by Brian Murray
“Greetings Father,” Ireen began, “We thought we would join you for supper. We haven’t seen you for a couple of days and were told you’re not eating your meals. So here we are to ensure that you eat tonight.”
Rowet beamed a broad smile. “So, you two are now looking after me?”
“Well, who else is going to? Dinner will be served shortly and we expect you to eat it all.”
Rowet moved to the couch where his daughters sat. When he sat down between them, he raised his arms. Both women shuffled across the couch towards him and he cuddled both of them.
“What would I do without you two?” asked Rowet, his voice full of emotion.
“Not eat,” replied Megan.
The trio laughed as the door opened and servants brought in their evening meal.
***
The boat reached the mound and the two men were hauled up. The Senior Priest of the Chosen had waited for the two men to return. If they returned, he had instructions to bring them to the palace and present them to the Chosen. The senior priest walked up to the two men and smiled.
“Good to see you return,” he said with honest relief in his tone.
Neither man answered the priest, instead looked up at the palace in the background. The priest craned his neck and looked around to where they were staring.
“I have instructions to present you before the Chosen so he can discuss your conversation with the Dark One.”
Again, neither man answered the priest but walked past him to the waiting carriage. The senior priest boarded the carriage and sat opposite the two men, frowning. Using his cane, he tapped on the carriage roof and the vehicle lurched forward. Throughout the journey to the palace, the two men just stared at the priest. They did not look out the window, nor did they instigate any conversation. They just stared, their faces grim and expressionless. This confused the priest. He knew both men, especially Chrisk, knew the man loved the sound of his own voice so usually you could not stop him talking.
Then as if on cue, the smaller man asked, “Are we going to see the Chosen?”
“Yes,” answered the priest, relieved there was now a conversation. “How were your discussions with the Dark One?” he asked.
“Will the Children of the Light be with him?” countered the zombie once-Chrisk, ignoring the priest’s question.
“I do not understand,” replied the priest honestly.
Chrisk smiled a wicked smile and leaned forward. His face was very close to the priest, causing the priest to swallow fearfully. The zombie sniffed the air and his mirthless grin grew. The senior priest looked into Chrisk’s eyes and saw nothing, only emptiness, blackness like staring into a bottomless abyss. “They will be there,” announced Chrisk.
“Are you well?” asked the priest.
The zombie Chrisk sat back in his chair and his expressionless face reappeared. Again, silence filled the carriage.
***
Rowet, Ireen, and Megan enjoyed a meal of roasted game bird with savoury rice and chopped, lightly fried potatoes. Then honey pastries topped with lots of fresh cream followed the main course. During the meal, the group drank a light, dry white wine. The conversation stayed relaxed, no one mentioning the army sitting outside the city. The girls spoke of their men and Rowet could tell that both desperately missed Thade and Tanas. To make the girls feel relaxed about the subject, he spoke of them and his other friends with fondness. Ireen mentioned Cara and again remembered how the plump Rhaurn woman got the Emperor of the Phadrine to do housework. He laughed with the girls when they talked about their stay at Thade’s home and the joy they had had there. Rowet remembered the house was positioned in a small valley and all around the buildings were woodlands and beautiful rolling green hills . . .
The light, joyful conversation drifted on.
***
The carriage, escorted by ten Imperial Guards, passed through the white city and started climbing the winding road that corkscrewed up to the palace. The zombie Scanion rose and sat next to the senior priest. The priest shuffled along the cushioned bench to give the man more room, sweeping his gold robe under his legs so it did not get caught.
“Do you know what pleasure is?” asked the zombie Scanion.
“Aye, I do,” started the senior priest proudly. “I serve the Chosen and that is total pleasure.”
“But you do not feel the pleasures of the flesh, of excess drink, or rich foods,” countered the zombie Scanion.
“That’s something I am quite happy to have given up.”
“We were shown great pleasures by our master.” The way the man said “master” unnerved the priest and he discreetly moved farther along the cushioned bench. But the zombie moved with him and the side of the carriage stopped the priest moving any farther. “We can show you great pleasures,” hissed the zombie.
The zombie Scanion twisted his body quickly and pinned the priest’s head against the side of the carriage. Before the priest could react, the zombie plunged his extended canines into the priest’s exposed neck. The priest tried to struggle for a few heartbeats, but the zombie’s power kept his arms pinned to his sides. A virus surged through the senior priest’s body, absorbing any goodness. It reached his mind and quickly started to wipe away his personality, his opinions, his free will. The virus surged through his blood until . . . Suddenly, the priest stopped struggling and sighed. An unnerving smirk grew on his face as the zombie continued to suck on his crimson life fluid. When the zombie Scanion withdrew, the senior priest sat up. His lifeless eyes gazed at the zombie Chrisk opposite him.
“Yes, our master does know how to give great pleasures,” said the priest. “We should share these pleasures with everyone.”
“That is not our master’s wishes,” replied the zombie Chrisk without emotion.
The carriage continued to wind up towards the palace, the wheels clattering rhythmically on the paved road.
***
A serving maid brought Rowet and his two daughters fresh hot tisane and some warm oatcakes. Rowet was surprised and pleased when Ireen addressed the servant by her first name and spoke at ease to her briefly. She has changed, he thought and changed for the better. The trio sipped their drinks and continued to talk about their friends. The girls retold the story of how Zane recaptured the city of Teldor after the Darklord had seized it. They spoke proudly of how all of the friends grouped together to fight the tyrant. After a while, Megan excused herself for a minute and this left Rowet with his blood daughter, Ireen. The girl nuzzled up against her father.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” replied Rowet, happily hugging his daughter under his arm. Ireen eased herself away from her father and looked into his eyes. Rowet swallowed hard. His daughter had grown into the image of his late wife. She also had large green eyes with flecks of gold, full lips, and long raven-black hair. She smiled and his heart melted—she was the image of his late wife, Rena.
“Father, when Thade comes to the city he needs to speak to you.”
“Of course, what about?” enquired Rowet. Realisation struck him and he tensed his body. His parental instincts took over and he looked in his daughter’s eyes. He saw joy as well as worry. He sighed and relaxed his body. “Is he coming to talk the talk?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, Father.”
A smile grew on his face and he said, “Let him come and I will welcome him.”
“Does that mean you will . . . ”
“It means he can talk to me. Let’s leave it at that.” Ireen thumped her father’s chest and he exaggerated great pain. “You mean to harm me, child? Your father, your emperor?”
“Father, you be nice to him.”
“That’s fair. I promised a friend that I would be.” Rowet remembered his last conversation with Cara. She had told him Ireen and Thade were deeply in love and that they wanted to marry. Cara understood Ireen would probably become the first Empress of the Phadrine. But
she told Rowet that with such pressure she should marry for love to help her through it. Rowet could not fault her logic and when he returned to his throne after his son’s attempted assassination, he toured his empire. Whenever he stopped, he asked the town and city elders what they thought of the former gladiator. They all spoke fondly of the man who always had time for people, but who had a temper that flared quickly—too quickly, in Rowet’s opinion.
Megan returned to the room. Ireen leaned forward and kissed her father on the cheek. “Thank you, Father. Thade’s a good man.”
“I know,” whispered Rowet honestly.
Megan joined them on the large sofa and they continued to reminisce.
***
Platos, the Master Armourer to the Chosen, had an early meal with his wife. Erykah had cooked him a large rare steak with rich, thick gravy and fresh bread, which Platos washed down with some lightly watered red wine. At the end of the meal, he moved to sit before his hearth where he fell into a light doze.
“Wake up Platos,” said a soft musical voice.
Platos grunted and opened his eyes. He no longer sat before his hearth but in a green field with the sun high in the pale blue sky. He looked around and saw a woman standing to his left with silvery-white hair, in a long dress of the same colour.
“Who are you?” he asked, feeling strangely calm.
“You already know the answer to that particular question. But I am here to ask a favour of you. The Chosen and his daughters are in the gravest danger. The Dark One has corrupted the two heralds sent to visit him. They have in turn infected the Senior Priest of the Chosen with their foulness. Right now, they are travelling to the Chosen and they mean to harm him and his daughters. You must wake your body and go to him. You know his friend, Gordonia, cannot go to his aid. You must go to him. Wake Platos, wake up!” The woman slowly faded.
***
The carriage arrived at the steps of the white palace. The three occupants disembarked and silently walked up the stairs. The Imperial Guards on the main door stood to attention and let the senior priest and his two guests enter the palace. They started winding their way through the bright white marble corridors towards the Chosen’s private chambers. The three reached the Chosen’s study and the guard told them that he was in his living chambers. The senior priest nodded and walked on. The three continued through the palace until they reached the Chosen’s living chambers. Then the two guests were searched and when nothing was found, they were allowed to pass the imperial guards. One of the Imperial Guards told the senior priest where the Chosen had dined with his daughters. The three men arrived at the door. The senior priest hesitated before knocking lightly.
***
Rowet’s laughter drowned out the knock on the door. The rap repeated and this time he heard it. He looked up and called out, “Come.”
Slowly, the door opened.
***
Platos woke with a start and was once again sitting before his warm hearth. He thought of his dream and looked at the glass of wine sitting on the table next to his deep brown leather chair.
A sweet voice whispered in his mind. “Go to the Chosen, he is in danger.”
Platos rose quickly from his chair and ran to his forge. He lifted his large war-hammer clear of its wall brackets, grabbed his cloak, and rushed outside. As quickly as he could he harnessed his swaybacked mare to a carriage, vaulted on board, and was moving. He cracked his whip above the horse’s rump and the mare galloped towards the palace. Platos’s heart raced. Please let me arrive in time, he thought as the quiet city rushed past him in a blur. In no time, he reached the winding road that led up to the palace. His mare started to labour, but she was a steady horse, old but with heart.
“Come on, Bea!” he screamed, “just a little farther, old girl.” The horse responded to her master’s voice and surged forward with increased effort. Platos reached the palace steps and before the vehicle had fully stopped, jumped from the carriage with his war-hammer in hand. In the distance, he saw another carriage being taken away. He rushed up the steps, taking them two at a time. Adrenaline and fear fuelled the man’s large powerful limbs. Platos reached the top of the steps and ran to the first Imperial Guard.
“Where is the Chosen?”
“In his private chambers,” answered the guard. Before the guard could say anything else, Platos shouldered past the man. The master armourer raced through the white marble corridors, his footsteps pounding loudly. He had visited the Chosen enough times to know where to go. Many of the Imperial Guards watched the man run past them with his large war-hammer glinting menacingly in the lantern light.
Platos reached the Chosen’s private study and skidded to a halt. “Where is the Chosen?” he screamed at the Imperial Guards standing at the large wooden door.
“He’s in his living chambers, Master Armourer,” replied the guard, pointing down the corridor. “But you cannot . . . ”
Before the guard finished his sentence Platos raced off in the direction he pointed.
“Master Armourer, your weapon! You must leave your weapon here,” roared the Imperial Guard chasing the large man. Another Imperial Guard, farther down the corridor heard the commotion and stepped forward, blocking the way. He saw the master armourer charging towards him with a huge mace.
“Out of the way!”
The guard heard the large man roar. But the man was armed and as such not allowed this far into the palace. The guard braced himself, but the huge smithy swatted the smaller man to one side, sending him slapping against the white stonewall.
Two more guards stepped out into the middle of the corridor. They had seen their comrade knocked aside and they were not taking any risks. They levelled their spears and were ready to impale the charging man.
Platos saw the two guards level their spears and skidded to a halt. “The Chosen is in danger! Step aside!”
“We cannot let you pass with your weapon, sir.”
“I said the Chosen is in danger,” hissed the master armourer.
“Sir . . . ” The guard’s sentence was cut short by a shrill scream erupting from the Chosen’s living chambers.
***
The Chosen watched as his senior priest entered his private chamber, followed by Chrisk and Scanion. He rose from the couch. Out of sight, behind the other two men, Scanion slowly closed the door and locked it. The Chosen moved warily around his table to greet the men.
“Good to see that you survived your trip. What news do you bring?” asked the Chosen. Something was wrong, but he could not put his finger on what.
None of the men answered and the Chosen stopped walking towards them. Subconsciously, he positioned himself between the men and his daughters. He felt the need to protect them.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
Again, he received no answer.
The three men stood in a line before him. He looked into each of their eyes. Nothing. They all had the same vacant, blank appearance, their faces expressionless. The Chosen took a step backwards as Ireen rose slowly from the couch.
What is wrong?
“Gentlemen . . . ”
They did not bow.
“We bring greetings from our master,” interrupted the zombie once known as Chrisk. The senior priest produced three daggers from his flowing robes and handed one each to the other two. “Our master wants the Children of the Light terminated. We are here to carry out his command.”
The zombie Scanion leapt forward and attacked the Chosen.
Ireen screamed.
***
Platos heard the scream and reacted immediately. He slapped the spears out of his way and shoulder-charged the guards. The smithy passed the stunned guards and ran for the door. He turned the handle and pushed the door . . . Locked. Another scream from inside ripped through the air. The large smithy took a step back and slammed his war-hammer into the door close to the handle. The thick wooden door splintered but did not give. Bunching his shoulders, Platos swung again and smashed the door. T
he wooden structure flew open inwards still on its hinges, but slammed someone in the back. Platos did not care and charged into the room.
The Chosen was grappling with a short man while a taller man loomed over Ireen with a dagger poised. Platos ran towards the taller man. Swinging his war-hammer, he crashed the weapon into the man’s side, crunching many bones. The man’s feet left the ground and he flew over a couch. As Platos turned, the priest attacked him. For a heartbeat, Platos hesitated, but he saw the hatred in the man’s eyes and blocked the charge. Platos kicked the man in the groin so hard the senior priest was lifted from the ground. He then stepped back and, gripping the haft with both hands, drove his mace into the man’s face. The senior priest flew backwards and slammed into the door, slumping in front of it and blocking further help arriving.
Outside, guards pounded on the door, calling for their emperor.
The Chosen looked up into Chrisk’s twisted face. He would not have believed someone could possess such a heinous expression if he had not seen it. Suddenly, Chrisk reared back, dragging the Chosen close to him. Chrisk grabbed the Chosen by the throat and threw the taller man over the couch.
The taller zombie, Scanion, rose and stalked towards Platos. Platos could not believe it. He had hit the man with his war-hammer with everything he had, and the man came back for more. Platos swung his war-hammer overhand, aiming for the zombie’s head. The zombie raised his hand and caught the mace as Platos powered it down. The zombie wrenched the weapon from Platos’s hands and threw it, shattering a large window that showered a patio with lethal shards of glass. The zombie shuffled towards the smithy. Platos punched him with a straight jab. The zombie’s head snapped back, but instantly the zombie looked back at the smithy and smiled viciously. Platos punched the zombie in the face with a straight left jab, then sent a thunderous right hook that lifted him from the ground. The zombie went flying backwards and Platos shook his stinging fist. Then like a bad dream, the zombie rose again. Platos cursed aloud.
The Chosen rose slowly and dived over the couch at the smaller zombie he had known as Chrisk. To the emperor’s surprise, the zombie caught the taller man in mid-air. Using the Chosen’s momentum, the zombie twisted and threw the emperor to one side like a rag-doll. The Chosen landed heavily on his right shoulder and rose gingerly. He pulled an ornamental spear from the wall and drove the point right through the smaller zombie that loomed menacingly over Megan. The zombie’s arms shot up more in surprise than pain, looking down at the point of the spear jutting from his belly. Suddenly, the zombie twisted his body and sent the Chosen reeling into a corner. Rowet’s back thudded against a wall and the air exploded from his lungs. Before him, the zombie started to pull the bloodied spear through his body.