamber, his bare feet making barely a sound on the cold stone floor. The only light was a pair of braziers full of brightly glowing coals, which flanked a plain stone bier near the far wall from the dark entry. In the red radiance from the coals Goran was little more than a shadow, but as he came forward the light glistened on the sheen of sweat and blood that covered his muscular frame. There was more of the former than the latter, but not by much; the purification rituals had been long and arduous.
But if the man was in pain, he did not show it. Few who came here did; one didn’t get this far without learning to carefully mask their inner feelings.
As he came forward, Goran’s eyes crept reflexively upward to the large emblem that hung over the far wall. The representation of the Dark Sun was impressive at first glance, easily eight feet across, but Goran didn’t need to examine it closely to know that it was a temporary device, a hastily made construct that could be taken down quickly if the cell needed to suddenly change location. That was a common expediency, as followers of the Father of Lies were not generally liked by those around them. Concealment, and creeping around in the shadows, was almost a necessity.
Goran snorted, not caring if the others saw it. That would change, if he had his way.
As he approached the bier the others became visible, mere shadows themselves in the cowled black cloaks that concealed their lean frames. All kept their faces hidden, although Goran could identify most by the subtle hints in the way they carried themselves or the way that they moved.
That was another skill common to those of his ilk; the ability to read subtle clues that were ignored by less perceptive men.
Of course, in this sect, the less perceptive tended to be the less... alive eventually.
One of the black shadows detached itself from the others and came to stand behind the bier. He reached up with a pale, bony hand and pulled back his cowl, revealing the emaciated features of a man who looked older than his years. His eyes shown in the reflected light of the glowing coals, and seemed to hold a glow of their own as they fixed on the nude form of the solitary approaching figure.
The cloaked man smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. Goran could read those eyes like words written on a scroll, could read the subtle mockery in the man’s stance, the anticipation matched with ever-present ambition. There was no pride in him, no concern, no respect; even though Malifex was the individual most responsible for who he was, what he had become. Goran didn’t even bother looking at the others; he knew their functions in this equation, understood them and dismissed them as irrelevant to what now needed to be done.
Goran came forward and knelt before the bier. The massive stone was large enough to support a man lying spread-eagle upon its surface, but the only ones to do that were those slated to have their lives torn from their bodies. Another ritual entirely, and nothing to do with what was about to happen here.
Of course, he could still lose his life here, but that was unlikely. That understanding caused Goran no concern; he was so far beyond thoughts of life and death that the promise of such a fate held no terror for him.
Malifex came around the bier, creeping forward like a wary cat until he was perched behind the kneeling warrior. His voice was like a hiss as he asked, “Have you undergone purification, supplicant?”
Goran did not stir, his eyes fixed forward on some distant nothing as he replied, “Yes.”
“Are you prepared to receive the blessing of the Dark God, if he judges you worthy?”
“I am unworthy, but prepared to accept His judgment, be it for power or for death.”
“The prepare to meet your fate,” Malifex muttered. Goran did not shift or flinch as he heard the sound of metal sliding on metal, as the cloaked priest reached into the brazier and drew an object out of the coals. Malifex, of course, was protected against the burning heat of the brand as he lifted it before him—although some priests were known to forego such warding during the ritual, accepting the pain of the flesh as a way of proving their dedication to their dread god.
Goran thought little of such fanatics—they were dangerous and unpredictable, those, and did as much to undermine their cause as to advance it. Malifex was not one of those, although Goran knew all too well that the man’s brilliance was matched to an insanity so profound that it defined everything that he was. It was Malifex who, decades ago in another life, had dragged him onto the path of service to Cyric by destroying everything that he had been, everything that he had once loved.
Pain exploded through his back as the priest thrust the brand against his bare flesh, scoring him with the sigil of the Dark Sun. The pressure felt as though Malifex sought to drive the metal through his body, but to Goran, who had been treated to far worse in his life, the pain was just a distraction to be felt, identified, and then placed away in a distant compartment for later analysis. Malifex recognized the self-control and let out a small cackle that was hidden in the sound of searing flesh as the brand finished its work and he replaced it carelessly in the brazier with a loud clatter.
“Rise, supplicant,” the priest hissed.
Goran rose, overcoming the weakness of his battered body through the marshaled force of his will. The robed figures gathered closer around the bier, forming a ring around him and the stone. Their chanting filled the chamber, and Goran could sense their power gathering—power that he, personally, had never been able to tap himself. For all that his identity was now irrevocably tied to Cyric, he’d never been able to embark upon that surrender of self that was required for entry into the priesthood of the Prince of Lies. Goran felt the same contempt for his master that the clerics felt for all other life, a paradox that led him to amusement on those rare occasions when he felt inclined to a philosophical mood.
For all his feelings on the subject, however, there was no denying the reality of the power that rose at the call of the gathered priests. The result of that calling was swiftly apparent, as the air above the bier began to twist and shimmer. A black cloud formed out of the air, a roiling mass of chaos and corruption that seemed to pulse in an almost living cadence as it took form. Then a form erupted out of the cloud, an image hanging in the darkness. It was a skull, humanoid in shape but missing its lower jaw, and jagged flames limned its surface as it hung there in the air. The skull turned slowly in a wide arc, taking in each of the gathered priests in turn before fixing its empty eyesockets upon Goran.
Greetings, Goran.
Goran felt the words fill his mind, and knew without doubt their source. He momentarily wondered if the others heard them as well, then decided he didn’t care. Nor did he try to conceal his thoughts, his feelings, from the presence that crept into his mind—his soul—like a second skin.
Yes, I feel your hatred for me, the hate that you cannot seem to muster for your fellow men. That hate will sustain you as you fulfill your destiny in my service, Goran, for you are my Chosen, and I mark you as such!
The skull screamed, an inhuman sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. The skull and the flames and the cloud swept forward, growing... or shrinking, it was impossible to tell which exactly, from one instant to the next... until the image vanished into Goran.
The supplicant jerked and staggered, nearly falling before he somehow managed to catch himself. His eyes flared wildly and his features twisted into a rictus of sudden terror and confusion. The gathered priests leaned forward despite themselves, like a pack of carrion birds awaiting the fall of a dying beast. One of them laughed, a desperate sound of released tension. Goran righted himself momentarily, then stumbled forward and fell once again to his knees. The dark presence that had just occupied this place was gone, and the stillness of the chamber was broken only by the haggard breathing of those gathered.
“Well, supplicant?” came Malifex’s voice, unable to fully conceal the eager edge in his tone. One hand had crept under the shroud of his cloak, no doubt to the hilt of a waiting blade. The fact that Goran still lived meant that he’d passed one test, but there had been those who had survived only to descend utterly into insanity.
For a moment Goran remained hunched over, kneeling before the bier, his head lowered so that his chin pressed against his heaving chest. Then, slowly, he rose, turning leisurely so that each of those present could look into his eyes, could sense the presence of the god’s touch that was now in him.
When he finally faced Malifex, the old priest’s smile grew more terrible and his eyes burned with passion. “Long have I waited for this,” he hissed quietly, so that only Goran could hear. “All the preparation that I put into you, it was all for this moment.” In a louder voice, he added, “All hail the Spur Lord!”
“Hail the Spur Lord!” came the chorus from the gathered priests. Some of the praises were fervent, some reluctant, but all were tinged by the respect that came with power.
“You did not think that I would receive the full measure of the power,” Goran said to Malifex. “You did not think that I was ready—or deserving.”
Malifex smiled, but for one instant his eyes betrayed the truth of what Goran had said. “It was worth the gamble, my pupil—my son.”
Goran nearly laughed. No, not a pupil, although in one sense, perhaps, Malifex was his father, the one that had birthed him to a new life to replace the one that the priest had stolen from him so many years ago. Malifex, with the gifts of his warped and twisted genius, had broken him, torn down the foundations of the identity he’d been born with so that he could craft a distorted shadow of a man in its place. The voice he’d heard had been right—he was beyond hatred of mere mortal men, the emotion burned out of him by the transformation into what he had become. Emotions no longer governed his actions... did not govern what he did now.
Malifex saw it, finally, too late.
(continued tomorrow)
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Book VI, Part 1 (post 1)
Goran strode into the chamber, his bare feet making barely a sound on the cold stone floor. The only light was a pair of braziers full of brightly glowing coals, which flanked a plain stone bier near the far wall from the dark entry. In the red radiance from the coals Goran was little more than a shadow, but as he came forward the light glistened on the sheen of sweat and blood that covered his muscular frame. There was more of the former than the latter, but not by much; the purification rituals had been long and arduous.
But if the man was in pain, he did not show it. Few who came here did; one didn’t get this far without learning to carefully mask their inner feelings.
As he came forward, Goran’s eyes crept reflexively upward to the large emblem that hung over the far wall. The representation of the Dark Sun was impressive at first glance, easily eight feet across, but Goran didn’t need to examine it closely to know that it was a temporary device, a hastily made construct that could be taken down quickly if the cell needed to suddenly change location. That was a common expediency, as followers of the Father of Lies were not generally liked by those around them. Concealment, and creeping around in the shadows, was almost a necessity.
Goran snorted, not caring if the others saw it. That would change, if he had his way.
As he approached the bier the others became visible, mere shadows themselves in the cowled black cloaks that concealed their lean frames. All kept their faces hidden, although Goran could identify most by the subtle hints in the way they carried themselves or the way that they moved.
That was another skill common to those of his ilk; the ability to read subtle clues that were ignored by less perceptive men.
Of course, in this sect, the less perceptive tended to be the less... alive eventually.
One of the black shadows detached itself from the others and came to stand behind the bier. He reached up with a pale, bony hand and pulled back his cowl, revealing the emaciated features of a man who looked older than his years. His eyes shown in the reflected light of the glowing coals, and seemed to hold a glow of their own as they fixed on the nude form of the solitary approaching figure.
The cloaked man smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. Goran could read those eyes like words written on a scroll, could read the subtle mockery in the man’s stance, the anticipation matched with ever-present ambition. There was no pride in him, no concern, no respect; even though Malifex was the individual most responsible for who he was, what he had become. Goran didn’t even bother looking at the others; he knew their functions in this equation, understood them and dismissed them as irrelevant to what now needed to be done.
Goran came forward and knelt before the bier. The massive stone was large enough to support a man lying spread-eagle upon its surface, but the only ones to do that were those slated to have their lives torn from their bodies. Another ritual entirely, and nothing to do with what was about to happen here.
Of course, he could still lose his life here, but that was unlikely. That understanding caused Goran no concern; he was so far beyond thoughts of life and death that the promise of such a fate held no terror for him.
Malifex came around the bier, creeping forward like a wary cat until he was perched behind the kneeling warrior. His voice was like a hiss as he asked, “Have you undergone purification, supplicant?”
Goran did not stir, his eyes fixed forward on some distant nothing as he replied, “Yes.”
“Are you prepared to receive the blessing of the Dark God, if he judges you worthy?”
“I am unworthy, but prepared to accept His judgment, be it for power or for death.”
“The prepare to meet your fate,” Malifex muttered. Goran did not shift or flinch as he heard the sound of metal sliding on metal, as the cloaked priest reached into the brazier and drew an object out of the coals. Malifex, of course, was protected against the burning heat of the brand as he lifted it before him—although some priests were known to forego such warding during the ritual, accepting the pain of the flesh as a way of proving their dedication to their dread god.
Goran thought little of such fanatics—they were dangerous and unpredictable, those, and did as much to undermine their cause as to advance it. Malifex was not one of those, although Goran knew all too well that the man’s brilliance was matched to an insanity so profound that it defined everything that he was. It was Malifex who, decades ago in another life, had dragged him onto the path of service to Cyric by destroying everything that he had been, everything that he had once loved.
Pain exploded through his back as the priest thrust the brand against his bare flesh, scoring him with the sigil of the Dark Sun. The pressure felt as though Malifex sought to drive the metal through his body, but to Goran, who had been treated to far worse in his life, the pain was just a distraction to be felt, identified, and then placed away in a distant compartment for later analysis. Malifex recognized the self-control and let out a small cackle that was hidden in the sound of searing flesh as the brand finished its work and he replaced it carelessly in the brazier with a loud clatter.
“Rise, supplicant,” the priest hissed.
Goran rose, overcoming the weakness of his battered body through the marshaled force of his will. The robed figures gathered closer around the bier, forming a ring around him and the stone. Their chanting filled the chamber, and Goran could sense their power gathering—power that he, personally, had never been able to tap himself. For all that his identity was now irrevocably tied to Cyric, he’d never been able to embark upon that surrender of self that was required for entry into the priesthood of the Prince of Lies. Goran felt the same contempt for his master that the clerics felt for all other life, a paradox that led him to amusement on those rare occasions when he felt inclined to a philosophical mood.
For all his feelings on the subject, however, there was no denying the reality of the power that rose at the call of the gathered priests. The result of that calling was swiftly apparent, as the air above the bier began to twist and shimmer. A black cloud formed out of the air, a roiling mass of chaos and corruption that seemed to pulse in an almost living cadence as it took form. Then a form erupted out of the cloud, an image hanging in the darkness. It was a skull, humanoid in shape but missing its lower jaw, and jagged flames limned its surface as it hung there in the air. The skull turned slowly in a wide arc, taking in each of the gathered priests in turn before fixing its empty eyesockets upon Goran.
Greetings, Goran.
Goran felt the words fill his mind, and knew without doubt their source. He momentarily wondered if the others heard them as well, then decided he didn’t care. Nor did he try to conceal his thoughts, his feelings, from the presence that crept into his mind—his soul—like a second skin.
Yes, I feel your hatred for me, the hate that you cannot seem to muster for your fellow men. That hate will sustain you as you fulfill your destiny in my service, Goran, for you are my Chosen, and I mark you as such!
The skull screamed, an inhuman sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. The skull and the flames and the cloud swept forward, growing... or shrinking, it was impossible to tell which exactly, from one instant to the next... until the image vanished into Goran.
The supplicant jerked and staggered, nearly falling before he somehow managed to catch himself. His eyes flared wildly and his features twisted into a rictus of sudden terror and confusion. The gathered priests leaned forward despite themselves, like a pack of carrion birds awaiting the fall of a dying beast. One of them laughed, a desperate sound of released tension. Goran righted himself momentarily, then stumbled forward and fell once again to his knees. The dark presence that had just occupied this place was gone, and the stillness of the chamber was broken only by the haggard breathing of those gathered.
“Well, supplicant?” came Malifex’s voice, unable to fully conceal the eager edge in his tone. One hand had crept under the shroud of his cloak, no doubt to the hilt of a waiting blade. The fact that Goran still lived meant that he’d passed one test, but there had been those who had survived only to descend utterly into insanity.
For a moment Goran remained hunched over, kneeling before the bier, his head lowered so that his chin pressed against his heaving chest. Then, slowly, he rose, turning leisurely so that each of those present could look into his eyes, could sense the presence of the god’s touch that was now in him.
When he finally faced Malifex, the old priest’s smile grew more terrible and his eyes burned with passion. “Long have I waited for this,” he hissed quietly, so that only Goran could hear. “All the preparation that I put into you, it was all for this moment.” In a louder voice, he added, “All hail the Spur Lord!”
“Hail the Spur Lord!” came the chorus from the gathered priests. Some of the praises were fervent, some reluctant, but all were tinged by the respect that came with power.
“You did not think that I would receive the full measure of the power,” Goran said to Malifex. “You did not think that I was ready—or deserving.”
Malifex smiled, but for one instant his eyes betrayed the truth of what Goran had said. “It was worth the gamble, my pupil—my son.”
Goran nearly laughed. No, not a pupil, although in one sense, perhaps, Malifex was his father, the one that had birthed him to a new life to replace the one that the priest had stolen from him so many years ago. Malifex, with the gifts of his warped and twisted genius, had broken him, torn down the foundations of the identity he’d been born with so that he could craft a distorted shadow of a man in its place. The voice he’d heard had been right—he was beyond hatred of mere mortal men, the emotion burned out of him by the transformation into what he had become. Emotions no longer governed his actions... did not govern what he did now.
Malifex saw it, finally, too late.
(continued tomorrow)
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Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VI, Part 1 (post 2)
Goran spun his wrist, and as he did so, a longsword appeared suddenly in his hand out of nowhere. The blade was forged of black steel, and the red light of the coals cast a reflective sheen on its length as though the blade had been dipped in water.
The priest’s eyes widened in surprise. “But... you have only just ascended... how can you know the mystery of the secret blade?”
Goran’s answer was a powerful stroke that tore into the cleric’s chest. Malifex was no fool, though, and as the blade bit it was clear that the priest had not come to this gathering unprepared. Instead of cleaving through flesh and bone, the blow met the resistance under the priest’s cloak, striking either armor or some other magical form of protection. Even so, the impact was enough to knock the cleric backward, and he cried out in pain as the acid that coated Goran’s magical blade—a weapon of power named Gulgathor—sizzled at the shallow gash in his flesh where the edge of the sword had bitten through Malifex’s defenses.
Malifex’s gaze burned with hatred as he locked his eyes upon the new Spur Lord. “He has gone mad! Slay him!” he cried to the gathered clerics.
One dark cloaked man rushed immediately at Goran’s flank, only to crumple as the Spur Lord spun and lashed out with a blow that tore open the man’s throat. As the acolyte fell, his blood gushing in a fountain on the stones before him, the warrior spun and adjusted his position to face the others, bringing his blade up in a defensive stance. Had their perceptions been as trained to combat as Goran’s they might have noticed that the Spur Lord’s wounds seemed to have closed as he fought, and that no fresh blood drained from the numerous small cuts that covered his body from the ritual of purification that had come earlier.
There was a moment’s pause as the clerics hesitated in their rush. One of them cast a quick spell, calling upon Cyric’s power to hold the rogue warrior, but as the magic washed over him the potency of its power disintegrated, and the image of a skull burning with black flames appeared briefly over Goran’s head.
“Fool! He possesses the dark bond... do not target him directly!” Malifex cried. The high priest had drawn back to a safer distance, putting his underlings between him and the dangerous—but still apparently suicidal, facing five powerful clerics—warrior.
The priest whose spell had failed joined another comrade and cautiously moved to flank the warrior, drawing heavy maces of black iron out from under their cloaks as they came forward. The weapons bore wicked spikes and numerous enchantments, and from the way that they held them the two cloaked clerics were not unfamiliar with their use. Behind them, the next pair of priests began casting more spells; the first beginning an intricate spell to conjure an otherworldly ally while the second rattled off a quick litany that resulted in a black glow of magical fire erupting around his hands.
Goran exploded like a coiled spring, launching into the pair of clerics before they could fully flank him. His first attack was a probing thrust that drove the first cleric back. The second took advantage of the distraction to launch a quick strike at the Spur Lord’s exposed flank, but Goran narrowly dodged out of the path of the blow. The cleric recovered quickly, but not as quickly as the veteran warrior. Goran stepped inside his reach and around him, like a dancer executing some intricate maneuver on the ballroom floor. The cleric shuddered, then turned to reveal a long gash up the length of his side under his arm where Goran had dragged his blade, the magical acid from Gulgathor burning deeper into the vicious wound.
Even as the cleric fell Goran was already pressing his attack against his other adversary, deflecting two powerful but clumsy swipes of the cleric’s mace with his blade, and following with a deep lunge that penetrated the man’s armor and tore several inches into his chest. The cleric continued to fight, but it was clear that the stroke had hurt him badly as he tried in vain to adjust to the warrior’s continued attacks.
In the meantime the cleric working the summoning had nearly finished his incantation, when his neighbor turned and reached out and touched him with the black flames burning around his hands. The evil fire surged into the cleric’s body with almost eager force, and the cleric screamed, his casting disrupted as he staggered blindly to the side in a vain effort to escape the sudden attack.
Malifex, meanwhile, had not been idle. He himself had nearly unleashed a flame strike upon the betrayer, but when he saw the appearance of the black skull above Goran’s head at the casting of his brother cleric’s spell, he knew that the favor of his god was with the treacherous usurper. His powers were great, and his selection of spells had the power to unmake armies, but they would not avail him against the dark bond of a Spur Lord. His fury nearly drove him to join the physical attack against the betrayer, but the dark priest had not survived as long as he had by giving into weak passions. Snarling, he turned and ran for the doorway of the ritual chamber.
But before he reached the exit, he heard the unmistakable sounds of combat coming through the plain wooden door, and understood immediately what that meant.
The cold hand of fear touched him through his anger as he turned to face his enemy.
Goran’s third adversary fell to the ground as the he slammed his blade hard through the hapless cleric’s defenses. The naked warrior paused and shot a glance back at the sole remaining priest, the one that had struck down his ally with the black flames. The cleric just stood there, awaiting the outcome of this final confrontation, clearly not willing to intervene further. The Spur Lord nodded, and stepped forward over the body of his most recent victim to face Malifex.
“A fine betrayal, worthy of my best student,” the priest said with a forced chuckle. His hands had vanished under his cloak, and as the two men faced off the high priest drew a sword that issued from its sheath with a sibilant hiss of metal on leather. “But you will not find me an easy kill, even with that black blade of yours.”
“Cyric has deserted you, old man,” Goran said. “Time to meet your fate.”
Malifex snarled in rage, but as he opened his mind to the power of his god, seeking to call upon the divine power of the Prince of Lies, he suddenly realized that the Spur Lord spoke truth. Where that burning touch of power had resided now lay only a black emptiness, the cold presence of the grave.
Even without that power, however, Malifex was a considerable adversary, and he was armored while the man before him lacked even the protection of a leather shirt. The cleric came at him with a measured series of attacks, which Goran met with smooth parries with Gulgathor. The cleric’s weapon also bore a powerful enchantment, as it was a skull blade, an unholy weapon that hungered to tear the flesh of those of good hearts. Against Goran, however, it was merely a sharp sword, and despite Malifex’s cunning the cleric found each stroke turned as Gulgathor darted to meet it.
The two sparred for a few moments, Goran parrying the cleric’s attacks without launching an assault of his own. Malifex, of course, saw that Goran was fighting defensively, and as he realized what was happening, came the understanding that his fate was indeed sealed.
“I’ll see you in the Abyss!” he cursed, spitting in the direction of the Spur Lord even as two blades slammed hard into his back. The cleric screamed and staggered forward, right into the downward thrust from Gulgathor that clove deeply into his chest.
The high priest gurgled something unintelligible and collapsed in a heap.
Goran looked down at the corpse of his greatest foe, unable to summon even a momentary emotion for the man who had so dominated his life. He looked up at the two men who had come to his aid. Both were clad in suits of full plate armor, covered with sharp edges and protruding spikes that would make close combat with either a dangerous proposition. Both saluted him, slamming their sword hilts against their armored chests.
“The chapel is secure, general.”
“Very good. Inform the others I will join them shortly. Leave my armor in the antechamber.”
The two soldiers—Knights of the Ebon Spur—saluted again, then turned and departed. Clad in cumbersome metal armor, they should have made an incredible clatter as they moved, but they made barely a sound as they slipped out of the room. That enchantment had been expensive and difficult to get, but at that moment Goran considered the investment well worth the cost.
Goran walked over to where the remaining priest stood waiting for him.
“I see you made your choice, Karak.”
“Far be it for me to challenge the will of the Dark Sun,” the man replied with a faint, almost mocking bow.
“Malifex was brilliant in his own way, but he would only hold us back in what we must now do,” Goran said.
“Indeed. The glories of Cyric’s name will soon spread far and wide among the unbelievers, and our enemies will taste the dust that is their undoing.” The two shared a knowing look-Karak wasn’t a fanatic in the sense of some of the mindless drones that served in the clergy of the Prince of Lies, and Goran knew that, but sometimes a mantra had to be maintained even when both sides knew the bounds of such truths.
Goran spun his wrist, and his sword vanished back into the nothingness from which had originally sprung. The cleric asked, “I must admit, curiosity is a weakness that I cannot deny possessing. Malifex was right—how is that you possess knowledge of the secret blade, given that you were only just initiated as a Spur Lord? The power of the dark bond was yours the moment Cyric blessed you, and I can see why you waited for it to challenge Malifex, but it normally takes months, if not years, to uncover the other gifts of the Dark Sun.”
“I arranged to go through the initiation ritual secretly six months ago, using my connections within one of the rival sects,” Goran said plainly. “Though it was... reassuring... to have Cyric’s faith in me confirmed.”
Karak laughed, and the slight bow he gave the other was one of genuine respect this time. “The coming year promises to be an interesting one, Spur Lord. I will inform the lesser priests of the change of leadership, and we will wait on your command.”
Goran nodded, and without further comment turned and left the chamber, his bare feet trailing footprints of blood from the slain across the stone floor as he left.
* * * * *
The Spur Lord prestige class can be found in Lords of Darkness.
Goran spun his wrist, and as he did so, a longsword appeared suddenly in his hand out of nowhere. The blade was forged of black steel, and the red light of the coals cast a reflective sheen on its length as though the blade had been dipped in water.
The priest’s eyes widened in surprise. “But... you have only just ascended... how can you know the mystery of the secret blade?”
Goran’s answer was a powerful stroke that tore into the cleric’s chest. Malifex was no fool, though, and as the blade bit it was clear that the priest had not come to this gathering unprepared. Instead of cleaving through flesh and bone, the blow met the resistance under the priest’s cloak, striking either armor or some other magical form of protection. Even so, the impact was enough to knock the cleric backward, and he cried out in pain as the acid that coated Goran’s magical blade—a weapon of power named Gulgathor—sizzled at the shallow gash in his flesh where the edge of the sword had bitten through Malifex’s defenses.
Malifex’s gaze burned with hatred as he locked his eyes upon the new Spur Lord. “He has gone mad! Slay him!” he cried to the gathered clerics.
One dark cloaked man rushed immediately at Goran’s flank, only to crumple as the Spur Lord spun and lashed out with a blow that tore open the man’s throat. As the acolyte fell, his blood gushing in a fountain on the stones before him, the warrior spun and adjusted his position to face the others, bringing his blade up in a defensive stance. Had their perceptions been as trained to combat as Goran’s they might have noticed that the Spur Lord’s wounds seemed to have closed as he fought, and that no fresh blood drained from the numerous small cuts that covered his body from the ritual of purification that had come earlier.
There was a moment’s pause as the clerics hesitated in their rush. One of them cast a quick spell, calling upon Cyric’s power to hold the rogue warrior, but as the magic washed over him the potency of its power disintegrated, and the image of a skull burning with black flames appeared briefly over Goran’s head.
“Fool! He possesses the dark bond... do not target him directly!” Malifex cried. The high priest had drawn back to a safer distance, putting his underlings between him and the dangerous—but still apparently suicidal, facing five powerful clerics—warrior.
The priest whose spell had failed joined another comrade and cautiously moved to flank the warrior, drawing heavy maces of black iron out from under their cloaks as they came forward. The weapons bore wicked spikes and numerous enchantments, and from the way that they held them the two cloaked clerics were not unfamiliar with their use. Behind them, the next pair of priests began casting more spells; the first beginning an intricate spell to conjure an otherworldly ally while the second rattled off a quick litany that resulted in a black glow of magical fire erupting around his hands.
Goran exploded like a coiled spring, launching into the pair of clerics before they could fully flank him. His first attack was a probing thrust that drove the first cleric back. The second took advantage of the distraction to launch a quick strike at the Spur Lord’s exposed flank, but Goran narrowly dodged out of the path of the blow. The cleric recovered quickly, but not as quickly as the veteran warrior. Goran stepped inside his reach and around him, like a dancer executing some intricate maneuver on the ballroom floor. The cleric shuddered, then turned to reveal a long gash up the length of his side under his arm where Goran had dragged his blade, the magical acid from Gulgathor burning deeper into the vicious wound.
Even as the cleric fell Goran was already pressing his attack against his other adversary, deflecting two powerful but clumsy swipes of the cleric’s mace with his blade, and following with a deep lunge that penetrated the man’s armor and tore several inches into his chest. The cleric continued to fight, but it was clear that the stroke had hurt him badly as he tried in vain to adjust to the warrior’s continued attacks.
In the meantime the cleric working the summoning had nearly finished his incantation, when his neighbor turned and reached out and touched him with the black flames burning around his hands. The evil fire surged into the cleric’s body with almost eager force, and the cleric screamed, his casting disrupted as he staggered blindly to the side in a vain effort to escape the sudden attack.
Malifex, meanwhile, had not been idle. He himself had nearly unleashed a flame strike upon the betrayer, but when he saw the appearance of the black skull above Goran’s head at the casting of his brother cleric’s spell, he knew that the favor of his god was with the treacherous usurper. His powers were great, and his selection of spells had the power to unmake armies, but they would not avail him against the dark bond of a Spur Lord. His fury nearly drove him to join the physical attack against the betrayer, but the dark priest had not survived as long as he had by giving into weak passions. Snarling, he turned and ran for the doorway of the ritual chamber.
But before he reached the exit, he heard the unmistakable sounds of combat coming through the plain wooden door, and understood immediately what that meant.
The cold hand of fear touched him through his anger as he turned to face his enemy.
Goran’s third adversary fell to the ground as the he slammed his blade hard through the hapless cleric’s defenses. The naked warrior paused and shot a glance back at the sole remaining priest, the one that had struck down his ally with the black flames. The cleric just stood there, awaiting the outcome of this final confrontation, clearly not willing to intervene further. The Spur Lord nodded, and stepped forward over the body of his most recent victim to face Malifex.
“A fine betrayal, worthy of my best student,” the priest said with a forced chuckle. His hands had vanished under his cloak, and as the two men faced off the high priest drew a sword that issued from its sheath with a sibilant hiss of metal on leather. “But you will not find me an easy kill, even with that black blade of yours.”
“Cyric has deserted you, old man,” Goran said. “Time to meet your fate.”
Malifex snarled in rage, but as he opened his mind to the power of his god, seeking to call upon the divine power of the Prince of Lies, he suddenly realized that the Spur Lord spoke truth. Where that burning touch of power had resided now lay only a black emptiness, the cold presence of the grave.
Even without that power, however, Malifex was a considerable adversary, and he was armored while the man before him lacked even the protection of a leather shirt. The cleric came at him with a measured series of attacks, which Goran met with smooth parries with Gulgathor. The cleric’s weapon also bore a powerful enchantment, as it was a skull blade, an unholy weapon that hungered to tear the flesh of those of good hearts. Against Goran, however, it was merely a sharp sword, and despite Malifex’s cunning the cleric found each stroke turned as Gulgathor darted to meet it.
The two sparred for a few moments, Goran parrying the cleric’s attacks without launching an assault of his own. Malifex, of course, saw that Goran was fighting defensively, and as he realized what was happening, came the understanding that his fate was indeed sealed.
“I’ll see you in the Abyss!” he cursed, spitting in the direction of the Spur Lord even as two blades slammed hard into his back. The cleric screamed and staggered forward, right into the downward thrust from Gulgathor that clove deeply into his chest.
The high priest gurgled something unintelligible and collapsed in a heap.
Goran looked down at the corpse of his greatest foe, unable to summon even a momentary emotion for the man who had so dominated his life. He looked up at the two men who had come to his aid. Both were clad in suits of full plate armor, covered with sharp edges and protruding spikes that would make close combat with either a dangerous proposition. Both saluted him, slamming their sword hilts against their armored chests.
“The chapel is secure, general.”
“Very good. Inform the others I will join them shortly. Leave my armor in the antechamber.”
The two soldiers—Knights of the Ebon Spur—saluted again, then turned and departed. Clad in cumbersome metal armor, they should have made an incredible clatter as they moved, but they made barely a sound as they slipped out of the room. That enchantment had been expensive and difficult to get, but at that moment Goran considered the investment well worth the cost.
Goran walked over to where the remaining priest stood waiting for him.
“I see you made your choice, Karak.”
“Far be it for me to challenge the will of the Dark Sun,” the man replied with a faint, almost mocking bow.
“Malifex was brilliant in his own way, but he would only hold us back in what we must now do,” Goran said.
“Indeed. The glories of Cyric’s name will soon spread far and wide among the unbelievers, and our enemies will taste the dust that is their undoing.” The two shared a knowing look-Karak wasn’t a fanatic in the sense of some of the mindless drones that served in the clergy of the Prince of Lies, and Goran knew that, but sometimes a mantra had to be maintained even when both sides knew the bounds of such truths.
Goran spun his wrist, and his sword vanished back into the nothingness from which had originally sprung. The cleric asked, “I must admit, curiosity is a weakness that I cannot deny possessing. Malifex was right—how is that you possess knowledge of the secret blade, given that you were only just initiated as a Spur Lord? The power of the dark bond was yours the moment Cyric blessed you, and I can see why you waited for it to challenge Malifex, but it normally takes months, if not years, to uncover the other gifts of the Dark Sun.”
“I arranged to go through the initiation ritual secretly six months ago, using my connections within one of the rival sects,” Goran said plainly. “Though it was... reassuring... to have Cyric’s faith in me confirmed.”
Karak laughed, and the slight bow he gave the other was one of genuine respect this time. “The coming year promises to be an interesting one, Spur Lord. I will inform the lesser priests of the change of leadership, and we will wait on your command.”
Goran nodded, and without further comment turned and left the chamber, his bare feet trailing footprints of blood from the slain across the stone floor as he left.
* * * * *
The Spur Lord prestige class can be found in Lords of Darkness.
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