As he stood outside the entrance, he dreaded the walk back to the inn and decided to take a chance on a shortcut.
The air reeked of vomit and urine along the filthy alleyway behind the tavern. Apparently, he had not been the only one who had come up with the same idea, and the thought of the poor novicium who had to clean up the mess the next day provoked his stomach. Glad not to be a novicium anymore, he thought, and rummaged through the many inner pockets of his robe for a dwarven ring.
A sudden scrape of a boot made him flinch. He spun around quickly to face its wearer, but the motion made him dizzy, and he nearly lost his balance. A deep, rumbling voice spoke then.
“Chamek ath athuul arak...”
A demon, he thought, here? Impossible!
His hand reached for the rod strapped to his belt, but he never made it. A searing pain tore through his body, his legs buckling beneath him as all his limbs started to convulse uncontrollably. It felt as if something was ripping and tearing within him – a burning light, relentless in its effort to force its way out of him. He felt his strength drained away by the demon’s magic.
The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him were two glowing, malevolent eyes through the night.
The Death of Drarice BlackheartThe small chapel in Fibula was ancient and rarely visited by mainlanders these days. The signs of its neglect were everywhere, visibly at most in the fading colours of the religious illustrations, depictions of Banor’s heroic life. The gold Valkera Blackheart had donated to its restoration had clearly not been enough, but at the very least, the gesture might have bought her a better fate in the afterlife.
The room was dimly lit, and the air was thick with the smell of incense used to prepare the dead for their final rest, but she had no illusions about its power. No amount of smoke or prayers would grant Drarice – or what remained of him, the peace that it promised.
He laid upon the wooden altar, naked but for a decorated cloth covering his groin, his once vigorous and handsome features turned into a husk. It pained her to see the grimace of agony etched on his now gaunt face, and the otherwise lively eyes drained of beauty. The signs of the dark sorcerer’s hexes were there, just as they had been on Othelen and Equoez. Their souls were torn apart from its vessel long before he murdered them.
Months had passed since Osamiron vanished without trace. Defeated, yes, but not dead. A sense of safety had settled in on Fibula, falsely now, it would seem. For whom else but him would attack Red Rose so openly?
The wooden door creaked behind her, but she did not turn around to face the man who entered. Preparations of the body had been presided over by Red Rose’s Praeparator, Cotelaria, to make it presentable for the guild’s burial event. Cotelaria hesitated before speaking.
“My condolences, Valkera. I did not mean for you to see him like this.”
Why, she thought. It does not change anything.
He continued, “His soul. I thought an invocation could guide it true, but it did not work.”
Of course not. A long pause followed before she found the words.
“Because the hex has done its work. It is irreversible.”
“I am not entirely convinced that is true actually,” he said calmly. “It is not conclusive until we have invoked all the Gods’ help. Besides, we have Banor on our side.”
“The Gods cannot save a soul already claimed by Urgith. Least of all Banor.” Valkera said with scorn, unable to hide the rage inside. She imagined the conscientious druid’s jaw tighten by her blasphemy. He was a man of patience, but even he had limits.
“I would pray with you,” he continued, “if you would just still your- “
“My cousin is beyond any of your prayers,” Valkera sneered and turned around to face him at last. She saw the loss of Drarice on him, but disapproval as well, and she felt a pang of guilt for making it worse for him. “Oh, do what you must then, but leave me out of it. I will be searching for Osamiron.”
Cotelaria stiffened at the cursed name. Valkera strode towards the door of the chapel but paused as the druid shifted uncomfortably.
“Valkera…” he began and looked her in the eyes. “Your assumption about his soul may be true, I grant you that, but retaliation will definitely not help him now.”
“I know,” she growled between clenched teeth. “But it helps me.”
With that, Valkera stepped out of the chapel.
Frustration boiled inside her and threatened to explode. Had she not left, she would have said things she might regret, and now was the time for determination. It was now or never, while there was momentum still. Fibula must be fortified, like the times of old, when the guild was a power to be reckoned with. And then, vengeance, she thought.
No. She had to calm herself. Charging into the Legatus’ villa riled up would not serve the purpose she envisioned. Coming to a halt, Valkera leaned on the bridge’s railing for support. She was exhausted, and her back ached.
She closed her eyes and took a series of long breaths and remained still, calling her thoughts to settle into order.
Half a year had passed since Rhateus brought word of Equoez’ disappearance. Othelen had followed her trail, which took him to the Dark Cathedral in the Plains of Havoc, and then, he had disappeared as well – jinxed as it turned out, mind-controlled by the dark sorcerer Osamiron.
Under his malicious influence, Othelen had broken into the Council chamber in Fibula and stolen a powerful artifact, one that could unlock the sealed portal between the old town of Mintwallin and the demons’ stronghold in Edron. There, Roses had found the remains of Equoez, and the still jinxed Othelen. And then, he was slain before the portal opened to Edron, at the hands of his own brothers and sisters. Somebody had said his death had meaning – that it had stopped demons from pouring into Thais, but she did not see it that way.
If we had been quicker, Othelen might have been alive today, she thought. She was not sure if that was true, but she was tired of always being one step behind. Her gaze fell down the bridge into the rippling water below. A large school of fish darted past beneath the surface, chased by a giant pike on the hunt. Valkera smiled bitterly at the scene and sighed. She pushed off and continued towards the villa.
Rye Ane’s study was the opposite of Valkera’s. While hers was a cluttered mess of correspondence and compendiums, Rye’s collection of rare tomes was meticulously displayed along the walls. Rolls of parchment were stacked on his desk in perfect order next to sets of coasters engraved with coat-of-arms of Red Rose’s closest allies. The great seal of the Legatus, Rye’s mark of authenticity for his diplomatic letters, lay next to a large block of red sealing wax. It looked as if it had been used recently.
Glancing around, Valkera noticed that Rye had rearranged the tapestries that depicted ancient histories of long forgotten guilds. They now hung beside the portraits of the villa’s former owners instead. Her gaze was drawn to the piercing eyes of Octavian, whose portrait was surely meant to remind his successors of the weight of leadership. She recalled a Council legend that spoke of a sinful leader who, after challenging the painting to a staring contest, had cowered in tears. She was not sure how she would have fared herself, and thought it best not to try.
The windows of the villa were shuttered. Good, she thought, he is mindful of eavesdroppers then.
She found the Legatus in the small adjoining room, slumped in an armchair by the fire. An opened bottle of wine stood next to an empty glass on a nearby side table.
“Did you see what- “ he began, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and did not turn to face her. “Did you see what they did to my boy?”
“I did. His soul was harvested.”
Rye cleared his throat, reached for the bottle of wine on the side table and filled his empty glass almost to the brim. She noticed that he had not bothered with a coaster. In one slow sweep, he emptied the glass and poured the last remnants from the bottle.
Something in the fire seemed to have caught his attention. He shook his head and dolefully muttered, “He deserved better,” before emptying his glass again.
She struggled to let the silence linger, impatient to find where his mind would wander.
“Drarice. Deserved. Better,” he repeated, emphasizing each word.
“Both he and the others,” Valkera replied tonelessly and without warmth. She fought to keep herself from breaking down as well, determined to grieve with him later instead.
Rye sighed bitterly. “Othelen and Equoez. I have not forgotten.”
“Yes, but above all, the next Rose who shall fall victim to the dark sorcerer’s magic.”
He turned to face her now, his gentle Carlinian features twisted in grief for his beloved novicium. Yet, his sharp intellect remained unclouded in those green-blue eyes of his. She doubted that his emotions raged as violently as hers did, but the fact that he could maintain control was impressive. She wished she could do the same.
“You sound absolutely certain,” he said, his tone suggesting that she better explain.
“I am certain it will happen again. He may appear to be alone, but he is allied with all the forces of Zathroth, which includes demons and hordes of undead.”
Rye exhaled through his nose. “Then we are at a disadvantage.”
”Not necessarily, no.”
When he motioned for her to go on, Valkera approached and placed a folded document on the side table. He unfolded the parchment and began to read. She noticed how his eyebrows gradually crept higher as he worked through the governor of Liberty Bay’s elaborate handwriting, who confirmed the dissolution of her life’s work. He looked up in surprise.
“You’re selling your assets in Liberty Bay?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“To found a new holy order,” she replied, hoping he did not see through her show of nonchalance.
He scoffed at that and leaned back in the grandiose armchair. “You? Creating a holy order? Since when did you become so religious?" His voice was full of suspicion. She could all but feel his scrutinizing eyes searching for answers in her demeanor. She found herself smiling guiltily but tried to make it look sly instead.
“That sort of thing is for the devout. I am being pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic enough to exploit the murder of your cousin, and for what, another title? You want to call yourself Grand Master too?”
The accusation stung because it was true. She desired such a position not for her own gain, but because it would grant her power to fight injustice and evil. She was no warrior though and would inspire no glory. It had to be a knight – a knight that was known for his honour and unwavering devotion to Banor and the Gods of good.
She met his gaze and tried to wear the mask of sincerity. “Not me, Rye. You.”
“Me?”
“Look at you!” she exclaimed. “You mourn like a knight in shining armour, while I mourn as a kinswoman of house Blackheart. Meanwhile, Osamiron is scheming for his next attack. It could come at any time, from anywhere and against any Rose. I propose we take the offensive this time before that happens.”
“And why do we need a religious order for that? Red Rose and our allies can fight the demons well enough.”
”The Gods would make for a more reliable ally,” she said. “They strike fear in foe and friend alike. Nobody turns their back on the Gods.”
Rye’s lips curled into a nasty scowl. She surmised she was treading closer to blaspheming than he cared for in his home.
“You need my vote,” he said after a moment’s pause. “For this to work, you need the Council’s endorsement.”
Valkera stepped closer to her Council comrade. “I need your help in its formation. I need the diplomatic influence you wield to gather warriors to Banor’s army.” Then she placed a hand on his shoulder and tried to smile amiably. She suspected that it might come off more like a grimace. “And we will both have the... retribution that we covet.”
Silence settled over the room again but for the crackling of the fireplace. Its flickering light cast long, dark shadows that danced eerily across the paneled walls. Rye turned back towards the fire, but his expression did not betray whether he was convinced or not. He had heard enough for now. To push the issue further at this stage would do more harm than good.
Valkera straightened herself with a groan, picked up the glass and empty bottle and left the room. A moment later, she returned and sank into the grandiose armchair across from his. She placed two silver coasters on the table, each engraved with the coat-of-arms of a long-forgotten guild that used to be allied with Red Rose, the Guardian Nomads. She filled their fresh glasses with an older vintage she found in his cupboard, then raised hers and said, “In honour of Drarice Blackheart – a loyal Rose and kinsman!”
