Prologue: A Wicked Pact
A hellish gleam sprung from the pages, as if the unusual paper’s very fabric consisted of some otherworldly power. Of course, the notion was absurd; the book itself was bound in no mystical fashion. Hezron Uriah, however, could not quay the nervous tremble that betook his careful fingers as he turned each ancient, carefully restored page of the work.
Indeed, he turned that book’s leaves at the risk of his prestige and power, at the risk of even his life. Yet, he had been drawn in by curiosity and by thirst, the thirst that authoritative positions often stimulate; the thirst to be stronger. Hezron Uriah was a thin man, not sickly but not suited for great physical exertions, to say the least. His vision was poor in bright light, but was normal or even better than normal in dimmer settings such as the one his study now entertained. Hezron was weak of body in nearly every area, yet fate generally manages to strike a balance for the individual. He had a brilliant mind, able to recall exactly the minutest detail of any picture, spell, history, or other scrap of knowledge he had devoured. In his late fifties, the human priest’s physical condition had only continued to deteriorate. Yet, his mind continued to sharpen.
For how long, he did not know.
Hezron stood about five foot seven, but seemed much shorter, for he walked as if burdened heavily. He had narrow shoulders and a nigh frail build. The priest’s eyes were a very unusual color; almost a brownish gold, and his hair was only a reminder of the rich brown it once displayed, now encroached with gray, although he suffered little hair loss. Stubble covered his careworn face, for he was oft too preoccupied with his studies to properly take care of himself. The man could have had a pleasing, even handsome face, yet his visage was ruined by years of dissent and misfortune.
A sharp knock resounded, and Hezron’s heart skipped a beat. With little thought he snapped the forbidden tome shut, and shoved it beneath a stack of papers and items.
“Who is there?” he asked in a much calmer tone than he expected he could produce.
“It’s Varn,” came the strong voice of the Head Steward, Hezron’s sole superior, although he had officially a few others dubbed his ‘equals.’ Hezron, of course, knew better.
“Come in, come in,” beckoned the high priest, friendliness rushing to the timbre of his voice. Up until recently, that toll of amiable nature had rung true.
The door glided open, and in walked the head of the priesthood.
“How are you fairing, my friend?” he asked.
“Excellent, Varn,” replied Hezron, trying his best to remain casual. He was having some difficulty, however, in keeping his eyes from glancing to his desk, where the manuscript was poorly hid, and the chest at the foot of his bed, wherein was concealed yet another forbidden object. It was the discovery of this, in fact, which had begun his descent upon the slippery slope that led him to this point. Swallowing his fear, he asked genteelly, “And how are you, our honored Head Steward?”
The title came from another term referring to the priesthood; the Stewards of Erare. The only son of the First God and only Almighty, Arom-Azara, Erare came closest of all gods to that of the Father God in mightiness. According to legend, the greatest of all Guardians, named Seh, drove back the wicked lilith in the former kingdom of Illaraz, the last foundation of the fading cult. The Guardian Seh Brightstar handed the responsibility of holding the secret evils of the lilith in check to the humans of the priesthood. The Priests of Illaraz were the only of their race that had stayed faithful to Erare and the Father God, save the humans in Tyrol, and Seh viewed them as the individuals who could atone for the actions of their unholy brethren. And so it was for many years, until this very point in Afanadar’s history.
“Have you made any progress on the new manuscript?” Varn referred to a holy elven work which was given to the priests during the Age of Guardians, not long after its founding. There had only been two translations, and both were destroyed during the Shadow War. The archaic scrolls held valuable spiritual knowledge, and although some of its wisdom had been passed down by word of mouth, much had been lost. Hezron Uriah was the first to have not only the skills and wits to undertake such a massive translation, but the incredible patience as well, in many long years. This knack had been a portion of what had allowed him to ascend the ranks of priesthood as well.
“Yes, much progress,” said Hezron Uriah in a boldfaced lie. Not usual was it for this one to lie, yet as of late the priest’s character had changed in many ways.
“Good, good. Take your time with it as needed, and what you require as you do so is yours,” said the other with earnest caring for his once upright friend. He had not yet witnessed the change the priest was undergoing.
“I only need solitude, as best to concentrate.” Although spoken kindly, the statement was rude, and out of Hezron Uriah’s normal person. Varn Denshawrn did not seem to notice.
“I understand. You shall be left to your devices, and should you have any other concerns, come to me at once. I will speak with you when you are freed of this great duty,” said the Head Steward, who smiled and made his way to leave. Hezron followed, and shut the door immediately, then turned around and leaned against the door, heaving a sigh mixed with relief and apprehension.
What had happened to him, that such integral factions of his being had come into compromise?
His conscience faded quickly to another voice, a far more sinister voice. It called for power, seething against Varn Denshawrn with hideous rage for checking up on him like some child, and against all in the priesthood who made a mockery of his ways and failed to acknowledge his gifts.
Going to the desk, Hezron retrieved the forbidden text dubbed Nesseinta Velshru, the Unholy Written, a tome left from the same lilith that Seh Brightstar drove away hundreds of years ago. Perhaps the greatest work of evil human aether in the Empire since even its subkingdoms’ initial founding; there was far more valuable power here than in some flowery elven script. Hezron knew that he risked much in keeping this, but found the idea of surpassing Varn Denshawrn and the others by leagues as well worth it.
“Hezron,” hissed a sibilant voice.
The priest felt a chill run down his spine at the sound of his name being spoken by the spirit. It said nothing else, but Hezron knew what it wanted.
He traversed his room to the chest at the end of his bed. Working through a series of clever locks, the priest opened it, revealing neatly folded clothes and carefully placed items, all of no extraordinary quality. Shifting the things away, he removed the false bottom, and was in that instant greeted with the somewhat disconcerting Bloodstar, an ancient artifact left from a long destroyed liltu dynasty. A powerful liltu master instilled it with staggering lilithian powers which no human could ever achieve by force of his own.
Hezron had found the artifact completely by accident. Some months ago, down in the vaults of the priesthood, he had stumbled upon it on display in a glass case and protected by clerical energy. He dismissed the protective field, and appropriated the forbidden and nigh forgotten talisman.
“Pick it up,” came the sinister words, the timbre of which was reminiscently serpentine. The spirit being which spoke to him now had made its presence known to Hezron one day after the priest had discovered the Bloodstar. Evidently, it, being a creature of lilithian affiliation, had been drawn to the item’s unholy power. It had spoke for long hours deep in the night with Hezron, filling his ears with slow deliberation the seeds of unrighteousness. Hezron was hesitant of the apparition at first, but had become ensnared in the wicked spirit’s deviously twisted words.
The priest gulped, swallowing his fear, then bent down, and scooped up the lilithian relic. Instantaneously it stirred to life, the six-pointed star shape that was melded onto a network of circular rings beginning to pulsate in a red brilliance that could only remind one of a beating heart. Thus its name, Bloodstar, was quite apt.
“Look,” instructed the spirit.
Hezron turned from the chest, turning his sights upon Nesseinta Velshru. The arcane script was lain open on his desk, and seemingly of its own accord, the Unholy Written’s pages began to turn. Though the spirit had not made itself visible to Hezron in any form aside from dreams, which he could only recall in fragments anyway, nonetheless the priest distinctly felt its bone-chilling company.
“Put your eyes now on the script, Hezron Uriah, and see the machinations of what I have promised to you.”
The priest shuddered whenever the spirit spoke his name. Names were a thing of power, especially in the matters of aether and liltu, and while the creature knew his, he did not know its. Hezron was at a disadvantage here and in other ways, and he knew it, and he was painfully aware that the spirit being knew it as well. Yet, as embroiled in these affairs as he had brought himself at the present time, Hezron knew that his only option was to endure until his hopes were realized.
Hezron’s tawny eyes met the age tinted page of Nesseinta Velshru that the spirit being had elected for him to read. The entire text was scripted in a melding of blood elvish and a now nigh lost human tongue. This created a language so rare that in all of Afanadar only a handful could ever hope to decipher any meaning out of the meticulously crafted letters. Hezron Uriah was, of course, among that handful.
On this particular page was etched the Bloodstar in stark accuracy; whoever had written the archaic tome had been wielding the very artifact in question to produce such a detailed vision. Here was written the framework for mastering an aether of such magnitude that merely reading it made Hezron swoon. It required among other things the Bloodstar, as well as some customary preparations for any such high level maneuverings.
Hezron’s brows knitted together in confusion and apprehension as he discerned the unholy spell’s purpose. “Planeshifting aether? Isn’t that . . . forbidden?”
The spirit cackled with malicious derision. “Yes, yes, of course it is! You read it out of a forbidden book and wield the forbidden artifact necessary for the deed and now you draw back, after all we have done together?”
The priest’s head spun. Planeshifting was among the heaviest crimes for any mortal or lesser immortal to engage in, ever since the conclusion of the Great Wars. The gods had ordained it so to prevent such monstrosities as had rampaged during the Age of Sorrows from rearing once more. Hezron’s stomach twisted in a knot; he knew what was at risk. The path he was on would quickly render his very soul as forfeit.
“The punishment is too great.”
“Punishment? No, Hezron, use not that word. I will bring you to a station as you have never known!”
“But, the gods . . .”
“Outlaw a great power for fear that mortals will rise to their level and outlive their usefulness. Hezron, oh Hezron, they keep you back, not to protect you, but to keep you weak!”
The priest pursed his lips tightly together and closed his eyes. What a bitter irony it was that a priest of a clergy dedicated to the very Son of the Creator, the Most High, would be similarly swept up in one of the most wicked of sacrilegious acts. The insidious nature of his situation was not, however, the greatest disdain he suffered. It was this that terrified him the most: He had committed sins that flew in the face of all his convictions without so much as batting an eye.
“Prepare the planeshift, Hezron. Take your fate into your hands; take the path of your glory. Please me in this, Hezron Uriah, and you shall be greatly rewarded. I leave you to decide!”
The priest felt distinctly the chill in his body leave, the heaviness on his chest ease. The room seemed to brighten and grow less crowded; Hezron knew that the spirit had departed.
He was distinctly aware, however, that the creature would return.
And so, Hezron went to work.
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“Preposterous!”
“Varn, it is not my wish to cause trouble, but we are servants of Erare. We must follow after these things to preserve what righteousness humanity retains!”
“Your accusations are dangerously absurd,” Varn Denshawrn said with an undertone of uncertainty.
Syvka sighed. “Varn, the Unholy Written is missing.”
The Head Steward’s eyes widened in fear and disbelief. For hundreds of years, the priesthood had strove for one thing: To carry out the decree of Erare, handed down through the Guardian Seh. That decree was of a simple nature; to guard and hide the secrets of the lilith. If Nesseinta Velshru was missing, then the priesthood had failed that decree.
“But . . . what makes you believe Hezron Uriah, a good man of exceptional character, would ever commit such a malignant act?”
Syvka looked back at Varn somberly. “I saw him down in the vaults, for starters. He is a scribe, not a keeper! You know the potential punishments for such an act.”
The Head Steward grimaced. “That is grave, indeed, but it does not prove that Hezron participated in such a wicked crime.”
With his piercing blue eyes, the high priest intensely locked Varn in a distraught gaze. “I realize the severity of my accusations, headmaster. More than coincidental observation has lead me to this conviction, Varn. Hezron has changed in the past week; darkness has fallen over his soul, a wicked vice that will consume him. I see it in his eyes, hear it in his words, but most of all, I feel it, Varn. His being is laced with something . . . something wrong.”
The headmaster did not, and could not wisely; dismiss Syvka’s vocal expression of worry. The high priest had a keen intuition where individuals were concerned; his uncanny gift for understanding others bordered on something supernatural.
“Very well, Syvka. This is what you must do. Go to him in the morning; it is late now. Speak with him, and then come to me. Our actions must be done in every righteous way.”
“I shall do it thus, Head Steward,” Syvka said respectfully with an inclination of his head. “Have a pleasant evening, Varn.”
“You as well, Syvka.”
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After many hours of preparations, late into the night, Hezron had completed the altar crucial for the proper construction of the planeshifter. He set the Bloodstar in its proper place, and found that its gory pulsating quickened, as if in anticipation of the arcane ritual.
Hezron clasped Nesseinta Velshru, possessed at once with a similar eagerness and a deepening trepidation. He stood on the brink of destiny; a new chapter in his life that the high priest prayed would lead to unprecedented glory. At the same time, nonetheless, he was terrified of the spiritual ramifications of his current endeavor.
The Unholy Written’s pages turned in his pen-calloused hands, and he came as he had come countless times that night to the instructions on controlling the planeshifting aether. Hezron skimmed down the page, and turned past the preliminary directives of the task’s arrangement. The script here was not in the melded bilingual fashion of most of Nesseinta Velshru; as a highly secretive and dangerous form of liltu aether, it was written entirely in blood elvish, the tongue of the sole wicked race among elven kind.
The words lifted from the page, flowing from Hezron in unbroken unison. He examined each syllable with a careful confidence, and the Bloodstar responded to his perfect obedience to the commands of the archaic words. As if on fire, the relic began to glow. The power slowly wove together, tightening and strengthening. Even as Hezron called upon the aether, he could feel it becoming its own active force, the inertia of lilithian energy building up into a mighty creature that, once awoken, could not be stopped.
Swept up in the momentum of his venture, Hezron barely felt the minutes slip away into hours. Finally, the Bloodstar flashed in dark ecstasy, and the veil of the world slipped away. Hezron Uriah felt it, although he could only slightly discern the physical transformation of the altar he had with care and deliberation inlaid the runes of power. There was a sense of displacement around the altar, a flux which signaled the success of the lilithian planeshifter.
The priest had opened a door to another world.
The hazy distortion spread throughout the room, seeping through Hezron’s study with an inexorable determination. He could just make out a form, there at the center of the portal, and although indistinct, Hezron Uriah knew what he beheld. It was the spirit which had come to him since he discovered the Bloodstar.
“Hezron Uriah, you have done well. Step across the threshold; come to me, Hezron. Your reward awaits you.”
Hezron obeyed, and in stepping into the threshold as instructed, his awareness scattered away, absorbed into the thickening, misty gateway to the Netherworld.
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Slowly, conscious thought crawled back to Hezron’s groggy mind. His eyes opened gradually, to a sight unlike anything he had seen before. All about was a dense mist of a deep gray and below him it condensed into a pit of ebony. Above him, however, the swirling matter took on a dark red hue, much like the color of the Bloodstar, except darker. There was no earth, no sky, and no water; there was merely a chasm of the rolling darkness. Hezron knew where he was. This was indeed the Netherworld, the very core of unholy energy from whence came many evils of inestimable might.
“Welcome, Hezron.”
The priest turned to see the source of those words. Movement was not the same as in Afanadar; this was not truly a physical plane but one of spiritual energy. Hezron looked in passing at himself, to see that his body was becoming slightly translucent. That came as no surprise; he knew that if he remained here too long, he would eventually be absorbed into the massive deepness of this place.
“You stand in a pocket dimension, my domain, an isolated segment of the Netherworld.”
Hezron raised an eyebrow. In a place such as this, the isolation of which the spirit referred was not one of defense. It was one of imprisonment. But the priest was not so foolish as to reveal his discernment. There were other matters to address.
The spirit was garbed in a cloak of darkness, and its body seemed fashioned of the same stuff this world was made of; a gray, heavy mist. It appeared to have the whitish gleam of animalistic fangs, but no mouth, and wicked eyes of yellow tinged at the edges with scarlet.
“Who are you?” inquired the priest.
The spirit laughed with soft wickedness. “I am the Nether King. I am the Master, the great facilitator of the Age of Sorrows.”
Hezron gasped in horror. He had presumed this was some low level spirit creature, perhaps related to the shadow renders now long destroyed. Things were, it seemed, much worse than that.
“You claim to be . . . the very god of the bat fiends?”
Now the creature exulted in malicious laughter. Bat fiends were the term applied to the sons of the Enemy of Afanadar, the liltus. That would make this spirit being the Enemy spoken of . . . His unholy name mortals spoke even after his banishment with inlaid terror . . .
“Valk Hahwra,” whispered Hezron in the grips of horror. “Son of the Unspoken.”
“My reputation precedes me!” cackled the dark god. “Yes, I am the eldest son of the Unspoken, he who sired the Nether Kings. I am flattered that you know my history so well. My father, Infernum, must be very pleased as well.”
Hezron flinched at that name. Infernum. Yes, that was the Father of Lies, the Sovereign Darkness, and the Unspoken. Legends acclaimed him as the first evil of all the worlds, the mightiest of all the wicked. And here was his most powerful and oldest spawn, Valk Hahwra, the liltu king.
A priest of the most holy divine was mingling with the most wicked god ever to grace Afanadar with his presence. The irony was too vast for Hezron to contemplate.
“What do you want of me?” Hezron Uriah tried to poise his question as a demand, but it vocalized as something more akin to a whisper.
“Hezron, Hezron, I have made promise to you time and time again, promise of a reward. I will hope you do not doubt the truth of what I say.”
The priest shifted uncomfortably, for the premise of threat was behind the deity’s cunning professions. Only two questions, then, that the man required answering. The first:
“What, pray tell, of my actions so moved you as to reward such as I? Have I done any such great favor as to deserve your benevolence?”
Valk Hahwra’s eyes twinkled with malicious delight. “Your endeavors which please me are twofold; one of these complete, the other as yet in progress. The former was of course the carrying out of the planeshift; the gateway is most . . . pivotal. Now that the door is thus in place, your latter contribution shall come into play. All required of you in this is hence: Accept the gift I yield you.”
The priest’s perceptive head spun. It made sense; stark to his mind, the pieces fell of their own accord into place. Valk Hahwra was banished from Afanadar, cast out for his wicked actions long ago. Yet, his tendrils of power remained, for mortals retain will, and of a great misfortune to the innocent many chose to further the purposes of the dark god. Quite obviously, the Liltu King’s grasp was still greatly lessened as a result of the banishment. So, to rectify the situation, he needed a portal created by a being without any prior connection to him. Hezron knew, however, that more was necessary for one to overcome a banishment of any sort of caliber.
“Then, only one thing left to ask. What gift is it that you promise me?” asked Hezron, although he had already a fairly clear understanding of what Valk Hahwra would offer. After all, he was the Liltu King.
“Hezron, my friend, I think you know.”
The priest nodded, looking down at the misty floor apprehensively.
“I have already done wickedness . . . To accept your proposal . . . I would be committing a sin against Erare of the worst sort.”
The spirit being scoffed. “I know your soul, Hezron. You desire power; your ambition to receive it is great. Here I offer you power immeasurably beyond your own capacity to attain.”
The man felt frail in that moment, far less than powerful.
“I know your fears, Hezron. You have a keen mind, a knack for holding extraordinary knowledge with little effort. Your body, however, has trouble keeping up. You fear death, of course, as all mortals do, knowing that death will squander your cognitive abilities.”
Hezron Uriah made no move to dispute the perceptive claim.
“Yet, you have a greater fear. Age brings more than death; it breeds forgetfulness, eventually even dullness of mind. You are terrified that one day, you will wake up, and you will be in the midst of dotage, unable to recall or use the vast lore your conscious has devoured.”
The priest reeled at how easily the wicked creature had unwrapped his layers, peered directly into the deepest trepidations which clutched at his heart. Indeed, every word the Liltu King had spoken was entirely true.
Valk Hahwra spoke now in tones just above a whisper. “Hezron, Hezron, I offer you the design to oust the seemingly unstoppable stranglehold of mortality. I hold before you a permeating existence, a lasting chance to increase your wisdom. I will make you an immortal, Hezron. All that is required of you is to say, ‘Yes.’”
Immortality. The god dangled before Hezron the most tantalizing gift any human could desire. Hezron Uriah knew the ramifications of accepting the spirit creature’s proposal. When dealing with the wicked, everything came at a great cost. Here, nothing short of the man’s humanity was at stake. Still, just as Valk Hahwra had deduced, Hezron was petrified of losing the mental skills he cherished so highly.
“Very well. Let this unholy covenant be.”
Chapter 1: Exile
Three trees intertwined, growing together tall and imposing. They weathered time and danger, unified in their mighty, protective splendor. It seemed they would stand time indefinite.
Then, a sickness was conceived within the eldest, tallest of the trees. With inexorable voracity, the sickness spread throughout the tree, and quickly continued on into the other two. They blackened and withered, then burst into brilliant flames. The smoke unraveled itself towards the sky, and amidst it could be seen a laughing, demonic face. The sickness spread; the evil smoke conquered the air.
Darkness hid the light of day.
Syvka jolted awake, a cold dread seated in the pit of his stomach. The dream did not fade at the brink of wakefulness as the usual were wont. Rather, this lingered in his chest like a cold, a heaviness that would not be easily sent away. In the service of Erare now for eleven years, the priest knew that he had experienced no ordinary dream. This was a vision, a portent of things to come, and it had been given to him.
Without hesitance, the priest swung out of bed and reached for his quill. In quick yet neat script, Syvka penned in explicit diction every detail of the dream. Even as he wrote the words, the priest’s hands shook with fear. He knew that this was a vision of grave significance. His first action thereafter was to clean himself up and change out of his bedclothes and into the proper attire of the clergy.
Syvka remembered then the unsettling suspicions of the night before. Hezron Uriah, dabbling in the forbidden art of necromancy. He hated to believe such a thing, but his observations and piercing intuition left little room for any other possibility. Still, Syvka, respected the other priest for his achievements in the brotherhood, even if the man was a touch eccentric.
Glancing at the hydrochrona, a complex mechanism the priesthood had devised to tell time that pumped illuminated water through a network of glass tubes, Syvka knew it was early, six hours past the moon’s apex. It was not too early, all the priests woke up while the morning was yet young to begin their work.
In his quiet manner, Syvka slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and made his way to Hezron Uriah’s study.
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The misty portal shifted, accommodating the priest as he left the Netherworld and returned to the physical plane. Looking around his tiny study, Hezron felt almost too big for it after experiencing the dark, rolling expanse where his new master tarried. Hezron felt within himself a new power, a growing creature inside that tensed with nigh irrepressible strength. This newfound might was his gift and his curse: Hezron Uriah was now among the spawn of the bat-fiends.
The Liltu King had given him many instructions the night before, even as he wrought the massive change that would realize Hezron as a vampire. In obedience to those instructions, Hezron muttered a few words of power, and the planeshift gate shimmered, then disappeared. The door was closed, but not locked; the priest could easily reopen it.
As could anything on the other side.
Valk Hahwra had also divined a danger to their conniving; in secrecy, he had spied on several of the other clergy members, and had found that one was growing suspicious of Hezron’s activities.
“Be careful of Syvka, very much so,” the Vampire King had dictated. “He is keen and righteous, and could present to be the foil of our plans if we do not act against him. Syvka must be removed, it is imperative, but you must not stain your hands with his blood. I want him out of our way, but killing or harming him will draw attention from more than just human threats. He must be expulsed from the brotherhood by his own kindred. Hark, even as we speak, the man readies himself to confront you.”
Hezron walked to a cabinet shoved into the corner opposite his desk, and opened one of the smoothly carved oak doors. Pushing aside unwanted items, he found what he searched for, a small box etched roughly out of poor quality wood. Inside was a delicate looking blade, starkly ornamental in its meager storage. Hezron lifted it, felt the smooth, cold curve of the handle in his calloused fingers, and poured his eyes over the sharp, elaborate blade that had runes carefully scripted onto its deadly surface. This was a scittarra, a sacred elven blade, one of many given to the priesthood long ere this grim day. Dark irony it was that a tool used to fight the most vile of wickedness would now serve so unholy a purpose.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Hezron nodded, indeed, he had been expecting that knock almost eagerly. Slipping the dagger into a pocket sewn into the inside of his robes, the priest moved to answer the summons.
The door swung open, and Hezron’s tarnished golden eyes met with feigned surprise the careworn face of Syvka.
“Why . . . hello, my good friend. What’s brought your welcomed presence here so early?”
The priest’s visage became sullen. “Hezron, I wish to speak with you on some concerns I have for your well being.”
Hezron hid his smirk and tried to look confused. “Well, Syvka, I am certain that I do not know of any reason for such worries. Please, though, come in, and let us discuss these matters further.”
The other priest followed, closing the door silently behind him. Syvka took in the messy study, and found it typical of the highly intelligent scribe who was often so engaged in his work as to hardly find the time to lift so much as one sock off the floor. Despite the grim accusations he planned to confront Hezron with, Syvka could not help but smile. Surely, this familiar, quiet, friendly, and humble man had not become embroiled in such insidious activities?
Hezron turned to look at Syvka and gave him a smile. “Now, friend, please, tell me what troubles you.”
The other priest sighed, then gritted his teeth, determined to follow through with his inquisition, in spite of all apprehension. He nigh blurted out, scarcely able to control his thought at this point, “I am afraid that you are dabbling in necromancy.”
Hezron’s face did not so much as flinch, giving no hint as to what he had or had not done. He set his gaze cool and calm upon his fellow clergy man, and asked, “What would bring you to such a conclusion, dear Syvka?”
The man inhaled, and closed his eyes. Then, “Hezron, the Unholy Written is missing. I saw you in the vaults, a place where no scribe needs visit. And your manner has changed. You seem as one who guards against discovery, as one guilty of actions not to be proud of.”
The thin man smiled with almost mild amusement. “You come against me with a charge based on loose circumstance and general perception, a charge that could ruin any role I might have as part of this priesthood, a charge that is worthy of my death should it be proven to be true. Syvka, the sins of which you propose I entertain are insurmountable, and are based on not one shred of evidence.”
Syvka’s face became apologetic, for he was not unfriendly with this man. “Hezron, I am merely concerned for your well being. I do not wish to call down evil on your name; only to help you if you have become ensnared in harmful practices.”
“I do not doubt the sincerity of your words, Syvka,” said hezron. Casually, he walked over to the other, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “My dear friend, I assure you that I neither have nor will do anything that you have not.”
The priest’s eye’s flashed at these words, and then Syvka knew Hezron was just as embroiled in wickedness as he had imagined. As a former mercenary trained by a now disbanded group of second-rate dabblers in necromancy, Syvka had a dark past which he had hoped to rectify in submitting his life and will over to Erare.
With catlike grace, Hezron snapped out the blade enclosed in his robes. Possessed of a new, uncanny strength and speed, he pulled Syvka closer, and looked with murderous wrath into the other man’s eyes.
“How sad, that the Syvka we thought reformed would engage in such a horrible act!” said Hezron with mock distress. Confused, shaken, and given little time to react, Syvka moved to defend himself, yet the action was unnecessary. Hezron turned the scittarra inward, plunging it with a wicked blow into his abdomen. Blood cascaded in hot showers from the sudden wound, splattering on Syvka’s shocked form.
“Hezron, why do you do this terrible thing?” said the priest with earnest fret.
“Dear friend,” gasped Hezron as he collapsed into unconsciousness, unsheathing the blade from his stomach and slapping it with vindication into Syvka’s hand. “The question is . . wh-why is your scittarra covered in my blood?”
Hezron Uriah cried out for help, then collapsed to the earth and knew nothing. Stunned beyond action, Syvka stood away, looking from the red stained blade which bore the marking denoting it as his, and to the fatal wound pumping life from Hezron’s midsection. His brain surged with unharnessable thoughts and evermore panic-filled questions.
What brought Hezron to do this? Why would he commit suicide when his honor was yet unmarred? How did it seem that Hezron had planned for this whole scenario? Most importantly, why had he found it so crucial to make Syvka look like he had killed him?
Something grave was afoot, that much was obvious.
Responding to Hezron’s seemingly desparate cry, several priests had come scrambling to answer the call and lend aid. Syvka heard scattered voices congregating, all drawing to Hezron’s door. He turned, the blade still in hand, all wits flown form him. There was no way out of this; no windows, no other doors, no simple explanation. For all intents and purposes, the priest had just committed murder.
A fist pounded on the door, and a sharp voice demanded, “Hezron, are you alright?”
Syvka heard himself say, “No, he’s not.”
The door swung open, and the first face through was that of Varn Denshawrn, concern plasterd over his strong countenance. Several others followed, priests of lower rank who lived somewhat near to Hezron Uriah. Some of them had been trained by the man lying on the floor, and others by the one holding the blood-dripping holy knife.
Even as they sprang in, worried for the life of their colleague, they recoiled as they digested the grisly scene. With disbelief, their eyes took in the sorry visage of Syvka, apparent murder weapon in hand.
“Syvka,” said Varn in breathless agony and incredulity. “What has brought you to this wicked deed?”
“I tell you, I wrought nothing wicked upon anyone! I did not hurt Hezron; this act was of his own accord,” said Syvka with deepening despair.
Grief evident in his voice, the highest priest of the order thrust his hand to the crumpled form laying on the floor, “There lies the fallen victim, whose life still drips from the instrument of his doom, which you grip in your blood stained hand! What strength of voice can you lend to shield yourself from this incriminating scene?!”
Dropping to his knees, the scittarra finally slipping away from his grasp, Syvka wondered aloud but to himself, “What am I to do?”
Varn Denshawrn moved across the room and beckoned Syvka to rise. Locking him in a concerned and puzzled gaze, the headmaster said, “We will uncover the truth of these affairs. I am sorry, my friend, truly, but a man is dead, and you strongly look the cause. The priesthood must be called to council, you must be put to trial. We must deal with care and no delay these matters at hand.”
Turning to the others, Varn said, “The body must be tended to, take to this task. Someone escort Syvka to his quarters to rest and draw his wits. I go to call the other high priests; in some hours the council must begin.”
With a solemn face and heavy heart, Syvikarun Zerrahn. Former high priest and keeper of the vaults of Erare, gathered his possessions from his private quarters, of which there were very few. The trial with the priest council had been considerably short, only four or so hours in its entirety. There had been nothing in favor of Syvka’s defense, aside from his own word and recently good reputation, which, as high standing as these were, held not a candle to the strong circumstancial evidence against the upright man coupled with his less upstanding history. All the men trying him were close friends, disbelieving that he would do such a thing, but unable to dispute the apparent facts. Rather than enact any destructive punishment on his person, they took away his dignity instead. Stripped of his priestly vestments and appointments, Syvka was commanded to leave Illaraz altogether, never to return again.
Exile. He could scarcely believe it. Why had Erare allowed this to happen to him? Surely, Syvka had made multitudes of transgressions in his younger days as a foolhardy mercenary, unaware of the precious truths set forth by the Only Begotten of the Creator. But, upon learning the folly of his ways, had he not changed, repented, become a faithful and true servant of Erare? What had he done wrong, how had he displeased his spiritual master so? To these earth-shattering questions, the excommunicated priest could find no answers.
His things collected, the priest resignedly made his way out of the cathedral dedicated to Erare.
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Coughing and wheezing, Hezron Uriah came to consciousness. He tried to sit up, but a gentle and strong hand pressed him back down to the soft mattress.
Easy now, my friend. You’ve last quite a bit of blood, so you’ll be needing time enough off your feet.”
Hezron peeled his eyes open, to look at the familiar face of Varn Denshawrn. The headmaster smiled down at him kindly, seated next to Hezron’s bed, which he assumed was in the hospice, the area of the cathedral dedicated to those afflicted with various ailments.
“How are you feeling?” asked Varn with earnest concern.
“Worse stomach ache I’ve had in years,” said Hezron in the façade of a tough victim.
Varn laughed, but quickly sobered. “Syvka wounded you deeply, Hezron. We thought you were surely going to perish. He said you did it to yourself, but . . . Tell me, Hezron, what happened back there?”
Slowly, the conniving priest eased himself into a sitting position, wincing at the very real pain, although with the gift the Vampire King had given him the self-inflicted wound was by no means fatal. He forced his face into a glossy, worried, and upset guise, and carefully began to tell Varn Denshawrn what ‘really’ happened.
“I really . . . really don’t understand it, Varn. He came knocking on my door early, visibly upset about something. We spoke, and he mentioned something about a cover-up.”
“Cover-up?” questioned the headmaster.
“I think . . . this is just a hunch, Varn, but I have a suspicion . . . Don’t get upset, I can’t prove my speculation, but I think Syvka was slipping back to his old ways. I think . . . he was playing with the dark arts again.”
Varn raised an eyebrow. “Interesting that you would suggest that. Go on.”
“Well, we spoke, with fair amiability. Then, just as he was leaving, he attacked me with something. I couldn’t see what it was; all I remember after that was my blood racing out, and I lost consciousness.”
“When you spoke, did he mention anything else of significance, anything unusual?”
Hezron furrowed his brow, then said, “He did say something about an artifact he needed to extract from the vaults, but nothing more peculiar than that."
The headmaster raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “I will check it out.”
“Varn . . . what could have driven poor Syvka so far from his noble path? I thought . . . I thought he had changed,” Hezron commented softly with convincing worry.
“I do not know, Hezron, I wish I did. Things would be far less confusing, at the very least. Well, get some rest my friend. I will see you in the morning.”
With that, Varn rose and left the injured priest to contemplate in isolation. Grinning to himself for his ingenuity and crafty acting, Hezron swung out of bed and stood, his body now feeling little or no of the effects of the normally fatal incision. Feeling inside the bandage around his abdomen, the priest’s grin only widened when his fingers met the already healing tissue. Yes, Valk Hahwra’s gift was truly great; after a deadly blow, he had only a scar to show for it.
Varn Denshawrn would go to investigate where the Bloodstar had been kept, and find a special surprise waiting there for him. Then, Hezron would have to leave the cathedral, and continue with his plans elsewhere, for the headmaster’s death would prove as too conspicuous. Hezron ripped off the bandage and threw it down, stretching his limbs as circulation returned.
The door swung open, and in walked the priest in charge of tending to Hezron in his formerly wounded state. Hezron grinned and appraised the other man.
“You . . . You’re practically healed . . .”
Hezron chuckled. He had planned to take his leave immediately, but why not have a meal first?
Moving with unnatural speed, the priest-turned-vampire sped across the room, grappling the other’s throat. Slamming his victim against the floor, Hezron cackled at his terrified scream, and dipped down to indulge a newly quickening hunger rising deep from within . . .
Chapter 2: Political Intrigue
The tavern doors swung open, and in strode a tall, dangerous looking man. With his steady gray eyed gaze, the mercenary appraised the room, until he saw the one he looked for. A small, cloaked figure sat in the corner, face covered in shadows. Black cloak trailing out behind him, the man walked straight to his appointment without trying to act inconspicuous. Unlike most in his profession, the mercenary did not try to operate clandestinely. He got his job done, that was all he cared about.
Koril approached the shadow-encroached figure and plopped a big brown satchel down on the table.
“There. Got it for you.”
Although he could not see the other’s face, he felt the man smile. “Well done, Koril. I will pay you in full.”
His comrade tossed Koril a small pouch filled with coins. From its heft, the mercenary had a feeling it would be quite satisfactory as payment for the item he had appropriated.
“Did you have to spill blood to get this?” asked the hooded figure.
“Only the usual amount,” replied Koril nonchalantly.
“Sit down, friend. I have news.”
The mercenary obeyed. He had been working with this mysterious person for some time now, and even though Koril did not know his real name or even what the man’s face looked like, he had come to trust the secretive benefactor. At least, to trust him as far as mercenaries will, which is not ever an indefinite sort of trust.
“The thane of Illaraz has been murdered,” said the man quietly. “Authorities are trying to keep it quiet, and have succeeded for the most part. They don’t want to cause panic, for such news would upset not only Illaraz but the entire Empire as well.”
Koril furrowed his brow. “Can’t keep something like that hushed for long. Who would do such a thing?”
“A very influential assassin’s guild, the Krow’s Nest. I’m sure you’re familiar with the lot.”
The mercenary nodded. “I’m acquainted,” he said with pointed flatness that suggested much more history than he was voicing.
“There’s more. There has been an attempt on the life of the thane of Seltland. His home was set ablaze, and he escaped only by dumb luck.”
“But,” muled Koril, “that can’t be the work of the Krow’s Nest. They stay in Illaraz; they’re careful and wouldn’t try two such huge murders simultaneously. Even with all their pull of authority, there’s no way they can simply get away with such crimes against the Empire.”
“Quiet your voice!” hissed the cloaked man. Without realizing it, Koril’s anxiousness had put his voice at a level just below shouting. Luckily, however, no one had seemed to notice.
“Yes, you are correct. It is not the work of the Krow’s Nest. It is the doing of a man in your profession. He calls himself Raize.”
Koril balked. “Raize?! He’s the most feared killer in the Empire! Rumors say that he has dark, unholy powers . . . Wicked things I dare not speak of.”
“Many say he is a lilith,” added the cloaked man nonchalantly.
The mercenary shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. There haven’t been lilith in hundreds of years, they don’t just pop up. It takes a . . .”
Koril’s voice trailed off, and then he stared hard at the other man. “Are you saying that . . .?”
“Yes, netherwizards have returned to the Empire.”
Koril scoffed. “I’m sorry; I just can’t believe something that extreme. It's the stuff of dark feytales told to children.”
The shrouded being shrugged. “Believe whatever you want, Koril, but I’m telling you one thing. The attempt on the throne of Seltland and the murder of the thane of Illaraz are not coincidentally coinciding events. There is a major shift in power about to happen, and when the dust clears, the Empire is going to be steeped in blood as not since the Shadow War, as not since the very days which brought the Empire into existence. One week from now, there is going to be action taken against the Emporer. If this attempt is successful, then the guilds will have the Empire in the palm of their hands. They will put an official on the throne that is no more than their puppet; Illaraz is already falling to them because their royal bloodline has been erased. As for the throne of Seltland, its king has no heirs; when he dies, the guilds will make their move as well.
“Only one place of royalty maintains its integrity, for even the Emporer has no legitimate heirs. The subkingdom of Karada is mostly free of guild troubles. But it doesn’t matter. The guilds will control two seats of three thanes, as well as the Emporer. In short, the Empire will be theirs, Koril.”
The mercenary’s head spun. “What . . . what must be done?”
“You have to go to the Emporer and become his personal body guard. Only you have the skills to rebuke the dangers of the guild, Koril. It must be you. There is no one else I can trust with this task.”
“I’m supposed to just walk up to the Emporer and say, ‘Hey, someone is going to kill you, but I’ll stop them, so trust me to save you for them even though you have no idea who I am, and give me lots of money for it’?” Koril asked sardonically.
“Koril, the Emporer is well aware of the threat to his life, and he also has gotten wind of your activities. He would gladly welcome your services, and he will show you much affection . . . in the form of very large piles of gold,” said the man with an invisible grin.
Koril smiled widely. “I mentioned how interested I am in this job, didn’t I?”
“Glad to hear you’re pleased,” snorted the faceless voice. “Go home and get yourself ready. Rest up tonight; you’ll need it after all you’ve been through. In the morning, head to Haverna Castle and present yourself to the Emporer.”
The mercenary sighed. “What is happening to our world, my friend?”
“Dark tides fall, but it will not last forever. We will see dawn again.”
The two men said their farewells, and went their separate ways.
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Later that same night, Koril found his way home after a few celebratory drinks in the light of his recent affluence. As the guilds grew busier, rich men grew nervous, and Koril was more than happy to relieve them of that worry, as well as a few nice bags of coin. He burped and fumbled with the key, then opened the door. Instantly, Koril felt that something was wrong, out of place, and sobriety quickly replaced the effects of alcohol.
Someone was in his house.
He peered into the darkness, and could see nothing but knew that his intuition had not failed him. Acting on instinct and with animal-like speed, Koril rushed through the door frame, slamming it shut and grabbing the darkened figure standing behind it, he swung the intruder around and pushed him down into a nearby chair.
“Don’t you move,” growled the bristling mercenary.
“I won’t,” promised an oddly familiar voice.
Koril lit the wick of a lamp, and turned to see the man’s face was also not strange to him.
“Syvka!”
“Yes,” he smiled. “Glad you haven’t forgotten me entirely.”
“Forgotten you?! Please! You taught me everything I know!”
Syvka’s face fell at that. “And I wish I hadn’t. But, nevermind that. I am not here to chitchat. You must flee this place, Koril. Leave the city; leave the Empire if you can. They are coming for you tonight, Koril, and they will have you if you do not go now.”
“Who’s coming for me? Why? What in the name of the Only Begotten are you talking about?” demanded the mercenary.
“They have seen everything you’ve done, what you are capable of. You’ve saved several officials that the guilds want removed, and you’re a danger to . . . the ones coming here tonight. Just as I am a danger to their plans, they will come after me and kill me, and for you their designs are little different. You might claim to be just in it for cash, but you have proved your self a road block, and-”
Syvka broke off, and glanced around furtively. His brows knitted together, and he demanded in an urgent whisper, “The light, Koril! Put out the light!”
Koril wasted no time in following the command. Even if he didn’t understand Syvka, he trusted him deeply, perhaps even more than mercenaries should give trust. So, he killed the flame.
“What is it?”
“They have come!”
“Who?”
“No time for that,” snapped Syvka urgently. “Down, quickly!”
Koril felt pressure sweeping through the window behind him. As he ducked, black lightening raced in, and the glass shattered forcefully. The mercenary threw up his cloak, protecting himself from the shards, and dropped to the floor as the dark lightening crashed through his house, demolishing whatever it came in contact with.
Syvka darted out of the chair, and swung behind it as the evil magic slammed into the piece of furniture. Like so many twigs, the chair blasted apart, and the former priest was knocked backward. Quickly he recovered himself, and rose. Gesturing to Koril, he attempted to close the distance between himself and the mercenary.
“Swiftly, now!” he hissed. “Come to me before they send another!”
Koril obeyed, although he could not see what defense any man could summon against this wicked power.
“Hold fast to my hand,” said the outcasted priest, “and be still!”
Again, the mercenary had no choice but to obey. He held the other man by his hand, and watched in puzzlement as the shadow-covered face of his age-old friend mouth silently words that he could not interpret. Koril felt a haze come over his mind and body, a dreamlike feeling which made him want to go straight to sleep. He fought it, however, and watched with amazement as the shadows raced from every corner of his dark living room, and wrapped themselves around the pair. Still holding the mercenary’s hand tightly, Syvka led Koril through the house as if it were his own. Before it had even registered in the bewildered man’s mind, both men were well outside of his house, watching its destruction from a distance, still cloaked in protective shadows.
“Look,” said Syvka, pointing towards the mercenary’s house. There were three figures dressed in black, blending in with the darkness of the night. They orchestrated the black lightening, and in moments brought the entire construct crashing to the ground. They poked around for a few moments, trying to see if there were any survivors, but were unsuccessful at any such discovery. So, they turned, and disappeared into the night.
After several moments of careful waiting, Syvka let the aether of hiding relax and fade away. Koril looked at him, thunderstruck.
“Who . . . who were they?”
“Netherwizards. I had thought such powerful ones gone forever; alas, I was wrong.”
“Have you any idea of who they might be?” asked the mercenary.
“Only of one am I certain, a man I once held as a dear friend but who has proven to be a murderous traitor. He is a priest, or was, and has done a horrible thing, both to me and himself."
Koril continued to look at him inquisitively.
“No. I will talk on these things no more, Koril. We can stay here no longer, and to be together is foolish for both of us.”
Syvka gripped the other’s hands. “Run, Koril, run. Make yourself nonexistent. Get to the Emporer if you must; then get out of Seltland, out of the Empire. No one is safe here any longer; how much more danger we are in when wanted dead. Go, Koril, and do not look back.”
He let go, and stepped away. “Take care, old friend. Stay alive.”
“You too,” replied Koril with a strained smile. He glanced at his house, which was in shambles. “No dying for you, then, if I must stay alive.”
The mercenary looked back, and was shocked to see that Syvka was gone, simply gone. He turned around and around, peering into the shadows, but the other man had vanished.
Syvka had once been a widely renowned mercenary, moreso than Koril, Raize, or any two others put together. His skills were amazing, and many had thought with good reason that he had something more backing his actions than natural ability. Indeed, rumors had it that Syvka had once trifled with the necromantic powers, and although he’d abandoned the practice, it had marked and changed him ever since. Of course, after tonight, Koril now knew these rumors to be undeniably true. Nonetheless, Koril had a deep respect for Syvikarun Zerrahn, as he had been Koril’s first mentor and truest friend in the trade of the mercenary. Despite a grisly past, Koril knew the man possessed strong convictions of honor and morality, which tormented him for many years and probably still did for all the sinful practices he had entertained. In fact, it was the guilt of his former actions, his regret borne of his sense of morals, which drove Syvka to leave the dying necromancer’s way and mercenary work behind, to become a priest of Erare.
Now, however, Koril had other things on his mind. He felt the urgency of Syvka’s warning, but he still felt an obligation to the Emporer. Surely, if beings such as these netherwizards wanted the important man dead, then he was in a lot of trouble. Koril could do little against such horrible magic, but he could at least warn the Emporer of what headed his way.
Besides, there was money involved!
Koril chuckled to himself. Yeah, sure, money. What could be more important?
With those lofty thoughts, the mercenary made his way out of the city, and towards Castle Haverna.
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Hezron Uriah dumped the jar’s contents into the thick, murky surface. The pool of blood swelled as its volume grew, the grisly vat filled now to the brim. He felt sick, looking at the ocean of countless innocent people’s life stuff. The former priest felt like what he was, a monster, and he hated it, but he had chosen his path.
It was grievously too late to turn back now.
In the basement of an old, abandoned winery, Hezron prepared a spell that was the greatest milestone of his master’s plans. He motioned to the two others, his fellow servants of the dark Liltu King. Both were powerful necromancers, although not as learned as he, and had proved as great aids in his wicked plans. One, Raize, was a human, a mercenary. Already a dealer in death, his transition to vampire had been unsettlingly second-nature. But, the former priest was unimpressed by the intellectually lacking killer. As for the other, Illithid, he gave Hezron cause to worry. While not as insightful into the ancient lore of Afanadar’s dusty tomes, this disturbing creature had been sent by the Liltu King straight out of the Netherworld. Illithid was a true monster, born of an alien race, and was of the class of mind flayer.
Mind flayers were revolting, dangerous creatures. Their faces looked like depraved squids, their tentacles adapted for locking in the heads of their victims so that they could gorge upon their brains. Mind flayers were the strongest form of psionist vampires; thus with their heightened psychic powers they were among the most dangerous of all vampiric beings, even if they were physically less imposing than others of their race. Hezron knew that he was this one’s superior only at Valk Hahwra’s whim.
“Raize, Illithid, come hither, let us finish this,” beseeched the leader of the trio.
They obeyed, and he started the chant in the ancient words of a necromantic spell. In suit, the two other men began to profess the words of the unholy decanter. With little delay, With little delay, the blood began to bubble and stir, popping and hissing as the casting worked its magic. Then, the crimson fluid erupted, and it sounded as though a tremendous beast roared in awakened fury.
The blood began to bind together, and as it began to coagulate, a monstrous form could be seen coming together within. Tightening and swirling, not one drop of the plasma was allowed to escape the living vortex. The creature that was forming was tall and fearsome, and already it exuded a pervading sense of power and terror. Quickly, the details of the entity sharpened into view.
“Welcome, lord!” cried Hezron. “You are Vrathnua Drathuul, incarnation of the Liltu King!”
With this announcement, the spell was completed.
Standing well over any man, the mighty being was a fearsome sight. Draped over his shoulders was a sweeping black cloak, and his face was pale and wicked. The creature’s ears swept out like the wings of a bat, and his head was bald and laden with thick, pulsating veins. From the incarnation’s blood red lips curved two sharp, glistening incisors.
“Welcome, lord,” repeated all three necromancers in unison.
Vrathnua Drathuul stretched, looking at his long, thin, clawed hands, and apprised the rest of his new body. “This will do.”
The liltu demigod looked up now at his three servants.
“Ah, my children, my dear followers. Thank you for all you have done to help my purposes. I assure you, your rewards have only begun.”
“Command us, master,” said Hezron.
“Bring me the Emporer’s head.”
