The Spirit of Revenge (7 page)

‘Jocelyn refused her father’s commands, and in his rage, the King banished the young captain from the country on pain of death, forcing him to wander the wilderness until starvation and loneliness finish him. The captain was arrested violently before Jocelyn’s eyes and thrown from the city…and into the bitter winter of Erias.” Armeth paused for a moment. His weathered face drew gaunt before continuing.

“The captain wandered the wilds of Tarsha, crossing the barren ice wastes of what is now Andred. He roamed the Eastern Desert of Atuan, the wild regions of Heiven Sul and Amon Karash, even over the distant Denemoors.

‘He wandered the wilderness for two years, carrying with him the weight of shame and hatred on his darkened shoulders. He vowed to one day avenge his suffering; he vowed to one day rid himself of the source of his pain, the father of Jocelyn.

‘He eventually wandered into the Barrows of Alon Heath, the sacred burial grounds of the kings of Erias. On that fateful autumn night, everything would change.

‘The stories say that a massive pillar of light poured down on him from the heavens and filled the night with an ivory light. No one knows what it was or why it came to him alone, but the light birthed the demon, Abaddon, and he would use his newfound powers to reap death, to sow chaos, and lay the seeds of human demise.

‘The light forged for him a sword, a sword that would be at the very heart of his genocide. It granted him utter power and immortality, creating a god among men. But that story is for another time.

‘At this point, the young captain had the lust for one man’s blood, and he set out to finish what had been started.

‘He set off across Tarsha, each step bringing him closer to his revenge. On a crisp winter evening was the setting that the lore of old detailed, an evening that would leave all others pale in comparison.

‘He crossed the Alar River and came upon Morven. The guards failed to recognize him for who he was, for he had changed much in the light of Alon Heath. The guards let him through the gates, a fatal mistake. The vengeful captain struck them down and entered the city.

‘He ascended the main road and ran for the heart of the city. Several soldiers threw themselves at him to bar his way, but every man that hindered his path only fueled his wrath. The captain tore their ranks apart, leaving behind a bloody wake as he chased after the crowds of fleeing bystanders. The berserk captain hacked his way through unarmed men and women, callous of discerning between the two.

‘Remorse and pity were left far behind; nothing now remained but the cold shell of a heart. He worked his way deeper into the city, murdering hundreds in cold blood.

‘He at last arrived at the palace he had once held guard over. One hundred of the finest soldiers of Erias, the Citadel Guard, formed a wall of steel before their captain.

‘The rampaging captain charged toward his former brothers-at-arms, a murderous cry on his lips. The Guards held their ground, confident in their numbers. Their confidence would prove their bane, for they underestimated the strength of their attacker.

‘A fell flame rushed from his blade, ripping flesh from bone and consuming them alive. The flames could not reach all of them however, and the few men left alive threw themselves at him.

‘Soldier after soldier charged foolishly forward, and one by one, he cast them aside. The captain slaughtered all of his former brothers that night, not a hint of guilt to gnaw at his blackened heart. He was far beyond compassion.

‘The captain left behind the butchery and threw the palace doors open. He crossed the threshold and entered into darkness. He fought his way through the palace and soon came to the King’s quarters, bursting into the room. Several men surrounded the bed, guarding their king who was deathly ill.

‘The captain threw forth his hand and sent four of the men flying across the room, falling to the ground in a dead heap. Only two soldiers remained to stand in the way of his revenge.

‘As he approached them, they dropped their swords and turned, jumping through the windows in a shower of glass. They tumbled from the top floor of the palace, their screams soon silenced by the stone below.

‘The satisfied captain turned and approached the King in his bed. The father of Jocelyn, maker of his sorrows, laid sickly pale beneath the sheets. The captain raised his sword.

‘Suddenly, a shout broke out from behind him. He turned and barely blocked a would-be-deathblow. He swung his sword and slit the throat of his attacker.

‘The body fell into the moonlight, revealing the face of his defeated assailant. The captain’s eyes lit up in shock as he knelt beside the body.

‘Jocelyn stared up at him dying. She convulsed and heaved violently, blood spewing across the floor. He cradled her head and watched as she slowly died in his arms. She soon fell still and lay back dead in his hands.

‘He stared for a moment into the face of his love, cradling the bloodied corpse in his arms. He slowly closed her eyes. He stood up and turned from her, his sorrow now buried beneath rage.

‘He stood over the bed and looked at the King a moment. The King slowly opened his eyes and gazed up at his killer. The captain raised his sword, ready to bring it down through the old man’s chest.

‘Before he could end his life, the King’s head fell back and he died. The captain stood in disbelief. He could not find his revenge, to release its hold over him.

‘Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw the King’s only son, Ivandar, enter the bedroom. He came upon a scene of four dead soldiers, his murdered sister, and the man who caused it all, standing over the body of his father.

‘The captain stepped away from the bed, turned his back to the prince, and jumped through the window.

‘Ivandar reached the window in time to watch the captain run off across the courtyard, soon disappearing from view.

‘Thousands of soldiers remained to challenge him, yet none dared, afraid to meet the fate of the hundreds who did. He left Morven, leaving behind him a trail of death.”

Armeth paused to let his words take their full effect. The men sat in contemplation, attempting to drink in every word.

“Why did he kill her?” Aaron asked; the first to recover from the narrative.

The mercenary shook his head and replied, “He did not mean to, I’m sure if he had known it was her he would have stayed his hand. If he had known it was her…then maybe this war would have been avoided. But alas, who knows how things could have been…” His voice trailed off as he finished speaking.

“Why didn’t he kill Ivandar?” Silas asked.

Armeth smirked at this, “Yes, you would think he would have. Yet he did not, and this simple action puzzles me immensely. I think maybe there was a small sliver of pity left in his callous heart.”

“Earlier you spoke of a sword given to him?” Cain asked, “What is that about?”

“Ah, Ceerocai,” Armeth replied, “perhaps the greatest legend of all. That is a story for another time, my friend.

Nevertheless, the story of Abaddon is not over yet, for this was just the beginning.

‘The captain escaped through the wilderness, avoiding the wrath of the Erias army. He fled into the icy wastes of what is now Andred and stopped running, and began working.

‘No one knows what drove him to do what he did next, but what he did is truly unimaginable. The rogue captain crossed back over the borders into Erias and invaded several small towns, stealing into their graveyards. He spent many years doing this, stealing the bodies of the long since dead. He soon came to find that his transcendent powers knew no limits. His strength was endless.

‘What he accomplished was beyond anything ever heard of, breathing life back into the long dead, if you could even call it life.

‘He had brought the dead back to the realm of the living, yet their souls were not of their own. He had defiled their minds and contorted every aspect of them into his acerbic will. He had reproduced a false life, a heartless being peering through the eyes of a hollow shell. He called them the Andreds, named after the empire he would soon make for himself.

‘The resurrected dead followed every whim of their master and creator. His sleepless soldiers built a city for him, and as it grew, so too did his territory.

‘Soon his country began to rival that of its neighbors, taking control of the eastern wilds that no one laid claim to. His forges swelled, hungering for the forests’ timbers and sapping the land of its beauty.

‘The terrain slowly morphed from a land of forests and snow, to a land dead and barren, the face of the very earth scarred and pitted with the years of its tainted inhabitants.

‘Abaddon soon sent his creations into Tarsha, terrorizing every country, every village, killing thousands and pillaging every last flake of wheat and trace of gold. In months, Tarsha was severely crippled. The ruler of Andred saw how easy it was to destroy his enemies and soon began to send out his armies, to kill and to slaughter.

‘He eventually gained the title of Abaddon, The Destroyer, for all of Tarsha would soon fall to oblivion. And since then, we have been fighting against him…to little avail.”

Aaron turned to Armeth and asked, “So Abaddon was given his powers? By who? Why?”

Armeth sighed at this. “No one knows, we can only speculate. One day…you will know the truth of it all…but for now, do not worry yourselves with such questions.”

“What about Ivandar?” Aaron inquired again. “What about the rest of the story?”

“You will know the full story soon enough. It is not my place to tell you. This is not story time. I am here to make you realize your importance to Tarsha. You must concern yourselves with the here and now; everything else will fall into place. Abaddon seeks to crush us. We must fight back if we are to survive.

‘At one time, we had an alliance, and we were strong in our unity. But, after years of fighting, we disbanded, and now we are weak against Abaddon’s wrath.

‘If we unite, then we may end this war against Abaddon at last. Our country needs you, our people need you, Tarsha needs you.” Armeth’s voice faded and he looked at them patiently, waiting for an answer.

Cain looked at his friends as they sat in silence, contemplating what Armeth was asking of them. Slowly, one by one they looked up and nodded to him. Cain turned and said to Armeth, “We will go.”

The mercenary stood up, a look of elation on his face. However, his smile soon turned grave. “Thank you deeply for offering yourselves, no one else would dare such a task as the one the King has proposed. Tarsha is forever in your debt.” Armeth shook their hands and a broad smile parted his lips.

“Only one thing,” Cain said as Armeth shook his hand. “Why us? There are thousands of others you could have chosen for this.”

Armeth scratched his beard before replying, “Because a thousand other souls do not thirst for revenge like yours do. All of you have lost your families, your homes; you have nothing left. Abaddon has torn your worlds apart.

You are the only ones who will dare reach out across Tarsha and do whatever it takes to repair the threads of a broken Alliance. Your hatred for the enemy will drive you to the end. We need men like you with such a drive to help us win this war.”

Cain nodded meekly, satisfied with the answer. “So, what’s next then?”

“I will talk to Ethebriel and let him know that you have accepted. You and your friends may return to the inn. I will meet you there at sundown.”

He grinned and thanked them once again and left the arena with a wave.

Cain walked away from his friends and stopped at the foot of the stairs. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” he muttered.

His friends approached him and Aaron rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know we are.”

T
he sun’s setting rays shone through their inn room windows, hues of amber that danced across the timber walls. Cain and the others stood around a large table in the middle of the room and listened tentatively to Armeth as he spoke. The mercenary had carried in an enormous bag and set it down on the table. As he spoke, he pulled out its contents.

Rope, tinder, flint and steel, mats, blankets, cookware, water skins, and several other items were strewn across the table. He had brought in large packs for each of them and he began to pack the equipment into each of these. He pulled out several smaller bags of rawhide and set them on the table.

“This is your tack and bridle gear. And here is…” he fell quiet for a moment as he pulled out several more identical bags, “Your food. It should supply you for a few weeks if you ration it sparingly. Everything is dried and salted so it should keep fine.”

The bags were soon packed to the brim, bulging with equipment for a trip that no one knew how long would take.

“Ah yes,” Armeth said as he clapped his hands together, “before I forget, I have one more thing for you.” He walked out of the room and moments later entered with another man.

The man dragged behind him wooden poles with limbs branching off at various points. Pieces of armor were hanging off these limbs, glistening dimly in the evening light.

Armeth smiled as he saw their expressions and said cheerfully, “This is Locke, the master smith of Kaanos. He has graciously made these fine works of art for you on his behalf…” He grinned and nudged the smith in the side, “Right?”

The man jolted as if Armeth had awoken him and looked at him with exasperation. “Uh, yes…right,” he looked away from everyone in the room until his eye caught an attractive knot on the wall.

The benefactors of the armor walked toward them and admired the handicraft. Every piece was made of folded steel, polished and gleaming from hours of devoted care. They removed the armor from the poles as the smith glared at them, taking no care to mask his disdain.

Cain strapped on his armor one at a time, each piece fitting securely around him as if measured precisely beforehand. He clamped on a set of large leather vambraces, a long leather fauld, lastly slipping into a lightweight but sturdy hauberk of cloth, chain mail and leather.

Aaron took the second set of armor, putting on a set of steel greaves and arm guards before strapping on a black leather and chain mail jerkin.