by Brian Murray
“Do you still wish to continue?” asked the priest solemnly.
“It’s our duty to the people of Kal-Pharina,” sneered Chrisk.
“I take that as a ‘yes,’ then.”
Chrisk looked at the man with hatred in his eyes. “Yes, it means yes,” he snapped, showing his irritation.
“Very well,” replied the senior priest, bowing. He waved to several Imperial Guards and they escorted the two men up the mound. At the top of the mound was a row boat that had the Phadrine standard and a truce banner on poles at the rear. The boat was lowered into the water and the two men slowly climbed down the rope. Chrisk was red- faced and out of breath as he stepped into the boat. There was a short delay before the oarsmen climbed down the rope. The senior priest blessed the men and wished them a safe return. The men untied the boat and they used their oars to push it from the mound. Soon, the vessel glided across the moat towards the Dread.
***
A Caynian approached the Dark One’s tent and ducked into the fabric room. He bowed deeply towards his master and kept his eyes on the floor until the Dark One replaced his helm.
“What is it?” snapped the Dark One, irritated at being disturbed.
“Master, there is a boat coming across the moat towards us,” replied the beast, its voice deep and gravelly.
“What?” asked the Dark One, walking past the Caynian and stepping from his tent. The man chuckled when he saw the boat being rowed across the moat. “Send Malice to me.”
“Yes master,” said the Caynian, bowing.
The Dark One remained watching the boat when Malice appeared bowing deeply, with his helm tucked under his arm.
“You summoned me, master?”
“We have guests, my friend. Please go and make them welcome. They are, after all, travelling under a banner of truce.”
“As you command,” replied the warrior, following his master’s gaze.
“And Malice . . . ”
“Yes, master.”
“Make sure their walk here is unsettling.”
Malice bowed again and walked off with a malevolent grin on his face.
***
Chrisk and Scanion disembarked from the boat and were met by towering creatures with glowing orange and yellow eyes. One of the creatures hissed, stepped forward, and opened it massive maw. From behind the beasts a voice bellowed, “No!”
The creatures turned and then parted to allow two silver-armoured warriors to approach the men. Chrisk wiped the sweat from his brow and cap with a blue silk handkerchief. The two warriors walked directly to the two men and stood in silence opposite them. They did not say a word. They just waited. Slowly, one of the men removed his helm and fixed his blazing red eyes on the two men. He still said nothing. Chrisk licked his lips and wiped his cap again. Scanion just stood there, frozen to the spot in fear.
“We have come to talk to your leader,” said Chrisk, annoyed that his voice wavered with fear.
The two warriors did not answer. The second warrior removed his helm and stared at the two Tan-Phadrin businessmen, but still said nothing.
“We have come to talk to your leader,” repeated Chrisk.
One of the two warriors stepped forward and stood inches away from the smaller man. Chrisk could feel the hatred in the man’s eyes and he uncontrollably shivered. For what seemed an eternity the warrior stared into the businessman’s eyes. Then he spoke.
“Come,” he said. He spun on his heels and walked away with the other warrior waiting. The two men followed the first warrior and the second walked behind them. All around them the creatures gathered, hissing and baying at the newcomers. The men walked slowly through the creatures, too slowly for the men’s comfort. The warrior leading maintained the casual pace. Scanion ogled the warrior’s silver back and did not look to either side. In the warrior’s silver back, Scanion could see his reflection and realised his face had entirely lost its colour. He swallowed but his mouth was dry.
Next to Scanion, Chrisk wiped his brow again. His eyes ferreted from side to side, watching all movement. At any moment, he thought the creatures would attack and devour them. Either side of the men, the creatures closed in and soon he could not see anything over the tall beasts except the pastel blue sky directly above. Anxiously, he wiped his brow again.
Slowly, Malice led the two mortals through the Dread. He was enjoying the aura of fear that flowed from the men. He purposely took a winding route through his army to unsettle the mortals as instructed. Malice reached the Dark One’s tent and stopped. He turned to the two mortals. “Wait,” he commanded, then ducked into the Dark One’s tent.
Scanion stared at the black tent. Two hulking bald warriors guarded the fabric room and both men held huge double-headed battle-axes across their barrel chests. Scanion could not remove his eyes from the awesome weapons and their keen blades. He looked up at one of the men and wished he had not. The Caynian glared down at the man with a wicked, evil grin on his face. Scanion’s eyes shot down to the ground, to the warrior’s massive boots. Again, he tried swallowing but again he had no saliva.
Chrisk did not look at the two warriors standing guard in front of the black tent. He constantly looked around at the beasts surrounding them. Once more he wiped his gleaming brow with a bright red hanky. His fears grew. The two men waited and waited for their host to beckon them in. Suddenly, the flaps of the tent billowed out and a deep rumbling voice beckoned the two inside.
Nervously, the two men entered the gloomy black tent.
***
Dense blue smoke filled the tent, causing the two men’s eyes to water. Chrisk peered into the smoke, but could see nothing through the blue haze.
“Come in, gentlemen,” came a resounding voice.
Chrisk and Scanion shuffled farther into the tent, stopping before a fire.
“What do you two want?”
“My name is Chrisk and this is my friend Scanion. We come from the city of Kal-Pharina and bring you good tidings.”
Silence. Not total silence, for the men could hear an eerie sound of metallic breathing.
“We come here in peace and wish to understand why you are holding our city under siege. We hope to try and come to a mutual agreement for the safety of the civilians of Kal-Pharina and beyond.”
No one answered. Chrisk peered harder into the fumes. Nothing.
“Is anyone there?” asked the man apprehensively.
Two red eyes blazed alive in the hazy gloom. Brighter and brighter they glowed. Then a booming voice pierced the silence. “What do you offer?”
“We don’t know what you want, sir. Therefore, how can I make you an offer?” countered Chrisk, wiping his brow.
“Come closer, around the fire so I can see you,” commanded the voice.
The two men shuffled around the fire, stepped forward and stood before a seated figure. The man was dressed all in black and was therefore hard to see in the smoky gloom. Chrisk squinted but could not see the man’s features. Everything about him appeared blurred. Then a second set of glowing red eyes appeared above and to the right of the speaker.
“Tell me about the Chosen,” asked the seated man.
Scanion gulped and answered. “He’s our emperor and the bravest man alive. He has survived three attempts on his life and always returned unharmed and stronger. He will prove to be more than a match for any warrior.”
“What of his children?”
Scanion looked puzzled at the question but again answered the man. “He had a son and daughter of his blood. The son went mad and killed himself many months ago. His daughter remains in his white palace.”
“And the other Child of the Light with her?”
The businessman was confused with the term. He assumed it was a phase of endearment and replied, “His other daughter is adopted, a Rhaurn orphan I believe his true daughter met when she was travelling the Kingdom.”
Silence filled in the room. The blue smoke hovered and layers within the haze gently undulated where the men
had moved.
“What do you offer?” repeated the booming voice.
“Sir, we need to know what your demands are before we can present a counteroffer,” answered Chrisk smoothly.
“I want them.”
“Who?” countered Chrisk, rubbing his handkerchief across his brow.
“I want the Children of the Light brought before me.”
“You want the Chosen’s daughters brought before you?”
Another moment of tense, eerie silence descended.
“Come closer and let us talk of peace.”
This one sentence made the two men relax. It was the first time their host had mentioned the word peace. Two chairs materialised beside the two men.
“Sit down and relax,” commanded the rumbling voice, almost invitingly.
The two men sat down and slowly the swirling blue smoke evaporated. As the mist thinned, the two Tan-Phadrins realised they sat before an awesome warrior. He was dressed in matt-black armour with a similarly-coloured sword he held with both hands, so the blade ran down between his legs. To his right stood a warrior in silver armour, who had escorted the two men to the tent. To his left stood a small man wearing a heavy black robe with a deep hood that hid his facial features. Silence hung in the air, palpable, stirring like the smoke only moments before.
Scanion’s mouth felt dry and bile rose from the pit of his stomach, burning his arid throat and leaving a bitter taste. Chrisk, who sat next to Scanion, held his handkerchief in his hand but could not wipe his brow—fear held the man statue still. The three men opposite him radiated pure black evil and the smaller Tan-Phadrin involuntarily shivered. Sweat rolled from the man’s brow, running down his cheek and dripping on his blue silk shirt, forming dark blotches.
“Gentlemen, my name is the Dark One and as you may have gathered I am a man spawned from the purest evil. I will not deny it for that is what I am. Beside me are two of my followers. To my left is Malice, a warrior without peer and one of my personal bodyguards. To my right is Naats Flureic; you may know him as the Darklord. He helped Prince Tucci kill his mother and attempted to assassinate his father. There is only one thing you two mortals can do for me and we will come to that later. You talk of peace, well we have a ritual of peace here. Are you willing to undertake the ritual?”
Both men looked at each other, their mouths gaping in shock. Looking back at the Dark One they dumbly nodded, not knowing what to expect next.
“Good, hold out your right hand.”
Both men hesitated. They stared into the Dark One’s red eyes that danced with intent, like the fires of hell. In that moment, both men realised they had made a huge mistake. They were not going to leave this place the same as they arrived. In that moment, both men regretted not listening to the Chosen.
“Hold out your right hand,” rumbled the Dark One. A wicked grin grew on the once-man’s face, but neither of the two clansmen could see it behind the chain mail that formed part of his helm.
Scanion slowly extended his right hand. His face blanched with fear. Chrisk held his hand on his lap, but something forced his right hand up. He tried to fight the force, but it was too strong. Sweat continuously dripped on the man’s blue silk shirt, causing darker spots to appear on the creaseless fabric.
The Dark One rose to his feet smoothly, soundlessly. “What makes you think I will negotiate with the likes of you?” he spat out, his voice full of anger and hate. “I do not negotiate with anyone. My will is forced onto others and I am never denied what I want.”
The Dark One loomed over the two seated men. Chrisk started to whimper. Scanion remained silent, his throat too tight to let out any noise.
“I am the Dark One and I do not talk, I do not discuss—I destroy.” The Dark One raised the Blade of Yallas. “How dare you mortals come here and present yourselves before me. You are nothing to me. All mortals will be cattle for my children to feed on your flesh, on your blood. I cannot abide you, for you are a foulness, a virus on this planet.”
“We are not the foul ones,” whispered Scanion defiantly, surprised the words came out.
“You have courage, mortal, but it will do you no good. You will ultimately die. Like all in your precious city will die. I, the Dark One, have decreed it. Now I have a use for the two of you, but first I need to ensure that you both carry out my instructions without question. Come mortals, it is time to complete my ritual of peace,” hissed the Dark One, who lowered the Blade of Yallas. Slowly, he drew the razor-sharp point across the exposed palms of both men.
Scanion tried to scream, but no sound escaped his mouth. The man’s face was contorted in pain as he felt his very essence being ripped from him. It felt as if he was tumbling into a bottomless abyss. Suddenly, the pain ceased. The body slumped forward and it sighed.
Chrisk felt the icy cold blade slice his palm. He watched as his life fluid oozed from the cut. Then pain lanced through his body. His back arched and he screamed. He felt his soul being tugged from his body. Surging, burning agonising pain tore down every limb, through every vein. The pain was so intense, it felt as though his head would explode. Chrisk looked into the Dark One’s helm and his hate gave him energy. He rose.
“That’s it little man, hate me, fight it. I can feel your hatred for me. It feeds me, makes me stronger. That’s it little man, fight it. Fight it!” roared the Dark One, his voice deep like rumbling thunder.
Chrisk fell to his knees in pain. The intense throbbing surged through his body and he bowed his head. He tried to fight it, but he felt his soul wrenched from his body and he felt pitiful. For a heartbeat, the essence of Chrisk looked down at his body. Then, like stepping off a cliff, his soul started tumbling down and down, falling farther and farther into a black pit. Down and down it cascaded into the pit then suddenly . . . Suddenly, his soul stopped falling, instantly shackled in magical bonds. All around him the intense flames of hellfire licked out at him. For eternity, the man’s soul would be tortured and somewhere in his soul, Chrisk knew it. Pain would torment him for an eternity—excruciating and unrelenting pain.
***
The two bodies that had once been Chrisk and Scanion rose and bowed to their master. The two zombies waited for their master’s command. The Dark One removed his helm and looked into the zombies’ lifeless eyes. He smiled, an expression not often seen. He turned to Malice and said, “Feed, my friend.”
Malice walked up to the small man and leaned forward. He opened his mouth and slowly sank his teeth into the man’s neck. With care, the warrior drank the man’s life fluid. When satisfied, Malice stepped back and bowed to his master. Crimson fluid trickled down his chin and dripped onto his armoured torso.
“Good?” asked the Dark One.
“With his soul removed, it is not as nourishing, my master.”
The Dark One stabbed the Blade of Yallas into the ground and handed his helm to Malice. He stepped forward, yanked the head of the zombie once known as Scanion to one side exposing his long, lean neck. Slowly, he opened his mouth. Stepping forward, he plunged his extended canines through the zombie’s neck and sucked on its life fluid. After a few heartbeats, the Dark One yanked his head clear and roared with pleasure, the sound guttural and monstrous. The Dark One returned to his throne and sat down silently, his eyes blazing bright red.
He looked up at the two zombies and smiled as a plan sparked into his mind. He spoke softly to the two creatures. As the Dark One spoke a virus, black and evil, many thousand times more toxic than the balamine plant extract, coursed around their bodies that swiftly began to pollute them.
***
At dusk, the two creatures left the Dark One’s tent and returned to the moat. This time as they moved through the Dread, most of the beasts did not give them a second thought or look. One or two Talon Hunters walked up to them and sniffed the zombies. But the creatures snorted through their snouts and backed away. Something was missing from the zombies and they were not interested in them. Their souls had been removed and their pain had already
been taken from them. The zombies also held the Dark One’s scent and the Dread knew they were his slaves. The two zombies reached the moat and their boat slowly guided across the water for them. Silently, they stepped into the boat and the oarsmen swiftly rowed back to the mound away from the beasts.
***
The Chosen sat in his study, his mind a jumble of thoughts and problems. He knew the two businessmen, especially Chrisk. He had received reports that Chrisk had openly voiced some disloyal comments in the past. He had been under observation long before all of the current problems started. Rowet knew he was a troublemaker, yet he would do nothing to threaten his business. He had heard little about the other man; however, he realised the two men sought fame by saving the city. But they should have listened to him. The Chosen had tried to tell them the Dark One could not be trusted. He was a foul, base creature who knew nothing of honour or peace. The Chosen knew what the Dark One wanted and he would never willingly give up his daughters to the beast. The Chosen cursed. He suspected the two men were walking to their certain deaths. What tortures would the Dark One inflict on them? He sighed. He could do nothing. He saw the faces of the people in the galleries when the two men spoke in his temple earlier that day. The Chosen had not explained who the Dark One was, but he thought the presence of the beasts would have told his people the once-man was evil. He never understood how naïve people could be and how they needed to see for themselves.
The Chosen rose from his desk and walked out of his study. Instantly, his Imperial Guards along the corridor all snapped to attention. The Chosen walked down a brightly lit, white marble corridor to his living rooms. He arrived at his door and his mood darkened further. He still missed his wife desperately. With the Darklord’s help, their son had assassinated her. The Chosen turned the handle and entered his room. His mood instantly lifted. Waiting in his room sat his two daughters, Ireen and Megan.
