by David Wise
The light of his amulet flared into an explosion of power that rocked the forest clearing and cast Larson to the ground. Through the thunderous roar, he heard the creature's cry of denial and rage. The magical force dissipated, and with it, the last incarnation of the Lhiannan shee.
For a long moment, Larson clutched the ground, dazed and nearly blinded. When he could draw breath, he groped for his amulet. The light and the power that had led him to the Lhiannan shee had faded; the creature was truly gone.
Larson remained in the clearing until the moon set behind the mountains and the sky flushed with the first pink of dawn. There he regained his strength and savored his triumph. Hundreds of stolen songs resounded through his mind, stretching it to limits of musicianship he had only imagined possible. Nearly all his life he had studied and stalked the Lhiannan shee, but nothing he'd learned in the monastery of Oghma had prepared him for this night.
He had first encountered a Lhiannan shee in his fifteenth year, when he heard a victim sing in the throes of enchantment. In that moment, the fledgling bard found his life's quest. He studied all the arcane lore on the Lhiannan shee, and his faithfulness — or, as some named it, his obsession — was rewarded by the priests with a holy amulet. With it, Larson could restore a bard's stolen essence. The first test of this power changed Larson's life.
One night some men brought an enspelled bard to the monastery, bound and drugged. Larson began the sacred chant, and felt for the first time the rush of music and power as the amulet reclaimed the bard's stolen essence. All the bard's songs, all his memories and experiences and tales, flooded Larson's mind with an intoxication greater than that of any wine. Drunk with the music, he willfully neglected to cast the last, vital part of the clerical spell, that which would restore the afflicted bard. Larson kept the stolen songs. The bard died, and his unknowing companions did not fault the young priest.
But one bard's life was not enough. From that day, Larson sought those who'd fallen under the spell of a Lhiannan shee. In ten years, he had found only one other. Then came the trip through the mists, to a land of dark enchantment that seemed uniquely suited to his purpose. Yet even in musical Kartakass, such creatures were rare. Quintish was the first afflicted bard Larson had found, and Larson had nearly ruined his chance with a too-generous dose of poisoned mead.
Ellamir's words the night before suggested another way. As she pointed out, the Lhiannan shee would seek a new victim. Why should Larson mourn the loss of an enspelled bard, when he could go directly to the source? Draining the Lhiannan shee had brought Larson success beyond his dreams, and more songs than anyone could learn in a lifetime.
But once again, Larson found that it was not enough. There was so much still to learn, so very much. Already he hungered for the kiss of another Lhiannan shee.
At first light Larson returned to the inn, deep in thought. He was startled by the sight of Ellamir in his bed. She sat up slowly, fighting off sleep and still groggy from the potent mead.
Quickly recovering his composure, he sauntered into the room and greeted her with a kiss. "I thought you would never awaken, my love," he said cheerily. "Too much wine last night, I fear."
He saw the relief cross her face, and suddenly he realized that she suspected his involvement with a Lhiannan shee. Well, there was one sure way to convince her that she was wrong.
Much later, they nestled in each other's arms and spoke of things that could be said at no other time. "I feared that I'd lost you," she confessed, a little shamefacedly. "First Quintish, and then it seemed that — "
Larson stilled her with a kiss. Ellamir was lovely and loving, but her intensity was becoming a bit much. The festival lasted but four days, and though Ellamir was a pleasing diversion, he had no interest in the enduring passion her violet eyes promised.
As if she sensed his thoughts, as if she feared her serious tone might be displeasing to the lighthearted youth, Ellamir gave him a gay smile and shook a finger at him in a teasing parody of warning.
"Do not toy with me, Sir Bard," she said with mock severity. "For I would surely die for love, and come back to haunt any lady you chose over me!"
Her words hit Larson with the force of inspiration. Once again, Ellamir had suggested a solution to his problem! He might not find another Lhiannan shee in Kartakass, but perhaps he could create one!
He doubted not that Ellamir's heart was his for as long as she lived. If all went well, after her death he could possess her songs, perhaps even her skill with the harp!
The young man's slow, charming smile returned to his face. He took both of Ellamir's hands, and fervently vowed his undying love for the talented, beautiful bard. But as he spoke, his eyes strayed to the table where stood his flask of raspberry mead.
Undefiled
Fire ran through the knight's veins, burning his body in the pain of his struggle. His legs blazed from the constant effort to keep upright, to keep moving, and his arms felt like two hot pokers pressing into his shoulders as he held the unconscious form of his sister. Each breath ripped spikes of fiery agony into his lungs.
A vampire!
His mind raged at the thought of the attack. For the hundredth time, he mentally reviewed the battle. Guilt caused him to wonder if there was anything else he could have done to save his sister from the coma the vampire had forced on her.
In his mind's eye, he again saw the battle, saw himself drawing the sword:
Leaping from his bolting mount, the knight had activated his weapon's magic to slay the vampire with sorcerous fire and enchanted steel. The sword struck the vampire's side, and the creature hissed and turned away from the still form of his sister. Rising with bloody fangs, it stepped back. The knight would never forget the red glare of the undead monster's eyes.
"Leave the woman and go," the creature growled.
Its words tried to beguile; the vampire's magic prodded at the knight and commanded him to flee. . but his sister's life was at stake.
He raised his sword again and uttered a word. A blast of intense mystical heat bathed the vampire in flames. The creature must have had some type of magic of its own, because it stood proudly in the flames, flames that had turned many a previous monster into ash.
"Your puny weapon's magic can't hurt me."
Despite his words, the vampire was favoring the side where the enchanted sword had first struck. Maybe the magical flames weren't effective, but the cold steel of the blade had done its work well.
"Begone, foul creature. I've holy water and the cross of my god to protect us. "Filled with energy, he raised the silver cross. The flames of the sword were an afterthought, but they worked well to cast the shadow of the cross on the undead thing.
The creature's flesh erupted in fire, causing the monster to swirl into a man-shaped green mist.
"As the sun sets, Knight, I will be back with the strength darkness gives me. Prepare to feel my fangs when your sword and cross mean nothing," warned the creature's disembodied voice.
The green mist had blown away with the wind.
The remembered words of the monster sent new strength into the knight's legs. He had to find somewhere to hide before night fell. He wondered if he should again try to wake Larom, but before nothing had roused her from the unnatural coma. Holy water, healing potions, even gentle slaps had failed to open her eyes.
As the mists lifted before him, the answer to several prayers appeared ahead in a large valley. At the valley's center was a walled city.
Surely within the walls of that place there would be protection from the vampire.
The duty of the first speaker was to get the congregation quiet and ready for Friar Whelm's sermon. During the first speech, people could still walk in, as latecomers often did, but when the White Friar spoke, no one was allowed to disturb his message. Though he demanded absolute attention, Friar Whelm never gave a long sermon, for he believed temple pews and worshipers'bottoms weren't meant to be long in contact. First speakers,
on the other hand, often weren't as merci
ful: today's first speaker, a merchant, rambled on pointlessly.
"Estrangia, my brothers and sisters, is a dark, gloomy city cowering behind its tall walls. Fear has governed the people of the city for centuries. Fear's name is Crave, a vampire who considers our metropolis his dinner plate and has feasted well for over four hundred years.
"In the past, those bold enough to attack the undead monster have found themselves transformed into his minions. Today, such bold folk are gone from the dreary streets of Estrangia.
"In the past, those brave enough to try to move elsewhere found themselves drained of blood before they left the valley. Today, there are no brave people rousing the populace with talk of stakes and crosses.
"In the past, those stout of heart enough to remain in Estrangia prospered. And they are we: enduring, hardy souls living under the fear of the vampire. Today, Estrangia grows, filled with the lucky and not so lucky as the vampire Crave feeds once a week.
"Our Temple of White Hope presents the only bright spot in our lives. Legends tell of the founding of the temple, even before the coming of Crave. One day a white-robed friar came within the walls of the city and brought hope and love with him. From that time on and down through the centuries there has always been a single such friar serving the needs of the growing city.
"Our temple is now the oldest building in the city. Its white marble walls glow with a holy power, even in the darkest part of the night. Its single spire rises above the gray and black buildings around it, and nothing is taller. The bell in the spire brings worshipers to the daily service. Ringing clear and heavenly over the other sounds of the town, the bell welcomes the middle of the day.
"No matter how large the city grows, there always seem to be enough benches to welcome worshipers into the spotless temple walls. Not everyone in Estrangia worships at the temple, but everyone respects the good friar who works here. Whenever Crave takes a victim, the good friar visits the families, even if they don't believe in the God of White Hope. His comforting words make things seem better somehow.
"Let's raise our voices in song as the last of us enter to hear the words of the friar."
In reply to these words, the congregation began to sing, and the melody filled the temple to overflowing.
Once the parishioners finished singing, they sat. It was the normal crowd of people today. The poor tended to rest in the back where no one could see their threadbare clothes, while the rich took up positions in the front for just the opposite reason. Kids, being kids, fidgeted beside their parents. Sometimes they were put on their mothers'laps, and that would quiet them. Sometimes a caring father would give them a sweet to nibble on during the service.
There was one special white pew right at the front of the temple.
It was for the friar's favorites.
Every service, several distinguished worshipers were ushered by the friar himself to the front of the temple. All sorts sat up there at one time or another: rich, poor, meek, mild, young, old — though for some reason there weren't many old people in the congregation.
Those sitting in that special pew were smiled upon by the faithful. At each service, Friar Whelm explained the act of kindness that entitled each worshiper to a place of honor on the front pew. Sometimes a child had been kind to his little sister or had helped around the house. At other times someone had given gold to a soup kitchen. Always, the person's good deed had aided the community.
On rare occasions during the service, a spark would emerge from the friar's eyes or hands and float out to one of the people sitting in the special pew. The spark was a sign from the gods that the person was being blessed. It could happen anytime during the service, though lately it had been occurring right after the first hymn. While Friar Whelm was speaking, a white light would flow from him and touch one of the people on the special pew. The person would fall over, unconscious, and others, hoping the spark would touch them, would joyfully catch the lucky soul. That person would awake tired but happy a few minutes after the pale spark spewed out. It was also said that these blessed individuals looked older and wiser from the touch. Parishioners tended to be nice all week long with the hope of sitting in the special pew and being recognized by the gods.
Now all eyes turned eagerly toward the front of the temple, where Friar Whelm stood in long, flowing white robes, preparing to speak. To his right, in a pearly marble alcove, stood the ten-foot-tall statue of the God of White Hope. The snowy, cold stone robes of the statue were just like the pearly ones Friar Whelm always wore, robes that remained clean no matter what work the good friar performed. The short, snowy hair and balding head of the god resembled those of Friar Whelm as well. Some said this was the merest coincidence. Others whispered it would be grand if an incarnation of the god actually serviced their temple. Many were oblivious to such talk, but proclaimed for everyone to hear that the friar gave a damn good sermon.
He began to speak, and his pure voice reached out to everyone; he never needed to shout. Today the talk centered on lost ones.
Three days ago, Crave had taken a little girl, and her family sat in the special pew for this service. Their grief, clearly written in their tired eyes and slumped bodies, was shared by many around them. Several times during his sermon, the friar approached them and repeatedly prayed for the little girl. He spoke eloquently, almost wistfully about the unsullied innocence of the lost daughter. Speaking with the sound of grief in his voice, Whelm sermonized about the little girl, about the intelligence in her eyes and the energy in her tiny body. He reached out to the parents and touched them, tears rolling down his full cheeks. Both parents began to quietly sob, bending over with exhaustion and grief. Ever louder, ever more vigorously, he eulogized the power of this family and their strength in loss.
Just when he was coming to the main point of his sermon, the doors burst open at the back of the temple. A huge warrior, outfitted in plate mail, strode boldly through. In his arms he carried a beautiful, unconscious woman.
"Someone please help us!" The knight took three more steps and collapsed from exhaustion. Even then, as he fell, he made sure the woman took no harm.
Men rose to remove the warrior from the sacred place, but Friar Whelm waved them back. "He seeks aid, and he could not have known of the weapons ban in the temple. What is your name, Sir, and what has happened to you and this fair one?"
The warrior threw off his ebony helm and revealed a care-worn face, rugged and handsome. "I am Lord Tenet. . A vampire attacked us. . Our horses went wild with panic. They threw us. . "He gasped in exhaustion. "I fought the creature, but it seized my sister, Lady Larom. . Help her, please!"
"Rest easy, young warrior. I'll do what I can, with my god's help. Did you kill the vampire? "
"No, damn me for a weak fool. My sword cut deeply into it, but the monster turned into mist and floated away, leaving me to tend my sister. Cease this questioning! Can you help her, or must I…" He was too weak to continue.
Lifting Lady Larom up as if she were a weightless child, Friar Whelm placed her on the snowy marble altar. The white of the stone matched the ashen color of her flesh.
"Pray for her, my people," Friar Whelm asked as he examined the huge bruises on her arms and face. He noticed several hidden pockets in her crimson gown, holding what he took to be mage's spell components.
Lord Tenet needed help to rise and come to the side of his sister. "She's only seventeen. If anything happens to her, I don't know what it will do to me."
"I feel the same way about my flock. Don't worry, I can take care of most of her wounds. Lady Larom — is that her name? "
"Yes, that's right. Her friends and I call her Lar."
The friar closed his eyes and stroked his hands over the unconscious woman's tangled hair. Her pallid expression marked her blood loss as did the fang marks in her neck. Even near death, her beauty showed through. There was an energy and power in this woman that the friar very much appreciated.
Several of the more helpful parishioners gathered behind the w
arrior at the altar. They noted the woman's pallid skin and wan movements. Her eyes opened, but there was no intelligence behind them. "Grave's work for sure," some of the watchers whispered. Most of the congregation held little hope for her survival. Looking at the brother, some of the parishioners backed away at the thought of having to tell him about his sister: it was common to stake the heart and take the head of someone bitten by Crave.
A smile filled Whelm's face as he chanted words of hope and love. His hands moved deftly and swiftly, circling over the still form of the woman. A chalky mist spewed from his palms and drifted over the bruised flesh. Frosty blasts of air hit everyone in the congregation.
Truly their friar worked a miracle this day.
In seconds the woman was lightly covered in snow.
"What insanity is this?" Lord Tenet reached for his weapon, but didn't have the strength to draw the blade. "Stop him, someone stop. . "The warrior fainted. He'd done too much that day, already, and his body collapsed into blessed unconsciousness.
Friar Whelm stopped his hand motions and lightly blew the snow from Lady Larom's body. The flakes of frigid whiteness wafted throughout the temple and melted as they touched the worshipers. Each one singled out by these cold flakes sighed in wonder, touched in a mystical way by the icy flakes.
Most of the snow, however, fell on the warrior. His bruises and fatigue melted away with the flakes. Where wounds were, now only chalky, undefiled skin remained on brother and sister.
The healing took a toll on the friar. He looked visibly older. One of the congregation moved to steady the friar, but was waved off.
Reaching down, the friar helped Lady Larom rise from the altar. She shook her lovely head, and a cascade of raven-black hair moved in a tumble down her shoulders to her supple waist. Life and intelligence clearly returned to her.
"Where am I?"
"You're in a house of hope and light!" Friar Whelm said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Hope and light!" The congregation chanted back, all with mindless smiles on their faces. Miracles! They'd seen wonders to tell their grandchildren. Truly wondrous occurrences filled their hearts with joy.
