Two crimson coloured eyes darted around the barren landscape of the hellish realm below, surveying everything from a window comfortably perched in one of the highest towers of this forsaken relic of a castle. Down below he could barely make the silhouettes of lowly demons fighting over scraps of flesh and souls, left there to rot by their elder kin after they had feasted on them. Or so he would, lest he was but a mere mortal- but a prince of darkness could pierce the veil of the thick, stupefying mist that covered most of his accursed realm without much of an effort.
He spun around slowly, throwing a last few glances over the dark horizon where jagged spires raced to reach the maddening sky of hell, and turned around to survey a scene even more to his liking this time. The small, cramped interior was lit with naught but a scattering of black candles, light which he had no need of yet he’d rather have it, if only for the dancing shades across the walls, which fueled his twisted imagination. A large marble altar dominated the room, onyx carved into many a disfigured, horrendous face, visages that would still not match their owner, gruesome depictions of vile deeds long past, and rough-hewn prophecies in runes and gibberish adorning every little portion of it. Across the cold stone was the body of a man, limbs chained, yet that was an unnecessary precaution as the man had been rotting for the past week, maggots infesting the open wounds that were caused as part of the interrogation process- rather, the torturing that had taken place. Yet it was a sight for sore eyes, as far as this castle’s lord was concerned.
The large, finely polished crystal sphere, made of pure sapphire, was hanging securely from three different chains, mere inches above the deceased’s defiled corpse. The prince smiled one of his infamous, terrifying half-smiles as he took a step closer to the artifice, and he began to observe the wispy strands of smoke that took upon shapes of their own in the interior of the sphere. Oftentimes, the smoke coalesced into a terrible, scarred face, moaning in horror and revilement, struggling to free itself from the perfectly curved barrier of glass that held it inside, yet in vain, and seconds thereafter the smoke dispersed into nothingness. This scene repeated itself with few variations, for several times, until the prince grew bored of it once more.
Little had he found out from this little torturing session over a week ago; failed, albeit quite pleasant as usual. He enjoyed trapping the soul of the deceased inside his favourite toy, yet it was obvious even before the man had died of sheer agony and pain that there was little he could say in the first place. Of course, that had not deterred the prince from imprisoning his soul and torturing it even more, even while he was but a mere soul, essence trapped, forced to watch his own body rot away as he still had pain and horror to hound him eternally, or so it seemed. On one of his not-so-rare whims, the prince extended his clawed hand, and laid it to rest atop the sphere. With a thought, bluish-white energies crackled along his arm, throwing eerie lights at the walls and shaping the shadows into strange creatures of a dark imagination, and it was suddenly over, as suddenly as it had started. “Weak”, he growled in a momentary fit of anger, as the soul he had just consumed failed to satiate his ever-deep hunger- none had so far, of course, but that was a fact he’d rather not consider, for it had hounded him through his long and painful existence for as far as he could remember.
The prince left the corpse there as it was, leaving the maggots to finish the decay, for he would only feast upon live, fresh meat- he was not fond of carrion. As soon as he had left the cold, hard room of reddish stone, the candles were doused of their own accord. His heavy, cloven-hoofed feet would echo across the long, dark passageway, heavy sounds drowning the creaking of rotten stone and the crackle of the fires that seemed to be everywhere, a background noise that consumed every other minor sound. He walked, and walked, and walked, not bothering to move himself with his thought, preferring to hear his own heavy footsteps across the halls of his beloved stronghold, knowing that his minor kin and relatives would be too frightened to even come close to the path he had chosen. Several minutes later and many doors and other, winding passageways away, he found himself atop the main balcony, overseeing the large yard below.
Sounds of battle and fervor echoed from below, filling his large pointed ears with the clatter of devil-forged steel and the blood-curdling warcries and howls of demons intent to slay one another. Another one of his smiles adorned his face, a terrifying sight to behold, as he lent over the balcony to observe the numerous kin of his slaughtering each other in droves. Culling the weak, nurturing the strong, creating one of the finest armies. Creatures of darkness they were, with cloven feet and horns, spikes and spines covering their oddly shaped and colored bodies. Holding weapons made in hell’s own forges, swords and spears and mauls of horrendous proportions, biting into the flesh of their enemies, only so they could be made stronger, faster, better. Others threw crackling black energies, consumed their opponents in ice and fire and lightning, destroyed their opponents’ minds or shattering their bodies with energies arcane and ancient, incantations that harnessed energy from the bowels of the Nine Hells. Mere mortals would die of fright at this sight, but not he- the prince of darkness, whose dark heart delighted at the sight of his hordes growing stronger by the passing day.
Oh yes, the time was near. Soon, they would taste the souls of men…
* * *
He squinted.
The light of the glaring midday sun was too much for his troubled eyes, so he raised his hand to shade them, as he stood atop the small guard turret where the Lord Commander had set his headquarters for the past three months. Suddenly, his waiting was interrupted, as the heavy wooden door creaked open.
The man stole a glance at the rolling verdant fields that could be seen atop the crenellations, which seemed to stretch over to the horizon, seemingly untouched by the horror that had consumed half the continent so far. A bark snapped him back to reality and away from his temporary daydreaming. “You, my good man. Come closer”, was the order of the Lord Commander, yet the man didn’t fail to notice there was a note of sad happiness hidden somewhere in the coarse voice of the veteran. He stepped forward, and barely caught a large roll of sealed parchment as it was thrown at him. The coin, he missed, and the gold hit the floor with an audible clang. Without hesitation, he picked it up, before he even thought of saying, “Your orders, m’lord?”, with his own thick peasant’s accent, as he slid both parchment and coin into his vest’s inner pockets.
“You are to take the fastest horse this wretched place has”, he said, “and ride hard and fast to the south, changing horses as need be, sleeping of the saddle if need be, do you understand?”. The man nodded, and he continued, “How long will it take you to reach the Griffin’s Keep?”. It took the messenger a moment before he replied, “Three full days, m’lord”, and was astonished to hear the reply: “Be there in two, and you’ll get a hundred times what I gave you just now”. His jaw dropped, muttering a couple, “m’lord”’s before the commander waved him away. Still at a loss for words, he merely bowed and turned tail.
Why?, was all he could think as he raced downwards. He was, as usual, ready to leave at once- as a messenger they were under orders to leave at a moment’s notice for the far-flung corners of the earth, if need be. A yelp of pain interrupted his train of thought, and he gave a loud curse to the five gods as he stepped on the small pup and nearly lost his balance. The little animal gave another cry before it scampered up and away towards the battlements before the man could retaliate, but he barely gave a thought to that. As soon as he reached the stables, he yelled to the stableboys to get the fastest horse ready or he’d flay each and every one of them – hollow threat or not, they did not seem eager to defy it. In a few minutes, he was galloping away from the main gate on a fast gelding, following the newly strewn cobbleroad, riding towards the south as if the devil himself was on his heels.
He passed the green fields he had seen alright, keeping the local forest to his right hand a few leauges away, not even throwing a glance at the young trees and saplings that made up most of it, instead focusing on the wide road in front of him. Late in the afternoon, as he kept his fast pace, far away that it was not spottable from the small turret yet not far enough that the rays of light had abandoned him already, he passed the Blood Fields. That was to be their new name, after last week’s battle; he could still see the black-stained cobblestones in front of him, could still smell the awful odour of dried, soaked blood mixed with mud that reeked as he strode through the place. Even the horse was uneasy with the freshly washed-away stench of death, and the rider himself was fearful of the vengeful spirits of the fallen warriors, as superstitious a man as any. The mount almost reared twice, but the experienced messenger kept it at bay and force it to continue at a trot, at least, which soon broke into a gallop as the horse realized there was no turning back. Without as much as a glance behind him, mount and rider continued relentlessly until at last they were long past the former battlegrounds, and the air smelled of the fragrance of plain lilies, daffodils and wildflowers grown beyond compare as spring was in its full bloom.
The sun had long gone out of the sky, his waning bride having just appeared with her myriad of companions to aid her in lighting the dark night, when he decided that it was way too dark to continue on the cobblestrewn road – falling down and breaking his mount’s neck (and more than likely a limb of his own as well) was not going to get him to Griffin’s Keep any faster. A sigh of relief escaped his tired breast at the moment the lighted windows of the small roadside inn entered his field of vision. Spurring his horse to keep on going, he felt for the poor gelding as it pushed its own weight forward, step by step, its own chest heaving and sweat trickling down its muzzle, dripping down on the stones. Both could feel the light, chilly wind of spring biting their sweaty flesh with its cold, and it sent shivers down their spines. As soon as they were close, the messenger dismounted and grabbed the gelding’s reins. “Easy, boy”, he whispered to the tired horse, patting its muzzle reassuringly as they neared the inn. One of the stableboys had already spotted them, and approached the pair to take the horse, receiving a copper in thanks from the man.
Instantly, he was hit by the warm, thick atmosphere of the common hall, a rather refreshing experience after the hours of riding in this chilly night of spring. The inn, as he noticed, was small, yet slightly too crowded for his standards. He sought out one of the less occupied tables, and found one shortly thereafter, where only a travelling musician and an old crone seemed to sit. The former was stringing a musical instrument, some tired southern lute from the looks of it, while the latter seemed to be lost in some herb-induced stupor. Indeed, a good deal of men around him seemed to have been indulging in low-quality swampweed as well as copious amounts of ale, creating an even thicker, yet somehow mellow atmosphere, with brightly colored tulips of smoke escaping the occasional table near or far. He paid his table-mates little heed, reaching instead for the nearest serving girl, pinching her soft buttocks with his rough, dirty hands. She let a small angry yelp, but she had already grown used to it, this homely maid of sixteen it seemed, and instead took his order for whatever passed as tonight’s food along with a good flagon of ale. Soon, he was feasting upon a bowl of venison soup with turnips and stewed carrots, washing the mediocre food down with an equally mediocre brown ale.
Occupied as he was wolfing down his food, he failed to notice the beginnings of a tavern brawl. Somewhere in the far end of the tavern, some drunkard had tried to cup another serving girl’s tender breasts, but the wench instead hit him on the head with a heavy wooden serving tray. Angered, the drunkard had taken a lousy swing at her, hitting a close-by, equally drunk, patron, who was more than eager to return the favor with the aid of a nearby bottle. Soon, half- and fully-drunk patrons were upturning tables, kicking or swinging chairs, and simply flailing wildly at one another. Some even drew knives, and soon blood was being shed left and right amidst the shrieks of serving wenches and the old, stout innkeeper’s curses and wailing. The messenger stood there, stunned for a moment, a large portion of stewed carrot stuffed in his jaws, when a sudden searing pain from his left hand made him drop the food from his mouth, which made a barely audible splashing sound as it dropped right into the half-eaten soup again.
Turning to his hand, he barely had the time to notice the young musician’s mad eyes of glee, as he had stabbed his own ugly dagger through the messenger’s idle hand, pinning it on the table. Ducking slightly underneath, he dodged the heavy-handed swing coming his way by his sudden assailant, while his right hand fudged for his own dagger in his belt. Feeling the steel in both of his hands, the one painful as he tugged at it, the other reassuring in his grip, he raised his head and shoot a thrust upwards, hitting the musician’s jugular and spraying a jet of crimson over his own tattered hat and travel-stained clothes, as the short steely blade made a churning sound as it pierced the poor man’s life vein, slicing his adam’s apple in twain and coming out from the nape of his neck. Uttering a loud curse which simply drowned in the midst of the fight, he pushed the dead body away with his fist, ready to fight off another assailant as he raised his head from the table, only to find the old crone in the same state as she was before, all the while hell raging all around him, with blood and curses flying the length of the room along with pieces of splintered wood.
Realizing that he was in no position to fight in another bar brawl, and since he did not have the luxury of being stabbed and left to die in the hands of some drunkard, he sheathed his own weapon hastily and with a grunt and another vulgar curse pulled the crude weapon free from both the table and his own hand, sending another spurt of blood that soaked both table and sleeve, with some landing on his previous food. Clutching his hand, he kicked a chair aside, dodged another that was thrown, and managed to push himself between two drunkards fisticuffing each other until the cold air of night greeted his sweaty face. Still covered in blood, with the grim realization that a good portion of it was his own, he stood for a moment at the stables, if only to cut off a strip of his own tunic with his dagger and crudely bandage his own hand. Immediately, the rough homespun cloth, once brown, was painted a deep crimson, but he didn’t notice. Instead, he looked around for his horse- the stableboy seemed to have magically vanished, probably hiding in some stall to protect himself from any drunkards wishing to move the fight outside.
“May the five gods spit on your mothers!”, he yelled at the idiots inside who had deprived him of a good night’s rest, as he finally found his tired horse. “Come, boy, we shall find a less bawdy place than this to rest”, he growled as he mounted his tired gelding and sped off in the night towards the south again. He kept the pace to a quick trot, very rarely breaking into a medium gallop, trying to preserve his mount’s, as well as his, strength, until they could reach the closest messenger’s post so that he could exchange his exhausted mount for a fresh one and continue. Weary still, having not rested but for a few moments, he wished he could exchange himself as well with a fresh messenger, but he gritted his teeth and kept the same pace more or less until the road led him to the small building by the side of the road.
Odd. No light seemed to be coming from the hovel’s windows, and no horse appeared to be tied in the roofed stalls outside, no new mount for him to ride and begone like the wind as he wished. Instead, as he closed the distance, the hovel seemed empty and cold. “By the Nine Hells and the princes of darkness…”, he muttered as he dismounted and drew his heavy falchion. The short, hefty blade gave him courage as he approached the half-open door of the hovel. He had grown accustomed to what little moonlight there was to be had tonight, and so when he pushed the door open with his foot, sword in front of him, it didn’t take long to acknowledge what had happened.
The post official’s body was lain sprawling at the floor, his face cold against the chill of the night, his lips twisted into a grimace as one of his hands, caked with filth and dried blood, was held over his gut. The ransacked state of the rest of the small building was enough to indicate that he was but the victim of bandits, and judging from the relatively little decay the corpse had undergone that it was a fairly recent event. Sighing at his bad luck and yet fearful of bandits, the messenger decided to hide himself and his horse in the stalls until the break of dawn. That, and he would try to sleep as lightly as ever.
Rays of light bounced off his dirt-stained face, playing with his closed eyes until he woke up. Not bothering to stifle his yawns, he simply got up and arched his back, ready for another day of tiring riding until his thighs were no longer sore as of now, but simply raw. Accepting his fate, he simply shook his head, spied outside to make sure noone was close, and mounted his horse. The pain on his left hand was severe, but he was glad he could still feel his hand as well as move all of his fingers, even though it pained him much even to try. At least he had got that bastard good and well before he turned tail and ran for his life. He continued along the cobblestone road with a steady pace, fully knowing that the would not reach the next messenger post until nightfall, and he most certainly would not make it for his hundred-fold prize as he was promised. By the five gods, he’d be lucky if he ever reached it alive, given the circumstances.
This time, he saw them. Three dark figures in the blazing midday sun, some fifty strides in front of him, one of them mounted. He was about to gallop faster and go the long way around them, when something whistled dangerously close to his ear- an arrow. One of the men was armed with a bow. Instinctively, he turned his head behind to seek a way out, when he noticed five more men on foot, half of them equipped with similar bows, nearly a hundred strides away. There was no turning back. He gritted his teeth, made a short prayer to the god of death, and drew his falchion.
Galloping hard and ignoring the arrows that whizzed past him at regular intervals, the messenger haunched over to make himself as small a target as possible as he rode his fast horse. He’d have sworn several of those arrows came from behind him, but he was more afraid of the ones that came from the front, because he was getting quickly to their source. As he was leaning forward, he took a long, good look at the men in front of him. Forest bandits, certainly; their leader, obviously, a broad man with a woodaxe in hand, stood atop a fine horse, obviously stolen, right in the middle, flanked by a young boy with a sharpened staff – a crude spear, as a matter of fact – and a scrawny old man who kept firing arrows at him at his leisure. Two actually grazed his shoulders and back, when he noticed that the arrows in front had stopped for an instant. The archer was aiming this time, waiting for him to get close…
He knew what must be done. He was himself a seasoned soldier before he managed to be made a messenger, thinking it’d earn him a few more years of living- a sad mistake he later realized. But he was not going to give up so easily. Gripping strongly the hilt of his heavy blade, he rode straight towards the mounted bandit’s right, where the little boy stood, shaking in fear. It was a gamble, a risky one, but the best he had at the moment.
It screamed, the young one; it dropped its spear, the sound of wood hitting stone as he jumped to the right, afraid of being run over. The leader cursed, as he lifted his wood-axe to chop horse and rider alike as if they were but a log with legs, while an arrow was fired a second too early. The messenger didn’t even notice it as it grazed his scalp ever so little, buzzing like some killer bee right above his head, while relieving him of his hat. Instead, he was solely focused on the leader, and he bought that necessary second, where he swung his blade with all the might of his good hand at the man as he rode by, spurring his mount to speed up at the last instant.
A sickening crunch filled the air, the sound of metal cleaving flesh and bone in twain, as the heavy blade lodged itself deeply inside the man’s ribcage, sending shockwaves of pain and deathly surprise as he dropped his axe on the ground, forcing the archer to move aside or be hit by the falling woodcutter’s implement. The jarring impact of the blow wrenched the weapon free from its owner’s hand, leaving it deep inside its mortally wounded target’s chest. But he had no time to pull it back- he had to run as fast as possible before someone grabbed that horse and ran after him. Leaving his weapon behind where his head ought to have been was some comfort, however, and he rode hard and fast down the road. He didn’t even have the chance to see the fine mare rearing as she was soaked by the man’s life-blood, throwing him on the ground as it galloped away wildly towards the forests, earning her a round of curses and vulgar language from the leaderless bandits.
Only when he was safely away did he permit the poor, heavily breathing horse to halt to a slow trot, so as not to lose time. He rubbed his right wrist with his injured hand- he’d sworn it was sprained from the looks of it and the feel of the impact, but it didn’t seem nearly as bad as he’d feared. The grazes were even less important, it seemed, except for the last one that had removed a fair amount of hair from his already slightly balding scalp. He growled and thrice cursed the vile bandits. Then it dawned on him. He was alive. If he had survived all that, why not go forth and claim his prize? He would be a rich man after that for at least a year- a hundred golden eagles? That was more than he had seen massed in his entire life time, as far as his own purse was concerned. And thus, like all men, greed filled his heart, and his spurs dug deep into the wretched mount’s belly, forcing him to pick up speed.
It was afternoon when he reached the messenger post. It would have been an eventful day; he passed a sect of Wandering Brothers, a whorecart on the go looking for the nearest soldiers’ camp, and a small mercenary band who shouted insults and sang bawdy and rude songs about his family as he passed by; no to mention a dozen peasants returning from their fields, tired and weary as much as he was. But it was not, for he sped past them, galloping like mad, earning their curious looks at the crazed fool that was about to kill his own mount, which was frothing and panting, spraying spittle all over them.
And that was what he managed, in the end, for a few mere strides away the poor gelding collapsed, pulling its rider down as it spit blood and saliva on the road. But its rider’s heart was full of greed now, and greed strengthen’s a man’s limbs when profit is to be had. Deftly, he jumped from the dying mount before it managed to drag him down, landing on his feet with practiced ease, and without as much as a single glance behind for the only loyal companion he had for this journey, he simply sprinted off towards the stalls before the post official could get up, and vaulted on one of the larger ones that was ready to be ridden by another messenger. Amongst the cries and insults, which he shrugged off easily, he rode off with another man’s horse, a large white-gray mare that he pushed forward and forward like had done before. Cruelty came without hesitation to the greed-struck man.
Another half a dozen travellers he seemed to meet, this time soldiers clad in black-and-green livery, almost all except a pair of men who trudged slowly at the edge of the road, and shot him but a curious glance as he sped by once more, driving his spurs deep in the mare’s ribs and urging it forward with word and action. Two hours on the ride, and another chilly night had fallen, and he felt desparation… until the ominous yellowed walls of Griffin’s Keep, high atop the rocky crag, loomed above him in the dark of the night, lit by a hundred torches. As many as the golden eagles he had been promised, if only he could make it in time. Spurs dug deep anew, and the horse reared, but the messenger calmed it long enough to send it galloping again, this time climbing the winding mountain road that led up to Griffin’s Keep.
This mount seemed lucky; they reached atop the portcullis of Griffin’s Keep in the late night, the horse neighing and whinning in pain and exhaustion as the rider dismounted. “Halt!”, he heard the Warden of the Gate say, and a man as large as a bear appeared on the other side of the metal bars. “State your business, traveller”, he asked, and received a hard-breathed reply: “Must… deliver… message… Lord… Umbrien… Urgent…”, the man panted, dragging his feet closer in a slightly groggy manner as he reached inside his pocket, fumbling around.
“Very well, hand it over and I shall pass it to my lord in the morrow”, replied the Warden in a rather disinterested voice. News came and went, none of them truly new or important anymore, not so for seven whole years. He was shocked, however, when the man pulled out a ring with an emerald the size of small rock, with the sigil of the Griffin carved on the precious stone. This was urgent news indeed. With a nod, the portcullis was slowly and audibly raised, high enough so the man could stagger throw. “Come, I’ll tell his servants to wake Lord Umbrien at once”, the Warden offered, without knowing what to make of this. Still, orders were orders, and without a second thought he led the man up atop three spiral staircases, until they reached a large wooden door. He knocked three times, and a golden-haired young servant open up. “What is it? Who dares disturb Lord Umbrien’s slumber at this late an hour?”
“Pardon me, Steward”, the Warden replied, anxiousness showing in his voice. “This man has urgent news for Lord Umbrien, and Lord Umbrien alone”, he added, and he couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction at seeing the young arrogant steward’s eyes grow as wide as tea saucers. “At… at once”, was all he could muster before he hurried inside, and they could hear muffled voices and a heavy voice uttering a curse. Obviously sleeping lords had a tendency to not be overjoyed at being woken in the middle of the night for another set of ill news.
Still, in a matter of minutes the door was spun open widely and a man stepped outside. He was tall and lanky, with thinning grey hair on the top of his head and a rough beard of the same colour. He was dressed in a reach, heavy velvet robe of a deep green color to complement his eys, covering his body and shielding him from the night’s chill apparently, yet it was embroidered richly with golden thread at the cuffs and neck. At once, both warden and messenger knelt in front of their liege lord, but he was in no mood for courtesies, and blunt words escaped his lips. “Tell me, you sons of rats and beggars, what is it that you wake me for this early hour? Speak, or begone!”
The warden stood silent, but the man dared to raise his head and offer the letter he had been able to find in his pocket when the steward was inside waking his lordship. “M’lord, this was given to me by Lord Commander Tuvniar, at Hawk’s Roost, to be delivered to Your Grace immediately. I killed one horse and two men to reach you as soon as I could, m’lord”, said the messenger, in an effort to impress the Grand Duke with his efforts and pave the way to his only desire- the reward.
But the old man hardly paid him any heed. Instead, he extended a battle-scarred, scragly arm and snatched the letter, breaking the seal at once and unfurling the roll of parchment. The Warden dared to sneak a look at his lord, and was surprised yet again this day. For his face had lightened up, and indeed he was smiling as he cried out, “By the Five Gods, the Nine Hells and every whorehouse inbetween!”. Utterly shocked and in disbelief, the warden could only ask “Wh-what, m’lord?”, before he received an answer he was not expecting at all, an answer so incredulous it nearly made him and every other man, even the greed-struck messenger, collapse to tears. It was but a word.
“Peace.”
