by Adam Watson
The villagers had demanded to be let out, but the soldiers mowed them down in a rain of arrows. The remaining villagers were on their own, but they had come up with a plan, a plan they were ready to put it into action - until the death squad came and massacred them all.
That had been brutal and bloody beyond all reason, a travesty and a devastation, but before that had happened, there was that man. The big soldier, the one that had taken the lead; he was the one that had come up with the plan - the plan that Dray now needed.
"We need to go to the Cathedral of Candare," he blurted. The others looked at him puzzled.
“And … why is that?” asked the berserker. Dray wiped his eyes, he was tired of thinking. Was this a good plan?
“Um … er …”
“The walls are fortified,” the Oracle cut in. “For an occasion, such as this.”
“And if there are any survivors in the city, they’ll be there,” added the archer. The penny had dropped in her mind, and for the first time since they had met, she actually had a smile on her face. Dray recognised that look, it was a look of hope, and suddenly he felt revitalised like a great energy had been sucked from the ether and injected into his body.
“Yes, and then we can all band together,” added Dray enthusiastically. “My name’s Dray by the way and this the … Kayla.” The Oracle smiled and nodded, glad that Dray had not revealed her true identity. Very few people knew who she really was and until she knew who their new friends were, she wanted to keep it that way.
“Goran,” answered the berserker.
“Aseeka,” answered the archer.
“Let’s aim to get there before sundown,” suggested the Oracle; they all agreed that was a good idea. The swooping, the sweeping, the screeching - something evil patrolled the night, and no-one wanted to be outdoors when that came.
They continued on, slowly winding their way towards the cathedral, being vigilant not to attract any attention. Sometimes a patrol would appear ahead of them, sometimes to the side; only one time were they forced into conflict.
On their way to the cathedral they stumbled upon one of the general stores in the city. Aseeka picked the lock, they entered and gathered some essential supplies. As they exited, Goran spotted a patrol of Creedic guards, it was a small patrol, only five in total and they had just made a crucial mistake - instead of double-checking the security of the store, they had walked straight past. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the party snuck up behind them and silently took them out using their daggers. The bodies were stashed in the cellar of the store, and the door relocked by Aseeka.
***
The Cathedral of Candare was located in the southern part of the city, and by the time they arrived night was falling, but the dread of the night was nothing compared to the sight that greeted them.
The entire building had been razed to the ground, there was nothing left but a pile of scorched rubble. Everyone’s heart sank. What could have caused such destruction? Hope was lost. Any thoughts of survivors or sanctuary were crushed, no survivors meant no one to help them escape. They were back to where they started, except worse – for now the night had come.
The wind was starting to howl, the air seemed thicker, and even the blackness of the night seemed darker. There was a feeling, a feeling nobody could shake, a feeling of dread, a feeling of hopelessness, and it had nothing to do with the obliterated cathedral.
"We need to get out of this darkness," suggested Goran. "We need to get off of these streets as soon as possible ... something terrible is coming." The others could feel it too and agreed.
It was going to be a long, restless night and they needed to find somewhere extra secure, now that they were being hunted. The Creed knew they were in the city somewhere and the party knew there would be no rest until one of two things happened - they either escaped the city, or they were killed trying to escape the city.
The feeling of dread grew, haunting and terrifying, seeping into their very souls. Suddenly, a feeling of pure panic gripped Dray like a monstrous hand crushing him. The Oracle was walking off towards the ruins, through the bond he could feel that something powerful was calling to her. Dray wanted to go after her, but something unseen held him in place.
"Kayla!" he yelled. "Kayla!"
The blackness of the night was slowly getting darker and darker, like an invisible mist infiltrating the air. Dray and the others were frozen, frozen in the grip of terror; sweat dripped and their hearts raced. Dray felt like all his nightmares were coming true. This can't be happening. I'm supposed to be the protector - but it was happening. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to run out and stop her; that she was walking towards her own destruction.
He wanted to yell, he wanted to scream, he wanted to shout so loud that he didn't care if he could ever talk again. Instead, he stood still, feet firmly planted on the ground; rooted in place by fear and dread, unable to act, unable to break the prison that held his mind fast - and then it came.
A tremendous darkness ascended from behind the ruins. It was a shadow of pure evil, a vast black beast of gloom and dread. What it was, Dray’s mind could not comprehend, but it was magical and unnatural. It emitted a sound that caused the earth to quake; buildings shook violently, and pieces of stone fell down.
Dray’s mind was a blur, he tried to focus. The darkness was a veil that hid the beast with magic; a veil that seemed to blur reality. It seemed alive and moved so that no eye could focus on it. It hurt to look at, but no-one could stop. Behind it … the beast, hidden and unknown; it was clearly huge, and emitted a dread that made men want to run away and hide.
Dray was paralysed with fear, but the Oracle was out there, in the open, by herself. He wanted to break free, but he couldn’t. The beast emitted another of its low roars; the ground shook, and Aseeka ran away screaming. Goran stood fast with Dray, his eyes were shut so tight he looked as if he could go mad at any second.
Words came into Dray’s mind unbidden, deep and guttural, echoing from the ether. DEEEAAAATTTHHHHH CCCOOOOMMMMESSS!!! Then there was a split in the veil, and just for a fleeting moment Dray could see the mouth of the beast; a viscous, teeth-filled ferocity that lit up with a fire the likes of which Dray had never seen. In that moment, he knew what it was - it was a Shadow Dragon, and it was using its magical power to conceal itself in a shadowy mist - Dray knew exactly what was going to happen next.
The great fireball spewed from its mouth, hurtling towards the Oracle at a furious pace. There was nothing he could do but watch as the flames descended. The Oracle looked up, she looked surprised; she looked confused, she looked beautiful. Tears trickled down the side of Dray’s face. The gap was too great; she was dead, and he had failed to protect her. He screamed like he had never screamed before.
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
INTERLUDE
“Are they all dead?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Good … Now go, you know what to do.”
THE AWAKENING
From the darkness, consciousness began to creep in. He didn't know what had happened to him or how he had got there. He did not remember what had happened before he had awakened and he did not care. He knew only that he had been brought back into a world full of pain, suffering and anguish.
This pain was no ordinary pain, like a barb in the hand or a strained muscle. This was not the kind of pain one has when one snaps a tendon or breaks one's leg. This was not the kind of pain one has when one burns one’s hand on the red hot forge. No … this was not that kind of pain.
This was more … so much more. This was the kind of pain that could only be found in the deepest, darkest recesses of the mind. This was the kind of pain that could only be found in the worst kind of nightmares and most tortured kind of dreams - it was a pain beyond reckoning.
He lay there paralysed, blinded and pinned to the ground, he was certain he should have been dead. How he was alive, he did not know, bu
t he was … and it hurt far more than he could ever have imagined.
His body was tormented by the pain, whilst his limbs contorted and convulsed, his back spasmed and cramped. His chest was a crimson pool, and his hands were clenched so tightly that blood seeped from their grips - it was a pain that never ceased.
Soaked in blood and sweat, he burned with fever. Blood seeping from his lungs filled his throat with a thick coagulation that made him gag uncontrollably; desperate for breath, he choked and spluttered.
If only he could bring conscious thought to his movements, he might be able to break free from the madness and stop the insanity from consuming him. In his mind, he writhed and struggled. In his mind, he willed his arms to move … to grab the sword … to pull it out.
He would do anything to get it out. He would give everything he had to get it out. He would kill everyone he ever loved to get it out, but there was no 'getting it out'.
There was no escape, no end to the misery. He was stuck, paralysed and fused to the ground. How he was alive with a sword going straight through his chest, he did not know and neither could he ponder it.
Sound had returned to his ears, but it gave him little comfort. All he could hear were flames burning fiercely, timber cracking, glass popping and the creaks and groans of a building ready to fall. On some level, he knew that if he wasn't quick, he would be crushed by a cascade of splintered wood and heavy stone.
The acrid smoke passing through the room would have burned his nostrils and his throat had they not been filled with blood, it would have made his eyes weep uncontrollably had they not been sealed shut. Why they were sealed, he did not know, but he knew that they were and it filled him with dread.
He wanted to struggle, he wanted to run, he wanted to scream for someone to kill him. He wanted the flames to consume him and burn his body to ashes. He wanted the sword to stab him again and again so that his torment would end. He wanted the terrible pain that flayed his soul to finish and die so that he could as well … but all he could do was lay there and endure.
Then, as he lay writhing in pain, a single liquid drop ran down his dry, parched lips. Where it had come from, he did not know, but it entered his body, making him feel stronger; like a life-giving nectar. Pain dimmed and awareness grew, he could hear the sounds around him clearer than ever, the sounds of battle in the distance and of chaos in the night.
He could feel the heat from the fire and sense the smoke getting thicker, urgency grew strong. He needed to get out, he had only minutes remaining.
Another liquid drop, another burst of life. He could feel his hands moving up, the pain from his chest unbearable. They gripped the blade of the sword and blood poured down from his fingers, but he was too desperate to care. He continued to push with his palms on either side of the blade and tried to will the thing from his body, he had to get it out. He struggled and pushed and gritted his teeth. His fingers wrapped tighter around the blade, if he wasn't careful he would lose them, but desperation made him push even harder.
Can't give in … can't stop, he thought. It's the only way to end it. He could feel his fingers sliding up the blade. NO! He willed them down once more and pushed with every ounce of strength that he had … but it was hopeless. A crimson slick covered the blade, the sharpness cut deep; his fingers were shreds, as bone scraped along steel.
Outside the battle raged on, he could hear the fighting, he could hear the yelling, he could hear the clashes of swords. Swords hitting swords, swords hitting shields, swords hitting flesh, men screaming … he did not lament on this.
The fire wasn't in this room, it was somewhere down below. Heat rose up from the floor, and he could feel the blood he lay in warming. He almost burst out laughing for this had to be a joke, he would have cried if he could … but his tears had been sealed away.
Darkness was creeping back, the pain was dimming, the heat was dissipating - he knew he was dying once more. What a cruel joke you Gods have played. You wake me, only to make me suffer. Now will you wait for me to burn? What have I done to deserve such? The Gods did not answer.
Then a tremor and the room began to shake. Jars and pitchers fell to the floor, smashing and breaking. Books fell from the shelves, tapestries and paintings from the walls. Glass shattered as the windows burst and pieces of the ceiling fell down around him. By the Gods, the entire place is coming down, he thought - and then it did.
One side of the floor lurched up as the other sank down. Bookcases and shelves collapsed around him. Everything in the room either slid or fell to the east wall which had momentarily become the floor; in that moment time seemed to slow down. He slid away from the floor, the sword going deeper and deeper into his chest; when he hit the hilt, both he and the sword left the floor together.
They tumbled in the darkness, and for a few brief seconds, his body floated in the void, touching nothing. There was peace there, in those moments between the madness; where the world had stopped, and his pain had gone.
But alas, we feel such sorrow, for these moments are always fleeting, and as suddenly as it had slowed, the world sped back up at a tremendous pace. The east wall came crashing through the room like a great destroyer, demolishing everything in its path and the world shook as the entire tower fell to the ground.
***
He awoke some hours later to … a brightness. He was astounded, there was no way to explain it, but there it was … vision had returned, he could actually open up his eyes and see.
Covered in dust that caked to his sweat and blood, he struggled up to his hands and knees.
He looked down to his chest, the sword had gone through to the hilt, and he could sense the weight of the blade sticking out of his back. Yet somehow, the pain had decreased dramatically - he actually felt more alive. Maybe this is what it feels like to be dead. It would have been a cruel irony had it been true. He didn't think he was dead though, but he felt that he should be.
His face was wet, and when he wiped it steam poured off his fingers, he looked at them perplexed. He knew something strange had just happened, but he couldn't think clearly enough to realise the cuts to his hands were no longer there.
He rubbed his eyes and face in an effort to regain his bearings and then looked around. The whole place was rubble, completely razed to the ground. Nothing looked familiar anymore. He could see bits of broken shelf, books scattered everywhere, most either burnt or torn apart - everything before him was covered in a layer of dust and ash.
Here and there fire still smouldered. Broken glass lay scattered all around; some of it coloured from the stained glass windows, some of it plain from the jars that had been on the shelves. He remembered so many jars smashing around him … so many jars, but still, nothing stirred his memory. The room or what was left of it was as much a puzzle to him as everything else that happened before he had awakened.
How had he lived? Why did he feel better now than before? He looked at his hand, it was covered in some sort of silvery liquid. Was it mercury? He hoped not, he had heard somewhere that it could make you go mad. It must be mercury. If I've gone mad, it would explain a lot. The very thought convinced him that he hadn't. He continued studying his hand. Yes, it was covered in dust and blood and an unknown silvery liquid, but by the gods it felt good.
It made him feel alive, somehow reborn and regenerated anew. His eyes, they had been sealed shut, but now they were open. How was such a thing possible?
He wiped his face again and more silvery liquid appeared on his hands. He studied it for a moment and then the connection was made. It's this liquid that brought me back. He held out his hand and brought it closer to his face. He sniffed it. So sweet … so very sweet. He inhaled, taking the aroma deep into his lungs; as he did they seemed to spring back to life, invigorated. He closed his eyes as he savoured the sweetness. My sweet nectar. My sweet, sweet nectar.
“My sweet, life-giving NECATARRRR!” he bellowed out loud. He licked his hands and swallowed more remnants of the liquid and immediately felt strong
er and more powerful. As excitement swelled, he began to rub his face vigorously, trying to get as much of the liquid off as he could. He licked his hands again and again as strength burst inside his body.
He could feel the power of the liquid travelling through his body, starting from within the core and then reaching out to the extremities. He could feel it flowing into his arms, giving them strength, invigorating them, regenerating them. This is it! This is my chance! How long this burst of strength would last he did not know, but he wasn't about to squander the opportunity.
He reached up with both hands and grasped the hilt that stuck out of his chest. He knew the sword was longer than his arms, he would have to heave it hard if he hoped to clear it from his body.
Focused and determined, he knew this would take all the strength he had. Every muscle in his body was tense, his teeth gritted, his eyes scrunched, the thought of what he was about to endure almost made him cry ... but he knew that he had to do it before the pain came back and crippled him into inaction. He inhaled deeply, summoning all the strength that he had left, and with one almighty heave, he threw the hilt before him.
Cold steel slid, slicing on its way out, renewing the streams of blood that flowed down his body. He had used all the strength he had in that moment, but even then, it had not been enough. The tip of the sword still poked out of his back, as the hilt end fell towards the ground. He dropped to his knees in renewed pain as the blade twisted inside of him. It's too much.
The pain felt like it had come back with a vengeance, darkness and white spots clouded his vision, he knew he had to act fast before he passed out. He quickly reached up again, grabbing the blade with both hands; it cut straight to the bone. He kept going though … there was no turning back now.
