by Levi Samuel
“Wrong answer.” Gareth rested the edge of his sword against the creature’s ear, allowing the weight to cut into his flesh. Quickly jerking the blade, the ear came free. Gareth tucked it away for later addition to his necklace.
The creature screamed in pain, grabbing the hole in the side of its head.
To keep it from calling reinforcements, Gareth jabbed it in the throat, silencing the screams into muffled choking coughs. Pulling the creature’s head back, Gareth thrust the pommel of his sword between the warped floorboards. It took a little wedging, but he was able to make it stay. Aligning the tip with the creature’s chin, Gareth slowly pressed its head onto the sharp tip, watching it pierce gradually. It passed through its lower jaw and into its mouth. Hoping to inflict as much pain as possible, Gareth slowly guided the creature onto the blade. Feeling it go limp, his pleasure was minimized. The blade was embedding in its brain, killing all receptors. Leaving the beast where it laid, Gareth secured the hilt of his sword and ripped it free of both the floor and his escaped companion. The sharpened edge nearly cut the creature’s head in half, leaving it to thud against the floor. Smiling his success over the beast, Gareth returned to the other bodies, where he quickly removed ears from each one. With ease, he added them to his collection and placed the lanyard around his neck.
Several begging cries reached him. He’d been in the moment, ignoring the constant pleas. Looking around at the chained prisoners, he couldn’t find his compassion for them. He was here for his family. These few didn’t matter. Ignoring them as best he could, Gareth surveyed each room in search of his family. Unable to find them he took a deep breath, regarding the pile of bodies in the center. He'd hoped to find them before having to look through it. Not only was it morally questionable, but if he had to resort to searching for bodies it meant his family was dead. He sighed heavily and lifted the first one, inspecting her face. The cold stare was unfamiliar. Pulling her from the pile, he laid her to the side as careful as possible. After all, it wasn't his intention to disrupt the dead. The next few were easily discarded. There was no reason to even inspect the males.
Halfway through the pile he uncovered a bloody, yet familiar fabric matching the ribbon around his neck. A high-pitched ring set in his ears, drowning out the cries of prisoners, still pleading his assistance. All tact vanished, Gareth roughly tossed the bodies from her, uncovering the blue dress as best as possible. Rolling her over, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. His wife's fearful, blank face stared back at him void of color and warmth. Her dress was torn open revealing a broken and violated body.
His eyes were locked on the deep, purple marks lingering in her mutilated flesh. Her throat had been slit so deeply that only a small bit of skin held her head in place. Staring at her clenched arms, Gareth feared what was within them. He didn’t want to see. But he had to know. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He knew his son was with her, but he had to confirm it. He pulled at her arms, trying to reveal what they held. Even in death, her grip was so tight, he had to strain against her grip. All sound exited the room. There was nothing. No cried, no sobs, so pleading for assistance. Only him and his wife, and their infant son. The image rang in his mind, drowning out his senses. Pulling the child from her constricting grip, Gareth looked him over. His skin was blue from lack of oxygen. Several bruises showed on his body, but they were few compared to those matching his wife's arms. She'd protected him from the most damaging blows, but it was her protection that ultimately killed him. He felt the tears stream down his face. His body wailed uncontrollably over them. The ringing intensified blocked all else. He couldn’t even see beyond his family any longer, shrouded in black. Pulling them tight, he held them one last time. The cold of their skin washed away. He had nothing, no one.
The ringing was unbearable, reverberating in his head. It had to stop. He couldn’t take anymore. I have to make it stop! The ringing continued. Make it stop. A drip of bright red blood landing on his wife’s face. Wiping if from his nose, he shook, unable to ignore the ringing. Like they stopped her life, like they stopped his life! It got louder, burrowing into his head. Make them stop! Make them stop! Kill them! The pressure inside him grew, forcing his eyes to water. Blood trickled freely from his nose and ears. Kill all of them! It was so incredibly loud, he couldn't focus on anything but the mourning pain. “Make it stop!” He demanded, his voice echoing throughout the temple. “Make it stop!”
The ringing quit, leaving him in complete silence, save for the echo of his words in the near empty chamber. He felt the last tear roll down his cheek, splattering on his wife’s forehead. Pushing their bodies from him, he stood, glancing around the room.
The prisoners pleaded his attention, but he couldn’t hear their words. They spoke to him, but their mouths moved in silence. A slow heartbeat echoed in the room, like the beat of a drum. The steady yet slow pace told him what he had to do. Lifting his sword, Gareth started for the door.
One of the prisoners reached out, grabbing his arm. She jumped back, seeing a void in his eyes. Only then did she register the sword pointed at her throat.
Gareth trembled, his sword arm outstretched and ready to kill. He could narrowly contain the amount of restraint he had to apply to keep the blade away from her. It seemed to move of its own accord. Had he not stopped it, she would have surely fallen to him. He could see the fear in her eyes, not because of the blade. She was afraid of him. She retreated like he was one of the monsters that'd locked her in here. And that was fine. He needed to become a monster. That was how he was going to do what had to be done. Lowering his sword, he turned and casually walked out the door, his care for discretion gone with his family. Making his way toward the entrance, Gareth kicked the doors open, seeing the fires were nearly out. Listening to the wicked tongue in the underground city, Gareth felt a hatred unlike any other. It was an assault against his ears and it would be stopped.
Stepping into the open, there had to be more than a thousand in this city alone. A sadistic smile formed on his lips. “Come get me, you bastards!” Raising his sword, Gareth charged into their ranks, hacking and slashing with every bit of strength he possessed. His hatred burned like fire in the night. He was unstoppable, empowered to destroy them one city at a time.
Gareth stood at the upper deck of his ship, watching the last bit of cargo find its way into the hold. He stood tall with his armor in place and sword strapped to his hip. A long, blue necklace, full of severed black ears hung openly on his chest for all to see.
“Capt’n, we’re ready to set sail.”
Gareth turned to address Malakai. “Well done, First Mate. Have the crew oar into the deeps and raise the sails. There’s a storm on the horizon and I’ve got a feelin’ it’s gonna hit us before we’re ready for it.”
Malakai saluted and turned to relay orders to the crew. Raising his voice, he let his words carry over the wind. “Alright, you lazy dogs. Capt’n says it’s time to set sail. Weigh anchor and loose the mooring. Grab an oar and quit yer snorin'.” He chuckled. “I made that up. Row to the deeps and prepare to raise sails.”
The anchor chains clanked into position as the men pushed the ship away from the wharf. Free from the shallow waters the sails shot up. They flapped in the breeze for a few moments until the wind caught, pulling them taut with a loud pop. The ship lunged forward, picking up speed.
“Navigator, head due north.”
“Aye, Capt’n.”
The ship turned, leaving Everik behind. Gareth felt the sea breeze against his bearded face. The waves crashed gently along the side of the ship, giving it a majestic bounce. Making his way to the bow, Gareth leaned over, inspecting the keel. She was chopping the waters with relative ease. Finding peace in the tranquil bounce, he watched the waves wash against the hull, allowing the only two things he’d ever loved to erode with the increasing distance. A smile on the horizon, Gareth closed his eyes.
Kill them all, no exception!
Chapter VII
The Scholar
> The darkened room of rock and petrified wood was filled with the scent of aged parchment and the stale odor of clay. The walls were crowded by multitudes of shelves in all sizes and conditions. What remained of the clear varnish coats were cracked and worn in most places, due to time and misuse. Thousands of tomes rested in their cluttered spaces, seemingly the only organization the dark room had to offer. The occasional rack of scrolls stood amidst the clutter, divided by wooden runners, each one bearing odd runes to identify their contents. A young dreualfar sat at the edge of one of the ancient slab tables, his hands locked against his forehead holding his long, silver hair out of his face.
Nezial stared down at the inscriptions smudged across the yellow page. Taking a deep breath, he turned to see another set, just like the ones before. Despite his restlessness, he felt a fondness for the dusty old collection. It was a home of comfort, far removed from the chaos right outside his doors. A loud crash roused him, demanding his attention. The sounds of battle echoed through the sealed, wooden barriers causing his ears to twitch. Frustration growing, he placed a small piece of polished bone between the pages and closed the book. Pulling himself up, Nezial stood with a heavy sigh. He walked toward the door, listening to the commotion grow louder, as if a war was being waged right outside. Cautiously pulling the door open ever so slightly toward him, he peered out.
Several dreualfar, not much older than children, blocked the wide passageway. Bloodthirsty cries of excitement escaped the gathering, urging the two in the middle of their number.
Nezial stepped out to get a better look. The two young black-skins stood facing each other, defensive and full of anger. A dagger was outstretched in each of their hands, ready to drive into the ribs of the other at the first chance.
One sliced in, narrowly missing the other.
The second jumped back, crashing into the crowd behind him. Unable to catch his balance he was aided by shoves and punches to his back. He tumbled forward and hit the ground. Rolling with the motion, he sprang back to his feet, colliding with his enemy. Staggering back, he glanced at the crude, unpolished pommel protruding in his gut. Blood began to drip from the wound. His gaze traveled, finding the panicked face staring into his. Taking a step backward, he pulled the blade free. Studying the blood coated weapon, his hand trembled. The chants reached him, telling him what he needed to do. Armed with both daggers, he locked his fingers around blood-slicked handle and charged. The small instruments felt heavy, unwieldy even. Rapidly losing strength, the boy tripped over his feet and face planted into the rocky floor.
“Finish him, finish him!” The crowd cheered, urging the unarmed youngling to make a move.
The weaponless boy glanced around, taking in the mob before him. Pride fluttered in his gut. He’d won already. He just had to finish the job. Forcing the butterflies in his stomach into submission, he approached the whimpering body. A pool of blood was beginning to form beneath him. The daggers were lying on the rocky floor scattered where they’d fallen. Reaching down, he secured the bloody weapon, knowing that one to be his, and took position over the dying dreualfar. Smiling his success to the crowd, he grabbed a fist full of unkempt, dirty hair and yanked the boy’s head back. Exposing his thin, gasping throat, he closed his eyes and swallowed his anxiety. Pressing the dull edge against his taut skin, he drug the blade across, feeling it pop against the pressure. Listening to the final gasp, he released the boy's hair, letting his limp head hit the ground with a thud. Standing to his full height, he threw his arms into the air, claiming victory.
Nezial shook his head at the sight of the dead pup. So much untapped potential wasted on a flawed ideology of keeping only the strong. Refusing to watch a moment longer, he turned and stepped back into his study, closing the door behind him. They fail to realize strength comes from more than just combat specialty.
Recalling the trials of his youth, he made is way toward the table and retook his seat. He had always been forced to battle the stronger dreualfar. They always thought it was going to be an easy match, him being scrawny compared to most. But all that change the day he blasted that kid with a fireball. They pretty much left him alone after that.
Renewing his focus, Nezial opened the book where he’d left off and set the piece of bone aside. The contents of the passage played out in his mind, as if he was watching an ancient scene. He couldn't explain why, but this particular interested him. It took him back to his childhood, when he used to dream about walking the surface world.
The stories of their entrance to the darkness were fairly common, though he was certain they were wrong. The contradictions in the books pretty much guaranteed that. His people created the tale, playing the victim, when in fact it seemed to be the other way around. He didn’t know when his people were banished, but he felt like he may as well have been one of the dreualfar forced from the light that day. He’d never gotten live in it. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about it every waking moment.
Leaning against the backrest of his chair, Nezial broke away from the scribed passage and allowed his imagination to carry him out of the library. He found himself walking in the sun, wondering what it would feel like upon his skin. How pleasant it would be to be able to do so without pain. He'd felt its sting before. No, he wanted its gentle caress, like the surface dwellers enjoyed. He wanted the simple things in life. Like watching sunbeams burn through the green of the tallest trees, sparking bright patterns on the ground. The creatures of the surface would be so different from his own. They’d say ‘hi’ to each other and welcome new comers to the town, he believed that’s what they were called. Whatever those small human settlements were. They’d help protect each other instead of plotting to overthrow their neighbor at the first opportunity. Nezial rubbed the scars on his chest recalling the villagers that greeted him the last time he tried to walk the surface. The burns lasted nearly a week, leaving him in a constant state of pain the entire time. Had it not been for the burning, he could have made his way through all those people unnoticed. It was no wonder they were scared of his kind. If he'd seen a figure sizzling in the sunlight, he'd probably be afraid of it too. Truth be told, his fear rivaled what he evoked in them.
Realizing he’d gotten distracted, Nezial shook the memories from his head. In a violent outburst, he slammed the book shut. “These thoughts serve no purpose! I’m one of the most powerful dreualfar in the Underdark. I need to find a spell that will allow me to walk the surface without fear of the sun, or those that live in it. But thinking about how nice it would be, isn’t helping!” Taking a deep breath, Nezial pushed the tome away from him, letting his self-irritation evaporate a little.
Days turned into evenings, the hours drifting along, though in the underground it was difficult to discern time. The sunlight had no impact, therefore nothing was timed. Life simply drifted along as the mood called, or the whips of the elders, which ever came first.
Nezial slammed the tome shut. A scowl took form across his face, “I need no history lessons. I need evidence, this damn book doesn’t contain anything close to its synopsis.” He shouted, venting his anger. The heavy pages clapped together, sending a cloud of dust into the dank air.
Resting his elbows on the table, he laid his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his stringy, silver hair. Reaching the back of his head he locked them in place and leaned back. A long, deep sigh escaped him. He was exhausted. The continual study was tiring, but he had to find the answers.
Staring blankly at the shelves across from him, Nezial scanned the thousands of bindings staring back at him. He’d had the have read at least half of them already. Or ruled them out at the very least. Doubt began the grow with each cover he passed. None of them held anything close to the knowledge he sought. Shaking his head, he released his hold and stood, scooping up the closed tome before him. Carrying it to one of the shelves near the rear wall, he searched for its home. It didn't take long to find it. A perfect sized slot rested between the other books, free of dust where he’d remove
d it hours earlier. Gently sliding the book back into its pocket, he looked around, lost in the library’s abundance.
Glancing across the dark chamber, a heavy sigh escaped him. The books were a never-ending puzzle. Some spoke broadly, other simplistic. Though none seemed to hold the answers he sought. Why is it so difficult to find information on the curse? It was as if the knowledge didn’t exist. But that was ridiculous. Books were made for knowledge. One of them had to hold the key. The question was, which one? And would the author offer up his secrets? Would he open that window into his mind where his ideas flowed like water? It was the strangest form of telepathy, lasting distance and time. The author would write the world as they saw it. And hundreds, maybe thousands of years later, someone would read the words and understand exactly what the author meant. There were obvious exceptions. After all, everyone saw things in their own way. But the general idea was always there. If that wasn't telepathy, what was?
Nezial extended his arms, stretching his back in an arch. Instinctively, his mouth opened wide, releasing a deep yawn. On instinct, Nezial reached to his chin and gave a firm, steady push. Several loud pops echoed in the empty chamber, bringing a renewed flexibility to his neck. Repeating the process on the other side, his eyes caught a brief shimmer on one of the shelves. His attention locked on the overflowing rack, he rushed toward it hoping to catch a glimpse of the item that called to him. Moving to the left, he started at the top corner and quickly scanned each binding, hoping to see it again. He investigated three full rows before coming across a thin, black book, one he’d never seen before. A strange phenomenon in itself, considering it was on a shelf he’d already checked.
A slight golden sheen surrounded the book as if it were reflecting some kind of light. Stepping back, Nezial search for any sigh of light. He worked without candle or torch. Such items were useless when you spent your life in the dark. But the need for heat was a common enough concern that such items weren’t unheard of. Finding nothing, he removed it from the shelf and returned to the large table in the center of the library. Placing it where so many others had sat, he loosened the buckle and took his seat.
