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The Lost Stars ChronicleChapter 7: A Demon Disruption
It was midday. The white-hot sun settled in the cool blue sky, undeterred by gray blankets of stratus clouds approaching from the west. Searil Chordate adjusted the brim of his weather-beaten round hat, and turned towards the grim skyline of the western outer city. A battered spire, scorched by fire and scarred by siege machines, pointed upwards like a profane and vulgar symbol of power. The Tower of Wind. Ancient ruin that had been built, far, far before the first Imperial Dynasty. The intrepid Classics had came upon the spot where they were to build Orion, and hastily constructed a city. Over the centuries, the tower became surrounded by urban sprawl, remaining a grim reminder to the dark days of heretics and pagans. The Tower of Wind, where long ago Satanic druids would sacrifice pitiful sinners to call on the evil face of the Wind Demon himself. His name would not be mentioned here.
Now that the western and northern outer city was overrun with ritualistic Dragon Master, from the mystic southern isles where tribal chieftains worshipped pagan gods, the ancient evils of the tower might be awaken once again. It was Searil’s intention to stop it, at all costs. There would be Dragon Masters everywhere. But in Yahweh’s eyes, they were but pebbles on a path of mountains.
Searil strolled casually into the outer city, past the vigilant Cavalier sentries keeping watch. Past their gaze, he was alone. Alone in an unholy world. Along his way, he saw nothing but wrecked buildings and streets littered with rotting flesh, desiccated corpses bloated from days under the cruel sky. Once near the grotesque obsidian entrance of the tower, he walked over to a stinking mound of mutilated dead, a cloud of black flies flitting around it hungrily, eager to plant the eggs of their disgusting young into the decomposing meat. One of the bodies still bore a violet tunic, stained with blood and entrails. Others were clad in similar attire. These bodies had been put here within a few days.
“Cavaliers…” Searil muttered, looking around warily.
He turned every way, eyes searching for the killers. He was not afraid -- not a bead of sweat graced his skin -- but when they finally came, it was almost a relief. They came, and they came brandishing razor-sharp scimitars, faces painted crimson and striped with evil patterns. Their black armor was plated layer upon layer, their black or red hair pulled together with blue leather bands. They were a terrifying sight, but not to a man of God.
Searil immediately unsheathed his sais, gracefully dodging the full force of their attacks. He stabbed the first through the neck, sliding the blade out of his esophagus with and wiping it off perfectly on his skin. The two others who came at him made the simple mistake of not blocking their lower bodies- they fell quickly, almost immediately. The next few were also dispatched using swift and graceful attacks... not boastful, and modest, yet graceful like a beautiful dance. The Dance of Death.
Finally it came down to one last man. He was wounded considerably. Searil didn’t waste time, simply delivering a heavy kick to his face, breaking his nose and giving enough power to send his head swerving around fast enough to snap his neck with a bloodcurdling crack. Searil approached the black doorway to the tower. Gargoyles, toothy faces staring at him, stood on jagged pedestals. Dark Nehimite runes covered the door, and after he placed one finger on it, they lit up with a blood-red glow. Searil walked into the pitch dark of the tower. The doors shut. A cold wind swept down upon him, but he was not sure from where. What was that? A lick of deep blue flickering across the floor? Searil could feel sweat dripping over his face. He trembled. His breath grew heavy. The cold wind drew closer.
Don’t fear, he thought, Mephistar gouges on fear. Mephistar lives with fear.
The palpable tension gripped him, a tremendous pain. Whispers hung in the air. In the dark, something moved. Something opened. In the dark, the pale stare of a face opened up from the midnight cloud, framed by the grip of a black flame. Evil eyes stared from their white sockets, sharp teeth and white face locked in an eternal grimace. Pazuzu.
The white stare looked Searil in the eye, penetrating into his skull, casting an evil trance into the deepest raptured tendrils of his mind. He felt himself fall backwards. He landed on the black floor and an unearthly voice bellowed, “FOOL! ZEALOT! WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?”
Searil looked up. He felt the air, cold embrace wrapping around him.
“Child of Satan! Who called you forth to the mortal plane?” he answered shakily.
The demon laughed.
“I asked you a question, human!”
A heavy fist grasped Searil’s neck, he struggled for breath, writhing, screaming, but nothing came. Nothing but blood from his ripped throat. The demon laughed more. Searil coughed. The demon laughed. Searil stopped writhing, plunged the sais into the hand. Nothing. Nothing there at all.
Radjar strolled along the canals around the city. The sun was setting over the crest of Drullen Bell Keep, casting a golden shadow over the glimmering waters. Rosa stood beside him, her smooth black hair shimmering. Radjar calmly breathed in the wood-scented air, steam jetting from his mouth as he exhaled in the cold November forest.
“Rosa, you will absolutely adore Hemlock. The city is bustling with thousands of people, colorful vendors line the streets, men of all class, race and nationality swarm the streets, eating Dark Forest bread and drinking Dark Forest wine in the Dark Forest air. Never before has my nation seen such an age...throughout both wars we still have prosperity, tales of our heroism abound throughout Dametreos.”
Rosa smiled at Radjar’s optimism. “We still have a long way to go, Radjar. Abundance and wealth always comes at a price, and many of your countrymen are dead.”
“They paid the highest price to give my kingdom what it has now,” Radjar exclaimed, looking up to the sky, “And on Loughton, at Valus Naras’ tomb, there will be built a great monument honoring all those who died during the Fell and BloodVaine wars. Their memory, their sacrifice, will be honored.”
Rosa admired Radjar’s boldness and respectfulness for everyone around him. Certainly, as her, he had seen much suffering in his life. Like Aezazel, he had a wide knowledge of the human condition. But unlike Aezazel, he used it for good and not evil, spreading joy and good will to the nations of Dametreos. But in battle he was just like all other men -- a beast, wishing to sate its hunger for blood.
A Forestman soldier, plume and collar black to symbolize his status as a messenger, ran up to Radjar.
“Lord Kath, you are requested at the keep immediately!”
Radjar clambered out of his flatboat and entered the gates of Drullen Bell. Elfish guardsmen, clad in emerald armor with carved gold Forestmen runes, patrolled the ramparts anxiously. Something was wrong. Radjar could feel it in his bones. He was led into the war-room, and around the great stump of a table many leaders were gathered- Gereld Vos, Jythemite Gladwheel, Willem Blackcloak, Fraun Jerlock, Gonderin, and Bjarn himself.
“What is amiss, fellows?” Radjar asked concernedly.
“Radjar, Falconis XXIX has just been declared king of the Black Falcon Empire...and there’s more.” Gladwheel continued, laying a parchment scroll on the table and unrolling it to reveal a map of the region known as Nehimar.
“Rangers abroad report that Samurai warriors have uncovered an ancient tomb pyramid in the Eastern Kingdom jungles. They entered the tomb a few days after them, after this letter, weeks ago. They have not been heard of since.”
“And what significance does this hold?”
Bjarn started. “We also received word from Ranger spies in the Knight’s Kingdom that the same Ninja stole a tome of Nehimite lore from the Great Archives in Celestius...the tome was known as the Book of Rhaek-Mal-Khan, and it tells of the location of a powerful blade known only as Nosferatu. The blade holds power over the corpses of thousands of long-dead Nehimite warriors killed in the ancient Holy Wars between the Knight’s Kingdom and the Nehimites. There are a few namely supporters of BloodVaine who would do anything to gather such a blade…”
“Which is why the Knights Kingdom kept the book hidden,” Gladwheel finished, “Radjar, this is a grave situation. We must get to the bottom of this, at once.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Radjar.
“I think it would be wise to send a few men to investigate.” stated Gereld Vos.
“My Lord...if you permit it, I wish to go…” said Gladwheel. Everyone else knew the unspoken next sentence, For I have no reason to stay here, with no wife nor child.
Bjarn nodded slowly. “Very well, though I see no point in involving the Forestmen in this, we have too much trouble as it is.”
Radjar started to speak to volunteer his services, but then he hesitated. He remembered Rosa’s words about he couldn’t wander around adventuring forever. The open road called him, but he had a duty to his people...and to Rosa.
“Gereld, would you be willing to accompany Gladwheel?” he asked suddenly.
Gerald looked startled, for he, like the others, had expected Radjar to jump immediately to go. After a moment he said, “Yessir, I am willing.”
“Very good.” Radjar turned back to the rest, “Should we send a company of men along as well?”
Bjarn shook his head. “Send all the Dark Foresters you want, the Forestmen are staying to repair their own kingdom.”
Bjarn's words were hard, and everyone knew he had unofficially excommunicated Gladwheel, and that he did not approve of this new quest.
Willem spoke up to break the chilled silence. “Alas, though I consider this a threat, I fear the Wolfpack cannot spare any men what so ever.”
“It looks like we’re going alone, then.” said Gladwheel, turning his back on Bjarn.
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