by Rex Jameson
“What about the orcs and the paladins?” Julian asked. “The wood elves?”
“It is time we used our enemies against each other,” Orcus said. “Let them try to contain the Prince of Demons or let them take the long way to Kingarth while we build our forces. While they are distracted in the northeast, we will take back the portal in the west. With two million undead behind me, each immune to the stare of Demogorgon, we will see who holds the field.”
28
The Prince Beneath the Plains
The man known in Surdel as Theodore Crowe crouched beside a strange and wide oak tree, fifty feet or so into the western tree line beside the open field north of Corinth. He checked around him for any of the Reborn from Perketh or the undead of Orcus, but he found none. He sensed no stragglers from Visanth in the bushes either. That didn’t mean there were no people around, though. If he put his ear close to the odd, almost-black trunk, he’d have heard chanting in the darkness below.
He walked into a hollow and pushed an ancient door inward. There were no torches at the top of the stairs—too dangerous. Someone might see the light from the outside. He descended slowly, partly out of respect for the delicate internals of the honed-out tree, but also because he was still distracted by the events of the past week. He hadn’t completely failed in what he’d set out to do, but he had definitely wasted time trying to channel the Visanthi prince toward a path that aided him in his objectives.
The chanting from the monks grew louder with each step. Hymns echoed as he passed where the wood ended and the stone began. Someone else had dug these tunnels. Long dead men who wanted to walk amongst the lands without being seen or captured by men or demons. The channels extended across southern Surdel—even as far as Mount Godun.
The chanting became more pronounced and recognizable.
Oleg… Olga… stiga…
After an eternity in exile, the calls of the faithful were always welcome and intoxicating.
“Yes,” he said. “Rise, my sister.”
He exited the winding stairs and into a well-lit, humongous chamber, far beneath the earth. The vaulted roof was charred black in the definitive pattern that mirrored the raven burnt into the field above. In the center of the stone-pillared room was an altar where a long-forgotten, massive man slumbered for thousands of years. His skin was hard as marble, and over his face lay a piece of cloth that covered his mouth and tied behind his head.
Stark, Klok Sven hjalper oss…
“In time,” the man known as Theodore said. “Once she’s gone.”
The chanting stopped, and the seven monks around the altar turned toward him. A hundred men and women dressed as ravens also stopped their chanting where the light from the torches ended. Thomas of Godun, one of the Monks of Godun, threw back his simple hood, a smile beaming across his face.
“Prince Oleg,” Thomas exulted, “Prince of Chaos and brother to Olga, Princess of the Night and Companion to the Holiest of Holies!”
“It’s good to be home,” Oleg said.
He shed his clothes and peeled back the thick skin that covered his true form. Swirling darkness clung to his hands and dark, churning skin. The monks fell to their knees and raised their hands to the ceiling as they shouted praises for Sven, Oleg, and Olga. Oleg crossed the room to the altar and peered down at the slumbering Sven.
“Jarl Sven,” he whispered. He stroked his hand against the ancient skin and brown beard of the god. Each touch produced fiery sparks as the holiness of Sven fought against the chaos of a child of the Void.
Oleg’s mother and father had met in the Abyss and mated there as they fell into the blackness. Oleg and Olga were twins, and as they fell from their mother’s birthing canal into the absence, they screamed and cried together, alone and drifting within nothingness of the Void for untold eons. And then suddenly, she was gone from his arms, and he was left there in the drift alone.
He found her path after many more years. They had always been connected—though, more physically so in their shared embrace in the terrifying fall. As he had continued to fall, he felt her warmth and happiness in the real world, and it had given him hope. He followed that connection through the darkness until, one day, he found an opening into the underworld of Surdel, 500 years ago. He emerged with a handful of straggler demons, who had attached themselves to him in the darkness as he moved past, and they fled through the tunnels beneath the ice and out of Xhonia. He thought that when the paladins saw him, they would kill him, but they did not. Wide-eyed and aghast, they betrayed their dark elven comrades to allow the whole troop out of the caves unharmed.
They had thought he and the durun were hers—Mekadesh, their sworn demon lord. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. They said she had created the Abyss—his torturous birthplace. They said she had tried to kill all of the gods, the creators of the universe. It was not her that had saved his sister Olga. It was one of the remnants of her purge, a descendent of the Creators, who had pulled his sister out of the ether and gave her form—a beautiful raven that brought fear into the devious and the damned.
It was Jarl Sven who had saved her from the darkness and gave him a path out of a life of despair and loneliness, even if Sven had really only chosen Olga and never meant for Oleg to also emerge from the Void. And it was the demon lord Mekadesh who had put Sven to sleep beneath the earth, never to walk the grasses again or ride Olga across the oceans and into the bright daylight. And that time would need to come to an end. As long as Sven slept, so did Olga. Oleg knew it.
“The bitch must die!” Oleg said through gritted teeth. “Then you and Olga will rise once more!”
“Praise Jarl Sven!” Thomas of Godun exclaimed.
“Praise Jarl Sven!” the others chanted. “Praise Olga! Praise Oleg! Rise, Lords of Light and Darkness! Rise!”
29
The Defenders of Kingarth
Jeremy Vossen stared into the fire. His father Edward Vossen had been murdered right in front of him by his best friend Frederick Ross, and this is how his father, that great man, would be remembered. Burned in a pyre in a corner of Kingarth. Unheralded, unmarked, unsung, and forgotten.
The undead marched toward the city. They might arrive any minute. Lord Regent Ross had ordered the preparations made. Every grave unturned and set to flame. Every nook of the city was being searched for bones and crypts. Even the sewers were being cleaned of all filth and potential corpses by the population. That’s why no one else was here for his father’s cremation. Even the servants and poor had been put to work. Everyone’s life depended on action now, not reverence. The defense of Kingarth was paramount—not the whims of a broken man, even if he was a high lord of the south.
Not that that title had any meaning anymore. Jeremy’s estate was under siege and out-of-reach. He governed in absentia. Pigeons still came from King’s Harbor and Fomsea. Technically, Jeremy was the richest man in the realm, with the largest army—housed in King’s Harbor.
But he was no richer than his father, and that didn’t stop a demon from killing that wise, strong man in a dark hallway. Edward burned on unpainted logs in the clothes he had been killed in. Like a commoner. Like a nobody.
The drawbridge lowered behind him. He heard a single man’s footsteps walk across the bridge, wearing heavy armor. A single reinforcement from the besieged south.
“The city is saved,” he remarked sourly.
The footsteps turned toward him. They came closer and became more pronounced. Plate-on-plate. No horse. Perhaps he had walked from Wellby—a messenger here to see the Lord Regent.
“Who was he?” the man asked.
“My father,” Jeremy said.
The man inhaled a hiss.
“You dare—?” Jeremy demanded. He turned to find a somewhat familiar face. Simon Casterby, a man who had apparently witnessed Jeremy killing Frederick Ross outside of Perketh during the chaos of the Red Army. Simon was a mediocre nuisance—not even one Jeremy cared about. The man had declared himself an enemy through
his words and manners in the markets here in Kingarth, but that was a different time—back when such petty rivalries seemed to have a semblance of meaning. Edward Vossen’s death had changed Jeremy in a fundamental way. Stopping the undead and the demons was all that mattered anymore. The politics of old were a waste of time.
Jeremy returned his thoughts to the fire.
“I meant no offense,” Simon Casterby said. “I just hadn’t realized the High Lord was dead. Condolences are in order, and perhaps somber congratulations.”
Jeremy shook his head. “No. No, they’re not. Move along.”
“With your permission, I will pay my respects.”
A rush of emotions flowed through him, not least of which was confusion.
“Are you mocking me?” Jeremy asked. “I assure you sir that now is not the time—not if you value your head.”
“I’m unworthy of mockery,” Simon said, “and completely undeserving of justice or righteousness. You know who my master was.”
“How is the Blood Lord doing?”
“I know not,” Simon said. “The last I saw him he was sucking the life out of my horse and then his own master of arms—a man who, from what I understand, had helped raise him. Julian slaughtered our party. Ate their organs. He is a creature made devilish by demons, and I did nothing to stop him. I renounce my service to him with a heavy heart. I am not fit to judge anyone, much less a High Lord.”
“I watched my father die to a devil,” Jeremy said, nodding in understanding. “Sat right in the hallway outside of our murdered king’s chambers. Powerless. Useless. Frightened for my own life. Unworthy of this title. Unworthy of my father’s legacy.”
Simon put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.
“You came by way of the northern road?” Jeremy Vossen asked to distract himself from the tears building in the corners of his eyes. “Through Wellby?”
“No,” Simon admitted with a tremble in his voice. “The undead allowed me passage through Foxbro. It appears my master and his master had made a pact, and none of Julian Mallory’s men were to be harmed. Only Julian can do that. I walked through the burning ruins of towns, gaped at by fiends and pawed at by the resurrected undead… I feel their fiery green eyes on me still.”
“The champion of Surdel,” Jeremy said, “glared at me with dark eyes as he plunged his hand into my father, over and over again. He cursed me there, even more than I had already done myself. I too stand here out of the mercy of a demon. I am high lord of a state I don’t even control.”
“Nobility is your inheritance,” Simon said.
Jeremy gritted his teeth. “Again, Sir, with the mockery!”
“You misunderstand me,” Simon said. “Here, let me make amends.”
He dropped to a knee. “High Lord Vossen—”
“Stand up,” Jeremy insisted. “Do not mock me!”
“Please, if you would allow me to finish,” Simon said.
Jeremy returned to his silent contemplation of the pyre. His father’s skin had melted away now. Empty eye sockets peered into the heavens. A flaming jaw fell into the logs below.
“High Lord Vossen,” Simon intoned, “I, Simon Casterby, am a fool. I thought myself a better judge of character and nobility than I have any right to be. I sincerely apologize for my insolence and my insults to you and your house and bloodline.”
Jeremy waved him off.
“It is my honor to stand in attendance with you at your father’s funeral,” Simon said. “Let no man in all of Surdel look falsely on the memory of High Lord Edward Vossen. If any scoundrel, in any corner of this land, ever mocks this most austere event, I will beat them to death with my own bare hands.”
Jeremy chuckled at the absurdity of the oath, but Simon continued.
“Further, if anyone were to speak ill of this attendance,” Simon said, “then I would tell them this. One high lord attending a funeral is worth a million peasants, and a knight is worth a hundred more of the unbathed commoners who might snicker and sneer at two such men. And the only reason High Lord Edward Vossen did not have a million attendees and more at his wake was because he died in service to the kingdom at Kingarth. He served us again by having his body burned before it could be used against us. No other man can make such claims and be honest and true, but I swear to you that I was there, and I know what I know. And let any man speak ill of him or what I’ve said, and I’ll strike him down, for he does disservice to this great family, the king, and the realm.”
Jeremy cried at the kind words, spoken so earnestly. Simon remained on his knee, looking into the flames with Jeremy.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said. “You are kind to speak so plainly. I don’t think a better eulogy could have been commissioned by the Court Poet.”
“You honor me, Sir,” Simon said.
“Let me honor you further,” Jeremy said. “You say you have renounced your oaths to High Lord Mallory?”
“He’s not a man anymore, much less a lord worth serving,” Simon said. “He died and came back as a vampire and tool of demons. No oath I could have ever made would survive such conditions. I reject him and his status with full conscience and without reservation. He is an enemy of Surdel.”
“So, you are without a master?” Jeremy asked, more to the point.
Simon turned on his knee to face Jeremy.
“I am a wanderer knight,” Simon admitted with remorse, “but my commitment to the kingdom remains steel-clad and iron strong!”
Jeremy nodded. “I believe you, good knight.”
“Thank you,” Simon said.
“I’ve been named High Lord Vossen,” Jeremy said, “and in any other time, people would expect to me to think and act like my father. But if I followed his example and all of his lessons, you’d be dead where you stand.”
“Lord Vossen?” Simon asked with concern.
“When you first saw me,” Jeremy said. “I had just followed his orders. Kill any witnesses that might speak against the family name, no matter who they were. And I did. I murdered my best friend—a man I would have died for in any other circumstance. But that’s how I thought at the time: what would my father do? What would a high lord do? It meant something different then. What kind of man would I be now, standing outside of Perketh, watching as bandits raped and murdered while the undead roamed the land? Do you think I’d make the same decision now? Do you think I’d kill Freddie?”
Simon didn’t answer. Jeremy hung his head.
“What would my father do?” Jeremy asked. “What would a high lord do? I don’t know anymore. I only know that I must do whatever we can to stop this horde, and I can’t do that myself.”
“If you lead the way,” Simon said, “the people will follow. A man cannot just be where he has been. He must also be where he is going.”
Jeremy wiped the wetness from the corners of his eyes. He cleared his throat and turned toward Simon.
“The undead march on Kingarth,” Jeremy said, “and I, High Lord Jeremy Vossen, will see it beaten back from the ramparts. Will you, Simon Casterby, serve me and the house of Vossen in defending Surdel from the evil that besets it on all sides? Will you aid me in staying on the proper path, providing me with righteous direction and honest counsel? Will you lend me your sword and fight for me, to the death?”
“There is no greater duty and honor than serving the Kingdom of Surdel,” Simon said, tearing up. “I accept this charge with a full heart and a sound mind. I will defend you and your house, to the death!”
“Rise,” Jeremy said, “Sir Simon Casterby of House Vossen.”
Simon Casterby stood and admired the flames again beside his new master. Jeremy watched the last of his father’s bones crack and fall into the deeper parts of the pyre. With that sound, a final weight lifted from his chest, and he breathed deeply, free from guilt and with a sense of purpose for the first time in years. No more tortured memory of the Red Army. No more tortured visions of his dying father in the hallway. There might be time to grieve and reflect in the
future, but there were still more bodies to burn in the crypts. Men needed leadership, and the new king and regent needed council.
Jeremy turned on his oiled heels and marched quickly toward the castle.
“Blessed Cronos!” a guard yelled from the battlements. “I see a thousand green fires lit across the fields! Just beyond the southern approaches!”
“Green fires?” Simon asked as he ran in his clanking armor to catch up. “Those aren’t fires. Those are the eyes of the undead!”
30
The Lion and the Dragon
Prince Roshan Rasalased crumpled the piece of parchment in his hand. His mother Sabarna draped herself across a divan, sobbing inconsolably. The homed pigeon chirped on the banister of the palace balcony that adjoined the prince’s main room in Scythica, the capital of the Visanth Empire. It waited for seeds, as it had been trained, but Roshan couldn’t fathom rewarding anyone or anything in this situation.
He unwrapped his white turban and grabbed a black piece of cloth from a nearby drawer. He changed into a black thawb. He stared across the balcony patio, in the direction of the markets and bustle of the city below. It had been such a beautiful day. Now, it was a terrible, gloomy day, and the bright sunshine was a torment.
“My brother is dead,” Roshan acknowledged as he finished tucking his turban of mourning. “You were right, mother. I should have done more to keep him here.”
Sabarna wailed on the white couch, burying her face into the crook of her elbow.
“I wasn’t there to see what my brother saw,” he continued. “I did not feel his rage. I couldn’t have. I was spared looking at our father’s fresh, mortal wounds. I didn’t witness our father’s passing, and I didn’t have a knife at my throat as he did… But I understand Jandhar’s rage now.”