A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga

by Daniel Sexton

  Vegard had entered through the kitchen entrance, apparently closed for the night. The golden flickering of candles lightly illuminated the large and elegant kitchen area. The counters were clear of clutter and smelled of soap and mint. Every utensil polished and set immaculately in its perfectly prescribed area. So different from the taverns and mess halls that Vegard had feasted at. There wasn’t a drop of food for any wandering mutts about.

  Who could live like this? The warlock mused, even though he subconsciously wiped his feet on a mat before tucking the unconscious guard in an out of the way corner.

  Vegard prowled his way through the kitchen area and out into the hallway. The muffled sounds of outside guards could be heard investigating. The embassy itself seemed almost bare in comparison. Vegard snuffed candles as he went by and followed the ‘scent’ of the berserker still lingering within him. She was definitely close. He followed it up wide, winding stairs, his sword readied for an ambush. His boots fell silently on the thick red carpet beneath him. His eyes followed the smooth wooden handrails up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier sparkled luminously in the middle of the winding staircase.

  His breath was steady and concentrated. No guards had yet to patter on by. The entire embassy seemingly focused on the bodies out front of their gates.

  Vegard felt the energy flair within him. He shifted to the left just as an iron ball whizzed by his head followed by the thick links of its chain. The ball crashed into the wall behind him, snapping the gilded frame of a painting, and sending it toppling to the steps.

  Vegard instinctively sprinted the rest of the way up. Standing still having all the assurances of death, at this point.

  He saw the lunging visage of the berserker as she crested the top railing and came barreling into him. His readied sword kept one clawed gauntlet at bay but the force of the girl sent them both into a rolling and cursing heap on the stairwell.

  Claws dug deep into his arm. His sword arm was buried somewhere within the tangle of armor and limbs. Vegard pumped his defenses and grabbed Hannah by the face, twisting and slamming her into the wall, disentangling themselves.

  He took the moment to charge the rest of the way to the second floor, distancing himself from the close-range killer. He spun around and dropped to a two-handed stance as he watched Hannah, with her blood red eyes, peel herself from the wall and begin to slowly stalk up the staircase.

  The berserker spun her iron ball menacingly at her side. A guttural purr emitted from her curved lips. The bandages about her face renewed with a fresh stain of blood.

  “A most curious and suicidal one you are, warlock.” Hannah grinned. “Thought you would’ve been far into the hills by now.”

  “Curious? Yeah.” Vegard’s eyes narrowed. “Curious about how the rest of your soul will taste.” He licked his lips.

  The berserker’s eyes flared and she fired her spinning weapon forth. Vegard evaded the wild toss easily and ran down the length of the flowing chain. He met the girl’s claws with skilled slashes and parries. He caught a plated boot to the liver which sent him reeling to his knees. Hannah was on him in an instant. Her claws savagely tearing at his cloak, trying to bury their way into his fleshy throat. Her strength was like that of two or three men of twice her size. Her eyes like molten lava, burning furiously.

  His mocking quip was meant to throw her off balance, make her sloppy—but her unbridled strength was almost too much to bear. She abandoned her chain weapon for brute force. He felt her hands lock around his waist and fling him up and over her head, slamming the warlock down forcefully on the steps behind them. Vegard’s head swam with the concussive equivalent of a mace to the skull.

  He unfolded himself just to be grabbed and forced up the stairs. Hannah bashed Vegard against the the second floor wall. The ground littered with the decorative opulence lining the place. Paintings went askew, candle holders clattering to the floor.

  Plate armor was met with the desperate yet empowered punches of the warlock. Vegard madly pounded at the unguarded face of the enraged berserker. And yet she continued on, unfazed. Her clawed hands tearing chunks of thick leather away from Vegard’s body. She meant to evicerate her foe right there. To spill his entrails upon the rich embassy carpeting.

  Vegard enhanced his speed to keep up with the onslaught of claws. Each strike being directed just to the right or the left of his ragged frame.

  Hannah’s rage only built, spilling forth to wild, furious slashes. The whipping of her head left red tracers of her glowing eyes. Vegard could not keep up with her speed.

  She appeared as nothing more than a golden blur. Strikes so fast that the warlock only saw one as two fell.

  Need…to…slow…her…down! He screamed within, willing all the energy he had left to fry the woman before him.

  His body was awash with a terrible cold. All the strength, speed, vitality had drained in a moment to tear through the terrible defenses of the berserker.

  But it worked. The girl, Bloodfist, let out a high pitched wail as her body writhed in absolute pain. A pain that circumvented her natural defenses.

  Hannah fell to a knee, her body straining to fight the flames within. “Ya…goddamn…coward!” She fumed through gritted teeth.

  Vegard shook his head to bring the world back in focus. The building seemed to teeter to and fro as if he was holding fast to a ship in a storm.

  He placed his hand on the berserker’s forehead, as much for balance as for his next frantic move. He drove his consciousness into the soul of the struggling warrior. His thoughts careening through the volatile spirit of Hannah Bloodfist.

  All went dark. The lavish embassy disappeared and Vegard felt himself open to a wild plain. Wind whipped through his braid. His spiritual form traversing the landscape of memory and emotion.

  Hannah’s consciousness was all around the warlock. It lashed out defiantly at the unwanted intrusion.

  But it was weakened. Held at bay by the embers of Vegard’s dark powers. He prodded forward. Down into the truest depths of the soul. The forgotten realms of the human heart. Beyond ideology or delusion.

  He could see the true woman within.

  Her memories revealed a great warrior’s hall. A hearth long went cold and a broken man sitting amongst his broken people.

  Cups long empty and honors long gone stale.

  Vegard walked amongst the sad kinsmen of the berserker. He walked amongst the dusty, mirthless tables.

  If felt like so many years moved with a people that remained stagnant.

  What had happened here? Vegard’s voice echoed through the hall.

  The main doors burst open. A blinding and grotesque light illuminating the slouched forms within. Victories washed away to appear grotesque and sinful.

  A robbed figure appeared before the broken man. A whispered word giving rotted vigor to the clan leader. And with power came the snaking appearance of ethereal chains that bound the man to leash and servitude.

  The hearth vanished behind the man and all were bound to leash and chain to the robbed figure that held his hands aloft to the sky.

  Vegard felt the impending death of this great hall. It honors to be cast aside for what, he could not know.

  It all felt so familiar and yet so distinctly wrong, simultaneously.

  This was all the warlock could bare to see. He pulled himself back—flying out of the hall, over the rolling plains, over seas, and cast back into his bleeding body that stood above the crouched woman below him.

  Vegard blinked away the sadness that was emanating from him. He reeled his hand away as if disgusted with himself for having taken part in this private affair.

  Hannah looked up at Vegard. Her hands were weighted to the carpeted floor with the intangible chains of her obligation. The rage within her eyes had all but vanished, leaving behind her icy stare.

  Vegard sunk to the floor in a heap. The girl and him starring at one another silently. Each heaving from the battle. E
ach reeling from the emotional barrage.

  “Ugh…that’s a memory I meant to forget.” Hannah finally said. “Oh well, dammit!” She spit. Her state as spontaneous as her fighting style. “You saw it to, yeah? Now you know.”

  “What do I know?”

  “Asmundr. The Ice Dragons. The fall of our clan.”

  Vegard had heard of these people. Or, at least, the Dragon clans of Havansgard. A wild peoples who fashioned their sensibilities after the gods of Storrhale.

  “Asmundr?” Vegard recalled. The giant in gold. “The one calling himself the Red Paladin?”

  “Same. Yeah. Although, not always.” She shook her head. “He was once like all our people. The best of our people!” She growled. “Proud, fierce. Our hall had its weight in riches. We bathed in the blood of our enemies. We decorated our halls with their fallen and spread our lands to the reaches of the continent. But then…” She sighed. “He lost his Meena.”

  Vegard tilted his head.

  “His daughter. Sweet little thing” She answered. “Not through battle. Nor defeat. But slipping through his fingers as an illness took her.” Hannah dug her claws deep into the carpet. The memories pained her to recall.

  “His vigor died away with that young girl. I’d never seen a man so pierced. And I’ve known none like Asmundr. He claimed the gods had poisoned him. That the gods had cursed him to live without life. Without meaning.”

  Vegard cleared his throat. “So what of this paladin business?”

  Hannah flinched. She starred hatefully at the floor. “That is when the ambassadors for the Church came. They spoke to our broken Asmundr. Told him nothing of this world was lost but rather stored away. Awaiting the moment of our death to return to us…for those that would just bend a knee.”

  “Serve Abaniel.” Vegard said.

  Movement caught his eye at the top of the staircase. It seemed the two had an audience in tow. How long they had been there, he wasn’t sure. Guards with swords readied, representatives tucked meekly behind in their silks.

  Hannah Bloodfist didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

  “I followed my jarl. It was good to see him regain some of his lost strength. Some times all a man needs is purpose. These priests of Abaniel brought that in waves. We were given new titles. Slaughtered the ones who refused to follow.” She sat back on her feet. Her plate mail scraping with the odd, relaxed pose. “My head is foggy.”

  “So you chose to kneel?”

  Hannah’s head whipped upward. “I chose to follow my leader! As Ice Dragons, we crave battle. Victory. If we could replace many gods for one, so what!? On the battle field, shedding blood next to my leader is what I desire. Not wasting away in a cold hall dreaming of the ghosts of our fallen. I care so little for the politics of it all. Give me a weapon and point me towards an enemy. That’s all I want.”

  Vegard thought about these words. How true it seemed to his situation. How he wallowed in self-pity as a slave to Jogen. Attempting to drown his deprecation in ale.

  A little nudge and threat from a goddess had changed all that. Sent him on this quest of murder and validation.

  All I needed was purpose. He thought. And yet how little he thought about it tickled him. He hadn’t felt as alive as he had in the time he’d been away from Dunesmir. As troublesome as his time had been, putting one foot in front of the other in search of an unforeseen horizon was all the medicine he needed to write his troubled ego.

  “Where are they taking Wera?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean the hver-girl, right.” Hannah giggled. “She was a vicious one! I liked her plenty!” She sighed. “Asmundr is taking her to Temuria, to that merchant lord.”

  “Where in Temuria?”

  “To Shaw’s fancy estate.” She bobbed her head dismissively. “The priest desires to make the execution official. Guess they wanted to do it amongst the wine fields. I’ve never really understood these eastern types.” She paused, stretching. Her muscles popping.

  “A lot of this…” Hannah stopped suddenly. Her body spasmed like it had during the fight on the broadway. Her eyes darkened as her voice once again changed tone to that of Mohin Valuk.

  “Is there a reason you linger amongst these sea folk, northman?”

  “Mohin…!?” Vegard jerked to attention.

  “Keep your mouth shut. I have messages to reveal and little time to deal with your ignorance.”

  Vegard forced his tongue still. He had almost forgotten how annoying the old man was.

  “Search out the druid in the south. She lives amongst the Graves of Arofin. She will guide you to Wera.” Hannah’s mouth moved unnaturally.

  The company at the steps backed away in fear. Terrified at the phantom voice of this champion.

  “Go, boy! Save her or I may never forgive you for it.” The berserker went slack. Mohin apparently done delivering his message to the warlock.

  “I’ve failed to understand.” Hannah finished her sentence as if never realizing the interruption. “Has been picking at me, as of late.” She looked at Vegard, suddenly confused by his expression. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Vegard picked himself up from the floor. He retrieved his blade and slid it back into its scabbard.

  The clatter of the readied men received both of the weary warriors’ attention. Vegard turned to the berserker.

  “I have had plenty of bloodshed behind me. And plenty to look forward to. And yet I’ve found it all without bending a knee to any man.” The two gazed at one another. “I’m not saying I am better than you. I have definitely bent my knee in the past. But now I claim glory for myself. Not in the service of another.”

  It sounded like an honorable thing to say. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t still serve a master of some sort. Would he even be on this journey if it wasn’t for his soul-curse, his disembodied self bestowed upon him by that crazy goddess? He still had a choice. But a choice between undeath or life didn’t seem like much a choice at all. Even so, he felt more himself than he had in quite some time.

  The berserker regarded her adversary for a moment before turning to the gathered men on the staircase.

  “Let em leave, whelps! This business was our own.” One of the advisors, or more prestiges of the group, almost looked to speak up. But one didn’t question the stare of a berserker without considering the next coming moments. He swallowed his protests.

  Vegard limped between the men as they pressed themselves against the wall and curving handrail. The embassy parted for the injured warlock as he dragged his injured body to the front door. Just as he was about to leave one of the men teetered and toppled to the floor, rolling down the steps loudly.

  “Ah!” Vegard said with a relieving smile as he left. “That hit the spot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Off to the Graves

  The Graves of Arofin? Vegard rubbed his face. The Graves were in southern Yessriel in a region called the ‘Rotted Fang’. It was nicknamed for its shape and general degradation. A sorrowful genocide had tainted the land. War and decease turned the once lush area into that of an earthly cadaver.

  All that remained of the lands of Arofin were its tombs, its cults, its ghosts, and its decay.

  “Not exactly a vacation, huh, mutt?” Vegard spoke to the chenway tucked away in his cloak.

  He had scattered runestones within the carriage to mask his presence from the horses. He needed such items if he wasn’t to spook the beasts drawing his private carriage south.

  Vegard had always hated animals. Mostly because they hated him. At least, all but the little chenway that burrowed deep within the folds of the warlock’s cloak, napping as the carriage clattered about its voyage.

  The coachman was a loan from the merchant’s guild. A burly, temperamental girl just like her burly temperamental mother yet, at least, grateful for the chaos the Ember Foxes had wreaked upon Shaw.

  “I just need to get there fast. After that they can take off.” Vegard remembered t
elling the lady at the merchant’s counter.

  The woman had folded her meaty arms over her bosoms. “Aight. I know a gal.”

  And here they were. Trotting to the Graves. Vegard was secure in the cab as the girl drove the horses above. She bitched the entire way about any thing that came to mind. A one sided conversationist, if Vegard had ever met one. As long as he didn’t have to answer back then he could block the girl out and get some sleep.

  The warlock hated to be alone with his thoughts. Departing Dawns Fero was harder than he’d given it measure. But there was nothing there for him any longer. The Sweaty Seafarer was burnt to the ground, the owner Fisk, dead. Wera was more than likely halfway to Temuria by now. And knights of Abaniel lingered about on the city streets.

  Gods only knew where that crazy Bloodfist would go. Their conversation having left a hole where once this cult had filled its depths. It at least brightened the warlock to, for once, have helped an individual with his powers rather than break them down.

  Did I help her, though? Chenway butted his head against Vegard’s, breaking his concentration, before falling asleep once more.

  It doesn’t matter. He thought. He had gotten the information he needed and left a girl somewhat less pious than he’d found her. If that wasn’t ‘good’, he didn’t know what was.

  The green landscape eventually gave way to packed earth. Vegard watched from his carriage window as a world of ash descended upon them. Not even the sun wanted to grace the land of the fallen. The earth was dry and ash gray. White, leafless trees jutted violently from the ground, standing like lithe, misshapen skeletons.

  The land forever sloped downwards. It was more a cavity than a valley. More hell than any living being had ever seen.

  The Rotted Fang inspired depression with its every feature.

  “What in the hells would a druid be doing here?” Vegard whispered as they descended further into the caked, burned nothingness. “Gods forbid these people come meet me where its sunny and there is drink.” He scoffed. “Of course not, old man. Leave it to me to have to trek through the dirty asshole of Yessriel to find some wayward tree-sprite.”