Aleric strode determinedly through the halls of stone, an unusually angered look plastered upon his face. The news had reached him by now, and while his desire for vengeance was clearly displayed, he knew he could not yet take it. The game was a long one, and it would take time to let his designs unfold.
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He used what might was left in his old bones to cast open the throne room doors, and take a shaking knee before the seat of power.
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“My liege, I have received word.” He uttered through cracked lips.
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“What manner of word?” The king asked.
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“Grave word. The Plague have sacked and burned Holtarthen, and they march west.” The Earl explained, clearly stifling his rage.
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The king was silent.
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“It would be my advice, that we ready the garrison, to defend the lands.” Aleric continued.
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The King stood from his throne, a growing determination engulfing the air around him.
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“If they have slaughtered our own,” he said, “Then a debt there is to be paid.”
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Within minutes, the crash of greaves against the stone floors and streets was a common occurrence, engulfed only by the ringing of bells in the towers. Soldiers marched through the streets, as the word was brought out that a draft had been passed.
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“My lord, you will not defeat them on the field of battle.” Aleric stated, as he strode beside the young king, who had clad himself in steel, “Verily, you will fall in those marshes.”
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“And what would you have me do?” He asked, “All my life I have looked to you for guidance, yet now, when I need it most, your council is ill-advised. Perhaps time has begun to ravage your mind as it has your body.”
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“My council is sound, as is my mind. I worry now that yours is not.” Aleric responded, “In all of your years as monarch, when have I bid thee wrong?”
“I will ask again: what then, would you have me do?” asked the king, “Hide here? In my halls of stone? I cannot allow my people to be openly slaughtered without recompense.”
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“My lord, we are in springtime. Those plains are marshland of snowmelt, not fit for an army.” The Earl Responded.
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The king stopped, and turned to face Aleric, “Fit enough for theirs.”
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Aleric was silent for a moment, as the young king glared.
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“Let us fell the dam. Let the river overflow. There will be but one passage across.”
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“That place is accursed Aleric. I would not tread there lest I had no choice.”
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“And that is exactly your situation, my lord.” Aleric responded.
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The king turned, and began to stride away.
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“My lord!” Aleric began, to no response, as he drew smaller behind the king’s strides, “Thangren!”
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The young ruler stopped, not turning to look at the Vassal.
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“It is noble.” Aleric stated, “But among countless others, it will claim your life.”
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The King took no heed of his advice, and took his leave. This was unlike him. Brash, and unthinking. That was not Thengren. The plague of the mind was greater than he’d thought. He’d assumed it to be natural at first, but now could see that it was far more sinister. It was the work of the Herald of Pestilence. She was there in the mountain keep, he could hear her now. Casting her shadow upon the King. a foul voice that stained the air, in the small hours. She had become the creak of the floorboards, the echo of footsteps. And she lured him, to his death.
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____________________________________________________________
Days. Days since he’d spoken. Days since he’d seen the sun. or even the moon. Weeks since he’d left the cellar. And it was beginning to show. He simply lay there, upon his cot, contemplating. Perhaps he should drink of the wine? No, it would be without taste. Perhaps he should take his leave? No, he would be in irons within the day. Or perhaps, he should sleep, never to awake. It would be the only sleep he found. And it would not be unfamiliar. But alas, he could not. Not until he found who’d slain him. And he had no desire to do so.
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And just as this thought came to him, that the cellar doors opened with a creak. He expected to see the Earl upon the steps, but instead, he heard a voice all too familiar.
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“Sir Letifer Mourse. The phantom of Belfennse” called the Musketeer, as he strode down the steps.
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Immediately, Letifer ducked behind one of the numerous shelves, ridden with bottles and kegs. He could see his blade, across the room, laying upon a cask of wine. And he knew that between he and his weapon was the very foe upon which he would use it. Thus he slunk back between the shelves of wine.
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“I do not seek your death, Letifer. Though it would not be unwelcome.” stated the musketeer. As he did so, he fired a munition towards the shelves, shattering a bottle, and piercing a keg, allowing the contents to pour out.
As this occurred, Letifer stealthily made his way along the wall parallel to the door. There, he looked through the corner between shelves, seeing his foe in the reflection of a bottle.
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“You do not know what hunts you. It is far more wicked than anything I may offer you.”
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Letifer quickly and quietly made his way towards the right wall, where he now could see his blade. So close, yet so far from his grasp. Another munition was discharged from the Musketeer’s weapon, shattering another bottle, raining shards of glass upon him.
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“But my mistress, she can protect you. She can keep you from him, as she does me.” The soldier called, while he reloaded his musket.
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As he did, Letifer reached between the shelves, curling his fingers around the hilt of his blade.
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“She is your only hope, Letifer. The Sanguine Horror cannot protect you!”
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The Sanguine Horror. He knew not this title, yet it carried such a familiar connotation. As if he’d known this horror in life. No, he knew he had not. A knight of Haltoth would not have dealings with folk who would bear such a title. But Fell-kin… …perhaps Fell-kin would.
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Clearing his head, Letifer lunged from his cover, driving his blade furiously into his foe’s shoulder. Without a single cry of pain nor recoil, the Musketeer turned, throwing the undead knight to the floor. He plunged the bayonet upon his weapon towards the ground, only for Letifer to roll to the side, and quickly stab his foe through the leg. Yet even still not a single cry or grunt from his unseen lips. As Letifer stood, the Musketeer turned and fired one of his wicked munitions into his abdomen, causing him to recoil, while an unknown, pale green liquid poured from the wound. He could see the same substance on his foe’s shoulder and leg.
Thus, his suspicions began. Yet he hadn’t the time to act upon them, as a blade was thrust towards him, piercing his shoulder, and pushing him into one of the shelves. As the structure fell behind him, bottles and jars of liquor, both bought and homemade, crashed to the ground, sending shards of glass across the floor, which cut into Letifer’s back as he fell to the floor.
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He found himself then with a blade in his abdomen, pinning him to the stone floor.
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“You needn’t fight, Letifer!” Shouted the Musketeer, “You have fought many a war, and you have sacrificed your life for king, and country. And yet they give you no honour! You died in their name, yet still they’ve forgotten yours! Your war is ended, you need not persevere! You can rest, Letifer.”
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Letifer offered no response, simply staring his eyeless glare at his foe.
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“What say you?” asked The Musketeer. Silence still. “What say you!” He shouted, growing frustrated.
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Letifer let out a grunt, “I cannot abandon my mission.”
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“To slay your foe?” asked the Musketeer, “Can you not see that you have none?”
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“To find my son.”
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There was an agonising silence.
he Musketeer ripped his blade from Letifer’s shoulder. Raising his hand, he lifted the black hood from his face, to a reveal. Pale skin, stretched over a skull, a lack of nasal flesh, and eyes not but a shadowy veil.
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“You are Fell-Kin.” Letifer uttered.
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“Indeed. And I share your pain.” The Musketeer replied, “I too besought my family, when I was returned. By the time I’d succeeded, they were long dead.”
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Letifer was silent. Indeed the thought had crossed his mind. He knew not how long he’d been dead, or how long it had taken to pick off the soldiers left by the plague. And of course, he knew not how long he’d spent at Haltoth, scouring records and corpses to learn his own name. It had occurred to him that perhaps his son was a child no more. Or perhaps not.
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“I offer you a new family. We are brothers, you and I. bound in death.” The Musketeer explained. It was clear in his voice, that this was no ploy. Letifer could see in the remains of his face, that he genuinely did not want to be his foe. That he would be a brother to him.
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“You would have me serve the Herald of Pestilence?” Letifer asked.
“She can protect us.” The Musketeer responded.
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“From what?”
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“From the living. She can keep us from persecution, among other perils.” The soldier explained.
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As Letifer stood, he asked, “Other perils?”
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The Musketeer was silent for a moment. A clearly distressed look was shown on what remained of his face.
“There were four Scholars of Mortem.” He began, “The Bone Weaver, to lead their armies. The Sanguine Horror, to silence their foes. The Herald of Pestilence, my mistress. And The Ill Omen, to lead the four.”
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Letifer gazed towards the soldier quizzically.
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“Since the fall of the Lich Queen, The Ill Omen has sought Fell-Kin, though we do not know why. He takes them to the ruins of her temple, and tears into them.” As he uttered this, the Musketeer, released three of the six buttons upon his coat, revealing gruesome stitched scars upon his chest.
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“He studied me, dissected me. He seeks knowledge within our kin. And he goes to cruel lengths to obtain it.” There was a short silence, “I was not his first ‘specimen’. And I have not been his last… …but she can keep you from his grasp! She has faced him before, and she can do so again.”
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Letifer turned to face his kin, “I will serve no mistress, who would have me raze cities to ash.”
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As he made this proclamation, a blade was put to the Musketeer’s throat from behind, and slid through the pale flesh. The green substance began to spill from his throat, unto the stone floor, as the Musketeer fell limp.
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Where he once stood, was now the Earl Dascule, age-plagued fist clenched around an ornate misericorde.
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“Agents of the Herald.” He uttered with disdain, looking down at the motionless soldier.
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“Is he slain?” Letifer asked.
“No, no… …Fell-kin cannot be slain. But he is incapacitated. Come, we must be rid of this place. No doubt the Herald will be searching for her prized champion.”
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Letifer paused for a moment, looking towards the Earl. Remembering the words of the Musketeer, in addition to the Vassals forging of a hand for Halyenne. The evidence was pointed at him.
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"My lord, forgive me for asking… …where did you learn sarcomancy?"
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The Earl turned to him, a clearly conflicted expression shone upon his time ravaged face.
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"That… …is a story for another day."
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