by W.E. Linde
Even then, no fear infected his countenance. My tongue now thrashed around like an angry serpent, and the blood from my face fell upon him as a supernatural strength within my limbs forced him to his knees. With horrifying speed, my hands tore Lorhgan asunder. And yet it was not until his life finally began to slip away, when perhaps he glimpsed the reward he had earned through a life of wicked avarice, that I finally saw fear.
A lifeless husk sank to my feet. A shudder that might have been a chuckle shook my frame, and at length I turned away. The sun poured in through the ruined entranceway, but the light did not provide comfort. As I stepped out into the heavenly glow, I remembered no more, save a sense that a bloody intelligence dwelling within the temple was satisfied, but not sated.
* * *
I do not recall returning to my hut, or lying down prone before the humble altar near the entrance to my domicile. When I awoke, I felt a madness set to rampage through my being as I placed my hand upon my face. To my wonder, my jaw was intact. Like a man possessed, I tore open my clothes. No great wound was visible, although a thin, nearly invisible white scar traced its way across my chest. I half fancied that perhaps my journey to the city had been a fevered dream, but the dried gore and hair upon my hands, nails, and clothes spoke its truth.
She spoke to me for the first time as I prepared to wash the filth from me. She appeared before my humble altar, and I could not stand in her presence. Her skin was white as ivory, and appeared hard as stone. Short black hair, cut like a warrior, crowned her snow white head. But her eyes, black and ancient like the night, held me in a terrifying grasp, and I could not turn away. She spoke in a tongue that was beautiful, alien, and terrible.
"You are a Watcher. You will dwell here forevermore. When the sons of the city return, you will gather them and bring them to my temple. You will help to deliver judgment."
It was then that I knew. Gods, demons...there be no true difference between them. I also knew that though ancient, the demon goddess before more was more than a celestial vengeance. She moved to leave my hut, and I heard myself plead: "Lady, what is thy name?"
She stopped, and crouched down beside me. I heard her whisper with a voice that was as glorious as the heavens and as terrible as the hells.
"I am Acheryn. Once I ruled men and nations. Now I consume my children."
I closed my eyes and wept. When I opened them, I was alone. I pulled a bowl with water and tried to cleanse myself of Lorhgan's blood. As I did so, the weight of the Lady's charge became clear. Where once I was a Watcher enslaved to the men of Acheryn, I was now a Watcher enslaved to the terrible powers that judge the ways of men. Where once, if I failed, my rulers would torment my body, now she could torment my soul.
I stepped out of my hut on the cliff, and walked to the precipice. To the north, fallen Acheryn was calling. Thus word went out: mighty Lorhgan the Bold is perished. The message rode the wind to the corners of the world. The wise will silently rejoice, but cringe all the more at the desolation that rules in the old city. But the foolish, the vain, and the proud sons of Acheryn will be drawn all the more to seek their glory and to claim the riches of their homeland. Riches that now boast a golden sword and a shield that shines like fire at midnight.
Surely, one by one, they will come. We will consume them, and their sins will be punished.
A note from the author.
Thank you for reading this short story. I truly hope that you enjoyed it, and I would love to hear from you. Please visit me at my blog, The Weathered Journal, at welinde.com
The empire ruled by the High City of Acheryn, the bed of demons and debauchery, occurs in the distant past of the world of Maladine. Millennia later, and a continent away, The Prince of Graves tells the tale of the Sixth War between the last survivors of the mortal kingdoms and the Necromancers who poisoned the minds of the kings of Acheryn. This war sets the stage for the greater Desolation War series, to be published some time in the future. If you enjoyed The Sins of Acheryn, I hope that you enjoy The Prince of Graves as well.
W.E. Linde
Excerpt from The Prince of Graves:
When the devils rise and the living wail
The dead reach out, cold and pale
The days of men shall falter and fail
Entombed forever beyond the veil
No hope, no rest, no power to save
The wicked day dawns as the noble day wanes
The light and life of the kingdom fades
When all kneel down to the Prince of Graves
The End Times Prophecy from The Vhendis, the Tome of the Prophets (The Prince of Graves)
The earth shuddered in step with the advancing army, sending stones clattering down the rock walls wherein Frey had secreted riders, lying in wait in shallow caves and behind great boulders strewn throughout the length of the basin. Frey stood next to his horse, a prized stallion of northern stock, holding its bridle and stroking its white mane.
Of the four sons of King Atherion, Frey was the only one from a different mother. The Queen's passing many years ago had turned Atherion into a hard man, although not a cruel one. Two years following her murder, the north country of Deihaim threatened revolt, thereby removing the protection against raids conducted by Deihaim's lawless cousins farther to the north. To the shock of his court, Atherion offered to permanently bring Deihaim into the Kingdom's fold by marrying the daughter of the North Country's sovereign.
The move succeeded. Princess Shealia became Queen of Valeot, and soon bore a son, Frey. Although many of the denizens of Deihaim were a mixture of the Northmen and the men of Valeot, her blood was undiluted from the savages that once raided the coasts of the August Kingdom and her Duchies.
Like his mother, Frey's features were those of the Northmen: blond, tall, and powerful. His eyes were like blue ice, and in a quarrel his burning stare could turn away most of less passionate blood. In the days of his youth, as he trained for war under the tutelage of the masters who taught his brothers, his instructors both cautioned and praised him for the berserker-like rage he brought into a fight.
That lust now pounded in his breast as he felt the coming tempest beating upon the earth. His breath quickened. A slight smile touched his lips and he closed his eyes. Glory awaited him. He opened his eyes and alighted upon his stallion. Shrouded within the darkness of a shallow cave, he drew his sword Faerthring from its scabbard — a gift from his grandfather — which emitted a tinny whine. Through his leather and mail woven glove, he felt it vibrate softly in anticipation of battle.
The enemy had come. Doom marched through the pass, filling it from cliff wall to cliff wall. Frey looked down at a shadowy river overflowing with soldiers in black and gray armor, armed with jagged spears and wide cutlasses, helmets fashioned in the likeness of skulls and wolves. Banners of the Necromancer Kings led the way, an ebony field with the full moon displayed as a silver disk, the hateful runes of an ancient day scrawled across it. The blood lust swelled. Frey poised to plunge down into the enemy ranks and signal the ambush to begin.
He hesitated a moment. Strange dark shadows in the midst of the horde passed among the regular soldiers, driving the army at its unnatural pace. Known by no other name than the Dark Captains, these warriors were known to have been indoctrinated into the dark arts of evil wizardry. They rode upon fierce dragonmares, nightmare crossbreeds spawned centuries ago in the hills of the northern Necromancer Kingdoms. The size of powerful horses, the creatures were covered in coarse black hair, except along the chest and near the snout, where thick scales revealed the natural armor underneath.
He scanned the countless soldiers, looking for the closest of the Dark Captains. Frey would engage them first. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he lifted his horn, took a mighty breath, and let out a powerful blast that for a moment overcame the pounding rhythm of the iron shod multitudes and the thunder above.
"Valeot!" bellowed Frey, and his steed leapt down the path. Like a bird of prey swooping out of th
e sky, he swept past the Dagir Xethu soldiers who had yet to realize the trap had been sprung. A Dark Captain turned just in time to see Faerthring come down in a savage arc, cleaving his head from his body.
Riders in blue and silver sprang forth out of the walls of the pass, falling on their enemies with fury. More horns sounded from on high, and a rain of deadly arrows fell like lightning on the front hosts, some close enough Frey could have smote them himself. The horde halted its advance as the horsemen drove in from both sides. The relentless press from behind the seemingly endless enemy numbers, however, ensured the pause lasted only moments.
Dark Captains, their dragonmares roaring and steaming from savage maws, called forth commands which were not mere orders. A sudden shadow swept across the battle. Some of the Dark Captains were chanting, their incomprehensible language riding on the tide of the chaotic clash of arms. Frey saw two, three, probably more stand in their stirrups. They were carving sigils into the air, which peeled away like skin, revealing a living nothingness within the unnatural spaces hanging before them. The prince averted his eyes as a shudder ripped across his body. There were shapes there, evil forms that pressed against the blackness, desperately trying to break through.
As the chanting grew louder and coils and shapes began erupting through, brilliant blue globes appeared before the Dark Captains. The primal terror then fled Frey and his warriors. The globes flared like small suns, and all were forced to turn away. A moment later, the globes vanished, the preternatural tears in the air with them, and the Black Captains who summoned them lay charred and lifeless on smoldering mounts.
Vraim rode close to Frey.
"Our wizard has proven his worth!" he shouted. "He's keeping the evil arts of the Dark Captains at bay!"
The climax of the Sixth War between the last of the Remnant Kingdoms, Valeot the Great,and the Necromancer Kingdoms, continues on The Prince of Graves.
