The Sangrook Saga

by Steve Thomas

  He knew then that Erenkirk’s joke upon seeing the portrait was no joke at all. He knew, in that moment, who his parents were and whose blood he carried. That was why the wraith had stopped short of killing him. That was why he had been transported to this bedroom. That was why he was wrapped in bandages. Darvik was a Sangrook, and this mansion wanted to claim him.

  His only thought was of escape. He would find his way to Erenkirk and convince the old man that no contract or threat was worth another minute in this manor. Erenkirk would no doubt find some unbruised patch of skin on Darvik’s face to vent his frustration, but a beating was still better than what this place wanted of him. Darvik bolted out the door and into the hallway.

  Lit only by the film of dim morning light, the mansion’s halls were far more welcoming. Geometric patterns criss-crossed along the length of a faded red carpet littered with rat droppings. Rotten molding gave way to pale and peeling blue paint. Macabre tapestries were hung here and there, depicting scenes of death and torment.

  Darvik wandered his way to Erenkirk’s door and stopped. When he knocked, there was no response, but that was hardly uncommon. Thanks to a lifetime of heavy drinking, a simple knock on the door could rarely rouse the old man. Darvik pounded harder and got the response he expected: none at all. He slammed on the grimy plank of wood with his left hand, then reeled back and screamed with pain. He had forgotten the amethyst for the moment, and had hammered it against the bones of his hand. A blow like that should have pushed it out the back, and yet the artifact remained a part of him.

  Clearly, Erenkirk was still asleep inside. There was no hope of avoiding a beating for entering his master’s chamber unbeckoned, so Darvik opened the door.

  After a night alone in the terrible bowels of Sangrook Manor, he was beyond shock, beyond horror. For that reason, and that reason alone, Darvik met the gruesome tableau awaiting him with dull surprise. Erenkirk’s bed was empty. The floor was a pool of blood. Erenkirk himself, the vicious, cruel old man, lay sprawled where the blood was thickest. His chest was torn open, his ribs cracked and spread apart like a vulture’s wings, his entrails scattered across the room.

  The wraith stood above him, proud and blood-soaked. It is done, her cold eyes said, as you requested.

  Darvik’s throat went dry. He gently stepped back into the hall and closed the door, then slumped against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

  ***

  Darvik returned to Windmire after long weeks of travel. He would have preferred to go anywhere else, but what then? All his tools, equipment, and books were in Erenkirk’s shop. He needed those if he were to establish and sustain himself in a new city. He was an artificer. He knew no other trade. There was no choice but to return and he didn’t plan to stay long.

  When Darvik came to Erenkirk’s shop, Streshim was waiting for him. Streshim wasn’t the sort to guard a shop himself, which meant that some other member of the City Guard had contacted him after Darvik declared himself at the city gates. “Where is your master, boy?” asked the Captain of the Guard.

  Darvik set down his master’s pack and met the guardsman’s eye. “He did not survive the trip.”

  Streshim snorted and patted Darvik on the shoulder. “Didn’t think you had it in you. I guess you’re my artificer now. You’re not just inheriting his position and this building, you understand? You’re responsible for his contracts, too.”

  “Your contract died with Erenkirk.”

  Streshim smiled and laughed. “Oh, did it? And those artifacts you made for the dungeons? Did they stop working? Are the Holy Duke’s cells empty?”

  Darvik stood tall and clenched his jaw. “Your contract died with Erenkirk.”

  Streshim suddenly rushed forward and slammed Darvik against the door, pressing his forearm against the artificer’s neck. “It occurs to me that you have a spare bedroom now. I’ll be stationing one of my men here to monitor your progress. And I do expect progress, master artificer.” He shoved Darvik against the door again, then spun and marched away.

  Darvik clenched his fists and felt the amethyst lapping at his every heartbeat. Streshim! He was the one who had forced Erenkirk into a life of cruelty and self-loathing. He was the reason the pair had made the desperate expedition to Sangrook Manor in the first place. It all started with Streshim.

  Darvik tried to take comfort in the simple pleasure of a night in his own bed after a long journey. But every time he drifted off, his dreams were haunted by visions of the wraith. Every time, he awoke with a start. When it became unbearable, Darvik slipped out onto the city streets in search of wine to cloud his memories.

  In the morning, a servant found Captain of the Guard Streshim dead. His head still rested on his own pillow. The rest of him was scattered about his bedchamber.

  ***

  Windmire was years behind him. Darvik carried a fresh loaf of bread through the streets of Morville Crossing, a border town where travelers were nothing to balk at. That’s what he was now, a traveling spirit lamp seller. After he heard the news of Streshim’s death, he fled Windmire with a cartload of Erenkirk’s stock and tools. He’d bounced from city to city, selling what he could and occasionally setting up a workshop to produce a new batch of spirit lamps. It was only lamps now, nothing more complex, nothing more conspicuous, nothing more dangerous.

  As he walked, someone bumped into him. “Hey, watch yourself, asshole,” said the man.

  Darvik let the insult slide off him and kept moving.

  “I’m talking to you!” the man shouted from behind.

  All it took was one moment of weakness, one brief loss of control, and the wraith would latch on to another victim. She was his burden, his curse, and his ancestors’ legacy. Even at such a small affront to him, the amethyst was pulsing in his palm beneath the black leather glove he wore to hide it. He could feel the wraith’s rage growing like an itch inside his skull.

  “No,” he whispered. “He’s no one.” He breathed in deeply, and the sensation passed. She responded to his emotions, magnified a thousandfold. With a little mental discipline, he’d learned how to keep her safely mollified. But the night would always come when he failed, and on that night, someone wound up dead, reduced to a bloody heap of flesh and bone.

  He felt his knee fold and he collapsed; he'd been kicked in the back of the leg. Darvik caught his fall with his left hand and the gem ground against his bones. He couldn’t contain a growl of pain, and the burst of agony jolted the wraith to attention. He could see her misty silhouette coalescing, reaching for the man who had harmed him.

  With a groan, Darvik stood to face his attacker. He was a rough man, with a scar down the right side of his face and a crooked nose, wearing torn clothing with a rusty blade at his hip. He was short and lean, but that only made some men fiercer. This was a man who spoke through violence, a man like Erenkirk.

  That comparison did nothing to soothe the wraith.

  “You do not walk away from me,” said the man as Darvik met his eye.

  Darvik’s heart was racing. His own pain was immaterial, but he feared for the man who had assaulted him. Ruffian or not, he didn’t deserve what the wraith would send his way. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

  “No. You weren’t.” He shoved Darvik with both hands, forcing him back a step. “You do not disrespect me. This is my street, understand?”

  Morville Crossing was crawling with street gangs. He should have been more careful. The crowd was thinning, backing up to form a ring around the two. There wasn’t a city in the world where the people wouldn’t clear space for a good fight. Walking away was no longer an option.

  Darvik stood tall and locked his eyes on his assailant’s. He took a deep breath and purged his face of all emotion. He stood motionless while the street tough postured and pranced and peacocked, ranting about respect and territory. Darvik didn’t listen. The words didn’t matter.

  All the while, the wraith stirred. No one else seemed to see her, but
she swirled around the thug, teeth bared and claws poised to slit a throat at the slightest hint of approval from Darvik.

  “It’s not worth it,” said Darvik, to both of them.

  Confusion wormed its way into the tough’s eyes. Darvik knew what he was thinking. He’d been in this situation before. Why wasn’t Darvik reacting? Where were the fear and anger? Where was the willingness to fight? Why wasn’t he rattled?

  Sometimes the strategy worked. Sometimes it didn’t. It all depended on the man and what he had to lose.

  The man rushed toward Darvik and brought their faces inches apart. He puffed and lurched and drew back a fist. But Darvik stared resolutely ahead, looking through the man at the furious wraith behind him.

  The street tough dropped his arms to his sides and shrugged. “I better not see you here again.” He swore at the crowd as he pushed his way through.

  Darvik didn’t waste any time returning to his temporary home, a small room in a slum. When he arrived, a dark haired woman in a low-cut frock was leaning against the lamppost outside his door. He often walked past her there. It was her corner. Her eyes flicked to the loaf of bread he carried and she said, “Eating alone again, honey? You know a little company don’t cost much.”

  He rubbed his forehead and felt the amethyst scrape against his face through the glove. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve taken a vow of chastity.” That was no lie. He hadn’t shared a bed with any woman since Sangrook Manor. How could he, knowing his true heritage? He had sworn himself to celibacy and sobriety. How could he father a child that would only pass along his tainted blood? There was no choice.

  She leaned forward in a motion that was as revealing as it was practiced. “You’d be surprised how often I help break those.”

  He thought of Candle, how he had mistaken business for love in his youth, how he had never said goodbye to her. This too incited the wraith. Even someone who reminded Darvik of his own shame deserved a grisly death in her eyes.

  Darvik pried his eyes away from the woman and slipped inside. He set a pot full of carrots to boil in his fireplace, set the bread aside for later, and sat at his table with his face buried in his hands, forcing all thoughts and images out of his mind. He envisioned that he was back in the caverns beneath Sangrook Manor, where he was totally alone in perfect darkness. He let that memory of isolation soothe him, soothe the wraith. No one had to die tonight.

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “I don’t mind,” he spoke aloud, trying to convince both himself and the wraith. By reflex, he checked that he was still wearing his gloves, then smoothed his shirt and opened the door.

  Another woman stood at his threshold. She was was draped in a thin, sheer dress that left no question of her occupation. From her fair complexion, the shock of fiery red hair, and plenty of other details that Darvik could plainly discern, he instantly recognized her. It was Candle. And a boy clung to her leg.

  She’d found him, after all these years. But why?

  “So it is you,” said Candle. “I’ve been trying to track you down. I was so worried when you disappeared.”

  Darvik smiled at her, tried to make a show of being glad to see her. “I left Windmire on short notice. It was nothing personal.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Candle. She placed a palm on the boy’s back and pushed him forward. “I was with child when you left.”

  “No,” said Darvik. He crouched down and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. He knew immediately that this boy was his own. He had Darvik’s pale skin and dark hair, his nose, his ears… This was his son indeed. But he also saw in the boy Habrien Sangrook’s sharp chin and the wraith’s mercilessly compassionate eyes. Darvik had broken his vow before he had even made it.

  This was his son. Cursed blood coursed through his veins, but this was his son.

  His gaze drifted back to the wraith, who spun blissfully at the news of another descendant. In that moment, he understood her. Darvik would raise this boy, watch over him, teach him everything he knew. He thought of the man who had threatened him earlier that day, and pictured a gang coming for him, coming for his son.

  No more running. No more denying himself all emotion. Darvik nodded to the wraith. “Go,” he whispered. “Protect our family.”

  The wraith grinned with her sharp, rotten teeth. The Sangrooks lived on.

  The Heart of Habrien

  The War of the Gods remains a mystery as a natural consequence of the sheer scope of its destruction. Kingdoms fell, royal lines were extinguished, temples were put to the torch, and religions vanished without a trace. All we know is that the Despot consumed hundreds of gods to gain power, and those who survived converged into One. Even that paltry knowledge is a gift.

  - From “The Lost Past”, Greshel Crowsblood, Professor of Theo-history, Vestige Seminary

  Habrien surveyed the valley below. It was full of peasants. Angry peasants in a brier patch of farm tools. He had known they were unhappy. He had known they were coming. And yet he had never expected so many. Thousands of men had left their farms behind to oust the foreign Despot darkening their skies.

  How they expected to take a castle guarded by armored, experienced warriors was beyond him, but he admired their courage. They weren’t alone, though. Among the ragtag villagers were fighting men, warriors from the borderlands and mercenaries from Vestige, men who hoped to prevent their own lands from being consumed by a growing empire.

  They stood under the noonday sun at the foot of Maldon’s Keep, the largest fortress built since the War of the Gods, perhaps the only fortress built since the War of the Gods. Clearly, they’d all forgotten who built it.

  General Grelhar, an old veteran who had joined the winning side early on, stood beside Habrien, uncomfortable in his silk tabard that bore the mark of the Despot. Grelhar had grown up a brawler and a brigand, and had never settled into the role of general. He scowled through his bushy white beard and ran his finger over the mail jutting through the finery at the neck. “You have a message, herald?”

  Habrien bowed. “I’ve come to announce Prince Maldon’s arrival. Form a shield wall and have your archers assail their back lines.”

  General Grelhar sighed. He had been denied yet another opportunity to die on his feet. Their master liked to fight his own battles just as vehemently as Grelhar, but unlike the general, their prince had not once been afraid for his life on the field.

  At a nod from Grelhar, the command rippled through the ranks. Soon, the drummers beat the instructions so hard they could be heard miles away. It was a simple pattern, appropriate for such a common tactic: one heavy beat followed by a long pause, then two rapid beats. Bum…bud-um. The ominous drumming grew and propagated as more drummers joined in until it filled the air like a thunderstorm. Bum…bud-um. Grelhar’s men formed the shield wall ahead of him and beat their weapons against their shields in time with the drums. Bum…bud-um. As they did, the sky darkened. Bum…bud-um. The sun turned red and melted to coat the heavens like spilled wax. Bum…bud-um. The soldiers howled and screamed like ghosts in the night, manic with anticipation. Bum…bud-um. The peasant rebellion halted its advance as the fear set in. Bum…bud-um.

  Terror and dread and falling arrows tore through them. Those in the back screamed in pain and the drums beat on. The leaders and experienced warriors tried to convince the rebel throng to press forward, but already they were breaking ranks and fleeing in all directions.

  But there was no escape.

  They didn’t face an army. They didn’t face a fortress. They faced a Sangrook prince. The sky burned behind him as Maldon Sangrook crashed into the peasant army like a falling star with wings of fire, chasing his army’s volley of arrows. The ground burst where he landed, and as soon as his feet touched ground, he spun with his great scythe, enchanted in unholy rites, and sliced a circle of death. Men fell all around him, if not by his scythe then by the rain of arrows. His armor was deep crimson adorned with black, the colors of his house, and his lo
ng black hair swirled with his every movement. His eyes were crazed, saturated with a blood-lust that only his mother and siblings shared.

  The peasants panicked. They never would have attacked if they had known Maldon was at hand. Almost as soon as he had landed, he was alone in a blood-soaked ring, lurking over corpses of his own making.

  He raised his scythe over his head and unleashed a primal roar. The dead scrabbled to their feet and took up their weapons, and suddenly the peasant army was under assault from within. Maldon could have left the fray then, assured that the dead would grow in number until there was no one on the field but his own army of ghouls. But just as he hadn’t let General Grelhar set his overwhelming force upon the peasants, neither did his blood-lust allow the undead to carry out the task. He tore chunks of earth and hurled them at his enemies while the living and reanimated farmers lurched at each other. He cut at the ground with his scythe and lava burst out, scorching all who drew near.

  Again and again Maldon Sangrook called the fallen to rise up, while Habrien looked on in horror. No matter if they were missing a limb or a head, no matter if they were armed or bare-handed, the dead fought for Maldon and tore down their friends and brothers. Screams filled the sky, the anguished wails of the dead and dying. Those who fled felt the sting of arrows in their backs, and those who succumbed to their wounds became instruments of an ever-growing army.

  Habrien had worked as Maldon’s herald for three years, after growing up in a small town outside Sangrook Manor. He had heard the stories from veterans. He had heard the rumors from foreign emissaries. But he had never seen this brutality first-hand until the day Maldon came to his home. Now, his only thought was of how lucky he was to be standing atop this hill rather than being torn apart at the bottom.