by Brian Murray
Chaos rose from the bed. Carefully, as if asleep, he stepped over the corpse and stood naked in front of a full-length mirror. He gazed at his pallid, grey features. Broad shouldered with a flawless muscular torso, his body supple and well balanced, with slim hips and sturdy legs. He jumped, executing a high roundhouse kick, afflicting immense pain on an imaginary foe before landing perfectly in front of the mirror. Idly, he stroked the length of his facial scar.
“I will have revenge,” he murmured. He turned back to the bed and stared down at the corpse husk. With great power and anger, Chaos kicked the corpse, snapping it in half at the waist, which split like pumice. Having used dark magic to absorb the woman’s soul, her body violently heated, causing all her body fluids to evaporate almost instantaneously. A cloud of grey dust exploded from the centre of the body filling the room. Stretching out his arms, Chaos watched the dust as it slowly floated down to settle on his arms and the deep woollen rug, dulling its vibrant colours and covering the polished wooden furniture, masking its lustre.
Chaos snapped out of his melancholy mood as finer grains of dust started to glisten in the shaft of sunlight slanting through a crack between heavy mauve curtains. He stalked around the bed, stepping over the dead legs. Grabbing the curtains, he violently wrenched them apart. He squinted heavily as dazzling sunlight bathed his body. Opening the glazed balcony doors, he stepped into the crisp morning air and took a deep shuddering breath. “Oh, it is good to be back!” he shouted.
He stepped further out on the balcony, marvelling at the castle and its location, encased in a steep sided valley. Inside the tall inner stone wall was a flat killing-ground, now used for training. No barracks were allowed in the area, so any invading army would be cut to pieces trying to cross this open ground leading to the keep. The only buildings in the area were a few stables. Between the inner and outer walls, once another open killing ground the Darklord’s army was now housed.
To the right of the central gates were the Dark Brethren’s barracks; long square buildings, surrounding stables in the centre. Many of the Dark Brethren gave up residence in the keep to ensure the Kharnacks were controlled. Beyond were the stables and the dormitories of the Horde, and to the left of the gates stood the Kharnacks’ barracks.
The Kharnacks usually lived in tents in the mountains, and it was a new experience for most to sleep in a solid building. The area looked disorganised and filthy. Between the dormitories were dingy ale taverns, and pay maiden residences all mere wooden shacks. Encasing all these buildings was the tall stone outer wall with a small, central single gate. Beyond the gate were rolling green hills, and above, light blue skies with white tufts of clouds floating on a gentle breeze. Between these spring colours the colossal, angular wintry grey and white snow-capped peaks of the Great Mountains stood proud.
Chaos turned sharply towards the harsh clang of the morning bell located above the inner gatehouse. Simultaneously, someone knocked on his door. “Come,” he called without turning.
Two men entered the room. “Are you ready to break your fast, Sire?” asked one of the men softly.
“Yes, I am ready,” announced Chaos, turning. “However, please remove that.” He nonchalantly motioned at the corpse on the floor.
“Of course, Sire. Do you intend to dine with your comrades, or alone?”
Chaos glared at the smaller man, his eyes blazing red. “I am a lord. They are my brethren, and lords too, you foolish little man.”
“I am sorry for my rudeness, my lord. Yes, I stand corrected and humbly apologise. I did not mean any disrespect. You are quite right, of course. Do you wish to dine with your fellow lords?” The smaller man fell to one knee, bowing deeply before Chaos.
Chaos ignored the kneeling servant and turned his attention to the warrior who had entered with him. “You are a Kharnack warrior?” The warrior was slender-hipped with broad shoulders, dressed in a coarse black woollen tunic, brown leather trousers and calf-length boots. His hair was black and his face flat, with dark, emotionless eyes.
Bowing in response, the man replied. “I am Davron, and I have been instructed to stay on your left, your shield side, which I will do proudly, Sire.”
Chaos chuckled. “What does a man who fights with two blades require from a shield man? What use are you to me?” He strolled back into the large room, around the bed, and reached for his black-bladed dagger on the side table. In the same motion, he threw the dagger at Davron. Davron instantly raised his small shield, angling down to let the dagger strike harmlessly against the metal. Instead of ricocheting to the floor, the blade embedded itself into the shield, slicing Davron’s forearm. “Ah, Davron, you please me. But nothing can stop my blades. Now, how can you let this imbecile insult me? If anyone displeases me I expect you to kill them, without hesitation.”
Davron reached up and tried to remove the dagger. He jerked away from the blade as if stung. “My friend, you cannot touch the blade,” said Chaos, as he walked forward, grabbed the dagger, and wrenched it free.
The small man shivered as Chaos’s naked form stood above him, dagger in hand.
Chaos glared down at the old man. “Lucky for you I am in a good mood. Now, remove that thing and get out of my sight before my mood darkens. Davron, come, join me on the balcony.”
Chaos let his dagger slip through his fingers. It penetrated the wooden floor in front of the old servant with a thud, the hilt wagging. Chaos smiled, turned, and strolled back out onto the balcony with Davron obediently in tow. Sensing Davron’s presence behind him, Chaos said, “I like you Davron, and I am a good judge of men.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“Ah, but you do not know what I want you for, so why thank me?” Chaos turned to face the cloaked warrior, standing nose to nose.
Davron held Chaos’s steady, red gaze without any change of expression. “You are my general, Sire.”
“Ah, a man who knows his place in the scheme of things, good. We have need of you, but this will be more of a burden for you than a gift. I have no use for a shield man; you will be a soul double. Do you understand?”
“Sire, whatever you command.”
“I said, do you understand?” hissed Chaos coldly.
“Sire?” queried Davron confused. “I am a soldier in your army; I am not here to think, unless that is what my general requires.”
Chaos laughed at the obvious reply. “Sorry, Davron, I did not mean to shame you. I will answer my own question. You will be linked to me and be part of me. You will receive great power making you stronger, faster than any mortal. In time, you will possess the greatest power. Now we must perform the soul link ritual. Give me your dagger.”
Davron took his and handed it to Chaos, hilt first.
Chaos drew the blade across his palm, releasing his dark crimson, almost black, life fluid, and then offered the dagger to Davron. “Do the same,” he commanded. Without hesitation, Davron drew the blade across his palm, splitting the skin, releasing his life fluid. Chaos held out his hand, which Davron grasped, and Chaos pulled him into a tight embrace. “Now the ritual is complete.”
Davron felt a surge of power and warmth stream through his body, causing him to smile. The sensation grew and grew in intensity, becoming almost orgasmic, and he shivered with pleasure.
“Do you feel it?” asked Chaos, whispering in the clansman’s ear.
Unable to answer, Davron moaned as the tingling reached everywhere, then . . . Pain, searing pain seized him like a fist clamping around his entire body, squeezing tighter and tighter. Silently, he screamed and Chaos chuckled.
What was real and what was imaginary, Davron would never know. From that moment, the change started.
***
At that same moment within the keep, Malice and Fury carried out the same ritual on two other unsuspecting men.
***
Gan-Goran quickly lifted the two halves of the wafer-light corpse and placed them into a sack, along with the serving maid’s uniform. The remains were so brittle, ev
en his weak, ancient grip pulverised the leg he held. Quickly, he tidied up the dust with his brush, occasionally glancing up at the warriors, silhouetted against the morning sunlight. He paused for a moment, then glanced down at the dagger embedded in the wooden floor and reached for the dark, plain hilt. His hand shot back, stung by magic – strong, sinister dark magic. Silently, he hurried out of the room. Stopping in the doorway, the old man turned, faced into the room and bowed. He did not want to face the white-haired warrior’s wrath for disobedience.
Gan-Goran could not distinguish the sunken grey features of the corpse but knew who might own the long flaxen hair. Only two maids were blessed with golden locks, but which one? With a heavy heart, he shuffled through the keep with tears stinging his eyes. He cared for both Catherina and Megan as if they were his daughters. Catherina had the gentlest and purest soul, whose aura always radiated the golden glow of happiness. Megan had the same golden radiance but her life aura was streaked with the blue of sadness.
Passing through to the courtyard, Gan-Goran turned left, heading towards the kitchen gardens. He spent a few minutes on his knees, digging a shallow grave with his hands, then placed the wrapped body in the hole and covered the grave with soil. There was no need to place stones over the grave; nothing was left for scavengers to feed on. After whispering a tearful prayer, Gan-Goran gripped the soil, allowing the land’s weakened magic to soak into his bone-weary body, and ease the pain in his stung hand.
Slowly, the old man stood and wiped away his tears on his sleeve, letting the morning sun bathe his weathered face. Closing his eyes, he locked the white-haired warrior’s features in his mind and risked letting his powers flow. He shivered and his eyes flashed open. There must be some mistake; but his powers were never wrong, even when using secondary mind sight. He had never seen such a life-aura before. This one scared the old man, chilling his bones with fear. “There must be something wrong,” he whispered softly. “No. Yes, there must be something wrong. Black. It could not be black. Purest evil. No, there must be a mistake.” Then the aura was gone. Gan-Goran’s magic was blocked, suppressed by the darkest sorcery. Swiftly, he replaced the spell that hid his magical talent from anyone seeking him.
***
Megan woke an hour after dawn by the morning chime, groaned as she pushed herself into a sitting position, and stretched. Rubbing her eyes, the cobwebs of sleep evaporated from her mind. The dreams of happiness with her late husband dissolved into the voids of her subconscious, like water passing through cupped fingers.
“Cat?” she whispered, remembering her friend’s fears the night before. “Cat?” she called again but received no answer. She swept her legs from her cot and stepped over to Catherina’s bed. It was empty. Fear and worry tumbled through her mind. She sat down on her own cot and stared at the empty bed, struggling to find a reason for Catherina’s absence. Deep in thought, she lit a small lantern. Likely she had pleased the warrior and stayed with him. Yes, that must be it, she thought. But it was rare for a serving girl to stay all night with one of the lords; they were usually dismissed after the man had satisfied his lust.
Megan’s mind turned over many possible explanations and she did not hear the first light rap on the door. The second louder knock caught her attention. “Cat, you sour remains of pig-droppings, you scared the . . .” she began, throwing on a robe and opening the door. Her sentence went unfinished as she gazed into red eyes illuminated by torchlight.
***
“Bless Her love, it’s not you, Megan,” the old man said, his voice tinged with both relief and anguish.
The leathered, balding head appeared more ancient in the torchlight, the lines of age etched deep in his skin. The old man’s eyes ferreted up and down the corridor. “Megan, it’s not wise for me to be standing in the maid’s corridor. Please, may I come in for a moment?”
Megan heard the urgency in his voice and moved aside, allowing room for Gan-Goran to pass. She poked her head outside and checked the passageway, left then right. Luckily, no one was there. “Gan, are you insane? It’s five lashes if you’re caught in the maids’ corridor – ten if you’re caught in a maid’s room,” Megan hissed, closing the door quietly, but her tone lacked anger.
“At my age the joys of being in a maid’s room are long forgotten. Well, not actually forgotten, but, shall we say, beyond me. However, one can still dream. Now if you do not mind, having a half-naked young women standing in front of me is enough to make this man feel his ancient years,” he snapped, perching on the edge of a cot.
“Oh, poor old Gan. Do you want to see?” asked Megan, smiling, then closed her robe, tying the sash around her thin waist.
“Megan, you could be my great, great grandchild, now sit down,” Gan-Goran snapped again. He reached forward and took hold of Megan’s hand. “I have some desperate news.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “You must get away from here, child. There is evil in this place and I am afraid we will not survive.”
“I will not leave without Cat. You know that.”
“You are to go to one of the lords this evening and I will not let you go.”
“Now they’re making us act like cheap, dirty pay maidens, first Cat, and now me. Well, I will show these lords . . .” hissed Megan with disgust.
“Megan, listen to me,” Gan-Goran pleaded. “The warrior Cat visited last night is not of this world. Believe me when I tell you this, for I do not jest. Tonight, he wants another golden-haired girl. You are the only one left.”
Megan stared at the old man and frowned. Something he had said did not sit right in her mind.
Gan-Goran looked down, avoiding the girl’s gaze. He did not want to give her the bad news. He had said enough, without having to say the dreaded words. “You must leave now,” he added her softly.
“Not without Cat.” Then realisation struck her and she pulled her hands from his. “What do you mean ‘You are the only one left’? Where’s Cat?”
A single tear rolled down Gan-Goran’s cheek as he looked up. “She is gone, Megan,” he replied. “I am so very sorry, child. I know of your past loss and how it has affected you. You are like my daughter; so was Catherina. I am truly sorry.”
Megan searched Gan-Goran’s reddened eyes, seeking for signs of a jest, but found only the concern a father would show for his child, a father worried about his daughter. She blinked rapidly, trying to stop tears from flowing.
“How do you know, old man?” Megan’s voice was very low and devoid of all emotion.
“I removed her corpse, Megan.”
“It was not her, Gan, do you understand? Not her!” Megan’s words spluttered to a halt. Gan-Goran leant forward and softly patted Megan’s knee in comfort.
“Megan,” he said softly. “There are only two golden-haired women here in the keep. I do not want to have to bury the other’s body tomorrow – your body. It would break my old heart. Please, I beg you, leave this place now. Pack your things and leave; make an old man happy knowing you are safe. Please,” he implored.
Megan leaned forward, cupped her face in her hands, and sobbed deeply.
Gan-Goran knelt in front of her, his knees cracking in protest. He reached forward and stroked her back and she responded by putting her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort. Stroking her hair softly, Gan-Goran closed his eyes and released his power. Grief struck him. The blue of sadness had further weakened Megan’s golden life-aura. Barely visible, inside the gold aura was another colour – white, the colour of purity.
The old man opened his eyes and spoke softly. “Megan, my child, you have to leave and
be gone today. This place is becoming more evil with every passing moment. Darkness is growing and oozing into everyone. I will make excuses for you to give you a head start. Head to the Chelms Hills, to the Duchy of Evlon. I will meet you along the road to Evlon, where the road forks. We will seek out an old friend who can help us. Come now child, it is time to pack your belongings.”
Megan looked up at the old man’s gaz
e, then dumbly nodded.
“Good. Now prepare. I will pass back shortly with some provisions for our journey.” Gan-Goran rose to leave wincing from the pain in his joints.
“Are you well?”
“Old age, my dear, is not something I would wish on anyone, but I am fine,” he replied, shuffling towards the door. He had not used his magic to heal his rheumatism for fear of getting caught – a slight bit of discomfort was worth it
“Who is the friend we will seek?” Megan asked, wiping her reddened eyes.
Gan-Goran reached the door handle but paused and turned. “Dax,” he replied, then opened the door and scurried out into the corridor.
***
Chaos was the last to arrive at the dining hall to break his fast. Leaving Davron outside, he entered the large, well-lit room with full-length windows banking the long sides. In the centre of the room was a long wooden, oval table with six thick, carved legs. At one end sat the Darklord and to his right was Malice. To the Darklord’s left sat one of his mortal generals, a wily old man named Carash, whose evil streak made him perfect for the Darklord’s needs. His command was absolute and his men respected him as a disciplinarian. Hard and ruthless, with an eye for battle, he was a self-proclaimed general, leading the largest band of mercenaries in the Kingdom and Rafftonia. With the Darklord’s assistance, using the Dark Brethren, Carash had gained enough power to overcome other larger mercenary bands. Now all the major mercenary gangs rode under his banner, calling themselves the Horde; those who did not join him rode alone in fear.
Chaos, dressed in a full-length black robe, sat between Fury and Malice. As Chaos made himself comfortable, a large, rare steak was placed in front of him. Without a word, he cut a section of the bloody flesh and chewed slowly, savouring the juices.
