A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga

by Daniel Sexton

  “Oh, not that again!” Wera groaned. Vegard had continued to press the idea of growth to the young hver. Freedom through the extension of their power.

  “I’m taking it all the same. If you don’t want it then we can eat the damn thing.”

  Wera’s eyes rolled behind her sky blue mask. “I hate raven meat.”

  Vegard took a few steps before racking his boot on another small cage set on the floor. He peered down to see a dog like creature the size of a squirrel roll around and recover itself. Its head was overly large for its white, furry body and had two large black eyes that starred up at the warlock. “Hmm..?” He prodded the cage with a foot. “What is it?”

  Wera knelt down to the cage. “It’s a dog. A chenway from Temuria. Rich people like to carry these around.”

  “Carry a dog!?” Vegard’s face screwed up. “I’m starting to think something about money must rot away at a man’s reason.” Even with Vegard’s leering stare the little thing pressed its nose through the barrier and began violently licking the warlock’s boot. Vegard pulled away as if he had stepped on a snake.

  Wera laughed. “Thought you said animals don’t like you.”

  “This one must be broken.” He turned and walked away from the furry chenway. Wera picked up the cage.

  “And what do you think you’re doing?” Vegard asked.

  “I’m taking it either way.” She mused. “If you don’t want it then you can eat the damn thing.” Her eyebrow rising.

  Vegard narrowed his eyes at the hver then grunted and turned away.

  The pair filled their bags to bursting as the tempered workers remained vigilant to their floor-board prayers.

  The ‘Ember Foxes’ raids on the goods of Darold Shaw had not stopped at a few carriages, a few warehouses, a few nights. The demons of Dawns Fero struck at every available opportunity. From the shadows or broad day light. It seemed that nothing could be done to protect the lord merchant’s goods.

  Bets were even placed as two caravans would set off in opposite directions, which would be plundered, and which—by the luck of the gods—would be spared.

  Shaw’s name became something of a joke amongst the lower tiered of the city. Sailors jested that they wouldn’t be caught dead purchasing his goods lest the Foxes felt it necessary to descend upon them afterwards. The upper class were not quite in the same jovial spirits as the lower class…but they too seemed to circumvent Shaw’s goods, unless of course, they were acquired by a third party.

  Even certain established relationships for the merchant were abruptly running dry. The yellow sashes, or Cliff Hangers as the gang were called, were no longer part of any of the legionnaires guarding the merchant’s goods. Since the ‘unfortunate’ fall of a city guard affiliated with the gang it seemed the yellow sashes had come to the conclusion that alliances elsewhere may be in their best interests.

  Riches rained from between the fingers of the duo. They upgraded their room to something a bit more spacious and defensible. A subterranean room secreted away below the decks of the Sweaty Seafarer. Baron Fisk, the Seafarer’s owner and bartender, seemed to have a hidden past of his own. Something in which a bunker built beneath the lowest tier of a shipping city was an imperative. He had lost need of such a room over time and was more than happy to play landlord to the strange duo that, just recently, came into a bit of monetary ‘luck’, as it were.

  Wera let the chenway loose about the room. It ran about on an endless well of energy, running in circles, rolling, dodging the companions, and bouncing all over the furniture.

  “I told you it was broken.” Vegard scoffed, although he wouldn’t push the big headed thing away when it would collapse in his lap after a busy day of jumping.

  “What will you name it?” Wera asked as she starred deeply into the eyes of her raven, a practice that became routine over the past couple weeks.

  The warlock shrugged, his fine lordly cloak bouncing upon his shoulders, a pilfered crown hanging askew atop his head. “Perhaps, Chenway.”

  “Chenway the chenway?” Wera cracked. “How imaginative.”

  “Bah! It’s not like the thing will care.” He tapped Chenway’s forehead with his finger like one would a bar counter. The dog didn’t so much as move, completely asleep. “I’m fairly sure it may be the dumbest creature in all of Vlero.”

  Wera went back to her study. Her deep bronze eyes finding that of the black eyes of the raven. Their eyes mimicking one another. A sudden jerk, a stare. Soul searching in a far different way than Vegard had any real patience or experience at.

  Although, it seemed the warlock and the hver had found common ground in something, at least. Their interests intertwined in one similar desire. Pillaging the rich.

  How freeing it felt to take and profit from a society that had shown no remorse in casting them as untouchables. Benefiting from their enslavement. The pissing contest of ‘who had it worst’ was a thing of the past.

  This joint endeavor was about the presence of now, not the contemplations of the past. It was resigned that neither had had it well and that someone should be made to pay that debt.

  Their underground hideout was built with two entrances. One leading up to the stockroom and backdoor of the Sweaty Seafarer, and another a long winding tunnel that lead to a secret alcove by the shore.

  The alcove served as a sort of ‘porch’ by the beach where the two shared drinks and schemes for the following day. The pair almost appeared to be skirting a semblance of camaraderie—if either of them would admit it.

  They were living like secreted nobles at the expense of this faraway lord in Temuria. Aristocratic bandits living within the belly of the opulent beast that they plundered from.

  Soon this Shaw character would have to come face the loses he was suffering in the lands of Yessriel.

  And that is when the duo would strike their final blow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Penance

  The Vicar was set upon his hands and knees in his ‘Chamber of Regret’. His bald, pale head streaked with sweat as the back of his hands wafted with a thin cloud of acrid smoke. His eyes were aglow with the colors of Abaniel; one red and the other gold. His penance for the week had been doubled.

  Pyris White laid his head upon a solitary crown in the somber chamber, the only light being that of many candles of various heights and thicknesses that decorated the otherwise bare and windowless room.

  He pressed his forehead against the sharpened ridges of the crown. Skin broke and blood began to pool within the frame of the bejeweled headpiece. The priest’s mouth mumbled sounds foreign to the landscapes of Vlero. It was a tongue of another realm. Of otherworldly dwellers that most decent folk shied away from.

  The blood that had gathered within the crown rippled like a stone thrown in a calm lake. Something harkened back.

  Pyris kept his head still. He could feel the weight of power around him. The crushing pressure of this summoned, and yet, unseen presence.

  “True Lord.” The priest began to speak. “I am humbled by the shadow of your ubiquity.”

  The candles flickered in irritation, many being snuffed as their wicks kissed the melted wax beneath them.

  “I have been made aware of these troubling robberies, True Lord. I hear the mockeries and see the spreading of its tales. Yet, I had not thought…” Pyris’s arm twisted irregularly, it shifted and bent, and his frail hands with long sharpened nails began to claw into his own back.

  Pyris refrained from screaming. It was a lesson that needed to be taken with a measure of silence. He pressed his head harder against the edges of the crown to distribute the pain elsewhere. It cleared his thoughts.

  “Excuses. Yes.” He swallowed the pain that wracked his feeble form. “I had doubted the effectiveness of this common thuggery. I will take measures to right this most unholy of sins, True Lord.” His arm folded back to a natural state. Pyris rested it calmly on the cool stone beneath him. “The reprisal for my
folly will be the weight of church justice falling upon their heads, and I, as your agent, will spread your name to every corner of this foul land!”

  The immensity of power left as quickly as it had come to the Chamber of Regret. The Vicar lifted his head from the stained crown and stood. Although blood and sweat smeared his face, his features revealed nothing of distress. He appeared as calm as one soaking their feet in a warm bath.

  Pyris White walked his naked form to a hidden door in the room. Pushing through revealed his regular chambers in the grand Tower of Shaw in the city of Prispin.

  The Vicar cleaned himself at a wash basin and then dressed in elegant white robes with a silken red scarf draped over his shoulders. He hid his forehead wounds with a ritual tower hat and then fitted his neck with his golden choker, of which he fastened tighter than normal for his penance.

  Still, in the extensive space of his private rooms, he could hear the wailings of the lord merchant Shaw, bellowing in the great keep.

  The Vicar double checked his devotional appearances and then made his way out of the chambers to calm the lord and make use of his services, as the lord merchant’s holy advisor.

  Darold Shaw was found, pacing and lamenting in his meeting room. The servants had delivered an array of foods which had been left untouched. The wine, however, had been thoroughly serviced.

  “The way they are looking at me! I can tell what they are talking about! Sneering eyes! Goddamn commoners!” Shaw yelled.

  “Lord merchant.” Pyris inclined his head and folded his hands in front of his priestly garb. “What troubles you?”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke!?” Shaw spat. “My goods are being hounded across the shores! The town’s people speak of demons that come from the sea and trees. They burn my caravans. They leave the guards euphoric or dead.”

  The merchant clamored to an arched window and threw it violently open. “And they laugh! The people snicker as my goods travel. My men even speak of jests they make. How my goods will likely disappear before they even reach the docks!”

  The Vicar nodded his head calmly. “I have heard these tales myself, my lord.”

  “See, then!?” Shaw grabbed a decorated candlestick and chucked it out the window at the busy crowd below. “Peasants!” He screamed.

  Pyris held his hand up to stay the next volley from the incensed merchant. “Conceivably, it may not restore the good faith of these people if you continue to assault them with your furnishings.”

  “It makes me feel better.” Shaw huffed but let the next stick drop by his silken slippers. “What do you plan to do about it, then, priest? How am I to spread the influence of this god of yours if even the lowliest of people think me a joke, hmm?” Shaw stalked past the priest and grabbed a large goblet of wine, chugging heartily before leveling his gaze.

  Pyris could tell the egotistical merchant meant to scapegoat this public humiliation elsewhere. Yet, they both needed one another. Pyris needed the merchant for his bravado and charisma with the common folk. It was so hard to change the beliefs of the plebs unless introduced with a bit of familiarity and bluster.

  Darold Shaw needed the Church for the validation it gave him. Without it, he would never have become a lord. And without lordship he could never justifiably become a grand ruler or king. He would be just another wealthy man overextending himself in the realm. One that would be cut down immediately.

  “Silence is usually a grand virtue of yours, Pyris. Not as of now, though.” He sloppily poured himself another round. “Your mind is wandering. I’d like to know where.”

  “I was just thinking if the time for desperate actions was at hand, is all.”

  “What? What desperate actions? Why have you not told me of desperate acts that could be taken!?”

  Pyris paced thoughtfully. “The Church has certain…extreme measures at its disposal. But these measures play the hand of force very overtly. I wasn’t sure if this issue constituted the right moment for such methods.”

  “Are you simple!?” Shaw screamed. “If there was something that could have been done why had you not told me?”

  “Like I was trying to say, my lord. If we very publicly pressed our authority too soon it may have caused backlash with the people. That would undermine everything we’ve been striving towards.”

  “So…” The lord merchant gestured impatiently.

  “So, I convened with Him, the True God Abaniel.”

  Pyris caught the subtle eye roll of Shaw but the merchant still continued to press the Vicar for more.

  “The feeling I received from His True is that the time for tact is over. These petty thieves have done more to damage our infallibility in the eyes of the people than I had originally given them credit. I have been given permission to summon the warriors of the Church.” Pyris grinned.

  “What warriors?” Shaw slowly asked. A wariness replacing his utter rage.

  “The Twelve. Righteous and holy paladins of the highest order of our Church. I will dispatch two of them to cross the sea at once and deal with these rats in Dawns Fero.”

  “Two!? Why not send all the twelve!? A legion! A whole army!” Shaw bellowed. “Here I thought you had wits about you, priest. My name sloshes in the gutters of all of Vlero and you aim to send a couple of holy beggars?”

  Pyris couldn’t stifle his laughter. It burped up from his chest in an almost sinful fashion. Shaw’s face twisted to a fat mound of confusion. Never had the Vicar shown such an outburst of any emotion, let alone this sort of tainted mirth.

  “I am very sorry, my grand lord.” Pyris composed himself. “If this wasn’t for such a righteous cause I would stare at my stained hands with the utmost shame for even the thought of sending one of Abaniel’s Red Paladins out amongst the world.”

  He shook his head then nodded. “Two is more than enough. I will instruct them to decimate this pathetic band of nobodies. They will capture their leaders and bring them to us. Their heads will be sheared from their sinful shoulders before us and your name risen back to its rightful and respected place with the people.”

  The lord merchant had never seen the Vicar act in such a way. The glow in his eyes was menacing yet comforting at the same time.

  “Very good, then, my Vicar.” Shaw nodded his approval. He wiped his head of the heavy sweat that had formed. “My apologies for having doubted your aid to me. You have been nothing but loyal. Yes, bring these thieves to me. I want to watch their heads roll on my ivory floors.”

  “And if I might make another suggestion, my lord.” Pyris added. “Let us take leave of the city for awhile. Relax at your estate in the vineyard. These peasants rile you in such a way that is so terribly unnecessary. I will have my Paladins of the Red deliver these criminals to us there.”

  Shaw already began to stalk wearily away. “Yes, yes. That sounds wonderful. I’ll have the servants gather some things.” He waved his hands about lazily. “It will be nice to get out of this dungheap of a city for a little while.”

  Pyris White watched the tired lord leave the room. The Vicar couldn’t help but feel an energy fluttering about inside him. So few times had he been able to release God’s justice out into the realm. The Church having to hold back for so long as all the pieces shifted into place. This, with his Twelve, were but a taste of the power they had behind them.

  He smiled. Pyris knew just the two he wanted to send.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  New Foes

  The moon illuminated the thick, black clouds that billowed on the rainy night in Dawns Fero. The bottom tier of the city was not fully open to the sky but the rain found its way through the architecture of Dawns Fero, flowing from tier to tier before water-falling on the lower denizens. This night was extra damp. The cheap boards of the walkways bloated and the descending alleys ran like streams to the sea below. Most the dwellers opting for a dry hearth over flooding streets, left the city practically empty of foot traffic.

  It was here on the main s
tone pathway of tier one that a lone carriage trotted forth. The broadway leading to the second tier was surround by the wooded architecture around it that leaned into the street as if peering over its shoulder.

  Torches flickered on either side of the carriage. One guard rode the side, as a heavily cloaked coachman prodded the beasts forward.

  Shadows lurked above the leering buildings. Vegard and Wera had stalked the cart from the docks. They traversed the connective tissue of the rooftops as they watched the cart trot along. The carriage becoming lonelier and lonelier as it made its way through the lowest and poorest tier in the city.

  They looked to one another, fox masks placed over their faces, signaling each other with predetermined hand signals and quiet gestures.

  Wera skirted the lip of the building they were on. Her lean figure easily finding grabs and foot holds in the uneven structure. She swung to a ledge a story up from the coming carriage and perched like a gargoyle there, still as stone and quiet as death. Her spear hanging motionless by her side.

  Vegard had visited the prison earlier in the day. The guards scooted aside so willingly when the demon fox came with black eyes and shimmering coin. He fed on the prisoners there, filling his trembling body with the energy he’d need for the night. Although petty thieves and murderers made for a weak meal, the warlock found it better to engage in battle with a little something in his system. An energy to work with, to be tempered and manipulated.

  Doing this also bolstered the lore of the Ember Foxes. Guards spoke in hushed tones to one another. Then traveling from guard to serving girl and serving girl to sailor. And once the sailors had ahold it spread quicker than wildfire. The legend surrounding the duo grew to mountainous proportions. Not only were they part beast, so say the tales, but possibly vampires from the Mists of Ofren!

  Vegard chuckled grimly at the thought as he stood bravely over the building’s ledge. The toe of his boots hanging freely over the side. Wera and him were monsters, now. The monsters that men feared. Not the monsters that societies gawked at and ridiculed.