The sky burned for ten years. No crops survived, the sky was filled with either flames or heavy smoke, and all seasons were a scorched summer that eventually ruined the trees, grass, and fields of produce.
Cows withered and died from the intense heat, and fresh water nearly vanished completely, as the seas rose up, and drowned the freshwater streams and wells.
“It is indeed God’s wraith.” lamented the archbishop, as he clutched his staff, feeling the earthly energies writhe in its polished wood. “The people die by the day, no old left, barely enough children, we may have seen the fall of our world.”
“Nay.” rebuked the warrior of Solitaire. Having hope even as the oceans rose to nearly submerge the mountains of the lowlands. “Tis’ but a time of woe. Such times are not ours to behold forever, let these years be rain water dripping from your back into a river of assurance.”
“You are still a poet.” remarked the archbishop. “Still a pretty bad one.” Neither the man of the church or of the sword could agree. Archbishop Caïrpe didn’t appreciate baseless optimism in the face of dire destruction.
Watching down below, the holyman lamented watching thousands of people crowd the lower gates, barring passage to the highlands, just as the steadily rising sea just reached the edge of the horde.
“Truly tis’ a deluge that sees no discrimination between men and women of good and evil.” Caïrpe tried to steel himself in a cloak of burden, made of cold comfort in the end that befall the innocent below, would eventually come for them all.
“The king has truly become a tyrant.” Swordmaster Carthē spoke boldly, unafraid of retaliation from the crown. “To stand on the bodies of his farmers and laborers is unconscionable evil, as putting a poisonous snake in a child’s toy box.” Anger flashed on the warrior’s face, as his dark eyes saw people below being crushed against the firm stone walls of the gates below.
Turning away from the ugly sight, Carthē strode off in great hurry.
“What do you hope to do?” the Archbishop asked after him, seeing his form fleeting down the halls of the towering spire. “The king is likely to put them, you and your men to the sword for breaking his edict.”
“Blazes to his edict, I’ll see the king face a truer justice!” rage overtook the swordsman, his haughty chest heaved with the efforts of animating a body burdened by lead hard muscles.
Disappearing down the turn in the hallway, the swordmaster left the Archbishop's sight, whose brow grew heavier with worry and a lonesome lamentation. Leaving the heart wrenching sight at the window, the holy man went to the chapel to pray.
Crossing a long bridge of solid marble, over the cylindrical cavity of the tower, Caïrpe became increasingly concerned with the lack of royal sentries missing from their posts. As he crossed halfway across the marble a figure materialized out of nowhere, phasing into reality, the fat-faced court sorcerer stood between the holyman and the other side.
Suddenly there was a clash of metal behind him, Caïrpe turned and saw a soldier wearing raiment and armor he had never seen before blocking the way back.
“Tis’ the pity that the council never saw fit to dislodge you from his highness's side, only now when you fully remove your benevolent guise do I see the wolf that you are.” The Archbishop tested the energy in his staff as he waved it overhead, created a dazzling ball of energy that dispelled all shadows, and dispelled the guise that the magician wore all this time.
The fat face and little eyes remained, but his flushed, pinkish skin darkened into a grayish blue, and wrinkled terribly as if he was a juice piece of fruit that went rotten.
“You are indeed a clever old man, yet the only pity should be all yours. Your hesitation has led you, and everyone else in this wretched kingdom to utter doom.” lifting his skeletal hands from beneath his dark cloak he brought forth a ball of lightning, retrained into a gyrating sphere of energy. “Take comfort to know that when you die, it will not be for long, I shall resurrect you, perhaps as a pet. I do need more homunculi for my experiments.”
Pushing his hands forward the newly exposed necromancer propelled the lightning sphere forward, as it scorched the marble floor beneath it as it approached Archbishop Caïrpe. Lifting his staff, he pointed its head forward, and as if he were hitting a cricket ball, he knocked it into the air, where it slowly dissipated.
A look of crestfallen shock was on the necromancer’s face, as his surprise turned to immediate rage.
“Tis’ a pity you never learned to balance Prayer and Magic. You only know the wicked side of things, to balance it with temperance and faith, that is a mark of a true channeler.” lecturing the necromancer was in Caïrpe’s nature. Many disciples learned how to reach the high echelons of the church by his tutoring.
It saddened him that the necromancer was already dead, if he were still alive he might’ve gained by having a mentor to teach him to use his gifts for good; however once dead, their only destination is in God’s arms, or be rebuked into the fires of Hell.
“You fool! What hope do you have against such grand powers.” the necromancer waved his skeletal hands about, and brought an aura of pale electricity around his hands. Feeling the energies flow through his long dead bones, created a pleasurable sensation that made him laugh in deranged pleasure. “Take this, and die.”
Stretching out his fingers, ten bolts of lightning flared out, and in an instant there was a flash of blinding light in the cavity of the tower. When the light faded, the necromancer was dismayed, a tremendous fear sent tremors through his body, as he saw the Archbishop standing unharmed from the attack.
Behind him however the two guards were charred to a crisp, their raiment and armor charred and falling off in brittle shards of ash. Blackened skeletons wavering about, till they fell over themselves in a heap.
“Damn you!” cried the necromancer as he was thinking of another spell, he was overtaken by a terror as he saw the Archbishop move towards him, holding out one hand. Desperate not to be outmatched and be sentenced to utter oblivion, the undead channeler vanished once more into the ether.
“Pathetic coward.” Caïrpe sighed heavily. “He is only delaying the inevitable.”
No longer did he intend to go to the chapel, the Archbishop went off to go to fetch the rest of the king’s court members. They’ll be needed to dislodge the necromancers who have supplanted themselves into high positions in the realm, and in all likelihood was causing their current crisis.
Burning skies, the king commanding cruel edicts, and the atmosphere in the castle were all signals of such a travesty. Caïrpe wished he could step outside himself, so he could properly scold himself for being so blinded by his own misery to notice the coup.
As he hurried along, he prayed to God that Carthē would also see through such deception before he would be taken by surprise.
***
Reaching the main gates of the Castle of Babel, the swordmaster had gathered around him knights under his command to force the sentries at the gates to allow the commoners into the highlands.
Thirty men, young, old, and middle aged were at his side, wearing the cuirass of silver etched with the symbol of his house, the rainbow fish, where jewels were embedded to match the rainbow color scheme.
“Keep your blades ready men, less we need them too late.” crossing the castle grounds, the entourage of hardy swordsmen were met with curious glances by the gentry. Living in seclusion in the highlands since the skies first been set aflame, many of them had taken a sickly appearance.
Some were ambivalent about seeing them, others had a stern, malicious look in their eyes that once noticed by the other gentrymen made them worry.
“Brithe, why do you have such a mean look in your eyes? Do you have such hatred for the guardian of the realms?” The harbor master was confused by the sinister expression appearing on his friend's face.
Not saying a word, the color seemed to fade from his face, as the shade from the trees seemed to darken, and the shadows partially hid the fading of the facade. An iron cold grip tightened around the harbor master’s arm, as it tightened enough to snap the bone in his arm. Screaming in pain and horror the harbor master was then mauled viciously by the undead monster that his friend had turned into quite some time ago.
Tearing the flesh from his face, the last thing he saw before life ended was the balled up fists of bluish skin throttling his skull till his shattered.
Avenging the innocent's death, a young knight, in service of Carthē plunged his sword into the chest of the wicked undead creature. The silver alloy the blade was made from, viciously burned the undead skin, causing a green flame the purge the evil animated the corpse.
When one undead was revealed, soon the entire grounds were dotted with dozens of the unholy scum, who once revealed had their humanity stripped from their minds. This made them loathe themselves and that venomous hate turned into a frenzy that made them want to destroy anyone who was still alive.
Groups of knights formed and spread out to cull the incoming threat, leaving Carthē to head to the gates to save the lowborn folk from drowning. Rushing to the gates which was half a yard away, down a set of stairs, he was intercepted by a shadow that stood there, obstructing his progress.
Instantly he recognized the narrow, tall body of the Knight Of Moons, Sӓӕrbus, commander of the Castle Sentries.
“Move aside Sir Sӓӕrbus, we should not be enemies on this day.” Carthē conveyed great admiration for his fellow warrior in his tone. However he would not allow his noble feelings for the other prevent him from his life saving task.
Wearing a long, curved helmet, the mask that covered the knight’s face had a narrow black slit that prevented the Swordmaster from reading the other’s eyes.
“Do you think God cares about those people?” Sӓӕrbus’s words sounded as if he spoke them to himself while trapped at the bottom of a well. “If he loved them, why doesn’t he help them himself?” a terrible scream came from beyond the front gates, as the water was rising to a dangerous level.
Many of the lowborn people couldn’t swim, farmers and builders, they wouldn’t know how to stay afloat, let alone swim.
“God has the faithful to act as his flock's protectors.” Carthē rushed to the gate, but he was taken aback when another knight he had fought with for many years lifted his lance menacingly.
“I suppose the Devil has sent me to foil your efforts, but why bother? If God truly loves them they’ll go to heaven, right?” The lance met the full girth of a silver broadsword, whose longblade chipped a piece from the razor edge of the steel lance.
“You speak evil Sӓӕrbus, why must we fight?” In the struggle for the sword to overpower the lance, Carthē up close to the Knight smelled a putrid, yet stale smell that made him hold his breath.
Breaking the lock of weapons, Carthē quickly lifted the pommel of his blade to knock off Sӓӕrbus’s helmet, revealing a disgusting sight.
A skull, moist with humid pus and blood, was in the helmet, skin slid in gory chunks down the skull, as the empty sockets gave a vacuous glare, locked into Carthē’s betrayed grimace.
“You whor* bastard!” cursed the Swordmaster as he slammed forward his sword into his opponent, the strength he brought onto the lanky undead sent him nearly off his feet. “How could you betray your countrymen?! God?! And your brothers in arms?!” Each word made Carthē incensed as his finely trimmed beard and long, kempt hair seemed to bristle into the mane of a vengeful lion.
Straightening himself, Sӓӕrbus replaced his helmet back on his head, and took a nonchalant poise, shrugging off his former comrades words. “Simple. None of those really matter.”
Such vindictiveness was in his apathetic response, that Carthē wouldn’t mourn the Knight once he purged his undead presence from the world. Before he could engage in the fight in earnest, he heard a wail of despair.
“Help! The children are drowning!” cried out an especially loud lowborn man, whose shoulders were burdened by the weight of several children, climbing to save themselves from the water.
“Don’t worry Master Carthē, I’m sure angels in heaven will herald them to safety.” mocked the undead Knight, who continued to persist in guarding the path ahead.
Carthē’s other knights were still fighting the undead on the castle grounds, and he had precious little time.
“Must you push me to such extremes—” Sӓӕrbus poised his lance for a death strike, as Carthē paused, as if he wanted to give his former comrade one last chance at redemption. “—very well, to Hell with you then.”
Hands pressed themselves together as if they were in prayer, nearly fusing to the grip of the sword, Carthē flexed his muscles nearly twice their size. His armor cracked as he expanded with savage power. Using a technique he honed as a wanderer in the lands of barbarism, and desolation, he was able to devolve into a creature of his primordial ancestry.
Hair thickening on his head and body, the locks of crimson tendrils turned to leathery locks, and his emerald eyes deepened till the color flooded over his eyeball. Unable to speak the eloquent tongue of a civil culture, he regressed to grunts and bestial sounds of an ape.
Lifting his arms to the heavens, he cried out as his face became that of a savage ape-man, as his armor’s straps snapped off, and the plates fell from his husky body. Wielding his sword more like a cudgel than a weapon requiring proper form, he launched himself at the undead knight, propelling himself on his thick, gorilla arms.
The lance as soon as it met the silver broadsword snapped in two against the feral power that overtook Carthē’s natural hesitance against fully committing to a savage attack. Once he felt his weapon snap in two, Sӓӕrbus heaved back his lance, and rammed it forward, sticking its still sharp edge into the feral man.
Despite slicing into the body, Sӓӕrbus could not push the blade deeper into Carthē’s chest, it felt as if there was a iron slab inside the Swordmaster’s body pushing out the intruding object. Before he could retract his blade, a skull shattering strike from the pommel of the broadsword hammered Sӓӕrbus’s helmet.
As he fell hard to the ground, the Knight felt fragments of his skull fall off his head, and scatter about as he hit the ground. Last moments of his undead existence, he didn’t talk, move much, or plead for mercy, Sӓӕrbus just allowed the agony of being obliterated into bone dust by a barrage of ferocious blows.
Spirit bound to the dust his skeleton was reduced to, Sӓӕrbus was still conscious, and wondered why he wasn’t gone.
Carthēs let out a roar of domination as he beat his chest, fully embracing his animalistic nature, till a fragment of his civilized mind begged his feral brain to remember.
‘They’re drowning.’
A flicker of humanity sparked the protective nature of the ape-man as he sped down the stairs to the portcullis gate below. The sentries on guard backed away, and fled up the stairs, frightened he would turn his rage upon them, for obeying the king’s edict. Dropping his sword, he gripped the solid stone and iron gate, barking out savage roars as he fought against the mechanisms of the gate to save the people on the other side.
The sound of the rising water was almost deafening, but it motivated him to apply more of his strength, and as he lifted the gate by an inch, the gears above gave way. Chains snapped, gears shattered, and he flung open the gates, and expected to be nearly trampled by the lowborn who were desperate to survive.
However he saw no one rush towards him, a cold realization came to his heart, that made it beat agonizingly slow, and pump a frigid blood flow to his body. Looking down he saw in the water the floating bodies of thousands of people.
Bobbing up and down to the waves, many were being dragged out to sea, men, women, and even children were unable to save afloat for the gate to be opened. All of them were dead, the walls of the gate had scratch marks from the people trying to climb over it, desperate to survive.
The dead eyes of a child looked at Carthēs, and he felt his feral blood melt away into vapor, leaving a nearly naked man, crestfallen, being overcome by grief.
Words couldn’t convey his heart wrenching sorrow, so he lifted his arms to the sky, and as steaming hot tears rolled down his eyes, he let out a throat straining cry to the heavens.
Louder and louder he’d scream out till he exhausted his lungs, and as he breathed in once more, he let out a more wretched and tormented cry that could be heard even at the top of the Castle Of Babel.
Knights of his order finished culling the undead, and went to see their master, however were dismayed to see him languishing over his failure.
The water seemed to stop at the gates, as if it was satisfied with the offering of lives, which it had claimed under its waves. Once he was hoarse and worn out from his screaming, Carthē was covered by the cloak of one of his men. Wrapping it tightly around himself, he looked out to the open sea, and watched as only the peaks of the mountains of the lowlands remained. Their frost tipped peaks being washed away by the rising tides.
The sky was still burning bright, it seemed to turn the water red, as if it were a sea of blood.
“Tis’ a pity.” remarked one of the knights after a long silence.
Bemused by hearing that Carthē rose to his feet, retrieving his sword, his emerald eyes hardened to a bitter anger that wasn’t intensely violent, but was focused and exacting.
“What shall we do now, master?” asked one of his men, fear and caution in his voice.
“We are going to purge the castle. Every floor, every chamber, and hallway of the necromancers and their defilements, right to the throne room, where I will have words with the king.”
No nods in agreement or cheers were sounded by the knightly order, with steely eyes they joined their master in his vendetta against those in league with all things unholy. Swords in hand, they set themselves to work at cleansing the castle of evil.
***
Fading back from the void between worlds, the necromancer materialized in the throne room, where King Cüwddër was miserably shivering on his throne. Once a youthful monarch of nearly two decades was a miserable wretch, with vibrancy and vitality drained from his frail body. Liver Spots and a hideous yellow shade covered his body, darkened his lips, and made his eyes change from a sapphire blue to a bloody ruby red.
Hair, long and wispy as an old goat, piled on expensive fur hides on his body to keep warm.
“Cirkwüɵd, you villainous cretin, where is the coal for my fire?” A blazing fire heated the throne room to nearly the degree required to cook eggs, but still the king bitterly shook with cold.
“Sire.” playacted the necromancer. “I bring grim tidings. Your other advisors in the court have been murdered. The chamberlain, the royal mathematician, and even the royal cook have been killed.”
“I don’t care about that!” the king scolded his court sorcerer, threatening him with his scepter of heavy gold and gems. “I need more heat, get me more coals, in fact smash the chairs the advisors usually sit in and put them on the fire, do it! Now! I command it, forthwith.”
Cirkwüɵd playing the faithful servant of the king did as he was bid. Clapping his hand, he summoned two zombified guards in their dark uniforms to come and as instructed, broke apart the heavy wooden chairs.
Twelve seats made of the finest elm wood, tempered and crafted by masters that had served royal advisors for nearly a hundred generations, were reduced to kindling.
“I’m still cold. Fetch more wood and coal, or I’ll put you on the fire!” King Cüwddër, driven mad by the sickness of the brain, rose up, and tried to put his hands on the necromancer. Before he could even touch him, the sensation of a wintery breeze blew across the king’s back.
Trembling from the imagined cold, he returned to his throne, and cocooned himself in furs to bring warmth back to his bones.
“I am always at your service.” the necromancer snidely replied as he bowed low. “However, I must do something to quash this rebellion going on, as it turns out the Archbishop and the Swordmaster committed these killings, so they can usurp your crown.”
That didn’t seem to worry the king, as he rubbed his nose, and rattled his knees together, as he felt a deathly chill ravage his once vibrant body.
Slyly Cirkwüɵd formulated another deception to achieve his ends. “They are also responsible for making it so cold in the castle, in hopes of making his grace catch his death of cold.”
Blinking rapidly, the king showed an immediate reaction upon hearing that news.
“Those traitors! Have them executed at once, I will make that my next royal edict!”
“Of course your grace.” the necromancer bowed, as he smiled widely, as he took great joy in indulging his deceitful nature. “To those ends, I must beseech your permission to go into the royal vaults once again.”
A sudden glimpse of sanity came over Cüwddër, as a hint of natural color returned to his face. Sane thoughts came to mind, but were fuddled by the influence of the necromancer who had him under his enchantment. “But…father said never…ne…ver—” but the skeletal hand of the necromancer was placed on the king’s hand, and he immediately felt a radiant cold run throughout his body.
Deepened in his sickness, the king reverted to his deranged appearance of ill health, and clutched the furs closer.
“Yes…my royal edict—” the king reached for his parchment book nearby, and with a quill and ink, wrote out an edict, grinding the court sorcerer, Cirkwüɵd access to the royal vault. Sealing it with the insignia of the crown, the king was fully engulfed by the throws of insanity, as he begged for more heat.
“Throw a pitch on the fire! I need to feel warm.” he whined as if he were a spoiled child, demanding an immediate easem*nt of his suffering.
“Don’t worry about your grace, these men will attend to your needs.” gesturing to the zombified guards, who immediately went off to fetch pots of pitch to fuel the fires as they were bidden.
Whether they burned the king to death was no long of consequence, the necromancer had what he needed, access to the royal vault once again. Each time he went in there he was limited by a charm placed on the chamber that expels all of non-royal blood after a set period of time.
Each time he had to cajole the king with his fiendish enchantment to grant him permission so he could break the enchanted locks on a particular casket placed in the vaults long ago. When the tower was first built, the forefather of necromancer was imprisoned in a sarcophagus of gold and jade, and blessed with wizardry from the church, it held him prisoner for eons.
However overtime Cirkwüɵd had gained access, and each time he has done so, the broken one of the locks. Five total locks were there, keeping the lid firmly sealed, but each of his four previous visits, the necromancer undid a lock, before the timer ran out and he was removed from the vault.
Only one remained and after his master is free, the cataclysm will reach its zenith. The rising ocean will turn to blood, the skies will burn with eternal flames, and the sun will eclipse, blocking out the holy brilliance of sunlight.
Then all the land will never know death, and all will be forever earthbound in the earthly plane for far beyond eternity. Impatient to be free of the fears of death and divine retribution, the necromancer hurried to the doors of the vault, thinking about the rewards bestowed upon him for freeing his dark master.
***
Much of the gentry fled the tower, or became trapped in their private quarters, as the dead fully revealed began their purge of all uncorrupted life from the tower. Zombies, skeletons, and half-deads roamed the hallways, wearing the armor bearing the insignia of the black and white infinity symbol, signifying their allegiance to the necromancer’s faith.
Soldiers who remained unturned to the side of the dead, fought bravely, but were overrun, cornered and slaughtered. The rest who didn’t die were routed from the castle to the dungeons, where they sealed themselves in the cellars to save themselves a brutal death.
Blood and gore filled the halls, the necromancer’s pets, maggots and bloated black flies devoured freely the dead flesh that laid still, and was compelled by black sorcery to move about.
Once such a zombie had his face covered with foaming wounds, where maggots squirmed about, feasting on the decaying flesh. White eyes, grayish green skin, the zombie was once the apprentice bishop, a cardinal who after being massacred in the chapel, had been resurrected as a mindless corpse.
“Oh Andrӧ, you poor soul.” Archbishop Caïrpe was devastated to see his apprentices had all succumbed to the necromancer's curses. What protection they had from faith was crippled by the mind traumatizing horrors they bore witness to; once they were killed, they were brought to life to roam the scene of their murder. “Allow me to bring you peace.”
Lifting his staff up, he spoke a soft prayer both triumphant, yet muted by sorrow. From his hands came a blinding burning light that stretched out, like a grasp of some magnificent giant, engulfing the corrupt bodies in a sanctifying flame.
Upon the dimming of the light the zombie was erased, expunged from the hallowed grounds of the chapel, along with the rest of the carrion feeders and animated corpses.
Since disengaging Cirkwüɵd, the Archbishop had scoured the various chambers and halls to find the rest of the king’s court. However the necromancers have already killed them, some were reanimated, others turned into grotesque totems to usher in the new undead world. Free souls, and using his church magic to expunge the undead servants had left him worn out, he needed time to replenish his mental fatigue.
Breathing steadily, he sat on a wooden bench in the chapel, and lit some incensed urns to mask the smells of rot and death that still hung in the air.
Inhaling the tranquility of a stress erasing perfume, Caïrpe allowed himself to mourn the death of his entire class of students. That class learnt well, and despite the recent cataclysm kept the faith, and often encouraged him to do the same, despite his gloomy outlook of the recent dark events.
Seeing the dark side of it blinded him, he knew that he had some degree of reasonable hope his pupils would be alive, and he would’ve found out the necromancers plot sooner.
‘Am I too old? …No. I am just out of practice, tis’ but my own lax efforts, I failed out of confidence I have no further to go. I am a poor holyman to have peaked so soon into my old age.”
Harsh bleeding sensations seemed to occur all over his brain, as despite his efforts to renew his fortitude he was accosted with hurtful memories. Relieving the sights of carnage that overcome the Tower Castle, and the realm of the royal family. A curse, hovering over his head, sticking its bolts of dismal thoughts, penetrating through his skull, and hemorrhaging his mind.
Efforts to focus on mental recovery were hampered, and he just kept reliving the constant assault of violent images reenacted in his mind.
“Stop!” cried out the Archbishop as he laid his face in his hands, trying not to be overtaken by despair.
Then he heard sickly, sad*stic laughter, a fiendish impish necromancer of dwarfish size was placing a hex on him, making him delirious by grief to fight back against their evil. Betrayed by its own cruel glee, the necromancer realizing a retaliation for its wickedness was close at hand, tried to flee, but was struck down by a hammering spell of utter annihilation.
One yelp of surprise, and after a cloud of smoke, all that was left of the black conjurer was scorched robes.
Caïrpe regretted using his magic with so much rage, not tempered by his faith, he allowed pure hatred to control his decisions—that was dangerous for a channeler. Anyone who can use magic, it flows with emotion, if one allows the deadly sins into their thinking space as they conjure a spell, it could pervert it to uncontrollable destruction.
‘I must keep my faith, I have to, for those lost, and those I can save. May God give me strength, I fear the road ahead is far darker than I believed.’
Leaving the chapel, he heard a commotion from the lower floors, turning to look down on the lower spirals of the tower, he saw through the windows knights—Carthē’s knights.
“Hello there knights of the rainbow fish.” called out Caïrpe feeling relieved he has comrades to join his efforts.
“Tis’ it you, Archbishop?” called back one of the knight’s with some surprise in his voice.
“Don’t be so shocked man, I am not that old compared to your master, pray tell me, is he with you?”
“Right here you old fool.'' The swordmaster ran up to the window from below, and waved his sword arm to greet his friend. Covered in black blood, and having dressed down from his armor to his loincloth, it was clear he indulged in his feral blood recently.
“Forgive me, I couldn’t recognize you from your current state.” a sarcastic smile came over his face in jest.
“Don’t be so jolly yet, we have much to do to expel the evil from our home.” Carthē ran up the stairs so he could stand face to face with the Archbishop, who waited patiently, with a new calmness giving his mind much needed clarity.
“Did you see any of the castle guards? Can anyone lend us aid?” Caïrpe counted the knight’s the swordmaster had under his command, and although skillfully trained, they were quite few.
“Fear not, one of my students can slay a hundred of these foul beasts.” boasted Carthē as he took a towel one of his men brought him, and started to wipe off the stagnant blood. “What of your own, any of your apprentices able to lend a hand?”
A gloomy look came upon the Archbishop, as he struggled to fight against the urge to remain silent on the matter. “I saved the last one.” he pointed to the chapel with his staff, which was still tainted by the stench of the living dead.
“I understand, tis’ a pity—” he stopped himself, Carthē began to loathe that phrase, and endeavored to expunge it from his vocabulary. “—we must reach King Cüwddër, I believe we will find the source of this calamity close to his majesty.”
Hurriedly they continued up the tower, finding a thinning number of zombies, necromancers, and other such creatures of death as they ascended the tower. As they climbed the sky grew hotter, as the sky turned to a darker blood shade, and the sun began to eclipse as if being smothered by a black core of malefice.
***
“So cold…” King Cüwddër bitterly shivered in front of the massive pyre that was consuming his entire throne room. “...more! I need more fuel for my fire, bring me coal and wood now!” The command was drowned out by the roar of the flame. Crackling of the wood, the sharp hiss of the flames eating away at the curtains, and all around it was filled by thick, toxic smoke.
Zombies had fallen into the fire adding a nauseating stench to the smoke, as it filled the throne room, and flooded into the outside hallway. Unable to cough over the coldness in his blood, the king looked into the fire, and began to feel a sliver of humanity returning to his cursed mind.
‘Why am I so cold? The fire is so vast, yet I cannot find warmth…maybe I should leave this chamber.’
Struggling to his feet he found he couldn’t go around the fire, it had grown to block out all exits. All curtains, furnishings, and even his throne was burning to the flames, and only now did he realize the space that wasn’t on fire was growing smaller by the moment. Was then that he realized his wicked folly, how it all seemed to collapse down, as if it were a wall he built upon sand.
“Heavens!” he cried out, reaching skyward, trying to picture his Heavenly Father in his mind’s eye. “Forgive me, I was taken by evil…I beg, spare me the fires of damnation, please, don’t leave me Lord.”
As if by divine intervention a gale of wind conjured as if by a tempest blew into the throne chamber, and with a chill that sent the king to his knees, extinguished the flames. Cinders and charred stone was all that remained of the throne room, when the king recovered enough to survey his surroundings.
“Your Highness.” the Archbishop approached him, and eagerly took the repentant sovereign into forgiving arms.
“Forgive me Father Caïrpe I was not myself. Please, allow me to make amends for my evil deeds.” rising to his feet with the aid of the Archbishop, King Cüwddër left the throne room. Seeing knights that had sworn loyalty to his crown, and the Swordmaster looking at him with wary and harsh glares wounded his pride. “I cannot beg for forgiveness that would blot out my misdeeds, my sins run deep and must be atoned for.”
“King Cüwddër, don’t be so harsh on yourself.” Archbishop Caïrpe was full of sympathy having not realized the king’s madness was a curse afflicted upon him by the necromancers.
“I still should’ve resisted Father Caïrpe… I now see things far more clearly.” he looked around as if he saw far off places, a fading mind seemed to reside behind that plaintive stare.
“Your majesty—” Sword Master Carthē noticed the eyes of his men upon him, as if what he said would cue them as to how to react to seeing their king in such a state. “—what fault may be laid on your head must wait, we have to find the court magician, he is the necromancer who infected our realm with these disasters.”
Understanding reflected in the king’s eyes, as he nodded, and seemed to partially recover from his empty headed delirium.
“Yes…Cirkwüɵd, he…he made—” he paused to choose a more fitting words, “—extorted an edict from me, to get into the royal vault, come, we must be swift.”
“Good Lord.” Archbishop Caïrpe wrapped his hands together around his staff in prayer. “He must seek the release of the master of necromancers, Bluûd Fuük.”
King Cüwddër was already hurriedly limping towards the vault when the knights and Swordmaster faces turned into horrified masks of dread.
Not one of their order was not educated in the evils of necromancy or the Grand Dukes of the black arts. Chosen by the devil himself, Bluûd Fuük was an ancient, biblical evil that the Neo Testament described as a primeval who tormented mankind even before the Black Time.
Unable to quantify the sheer terror they’d experience if such a being was to be released, they outpaced the king, as they hurried to the vault to prevent the wretched creature's release.
***
“Finally! I did it with time to spare.” Cirkwüɵd undid the last of the enchanted locks, and as the seal faded, he placed his skeletal hands on the sarcophaguses lid and began to lift it off.
However he found it was stuck tight, eons of being closed off had stuck the lid in place, as he applied more pressure he began to worry of the waning time he had in the vault. Then he heard a clamor coming towards him, he heard metal boots on the marble floors, and sensed the flows of magic from the Archbishop.
“Dark Lord awake from your slumber!” he cried as he tried to force the lid, desperate to see his decade long plot come to fruition. As the sounds approached closer, he tried to use his magic to pry open the lid, but his magic was weakened from being in the vault. “Damn this, open up!”
Banging his skeletal hand on the lid, he felt a child run down his spine as he felt a shadow fall upon him, a silhouette stood at the door to the vault. Raising his broadsword in menace, readying it to strike the Swordmaster’s eyes burned a wolfish flare.
“Foul architect of evil, become undone by your own plots, and be cast to oblivion.” Before the necromancer could call upon his magic to his defense, his eyes were blinded by a spark of silver light.
Eyes seemed to split apart, and his vision distorted, not realizing he was cleaved in two from head to two, as if he were a fruit split between two friends. Letting out a haunting whimper, he faded into the afterlife, as the undead body split, releasing ancient mucus from its body as both halves fell to the ground.
“Quick! We must put the locks back on before he is freed.” Hurriedly, the swordsman used his girthy body to keep the lid close, as the king was helped by the Archbishop to the sarcophagus.
“I must concentrate.” king Cüwddër knelt by the large container of gold and stone, as he examined where the seals once were in place. Charms that were used with his ancestors blood had been roughly erased in haste, but the threads of the enchanted still clung in place, they just needed to be mended.
As he started on the first lock, there was a sudden shift of the lid, and despite the Swordmaster using his full strength, he was pushed aside enough for the lid to open.
Inside a fang creature, with features that may have once been human, but have mutated into a hellish horror. Claws stained with ancient blood, scrapped against the lid, as the vampiric entity inside sought to free himself from his confines.
“Move aside foolish children, let me see the world with my open eyes once more.” a terror-inducing hiss escaped his large mouth as Bluûd Fuük attempted to free himself from his prison.
Before the lid could be pushed further away, a ramming force pushed back, forcing the lid till the vampire fiend could only see out through a narrow seam. All of Carthē’s knights joined together as one, to add their weight and strength to keeping the vampire at bay.
As the warriors struggled against the growing strength of the vampire, king Cüwddër with the guidance of Archbishop Caïrpe began to reform the enchanted locks.
“Fools. You delay the inevitable, if that feeble necromancer didn’t intercede I would be free in but ten more years. He only took away what valuable little time you have left, even if you lock me away, I’ll break free, it is going to happen regardless of what happens here.”
Despite being empowered by an emboldened spirit and driven by fear of facing an unstoppable evil, the men there began to be demoralized by the mere utterance from the vampire.
“Don’t listen!” urged the Archbishop. “He speaks lies, covered in the gold of truth. He wouldn’t be fighting us now if there is truly no hope.” The words from Caïrpe gave back the strength that the vampire sapped with his dark words.
One lock was done and swiftly the others began to be formed once again.
“You pitiful wretches, tis’ the pity that you struggle even at my weakest. As the eclipse grows so does my power, watch and fall into despair.”
One of the vampire’s four arms left the narrow opening, as if it were smoke. The flattened tendril then took on dimensions and wrapped itself around the neck of king Cüwddër as he struggled to finish the last lock.
Eyes bulging out of their sockets, face turning into a deep purple, and blood dripping from all the orifices on his head, the king was being brutalized by a murderous strangulation.
Archbishop Caïrpe tried to stop the attack by praying a spell that sent a divine light into the darkness of the coffin. However, although it burned at the vampire, it didn’t end his evil assault; but despite the agony and his vision being altered when his eyeballs were ejected from his skull, he still worked on the last lock.
The knights and their master, trying to save the king, strained their strength and started to crush one another against the sarcophagus to save their monarch’s life.
Blood flowing freely from his mouth, king Cüwddër couldn’t breathe.
“Die knowing your suffering has all been in vain, you pathetic—” the words before the vampire were cut off as the king managed to firmly replace the charms.
Locked firmly, the prison of Bluûd Fuük was sealed once again—however there were no cheers, no celebrating at the salvation of the realm. As the skies ceased burning, the black eclipse faded away to golden, radiant sunlight, and the seas ceased drowning the land—the knights, the Swordmaster, and Archbishop mourned over the mangled body of King Cüwddër.
Fighting against the strain of painful death, the king struggled against one of the strongest evils mankind have ever known, and succeeded at his task at the cost of his life.
“The line has ended.” lamented the Archbishop. “With him gone we cannot renew the charms on that bloody vampire's prison…and what locks are there won’t hold as long.”
Without saying it, they all knew that the omen would come to pass, he would be free to bring about another Black Time. Heralding a hell on earth that would bring mankind to its knees.
“What hope can there be?” The Swordmaster, overcome by guilt for his last words to his majesty, knelt next to Cüwddër’s body, and allowed the melancholy wash over him, in a deluge of regret.
“All we need is a little.” Archbishop Caïrpe said. “Today we mourn…but there will be a day we must work against this doom.” As the day shone outside the Tower Castle Of Babel a gloom settled within, causing dread to poison the hearts of the survivors that hope alone couldn’t fully cure.
