Getting back to the roots of this blog being a place to collect and share short stories… I’d like to present a slightly disjointed fantasy tale, in medias res.
Part 1
“I knew then — with the light behind us snuffed out and the sky above dotted with ominous dark clouds — that there was no true escape for us this night… But I get ahead of myself; really, where are my manners? Introductions first:
“The rugged young man that sits before you is Gonn Elbert Scottsdale, second in line to the Repeshian throne and burgher of the Royal Assembly of Huntsmen. Though at the time of this tale, I was only twelve years old and barely worth the kindling father had me collecting. The only other individual of note is my older brother by two years, Linson Ambros Scottsdale II. And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, Linson is the assumed heir to our grandfather’s throne now, I’ll get to how that happened in a bit. Oh, and it’s definitely gone to his head, after we’ve come to live here in the castle. As if the ego of an eldest-born seventeen-year-old needed more inflating…
“Er, there is one other, quaint little detail I should probably mention going forward with this dark recounting: both my brother and I are murderers. I just… think you should know that, going forward, alright? I’ll let you judge whether or not we were justified in our spilling of blood.”
Gonn shifted uncomfortably in his temporary seat, scratching at the uncomfortable piles of rags he had chosen to rest on in order to sit eye-to-eye with his evening’s chosen audience.
“Now, there we were, two young fools of no renown and simple upbringing, forced to flee the safety of our warm cabin and arms of our loving parents to brave the chilling mountain winds in the dead of night. Father had said little as he stuffed my pack, sparing only nervous, sorrowful glances in our direction as he whispered hesitancies to mother. Something about, ‘They have found us, the bastards — sooner than I thought possible.’ Mother seemed unworried, wrapping Linson with a thick cloak he was already nearly too big for. ‘Now boys, your father is just frustrated that these men didn’t tell us they were coming by so late at night. We need you both to head up the north hill and stay out of sight while you gather some more wood for the fire: they can’t know how big you’ve grown over last summer!’ She flashed us a heartwarming wink, just managing to cover the flicker of worry I saw pass over her face as we stumbled to the door. I was admittedly quite confused at the whole prospect, but I was young and loved games. My brother on the other hand was much too serious about the whole thing. At least, that’s how I felt at the time.
“So we hid, out of sight of the cabin, laying low in one of our familiar hunting trails to keep out of sight. The light from the window lamps had been snuffed out after we left, making me nervous for the well-being of our parents. But more than that, the look father had given Linson as we passed over the threshold… to this day, it lingers in my mind. So full of fear and anguish, but not for himself, I think.
“They came, rapping on the sturdy cabin door not long after we had caught our breaths in the cool evening air. Linson says he heard them shout the name of our maternal grandfather. The details get hazy here, but suffice to say that mother seemed to have lied to her family about father’s heritage… and certain details of father’s life brought the attention of several bounty hunters from the Empire. The shouts of a struggle and clattering of broken furniture made us both tense, but Linson kept himself flat on the ground, so I did the same, praying my thunderous heartbeat wouldn’t somehow give us away.
“It wouldn’t have mattered though: after the sounds died down, we both popped up and sprinted back home, unsure of what we would find and having no plan on how to handle the sight we came upon. Our father’s lifeless body lay slumped over the corpses of five armored killers, while their four remaining companions quietly rifled through his clothes and belongings inside our home. That’s when something took over us for the first time. My brother was slower to overcome his shock, but I was at the throat of the closet mercenary in a blink, crushing his windpipe with both hands and adding his body to the pile in the doorway of our small little home. The remaining three balked in surprise at our sudden appearance, which is how Linson was able to take out another, snapping his arms like twigs and shoving the splintered leg of a chair through his chest with a strength that surprised us all. The final attacker spun on his heals to reveal our mother, wounded and limp in his grip. He shoved her to her knees between him and us, holding a dagger already slicked with blood terribly close to her throat.
“ ‘The demon spawned more little shits, did he?’ The sneer plastered across the face of that killer drove me into a rage. I leapt from the doorway and soared the twelve-foot gap between us in an instant, my hands finding purchase around the jaw as I let my momentum carry me to the ground behind him. His upper half flipped with me, while the rest of his body simply split with a sickening snap and dropped to the floor. I turned and rushed to mother’s side, stunned at my own actions but still seeking her comfort like the child that I was. But it was too late: my quarry had held the blade firmly as he was jerked up and backwards. I simply provided the leverage. Mother died in Linson arms moments later, holding us both close with trembling hands and staring through the open door at the motionless figure of father.
“That was how grandfather found us. Linson says he heard the horses coming mere hours after our parents were killed. All I remember was seeing that scarred, weathered face streaked with tears as he lifted the broken body of his only son. We were gathered up by his lieutenants and rode back the many miles in silence. I have never again seen my grandfather cry; I think that night broke something ancient within his heart… It broke all of us, really.”
Gonn’s eyes welled with tears at the memories. He blinked rapidly, wrestling with the desire to heal from the trauma even as it was outweighed by the fear of being caught openly weeping. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffled hard, trying to not let the sound echo too loud on the stone walls.
“Anyway that… that was how we came to live with grandfather.” Gonn flashed a small smile and returned to himself slowly, adopting the casual air of a noble, as he had been taught, “And how we learned of our inheritance. You see, before my brother and I were born, father was the last in a great line of conquering kings! Ancient men of myth that fought wars alongside the Upper Pantheon themselves! And for their great loyalty and prowess, their bloodline was blessed with long life and superhuman strength. Somewhere along the line though that blessing was corrupted, becoming a curse rather than a divine gift. And the actions of a meager, jealous few have tainted our house with darkness.
“You see, we are the only true vampires in the world. Not quite the ravaging devils of your childhood stories; not yet at least. But the aversion to daylight, natural charm with weak-willed naysayers, and pounding headaches — though soon to be quelled by the generous ‘donations’ of those sentenced to death, such as yourself — Well… maybe we aren’t as refined as our noble appearance might suggest. But as that fateful night proves, my brother and I did inherit the supernatural strength and heightened senses from our royal forefathers. That much at least, guarantees our place it the higher echelons of grandfather’s society. Even if some rebellious mob were to burn down our gates, calling for our heads and forcing us to flee into the wilds as they are doing to the Tahant aristocracy this very moment. Even then, Linson and I would survive. More than that, grandfather has raised us to be kings no matter where we go. In less than twenty years, we would in power again somewhere else. It is our way.
“Why am I telling you, of all people, this dangerous and damning secret? Well, you aren’t going to see another day outside of this cell, are you? And seeing how that spittle of drool is pooling at the corners of your mouth, I should simply need to pursued you that this conversation never happened and be on my way.”
Gonn sighed then, disappointed by the lack of reaction or response up till now. The prisoner’s unfocused eyes stared back at him through the steel bars of the dank cell, secluded in the far corner of the dungeon he had chosen to stop by this evening. The headache was getting worse, but some part of him was deeply afraid at the implications that these late-night visits were having on him. As the years passed, his brother had chosen to alleviate the hereditary pains in the houses of drink and with the company of women. Recently, Linson had to be forcibly retrieved from such outings by the castle wardens, having incited a fistfight and risking another dangerous scene that might reveal the truth of their heritage to unfriendly eyes.
Such shows of aggression tightened the grip of anxiety around each trip Gonn himself made, wondering when he would be overcome by the blind rage again soon. That is why, starting tonight, he had tried a different approach with the prisoners in his care. Mostly for his own peace of mind. Bowing his head, Gonn lifted the man’s limp arm through the bars and mumbled a prayer. The words felt unimportant, but that was part of his new outlook on things: this singular experience that his house was destined to partake in needed some reverence added to it. Taking the essence of life from someone… It should not be as trivial a thing as his grandfather had made it out to be.
His upper lip curled, revealing the crescent fangs of his Vampirical adolescence, and he turned the man’s hand in his own to hold the soft skin of the wrist up to the dim light. Grimacing slightly, Gonn’s eyes flicked back to the cell interior to distract himself from the act he partook in, head swimming with the familiar mix of impropriety and relief both washing over him. As the seconds ticked by and the dull headache began to fade, he caught a noise emanating from the poor soul’s lips. He stopped his ritual, and the man’s mouth stopped moving.
Curious
Gonn resumed, and the whispering returned as well. Leaning awkwardly closer, Gonn tuned his sharp hearing a bit to catch the words, as the lifeblood slipped from the man’s veins:
“One seed will burn, as a violent star, bright but short will that light shine. The other, near to Radiance is he but, their line forsaken, must be cut-” The prisoner’s eyelids flickered shut and he inhaled sharply with a raspy breath. Gonn gripped the arm to hold him upright, only now realizing the man was blind as a bat, his eyes roaming the ceiling without meaning. “Cut free. The thieves no longer shall they feast; my children know of each they be, the birthright stolen shall be avenged… One seed will burn—” The prophetic lines repeated again and again, stopping only when Gonn lowered the man’s hand and gently slid the arm back through the bars to comfortably rest in the man’s lap once again.
“You seem full of something, old man. Whether it be madness or divinity though, I cannot tell.” Screwing up his face, Gonn shot him a sour look, “Is this all because I poured out my innermost thoughts to you, hmm? Are you rewarding my new trust with cryptic words to pique my interest and keep yourself alive?” His words were met with only a silent, unseeing stare.
The creak of old wood under approaching footsteps forced Gonn up from his itchy seat, wiping his mouth with a dark sleeve and scowling at the blind man in frustration. “Well consider me sufficiently creeped out…” He turned to leave, and hissed back over his shoulder as he went, “It’d be cruel to muddle whatever sanity you have left. I’ll be back to discuss this more, peasant.” And with all the air of a self-righteous teenager that he could muster, Gonn strode past the patrolling guard without a glance and exited the dungeons in a huff.
But the dark poetry of the prisoner’s words followed him, haunting his mind far into the following days.
Part 2
“Our ‘beloved’ king would rather see the heads of our sick and elderly on spikes than offer us proper food and shelter!” “Is this how we want our sons and daughters to grow up?” “My boy’s worried about having enough to fill ‘is belly, while the royals prance about in their fineries day in and day ‘aut. It ain’t right I say!”
The shouts of the restless farmers grew louder in Gonn’s sharp ears as he rode through the cobbled streets. His hearing had only grown more acute over the last few months, allowing him to pick out the dissident conversations over the din his hunting party made as they returned home. Cocking his head and listening for a few more paces, he guessed the meeting to be taking place in Polur’s tavern, about a block down the street from where his horse now carried him.
Sounds a bit like Julper’s voice there. The troublemaker.
He cocked a grin, remembering the last fight his brother had picked with Julper’s sniveling son. The stablemaster’s boy had run home with a broken nose and fractured finger; just enough pain caused to make the lad surrender but not enough to keep him out of work for very long. Prince Linson had gained a calculating mind in his years of fighting, getting an eye for how common men stumbled through brawls and how capable warriors stuck hard and fast. There was much more knowledge to glean from those nightly outings than Gonn had really given his brother credit for, though it irked him to admit. Begrudgingly, Gonn had to compliment his older sibling on his methods of earning their subjects’ respect.
When the time comes to call these men to arms, many of them will know how he hard he struck even in his youth and be more likely to follow his command without much question.
Gonn shook his head, aghast.
Of all the ways to earn loyalty, breaking their bones and marring their faces still makes the least sense to me.
He rubbed his thumb over the bump of his coral prayer beads absentmindedly, listening to the tolling of the bells echoing from the stooped brick chapel at the edge of town. Perhaps he could show his face there at tonight’s sermon, to give the common people yet another reason to shore-up their trust in the Scottsdale line. And a less violent reason, at that.
The masses of the pious huddled in the well-worn pews, each lost in their own worries and pains, gently rocking to the melodious hymn that was just coming to a close. As the voices of the people sang out the final note — some ending slightly earlier than others — the chapel grew quiet again as many eyes blinked back open and regarded Father Builos step up to the pulpit. “Ah, my flock. I welcome each of you. It warms my old heart to see so many of you join us this night.” The old cardinal’s eyes gleamed with a genuine radiance that Gonn always felt uniquely comforting.
“As many of you know, we held a sorrowful service earlier today for Genevieve and the Tultolus family after her fight with the falling sickness. I took a bit of time afterwards to sit with a few of you and I heard many of the things that weigh on your hearts these days. Such events often force us to face our own fragile mortality, knowing not a single day is promised us in this land. But tonight, I do wish to remind each of you again of the words spoken by our Lord Aesuhir in the Book of Thorns.” He smiled gently and placed an aged, leatherbound manuscript on the flimsy wooden lectern in front of him. Clearing his throat quickly, he opened to a marked page and began reading in his elderly, oratory tone, “After treating the poisonous wounds of his fellow—”
“NO.”
The deep rumbling voice cut through the night and washed over the gathered assembly like a distant thunderclap, silencing Father Builos instantly. All eyes turned to the middle aisle, where a tall, gray-robed figure stood suddenly, shadowing the figures pressed in around him; individuals that quickly shied back from his looming appearance as soft whispers scattered amongst them.
“Forgive me, revered shepherd, but you pronounced my father’s name poorly and I thought it best to correct you. For, ‘how can a sheep know the will of it’s Master’, if they first do not even know the sound of his own name?“
The Stranger’s face was thickly obscured by the shadows of his hood and the weak flames of the dancing torchlight that surrounded the chapel were not enough to offer Gonn a proper look. But the voice… The voice didn’t belong to anything human. It had a resonance to it that seemed to hover over the heads of each man and woman within earshot, rippling out to them like the striking of a drum without any hint of a shout.
His.. his father? Did he just infer that Holy Aesuhir was his father? Wha… what sort of man is this? No, not a man… a celestial? A demigod of Lusturil? The whispers of the others echoed Gonn’s thoughts.
His knees shook as the implications of that claim rooted him in the spot, his head swimming with questions while he and everyone else gathered about craned to get a better look at the new arrival.
Surprisingly, Father Builos was the first to collect himself and stammer out a reply, “Good stranger — forgive my ignorance — but you must understand, we have only the words provided to us from the Bishop of Argentum, passed along to us though travelers and the wisdom of our forefathers to guide us in these things. Utterances from the Lord-Eternal were rare even in his time, and I fear that you speak with much assumed authority on the subject of the mortal-made-god.”
At this, the Stranger chuckled. A gravelly, quaking bout of mirth that Gonn felt in his own chest. “I speak with assumed authority? Your own voice must sound rich in your own ears, little one. You speak highly of your dead, yet you let your base grievances govern your daily acts towards your own kith and kin.” The Stranger’s head turned to gaze across the faces of the huddled congregation, finally giving Gonn a chance to peer deeper into the hood. “But I must commend you to some degree: each of these souls has maintained their light, following your path towards righteousness. They are all ripe for harvest, as it should be.”
Gonn felt a chill run down his spine, but finally found his tongue and stepped out from the row of benches he had tucked himself into, “Here now Father Builos, what’s the meaning of this interruption? You, good sir who claims much with your spoken word: I am Prince Gonn-Elbert, decedent of the divine protectors of this holy kingdom, and I would have your name.” Gonn tried to keep his voice from cracking, hoping his puffed chest and false confidence would earn him some iota of favor in the eyes of this towering figure.
“Ah, I knew I smelled the blood of The Thief when I arrived: the streets are practically rank with it…” The figure swung it’s head lazily to fix Gonn with the semblance of a stare, the black shadows of it’s hood seemingly growing darker, like smoke billowing from a covered fire. “I am pleased that you ask so politely, not demanding my name like the other one did. His manners were not as refined as yours. Then again, his light barely flickered, whereas yours blazes like a star. Hmm… now isn’t that ironic.”
The chill deepened within Gonn, wrapping his stomach with an icy grip as the velvety voice spoke the familiar words. He tore his eyes from the menacing hood to spare a glance towards the castle walls to the North. Even through the darkening shadows of night, he could see the firelight of the patrolling guards along the protective ramparts. His grandfather the king was protected, the royal guard by his side at all times, save his privatest moments. But the whispered words of the blind peasant had spoken of ‘the seed’…
Where was his brother? Linson Scottsdale should have also been within the walls, perhaps reviewing an oft-shunned history lesson or practicing his Early-Volatian linguistics. If harm had befallen him, surely the alarm would have been sounded long before the Stranger could have made it out this far to the chapel?
The rumbling voice broke upon his anxious thoughts, “I am a servant of the Echoing Radiance, chosen of Rage and Death, and child of Aethmi-Istar, Lord-Eternal. Look upon the face of Gildrus, little thief. I am the blade hand-picked to cut out your forsaken bloodline. Forgive my delay, but you can trust that your harvest is still here at its proper time.”
Gonn’s legs finally found their strength and he hesitated no more. Leaping back with the speed and power he so often held in reserve, Gonn launched himself out through the open archway and began sprinting back towards the safety of the castle walls. A full, roiling laugh boomed behind him as the tall being stepped through the crowd after him. Dashing into the shadows, Gonn could feel his heart hammering in his chest as a cold sweat began to form on his brow.
Linson… Brother what has that demon done to you?
Part 3
“You will give me your name, assassin.” Linson spat out the words with as much contempt as he could muster, eyeing the sword that glinted from the hip of the robed stranger towering over him. The hood hid the face, but the coiled muscles exposed beneath the rough-spun robe left no question: the man had come to kill him quickly. Even standing with a foot poised to shove himself off the wall he was backed against, Linson could not see the strike coming. One viper-like strike to the head and the lithe prince’s body crumpled into the desk he sat at just moments ago. This Stranger said something in a low, breathy tone, but the meaning was lost on Linson as his ears rung and vision swam.
He felt himself being lifted; his limp body cradled in the arm of the dark-robed like a mother might hold a newborn child. A heavy sigh heaved from the large Stranger’s lips as Linson weakly lifted his hand to push himself away from the looming shadow.
“Shh now now, there is no point in struggling more. This will be over swiftly, I can assure you. My father has trained me well in the ways of reaping.”
Linson’s eyes snapped wide with shock and fear at the implications of those words, but his body wouldn’t listen to his screaming urge to run. He simply hung there, supported by the firm grip of his killer. A killer who had drawn back his hood, revealing a mop of well-trimmed golden locks and clean-shaven face that was looking down on him with a tender, almost sorrowful expression.
“How best to explain this… My father has always spoken of killing your people. He dreams of your slaughter and has prophesied that your ultimate destruction would be accompanied by fire from the heavens while he clogged the rivers black with your blood.”
The apocalyptic speech fell so easily from his lips. But still he shifted uncomfortably, glancing off and refusing to meet Linson’s trembling, dying gaze. “I never liked him when he spoke like that, always breaking things and losing himself to his throes of vengeance. But… I know your kind better; I know how short your lives are, how blissfully ignorant your generations can be if but one person takes a secret to their grave.”
His eyes softened even more as he adjusted his grip on Linson, resting a powerful hand against the prince’s forehead, helping quell the dizziness he felt.
“You, for instance, probably don’t even know why you are being reaped so early. My mother’s name has most likely been lost to you over the centuries… I wonder, does that make you just as much a victim as you are a perpetrator of your bloodline’s crimes?”
Linson blinked in surprise, feeling some of his supernatural strength return to him suddenly, and spun himself out of the giant’s grasp, landing on the stone floor with a thud. He coughed, heaving his lungs to fill with air and began crawling towards the open door of his secluded study, desperate to reach the darkness of night through one of the open windows. He was beyond caring that they were three stories up from where the ground met the castle walls. The robed Stranger straightened up and took only one step forward to tower over him again.
“It won’t do you any good, youngling: your blood carries the smell of ancient sin with enough potency to wake the very shadows themselves.” Then, sorrowfully again, he added, “There is nowhere you can hide from us. My father will not rest until your theft is answered for. And he will accept nothing less than the reaping of every soul that carries the tainted blood. I… I tried to find another way… believe me, I did. But his cold heart cannot be mended. He is only sated by bloodshed now. Oh, how ironic it is.”
Then the talon-like fingers dug into Linson’s shoulders from above, snapping bone and sinew as they hooked him and lifted his bruised body back into the air. He screamed, finally feeling his voice return, hoarse though it was. The Stranger didn’t seem to mind. It wore a look of resignation, but still refused to meet Linson’s eyes.
“You–” Linson gasped as the air burned in his chest, “you speak of reaping, of retribution… I know nothing of these things! What crime.. Ack! Do I answer for, that a killer such as you comes to… see it done!?” He battered at the tree branch of an arm that swept to pin him again, swinging with a force that had shattered the bones of lesser men. His killer barely flinched as the prince’s hammer-like fist pounded against the tunic draped around its shoulders.
“Her name was Valencia. She was a queen of Greater Echnica before the world tree fell, bonded of the mortal-made-god Aethmi-Istar… mother of the Apathies themselves.”
Linson’s assassin bent his elbow to bring his prey lower and stared with stark silver eyes that Linson’s gaze now met for the first time. “Your ancestors stole her immortal gift and perverted her sovereignty. Your ancestors debased her perfect nature and sought to forcibly lay claim to a power their weak coils could not maintain.” The grip on Linson’s shoulder doubled, snapping the shoulder blade in two and dislocating the arm entirely. Linson felt his throat screech out at the pain, but he heard only half of it, the edges of his vision beginning to grow fuzzy and dark, the pain becoming too much for his conscience mind to bear.
“That was the day my father found her broken body, her very life-force drained by the mouths of the greedy monsters you had shown yourselves to be. That is the only way you have survived so long, as you well know; the hunger you inherited was never meant to exist. The power you possess is stolen, Lindson Ambros Scottsdale II. And I am here to reap your souls and reclaim the drops of ancient divinity that still linger within the veins of each forsaken son of Rathus.”
With a desperate, heaving sob, Linson let the darkness wash over him. Unconscious, he realized that he was dying. But he felt strangely at ease, knowing his grandfather and brother would soon be following him into the halls of Lusturil, as their lives too were soon claimed by this ancient and vengeful force of judgment they surredly deserved.
Gonn took the steps of the East tower five at a time, practically hurtling himself up the stone ramparts like the fleeing prey he felt himself to be this night.
Linson’s study is the fourth alcove from the barracks. If he doesn’t dawdle we can jump from these windows and drop down into the valley. If the pursuer is tracking me by scent, we should angle for the river to the…
Blood. The sight of it froze Gonn in his tracks, his momentum carrying him down to all fours as he reached the landing outside Linson’s study. His hands smacked the sticky pools of crimson that gathered in rivets between the cool, chiseled blocks of the keep’s floors.
No…
Bloodstains marked the telltale sign of someone being dragged further up the steps, followed by large drops spattered on the walls and stairs as they were presumably picked up and bodily carried beyond the curvature of stairwell to the floors above.
The killer managed to do all this… and then come after me, all without being seen by a single castle guard?
Gonn wheeled in fear: now that he had finally stopped running, he half expecting an invisible hand to reach out and strangle him where he stood. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes and tried desperately to quiet his pounding heartbeat. “Listen, boy. Close your eyes and just… listen.” The words of his grandfather came to him, reminding him of how stoic and strong the old man had been in the training of his two brash grandchildren. “Ours is a power no other men can claim; we see with the eyes of dragons, we hear with the ears of vineweavers, we smell with the senses of direwolves. This is our world to rule, like the gods intended.”
A heartbeat. No, two: one large and slow, stilled by deep, focused breathes from lungs like an ox. The other faint and weak, quickened by ragged painful gasps. The impact of a boot on wood. A screech of rusted hinges.
His brother and another assassin were above him, just exiting the stairwell through the door leading along the tallest of the castle ramparts. Of course, there were two killers sent after them. Gonn’s heart leapt to his throat as he resumed his mad sprint up the stone steps after them, the words the Stranger spoke in the chapel mixing with the cryptic prophecy from before: “Chosen of Rage and Death… bright but short will that light shine… their line forsaken, must be cut free… the blade hand-picked to cut out your forsaken bloodline… the birthright stolen shall be avenged… your harvest is still here at its proper time.”
Mother of Stars, do they intend to sacrifice us to cover some ancient vengeance pact? If Linson couldn’t overpower one of them, what hope do I have of taking on both? What if there was a third sent for grandfather as well?
Fear welled up inside of him, steadily building with each pounding footstep that carried him closer to his promised death.
Yet still, he chased after his brother.
UWC 