Asmundr tore the gauntlets from his hands. He touched his daughter’s cheeks with his bare hands. He had dreamed of doing so since the day her body was set to sea.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. Seems your old man has lost his way.” Asmundr smiled, tears spilling forth from his eyes. “You know how passionate I can be.”
“We all lose our way, daddy.” Meena said. “And you can be more pig-headed than most.” She laughed and Asmundr laughed along with her.
Vegard watched the paladin turn from blood thirsty zealot into a soft herd animal. His daughter morphing the great warrior and cooing him in an almost supernatural way.
Vegard realized how much the man was pained when he lost his daughter. A wound so great he would sacrifice all the realms to have her back.
But that was all gone now. Asmundr was at a place of peace. The thoughts of Abaniel and this ridiculous holy war were entirely gone from his mind. He wasn’t a crazed fanatic. He was a grieving father looking for a way to escape.
The Havan looked over at the kneeling warlock. “I thank you for this memory, warlock. I had forgotten what it was to be me. Forgot about my clan.”
Vegard nodded, unable to speak in his prone state.
“For the damage I have caused I want you to take my power. I gift my life to you freely, warlock. I hope it is enough.”
Vegard felt Asmundr ‘let go’. A tidal wave of energy struck the warlock. A force so powerful his mind could not structure cogent thoughts. He was pure energy. His material form fading to an afterthought as the energy ushered its way inside him.
Vegard felt himself stand. The summoned creatures of the Vicar no match for the energy given by the Jarl of the Ice Dragons. Soul energy billowed out of Vegard like smoke produced from a roaring flame. It could not be containel. Every pore teamed with energy.
Asmundr the Havan was a great man. A powerful man with energy that could have taken his tribe to immortality. Perhaps he was kissed, as well, Vegard thought. A feast like this was so rare. Most men were but a flicker—but the former paladin was nothing if not unique. Just an unfortunate incident had robbed him of his potential and perverted him to the side of this tyrannical god.
Now, he was a power that could be wielded by the warlock. Vegard saw that Wera had been bound by the summoned creatures, as well. The same that had ushered him to his knees moments earlier.
The Vicar didn’t look quite as confident as he had when the two had entered the room. His hands twisted about in intricate ways, a sign of summoning that Vegard was completely ignorant to. The man’s lips moved but Vegard heard nothing.
Enough of this, Vegard thought.
A dozen slimy tendrils tore from all around and latched themselves to the warlock. Vegard could feel his body pulled out to all sides as if strung up and awaiting the lash.
The ceremonial dagger of Pyris drove its way through Vegard’s chest. The Vicar, shaking and grinning, pushed the blade to the hilt.
“Abaniel gives me strength.” The Vicar whispered into his ear. “The power of some savage will not change that. Burn all you want, dark one. And fall away to ash!” He ripped the dagger out then plunged it back in. Again and again the priest shoved the weapon in and out of his trapped opponent. Vegard, helpless, jerked and spasmed with each passing of the blade.
Blood spurted from his mouth and chest as the cruel and enchanted relic opened deep holes he could not will to repair.
“I…don’t…understand!” Vegard screamed through a stream of blood.
The warlock’s legs finally buckled and his head fell. The tendrils loosened and dropped Vegard, kneeling, in front of the proud Vicar. Pyris reached a hand out and caressed Vegard’s head. “See, boy? Does it hurt so much to kneel?” With that he slid the dagger cleanly across the warlock’s neck. Blood gushed out, spilling on the floor in complete silence, before the body quickly followed, face flopping in the pool that had gathered.
“What a glorious day to be a follower of God!” Pyris White screamed. He held his hands up to the domed ceiling, his victory over these intruders just the beginning of the kind of dominance he would wield under the guidance of Abaniel the Red.
Pyris turned and noticed an enormous robbed figure standing there. The god’s head so high that it touched the ceiling.
“You have served me well, Vicar Pyris White.” The robbed figure projected. A voice undulating with cosmic strength. A deep baritone that shook the very foundations of the great estate.
“My Lord.” Pyris went to his hands and knees. “All my deeds are in your name.”
The god knelt down and touched the floor with its great hands. Pyris noticed the entire court of Abaniel appear around him. Nobles, jarro, lords, warriors, paladins, the court, and judges, all the great worldly followers of the One True God, the Emperor in Red.
“What is this, mighty Lord?” Pyris asked. “I have not seen these men for so very long. Why have you summoned them here to be with me?”
“A memory, my precious Vicar.” The voice boomed. “A memory brought forth from your past to remind you of the exact moment of your misstep.”
“Misstep, my Lord?”
The mighty robbed figured rolled up its sleeves to reveal two charred and blackened arms. The great being threw back its smoking hood, unveiling the grinning visage of a devilish fox with eyes of burning tar. The portals of which sent shivers of despair through the groveling priest.
“I…I don’t understand.” The Vicar said. The audience around began to moan and some laughed. The whole chorus chimed in unnatural spasms and waves. The crowd shifted and melted away forming itself into one corpse after another, all strung up and sending waterfalls of blood to the floor.
Pyris bounced to his feet. The look of disgust and confusion plain upon his face. His heart raced as he saw the victims of his years of work there before him. The blood that stained his hands filled the room threatening to drown the whole lot of them.
“This is not real!” He screamed. “None of this is real! You’re in my head, warlock, I know it!” He waded through the now knee high pool of blood. He dug his hands in the muck to find anything he could use to defend himself. His fingers caught something and he hefted it above the gore. Darold Shaw’s skeletal face was there, laughing at the Vicar. The skull grinning unnaturally. Pyris screamed and dropped the lord merchant back down below.
He whipped frantically around till he came face to face with Vegard Orlo.
He meant to spit curses at the warlock that played around in his head. He meant to cast a spell to rid the peasant from his thoughts. But he found he was very much unable to form words. Words were replaced by wheezing. Articulations were replaced with gasps.
Pyris wanted to pull at whatever barrier covered his mouth but as he brought his heads to bear they were stopped by an odd protrusion. A long black metal blade was wedged and sticking from his throat. The handle of which was held by the now very tangible and real warlock grinning back at him.
Vegard’s eyes flared with power. He knew he must look a true demon come to life. He knew he must because he could see it in the priest’s bare soul.
And, for the great Vicar Pyris White—it would be the last sight he had.
Vegard jerked the blade from the priest’s neck then swiped it across, severing the head from the body in one clean motion. The body collapsed backwards upon the corpse of the merchant. The head bounced off to roll to a stop next to the giant’s severed head.
“What the hells happened!?” Wera yelled from across the room, the summoned creatures vanishing with the death of the priest. “That priest was just looming over you before he started screaming a bunch of madness.”
“I let him live out a little fantasy before I finished what we came here to do.”
Wera scoffed. “I don’t recall us having to kill some priest.”
“Whatever! The goddess wanted a corpse and we have more than enough to spare.” Vegard walked over and knelt next to the fallen paladin.<
br />
Is he a paladin any longer? Maybe he is just Asmundr the Havan, now. Vegard touched the man’s cooling brow. “Be with your Meena and be at rest, friend. I thank you for not murdering us.”
“Not for a lack of trying, that’s for sure.”
The duo stood there for a moment, taking in the bloody accomplishment of what they had set out to do.
“I’m not sure what to do now.” Vegard admitted.
“We burn this place to the ground, is what we do.” Wera said pointedly, a mischievous look growing on her face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Cleansing
There were more than enough candles and furling, rich curtains to make a bonfire of the once great lord’s estate. Although, the stone wasn’t like to burn, every bit of opulence in the place would serve as kindling to utterly destroy the great palace of Darold Shaw. The two went about lighting every flammable thing they could find ablaze.
Torches were made of chair legs, wrapped in cotton sheets, and soaked in lantern oil. The two westerners ran about the mansion playfully, burning the who lot of these rich goods produced through slavery and greed.
Barely minutes passed before the fire could see to itself. It spread across the walls and licked savagely at the ceiling. Every piece of tapestry or rug it came across it engulfed and pushed itself further along.
Vegard made short work of any reinforcements that made their way to the estate. The great power of Asmundr still billowing from his body. A almost endless well of strength at his disposal.
The two companions exited the mansion just as the fire consumed all. The rain had long ago stopped and been replaced by a star studded night of clear skies. Vegard and Wera raced down the manicured lawn, burst through the gates surrounding the compound and sprinted towards the barn where their carriage awaited.
Throughout the vineyards, chaos ran supreme. Slaves and servants ran amok. Their handlers could do little against the uprising of the destitute majority. Men with whips were dragged screaming from their horses. Slaves turned vigilante tore into their oppressive masters with years of unfettered bloodlust guiding their hands.
The burning altar of Shaw’s mansion had sparked a fire in these people.
A grim look of satisfaction was painted on the hver’s face. She looked to so desperately join the killing spree that was quickly consuming the land. But Vegard had had enough bloodshed for a day. He grabbed Wera by the wrist and swung them around the warehouse they had arrived at. They tore through the muddy pathway till they finally came across their group.
“Is it finished? Whatcha all do up there!? Shits gone crazy!” Rorak yelled from atop the carriage.
“We’re leaving! All of us, now!” Vegard yelled as him and Wera jumped into the cab. Fulvia and Chenway were already inside.
“I’m hopin’ me rain serviced yer mission.” The druid said once comfortably seated.
“I’m just glad you didn’t summon any giants this time! Let’s go!”
The door whipped open and Rorak’s grinning face stood before them.
“What are you doing? Who’s gunna guide the damn horses, you fool!” Vegard shouted.
Rorak slammed a rattling case of glass bottles down onto the floor. He smiled his silver mouthed smile. “Just figurin’ we could use a little lubrication, is all. Haha!” Then he slammed the door and they could hear the tracker clambering up upon the carriage. The leathers whipped and the horses grunted and nay’ed as the carriage pulled itself from the deep muddy trenches.
Wera and Vegard stuck their heads out the side windows to watch the disarray that they had caused. The grand estate flared in the night like a great bone fire. Its monumental flame lighted the continuous riots that would burn this would-be empire to the ground.
By morning Vegard doubted a crate of booze would be left or a crop left unburned. If Shaw or Pyris White had been left alive it would have taken years to undo the damage that the warlock and hver had inflicted upon them.
But with no leadership to head the organization…it looked to be the end of the ambitious merchant and his legion of tyrannical, religious zealots. If this would not please the goddess then Vegard was out of ideas. The hypocrisy not lost on him that all this was done in the name of some different god.
He shrugged. His ability to care about theological matters was numb, for the time.
They did what they came to do. It felt just—and a payment was due.
The carriage pattered north after leaving the official lines of Darold Shaw’s vineyard. Carts were retreating from the land in troves. It made the escape of the guilty party that much easier. All they had to do was file in line with the rest of the scurrying suppliers as they exited the private grounds.
North led them to a small coastal town next to the Vanguard Sea. It would be a short boat ride to cross back over to Yessriel-Villr and get back to northern culture, away from this teeming eastern commerce and all the drama associated with it. The Vanguard Sea were pirating waters, to be sure, as they would pass the island of Havansgard where the mighty ship sailing barbarians were plentiful. But with the names of Asmundr the Havan and Hannah Bloodfist on the tongue they might be lucky enough to gain safe passage to their northern territories.
The Ice Dragon clan was still a revered clan throughout Havansgard. At least, their memory was. Vegard was sure it was enough to buy them a safe trip. If not…there was still the store of energy within him. With his power still bristling and Wera out for her fair share of blood, they would be well defensed. Compounded with the wild druid, the devious stone-skinned tracker, and one angry, little, foreign dog—their chances looked pretty good, indeed.
The group nestled down at the small coastal town of Gewin’s Watch. The simple town of maybe a hundred or so was built upon the cliffs of the coast looking out across the turbulent waves of the Vanguard Sea.
A pulley system lowered goods down the sheer cliff to the meager docks below. Barely a handful of merchant ships were docked below and one ferry that they were told would run first thing in the morning.
They checked themselves into the only inn in town and yet another without a name. Although, this one had no name not because of its discreet clientele but rather because it was merely the only inn around. If one was looking for it they should just ask for ‘the inn’ and be pointed in its direction.
It was a quaintness that Vegard could really appreciate. The group settled down to roasted fish and a stew of clams and simple greens pulled from the ocean. Rorak tapped into his stolen case of Shaw wines and passed a bottle around to each, including one to the owner and her daughter. The more drunk the tracker got the more jovial and generous he became. Or perhaps he had changed his bastardly ways? Vegard thought not but would enjoy the mood while it was visiting. It was nice to not worry about the stone brained moron waiting for him around another bend. His debt was paid, as far as he was concerned. He was a free man.
Well…almost. His soul still fluttered about by his shoulder reminding him of the last deed that needed doing.
Vegard waited for nightfall and departed from his festive group. He strolled through the simple dirt paths of the quiet town till he found a lonely stone bench overlooking the sea. A private rendezvous for a meeting with a godly sort.
He hadn’t had to wait long before the ethereal form of the goddess appeared next to him on the bench. She was decked in her exquisite armor topped with her wonderous feline cloak. Her air danced with the wind as she settled herself next to the warlock.
They both sat there silently, staring out at the blackness of the ocean night.
“So,” Vegard started, still staring out at the sea. “Am I Agaeti or not? You told me I was kissed by the gods. That I had made a mockery of my destiny. Was any of this true?”
Flaro Rei’Lind regarded the warlock. “Destiny is destiny, Vegard. You were meant to do the things that you were meant to do. Does it matter if you were ‘special’ from the get go?”
“Nah,
but that wasn’t what I asked. You tricked me into thinking I was something I wasn’t.”
“No, you are not Agaeti. You were never blessed or kissed by anyone. Is that what you want to hear?” She crossed her legs, completely relaxed. “But who cares? You were worthy enough to accomplish the task at hand. You proved to yourself that you were more than your birth. More than your servitude.
“Do only those born to means deserve accomplishment? Is your mind so ensnared by the trappings of this pathetic hierarchy that you still don’t see the value you have?”
Vegard stared at his blackened and charred hands. How far he had come. And, chances are, he knew he would still be there if it wasn’t for a lie told to him by some outside force. Yet, it still irked him to be manipulated so.
“Well, Agaeti or not, I’ve completed what you tasked of me. There’s one final payment that needs to be made, goddess.”
“Ah, yes!” Flaro clasped her hands together. “Your undeath. True to my word, I’ll be. You’ve done me well, Vegard Orlo.” She stretched out her back, rounded her shoulders, and slapped Vegard so hard he fell from the stone bench.
Vegard howled in pain and rose up from his unceremonious fall. “You damned wench! What was that for?” He yelled at the chuckling goddess.
“It is done! Look.” She laughed, pointing.
Vegard looked and saw his soul floating near his shoulder. A crack had formed on the outer shell of the blue pearl. He snagged it from the air and held the radiating orb in his palm. Little flecks of casing began to fall away. Vegard probed his fingers inside, peeling the pearl like one would a boiled egg.
Inside he felt the warmth of his eternity. He dug in manically and pulled his life force from the hard casing.
He looked towards the goddess and she shrugged in response. “It is yours, warlock. You have proven yourself worthy of it, once more.”
Vegard took a deep breath then swallowed the disembodied thing in one big gulp. The goddess roared in laughter.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 24