“Motiva…?” Before Vegard could finish his sentence a wave of power slammed him in the chest. It was like being struck by a mace. He was lifted to his feet and then slammed into the rough stone wall behind him. The power kept him upright and a severe cold burrowed its way throughout his body. All of this happened in a flash before he found himself on hands and knees breathing heavy. Did I retch? He thought to himself. Vegard shook the blur from his eyes but saw no signs of his liquid dinner on the floor beneath him. I feel like I… “What did you do to me? I feel…I feel…”
“Empty?” The goddess finished. “Odd, honestly I almost thought you’d feel nothing.”
“What do you mean?” Vegard was colder than he had ever been yet his body was not reacting to it normally. He did not shake or shiver. He was just numb.
“With all your pity I figured you identified only with the pain of your shell and not with the essence of your being.”
“My being?”
“Your soul, little baby warlock. You cry and moan and bitch about the trials and affairs of your body all the while ignoring your true self. Not that meat and bones wrapped in skin. No. Your true self. I did not think you’d notice its absence.”
“It’s absence? What do you mean its…” His eyes darted open. “You took my soul!?”
“You weren’t using it. Figured I would give the poor thing a moment of reprieve.” The goddess looked down at Vegard with a taunting smile on her face. “What? No sarcastic quips for me? Your bluster was almost entertaining if not for being entirely ill-timed and constant.”
Vegard launched himself to his feet. He patted his wool clothes hysterically as if his soul was just lost in a pocket. “Where is…how…you don’t…! Where is my soul, wench!”
“Wench?” Flaro howled with laughter. “You are my Agaeti. I am like your celestial mother. What kind of way is that to talk to your mother?” She joked.
“Give me back my soul!” Vegard demanded. He thought to summon his powers. He’d never tried to drain a god before. Nor anyone besides a human. But caution deflated him. The gods were a temperamental bunch, it would seem. Instead he stood defiant yet neutered.
“I have not outright taken your soul, Agaeti. It is there, see?” She pointed above him. Vegard turned his head slightly to see a small floating orb, about the size of a pearl, glowing blue right above his right shoulder. Vegard attempted to seize it, hoping to shove it back into himself. Swallow it or shove it through his chest. The orb held in place like an iron bar. It swayed to and fro with the warlock’s movement but wouldn’t budge from its position slightly above the shoulder.
“You are the only mortal who can see it. You can earn it back, though. Redemption is how you were born but you lost your way. It is time for you to become what you were destined to be.”
“Or what?” Vegard said petulantly.
“Or live the rest of your existence as an undead. Or wight. Something slightly between those two. Oh, and a prisoner and slave and drunk, yes?”
The anger fell away from the warlock. His bravado only powered by his desperation. “What would you have me do?”
“Perhaps I was mistaken of you! Perhaps you were kissed by a moment of my pure ignorance, or stubbornness, or stupidity!” Flaro yelled. Her hair blazing like a wild fire above her head. “Redeem yourself! Cast your pity to the ground and claim your birthright. Stop making a mockery of your existence.”
“Fine! Fine, goddess! Tell me how.” Vegard yelled in frustration. “This cold is too much to bear. Tell me what I must do and I’ll do it.”
Flaro put her hands on her hips. Her lips pursed. “You want a task? Good, because I have one. There is a great merchant by the name of Darold Shaw in the eastern land of Temuria.”
“I do not know the name.” Vegard said.
“Did I say you did? This isn’t a guessing game. Your task would be much harder. This merchant has recently used his influence to be granted lordship. With it he has been using his power to usher in the favor of One god. An overreaching entity that desires for all of Vlero to worship Him. And only Him.”
“So this is what this is about…” Vegard said.
“Oh, stop your interrupting, child. You want to know how to redeem yourself or not?”
“I do! But apparently you want to use me as a tool for some godly affair. Why can you not solve this issue in your own realm, goddess? Why pester me!?”
“First, this god is out of my reach. There are rules, even in the realm of Storrhale. For the time being. Second, this is about your redemption. Not mine. Do you want to earn your soul back? Or is the life of an undead already that comfortable to you?”
Vegard’s shoulders slumped. At the corner of his eye he saw his soul bob downward with himself. He reached up and tapped the glowing thing. A light sound like a beautiful little bell resounded from it.
“So, murder this merchant and I can have my soul back?”
Flaro grunted. “You make it sound so brutish. But, essentially, yes. Stop the spread of this tyrant god by snuffing out his prophet and I will grant you your soul back.”
“Assassination is not exactly what I thought you would have in mind, goddess.”
“You are a sensitive little war criminal, aren’t you, warlock? Fine, how about go into town and pet a hundred kittens and we will call your debt paid, hmm?” Flaro mocked.
“You are not like I imagined the gods to be.” Vegard sneered.
“And my heart breaks.” Flaro wrapped her great beastial cloak around herself. Her form beginning to fade. “I have given you a task, Agaeti. Go and redeem yourself. Or continue down the path of sorrow and regret. The choice is yours.” And with that the goddess was gone leaving the warlock, once again, alone with only the faint glow of his disembodied soul as company.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Lord Merchant
Pyris White stood regally by the side of the great merchant, Darold Shaw. The Vicar of the Church of Abaniel wore long white robes of the finest silk. The collar around his neck was gold and stiff as bark, keeping the Vicar’s spine rigidly and formally upright. He informed Shaw of the lords and dignitaries that came before him to pledge allegiance.
“This would be the lord of White Peak, Ruld Oxfin, and his eldest daughter, Bevelyn Oxfin.” Pyris whispered to the seemingly bored high merchant. The nobles descended the few marble steps leading to the obnoxiously decorated den in which Darold Shaw sat himself. Darold flipped his snuff box open and inhaled a purple powder before the nobles approached. It was an exotic flower from the Vestal Ridge mountains that the merchant had become all too fond of, Pyris noted.
The lord bowed and smiled. Darold barely making an effort to slouch his heavy frame forward to take the man’s hand. Although, he made much more of an effort to kiss the hand, and forearm, and elbow of the lord’s eldest daughter, perhaps no more than sixteen years old by the Vicar’s appraisal. The pleasantries went on and on like this through the afternoon. Between the balance act of sweet berry rum and pheloseed powder the merchant was consuming, his mood and energy level wavered from barely cognizant to wired and abrasive.
As the last of the lords and ladies finally left, Darold Shaw hefted himself from his plush throne. “Please tell me that is the last of these smug shits, Pyris. I am a business man. I am weary of these stuffy types.” The merchant cast aside the many rugs and layers he wore and switched to a fine, purple silk robe hanging to the side, barely hiding his girth.
The holy Vicar sipped at a white wine. “It is done for the day, my lord.”
Shaw giggled at the title. “I would bet my fortune these prickly aristocrats retched a little in their collective mouths calling someone like me a lord.”
“A title you should be proud of because you’ve earned it.”
“Not like this pathetic lot.” Shaw walked to his grand window and peered down into the street. Below the bustling city of Prispin was alive. The largest port city of Temuria on the western coast of the con
tinent. Merchant ships lined the docks, traders haggling their wares, eateries shouting out the day’s specials. The Vicar, Pyris White, could see Shaw drinking in the monetary possibilities with his eyes; commerce being the only thing that truly excited the rotund man. That and authority. Or retaliation more so than an overt authority. The desire to never be looked down upon by any being…ever.
Shaw gawked as the last of the lords exited his estate, subdued as they met their parties and boarded their ornate carriages.
“Ha! It’ll be a long ride for this lot. Back to their castles after swearing fealty to me. Will do them good to learn some humility. Let them stew in it.” He laughed loudly again before slumping heavily back into his throne.
“It is why they fear you, my lord. And it is why the people love you so.” Vicar Pyris circled around the busy chair of Darold Shaw. “The lords claim to be champions and protectors of the people yet they have no empathy or understanding for the very people they claim to rule.” If Shaw was listening he surely gave no clue, apparently much more enamored with picking at his teeth with his nails. “You came from humble beginnings.”
“Yes!” Shaw slammed his fists down. “I started with nothing more than a loan from my father and look what I’ve turned it into. An empire of merchandise and trade extending the entire length of Temuria and beyond. These blue-bloods couldn’t possibly understand what a real days worth of work looks like. Keeping these workers in check, protecting your wares, establishing demand, hiring mercenaries and soldiers.” The great merchant huffed, practically losing his breath in self-congratulations. “Might I add, one of the largest private militaries in the world.”
Pyris White smiled broadly, stopping before his lord. “A military force made double by the alliances formed in the past week. A wondrous achievement.”
“Yes, yes, Pyris.” Shaw waved his hands dismissively. “Do you want me to say it? You were correct in convincing me to take these shambling lords under my wing. Are you happy now?”
“My happiness comes only from serving the One god, the Maker, Abaniel. But it pleases me to know I help His cause by being an effective advisor to you, lord Shaw.”
“Effective and uncostly. Some of my most favored virtues. You men of the Abaniel cloth come so cheaply.” Darold Shaw smiled.
“My rewards are in service, my lord. And with the acquisition of these four lords and their men, you are well on your way to becoming a king of Temuria.”
Shaw’s face appeared to fold in upon itself. His smile so broad it threatened to swallow his beady eyes. “If only my father could see me now. A king! I practically snuffed the accomplishments of all my other brothers combined.”
“Indeed you have.” The Vicar continued. “The only other step would be to unify all these lands under one banner. One banner made official by the backing of the Church of Abaniel.” He stood behind the grand merchant now, resting his hands on Darold Shaw’s heaving shoulders. “Why, I’d say, with the validation of the church you could circumvent kingship entirely and ascend to the rostrum of Emperor to all of Vlero.”
“Emperor…” Darold Shaw muttered. A thought too enticing to even equate to an emotional reaction. The ultimate status of any that walked the realms of Vlero. Shaw took a few deep wheezing breathes before patting one of Pyris’s hands with his own. “My advisor, if I had any doubt of your servitude I would almost guess you were more ambitious of a man than even I.” He laughed.
“Ambition can be a virtue, still, my lord. Depending on its implementation, of course. I serve the Maker. I believe with your wealth and charisma we can truly spread the one true word across this depraved land.”
Darold Shaw chewed on his hairless lower lip as he eyed his advisor. “As long as commerce and godliness are in no conflict with one another, I see no problem in unifying all the peoples of all the nations under me.” He stared at the Vicar Pyris again for a moment before slapping his knee and bellowing a deep laugh.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Arrival of the Festival
Vegard stayed huddled and cold in his tower cell the next couple days. No matter the furs or steaming baths presented to him, nothing could fight back his undead chill. The words of the goddess, Flaro, weighed heavily on his shoulders.
“Redeem myself…” He muttered insistently. “Easy for a goddess to say.” Pulling more covers over his numb form, the constant light from his hovering soul making it impossible to sleep. “Damned wench could’ve at least unlocked the door for me.”
Vegard could spot the festive decorations going up from his meager window. The mountain town was illuminated with torches, flutter bugs, and simple mage lights clinging to trees before dancing away. Decorations hung from every windowsill and tree dotting his field of vision reminding the warlock of the impending End of Autumn festivities. And, more so, to this mission bestowed upon him.
Vegard needed power if he had any hope of escaping and finding this damned merchant, as the goddess instructed. Yet there was nothing around him to drain from. Nobody he could spot from his tower cell. No visitors or whores permitted to him. Even the rats seemed scarce leading up to the festival beginnings.
Jogen must be spit cleaning the entire town for these mountain lords, Vegard raved in his head as he paced back and forth. Not that rats would have given the warlock much to feed off. Animals, in his experience, were of a different energy than man and most could seemingly sense the dark intentions of the warlock. Animals and him had never fostered much of a relationship.
Still, not a one of the squeaking little balls of hair could be found scurrying on the rafters, or darting from the alleys Vegard could see.
“You are making this quite hard, Flaro Rei’Lind.” He said as he glared up at the sky.
The days to the festival wound to a nub. Vegard was delivered a mighty breakfast of blood sausage, fried eggs, and goat’s milk. “Jogen wants you strong, warlock. You have a busy day ahead.” One of the guards mused before sliding the door latch shut again.
Today has to be the day. Amidst the chaos of the fair. He thought to himself. He wolfed down the much needed food and gulped the milk so quickly it dribbled down his chin. After his meal he sprawled on the cold cell floor and began to stretch his taut muscles.
Vegard wasn’t like to take precautions in these slave battles of the past. So jaded by the idea of being shoved into a cage, Vegard gave them as much dedication as one might to sunbathing. He won more than he didn’t. Yet, the ones he lost still led to a few days extra rest to recuperate. Some he would even lay defiantly in the sands, allow the jeering audience to hiss and boo, tossing their drinks into the ring below.
But, Vegard understood that this day was of far greater importance.
There was an angry goddess from Storrhale nipping at his heels and his everlasting soul bobbing and floating above his perpetually cold human form. He needed to make haste.
Footsteps echoed up the tower outside the warlock’s cell. Any mistake they can make. Is this the moment? The slate at the middle of the door slid open. “Turn around and present your hands.” He was instructed. Perhaps not. Vegard did as he was instructed. His wrists were bound. Another iron slate slid away at head level and the guards tied a thick leather band over Vegard’s eyes. This one was new. He could feel the magical glyphs painted on the leather strap.
“A little paranoid, are we?” Vegard hid his distress with a grin.
“Lord Jogen wanted every precaution taken on such an important day.” The voice was, unfortunately, that of Elder Uretta’s. “I applied the glyphs myself, soul-drinker. A sprig of goldenrod, animal grease, and mine own blood. Not that a jarro like yourself would appreciate the nuance.”
“Jarro, jarro, jarro…” Vegard mocked. “If you really thought me a demon then you’d be less comfortable taunting me like you do.” Although the presence of confidence was in the warlock’s voice, he had to admit the glyphs were remarkably well done.
His thoughts were hindered, moving slowly as a
winter’s pool. Jogen really was taking every precaution, he thought. There was a guard at each arm with Elder Uretta, the pious hag, taking up the rear.
They led the warlock down the rounding tower steps and to the outside.
Already the sounds of the festival were picking up. Children were running about, the smell of cooking oils heating up filled the crisp morning air. Carts were being unloaded and stands were being erected. Instruments were being strung and tested. Occasionally Vegard caught the murmuring of those referring to him. Townsfolk excited or wary about the presence of a warlock. A vampire. A devil. Whatever folk lore had traversed the lands about ‘his type’.
He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be properly feared. Been quite a few moons since outsiders had come to Dunesmir. A few seasons since strangers had been around to gawk at all the wonders Lord Jogen had collected upon last.
The anger was welling in the warlock. He’d never grown accustomed to being paraded around like a pet. Used like some novelty children’s toy just to be shelved soon after. He could feel the blood running to his head. It was the warmest he’d felt since that crazy goddess tore his soul out.
For a brief moment the glyphs seemed to fade to the background. They were nothing more than a breeze in an open field. Vegard thought he could smell the souls around him. The children, the vendors, townsfolk. The two guards, one stocky and hungover, the other twitchy and meek, yet nervous about a barmaid he had bedded.
He could even make out the stern elder-lady, Uretta, following close behind. He could sense her resentment. He could almost taste her disdain. The warlock almost lost himself in the intricacies of the pious woman.
She had always been cloaked behind her protective barriers. It was a new sensation to the warlock. Was he imagining it?
Elder Uretta whelped and came to a stop. The guards hesitated, “Are you alright, elder-lady?” One of them asked. Uretta’s hand was at her chest, her breath heavy. Her eyes darted past the two to stare at the back of Vegard’s head. “I am fine.” She finally said. “Colder this morning than I am used to, is all. Come.” She shook the feeling from her body and continued the escort on.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 3
