Burning Souls

((Closed to Bloodrose))

~~

*Insert Prologue*

* * * * *


Dearest Alexandria,

The trail is hot once again! After three long months of travel and fruitless investigation, fate rewarded my tenacity. While asking around in the city of Sturmovsgrad, I learned that none other than Cardinal Timko passed through less than a week prior. As you could imagine, I wasted little time in capitalizing on this miraculous fortune. I can only hope tat I am able to find him before Denebriel’s hunters. You’ve witnessed enough to know what is at stake.

You should also be relieved to learn that Cirothe has grown more docile lately and hasn’t made another attempt to eat me since the first week after I purchased him from the Bolokhov Royal Bestiary. Yes, Cirothe is what I decided to name this scaly reptilian monstrosity. He still eats everything in sight, but he’s got the constitution of a pair of oxen, which has allowed me to travel for days at a time without stopping. Hopefully it will be enough to catch up to the Cardinal while he is still alive and safe.

I haven’t been able to sleep much. I wake up with my heart racing night after night, shaken from nightmares that I can’t recall. Maybe my subconscious knows that the civilized nations are on the brink of collapse, or perhaps more sinister forces are at work. I grown increasingly paranoid, jumping at shadows more than I should, especially after these unremembered nightmares. Maybe it’s just the stress of my mission getting to me. That seems the most likely.

I miss your company more each passing week, especially since my only companion now is a giant monster. I pray that you and your father are well. I seek news regarding the shifting war whenever I can, and am always relieved when I hear that Volg Manor has not been touched by the conflict yet. I vainly hope that it remains that way, but things are grim. Just last week I heard that all of Knife’s Edge is aflame and thousands are dead. If the mightiest city in the civilized world could be reduced to such a state, who knows what else could happen?

When I hear these things, I am forced to respect the truly terrifying powers pulling the strings – the same powers that I have sworn to fight for the sake of our future. I feel that I am in over my head. My only advantage right now is that I’m a wildcard in this conflict – a variable that Denebriel and her agents couldn’t have foreseen. I can only hope that I can stay below the radar just a little while longer.

Try not to worry too much. I will return safely, no matter what, I promise. Maybe then I will finally be granted peace in sleep.

~Elijah

* * * * *

Darkness and rain swirled around him like a black plague cloud. He ran, though he knew not from what. His feet pounded with muffled percussive thuds against the drenched, rocky earth. His breath went ragged in his chest and his legs burned from strain as he struggled to run in his soaked clothing. Yet, no matter how hard he sprinted, he knew that he was not getting any further away from his pursuer.

But what am I running from?

Elijah’s rout of retreat suddenly ended as a massive wall of dark stone masonry materialized in the dark void before him. He glanced over his shoulder as he skidded to a halt, gazing into the shadows behind him through his drenched brown hair; he spotted a dark silhouette approaching. Frightened, he tried and failed to climb the wall. With an impassable barrier in front of him and something behind him, he had run out of room to run. It was time to fight.

He spun around with a splash of mud. Lightning flashed and came face-to-face with a leering devil. Black horns and thorns accented the creature’s red face and a matted mane of white hair hung from its unholy head. Eli reached for his sword; the one arcane weapon that he knew was mighty enough to vanquish such a beast. Yet, as he sought it from his waist, he realized that it wasn’t there.

“Looking for something?” asked the dark being, its guttural demonic voice laughing from behind hellishly glowing yellow eyes. The creature brandished the sword, its burning glyphs illuminating its wielder’s hellish visage. As it spoke, bile spewed from its blistered lips. “This, perhaps?”

The sorcerer recoiled. “Get back!” he cried, throwing his hands out in front of him, summoning his power and unleashing a vengeful fiery barrage against the beast. It chortled maliciously as Elijah desperately intensified the assault. “Stay away!” Flesh sizzled like water thrown into cooking oil as black smoke billowed from the demon. Yet, once the air cleared, the creature still laughed. Oh, that laugh… it chilled him to his core, inflaming both his rage and fear at once and grating like razors between his ears.

“Foolish child. You cannot destroy me. You cannot fight me any more than you could run from me.” Darkness consumed him. And still, it laughed.

* * * * *

Shlup, shlup, shlup.

The heavy slapping and thick sucking sounds of Cirothe’s clawed feet trotting through the slush and grainy mud greeted Elijah as he drifted into a confused wakefulness. He felt for his sword in his first moment of awareness, breathing a sigh of relief once his hand grasped the familiar, comforting hilt. He’d just fallen asleep; it had all been a dream. That realization didn’t make the whole thing any less disturbing though, as the infrequent dreams he experienced always seemed to bear some manner of significance.

The weary traveler sighed, massaged his temples, and tried to rub some life into his unshaven sandpaper face. He brushed some curly brown locks of hair out of his face and squinted through the late afternoon sun glared off the glistening crystalline trees. He had gotten rather hot under his woolen traveling cloak and his old and tattered chef coat was soaked with sweat. The air had turned surprisingly warm and moist; it filled his lungs like an angel’s breath compared to the unforgiving artic chill of Salvar.

He sat up straight and patted his Ashkore beast’s scaly flanks. The creature had certainly covered ground quickly; they must have already crossed through the mountain boarder into Alerar, given how warm it was. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the jagged peaks close behind and confirmed his suspicion. Excellent. It meant that the gap between he and the band of Salvic Sway agents he sought to find and protect was narrowing. It seemed odd that he’d slept through the border crossing, though. There should have been guards there. They would have stopped him.

“You didn’t eat the border guards, did you?” Eli asked his draconian mount. He chuckled, even though that would have caused quite a bit of unwanted trouble. The last thing he needed was trouble from the law when he already had the daunting task of finding and protecting fleeing Ethereal Sway agents. His smile didn’t last long, and it wasn’t because of the missing guards. It was the dream.

He couldn’t shake the residual image from his consciousness. What disturbed him most was how calm he’d been while waking. He didn’t jolt up with a start; it was as though the nightmare didn’t happen. What did it all mean? It couldn’t have been a flashback from his past because his enchanted Prevalida sword had only been in his possession for a little over a month. It meant that the dream was either a premonition or a warning, alerting him to something in the present that he was not yet aware of. According to his past research on the subject and his experiences, those two possibilities weren’t very different in nature. They merely varied based on the imminence of the threat. Therefore, the real questions revolved around the nature of the threat and how soon it would manifest.

Belov’s thoughts were interrupted when Cirothe let out a low snarl, a sound he only made when he caught the scent of fresh blood. The traveling sorcerer glanced around, instinctively alert. The road was leading into a pine forest. It wasn’t particularly dark, but the misty fog created by the rapidly melting snow made for a gloomy atmosphere. The effect of the creepy mist was nothing compared to the display at the mouth of the woods, though.

The source of the scaly, dagger-toothed lizard’s agitation quickly became apparent. Three soldiers, two Dark Elf and one human, were hanging from overarching branches. Rather, their remains were hanging. Their flesh had been crudely slashed and flayed from much of their bodies and their stomachs had been cut open. Blood and core was still dripping from their hanging intestines. They were fresh, not even old enough to have attracted more than a couple flies. He guessed that they were two days old.

“Well, it looks like we found the border guards.”

Elijah traveled atop Cirothe through the forest until sunset without incident. Even so, seeing the grisly remains of the border guards left him very ill at ease. What sort of sinister force would be bold, stupid, or desperate enough to commit such murders? More importantly, what could have driven them to do it? He hoped not to find out.

The weary sorcerer finally decided to stop as the sun vanished and the dark horizon drank the last drop of warm color from the sky like a thirsty sponge. The scaly mass of muscle of muscle and teeth that was his mount could go for days on end without rest, but Eli did not possess nearly so potent a constitution. His nightmare-haunted nap had only exhausted him further.

“Halt,” he commanded. The Ashkore grunted obediently, digging its claws into the rocks and mud and shuddering as its massive bulk came to a stop. The chef dismounted, finding a dry spot between a pair of thick pines that was large enough to sleep on. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Has he dropped hi pack and started scrounging for firewood, Cirothe grunted.

“Oh, what do you want you big oaf?” asked Eli, smirking and unable to decide whether he was annoyed or amused. The great beast tilted its head and made a sound that was a cross between a guttural whine and a growl. “Ah, so you’re hungry. Go hunt.” The lizard responded to the commanding tone in its master’s voice and darted deeper into the forest with surprising grace. He didn’t know the massive monster was capable of being so agile; he could only be grateful that it was eating something besides him.

Elijah spent a few more minutes collecting wood and fiddling with the fire before finally plopping onto the mossy ground. Sighing wearily, he closed his eyes for a moment. He could remember ever being so tired. Before he’d first left home about two years prior, the former cook had joked to his friends and mother that going out and taking on the world wouldn’t even be as bad as a few rough nights at the tavern. He’d been naive enough to actually believe it, too.

He missed those days, but they were gone, stolen from him by the terrible civil war. He could never return to his old life because it no longer existed. Marcus, an agent of the Ethereal Sway and an acquaintance of Elijah’s, had burned his mother as a witch mere days before he’d made it home. The witch hunter had been driven to hasty action by the desperation of the war, but Elijah killed him anyway. He had spent over a month hunting him down, letting his burning desire for vengeance consume little parts of him every day until little remained of who he once was.

Perhaps it had been for the best that he’d left his remaining friends behind, for he was no longer the same person they knew; they would not have stuck by him. Only Alexandria, who he’d only met since leaving his hometown for a second time, remained by his side during those dark days. Only she stayed to hold back the tides of darkness and insanity. Even after he killed the witch hunter and the full gravity of his mistake became clear, she remained. She not only understood that the seal-bearers must be found and protected at all costs, but she was willing to fight by Elijah’s do so, even against Denebriel, the elder evil from a lost age, the Forgotten One masquerading as a saint. Alexandria was a remarkable woman, one whose friendship Elijah treasured more than anything.

He shifted uncomfortably on the cold ground as he tried to still his restless mind. His exhausted state did little to make sleep any more appealing. While part of it could be attributed to being in a strange country, camping out in a cold forest where three Alerarian soldiers had been dragged and murdered, the majority of his unease came from the thought of having another nightmare.

Being someone who’d spent a few years studying his dreams and literally exploring the darkest corners of his subconscious, he had long since stopped being traumatized by the few nightmares he experienced. This last one was different, though. It left a lingering oppressive shadow in his mind that he couldn’t explain. It would be something worth researching, if he ever got the chance.

The former chef yawned deeply and tried in vain to warm his hands by the meager fire. Without thinking about it, reached for his sword, knowing from experience that the magic it contained could warm him to the core. His hand recoiled reflexively from the hilt. Even once he forced his fingers to follow his commands and close around it, the weapon provided none of the heat or comfort he’d expected. Instead, he felt only nausea and dizziness instead.

“What in the hell is going on with this?” he asked no one, slouching wearily.

Just then, a faint rustling sound trickled from the trees. At first, Eli assumed the source to be Cirothe returning from his hunt. Then he heard clumsy footfalls that were undoubtedly human. Becoming instantly alert, he reached subtly into his pack for his chef knife and peered into the forest. He caught sight of four figures approaching.

“Hail!” he called, keeping his unease from his voice. “I didn’t expect guests tonight.” He heard the faint murmurs of the new arrivals talking amongst themselves as they neared.

“Stay close behind us, priestess,” whispered a male voice. The strangers slowly came into view. “Well met, stranger! May we share your fire?” The man speaking was tall, thin, and bald, and wore a simple green tunic. He was pale and possessed unusually bright green eyes. He was a handsome man, save for the fact that he had the look of a sleazy salesman.

“Oh… by all means,” replied the former chef after a moment of hesitation. He removed his hand from his bag. Two shorter men, flanked the tall one, angled slightly behind to form a protective semi-circle around the fourth member of their group. One was sickly pale, gaunt, and frail. He appeared young, but lacked the vigor of youth. Elijah mused that a strong wind could probably carry him away. The other was a stout, grizzled old man with a hooked nose, grey hair, and wolfish eyes. The three of them parted to reveal the last member of the group. She was the shortest of the far, not even coming up to the chest of the tall one. Her face and slight frame were all but completely covered by a warm brown cloak and hood that made the shivering Elijah jealous. “I’m afraid I don’t have any food to offer you, though.”

“That is fine,” said the woman, her voice surreally soft and melodic. “We appreciate your hospitality nonetheless.” She settled cross-legged onto the ground while her companions remained standing.

“I never expected to meet anyone else in a place like this,” stated Elijah earnestly. He leaned back slightly and tried to relax.

“What do you mean?” asked the tall one, his sharp eyes burning into the cook. The glare made him uneasy.

“Didn’t you see the dead soldiers hanging at the mouth of the forest?” Eli asked. It was then the stranger’s turn to shift uncomfortably at that point.

“We… stayed off the road,” explained the priestess, cutting into the conversation. Belov nodded, struggling to keep suspicion from his face.

The bald traveler made no such attempt at subtlety. “Why would you enter this forest, then?” he asked. “Certainly such a display would have deterred a lone wanderer.”

The winds of discomfort shifted to the sorcerer once more. “My situation required timeliness,” he explained, his voice carefully neutral and his words intentionally vague.

“Chasing after someone?” giggled the cloaked woman, her large brown eyes sparkling mischievously from the other side of the fire. Her gaze made Elijah want to look away, but he forced the eye contact to hold, evening cracking a smile to cover his unease.

“You could say that, I suppose,” he replied, before pausing for a moment as a curious thought entered his mind. He’d heard the men call the petit woman ‘priestess.’ Could she be the Sway agent that he was searching for? Could she be the final seal-bearer that he needed to protect? Why else would she be so far south?

But what if she wasn’t?

The silence must have lasted longer than he’d realized, because the woman spoke again. “Is there something on your mind?”

He nodded. “I have a question for you, miss, one that I’m hesitant to ask,” he stated slowly. All eyes fell upon him.

“Go on,” she encouraged.

“I heard one of your companions call you ‘priestess’ when you were coming into the open. Do you serve the Ethereal Sway?”

The woman took a moment to respond, as if calculating the implications of the question and the potential consequences of her answer. “I was ordained in Saint Denebriel’s Cathedral,” she replied with a nod. “Why do you ask?” Elijah hesitated for a moment, but decided to take the risk. He pondered over his next words.

“Amidst the strife in Salvar, a select handful of Sway agents were urgently ordered to flee south into Alerar. I’ve traveled this way with the hopes of finding some of them.” He realized immediately that he had made a grave error when three swords suddenly appeared, pointing at him.

“Who are you?” demanded the tall one, his eyes narrowed angrily.

“Wait, hold up!” shouted Elijah, scrambling to his feet with his hands held out in front of him. “I’m not their enemy, I swear.” The three men glanced at each other and sinister smiles appeared.

“In that case,” began the lead man. He nodded in the Eli’s direction. “Kill him.” The two lackeys advanced on him with a bloodthirsty eagerness in their eyes.

“Listen, let’s be reasonable about this,” he said, failing to keep the quail of fear out of his voice. Then, he saw his salvation in the gloom behind his attackers. “Seriously gentlemen, you really don’t want to continue with this current course of action.”

“And why not, scum?” asked the older of the two lackeys, scowling.

The traveler regained his composure and grinned. “I have friends.” As if on cue, an ear-splitting roar exploded from the shadows. Cirothe’s massive form lunged into the air before its prey had the chance to realize that they were all doomed. The lizard attacked, pouncing onto the oldest with a sickening crunch. The beast’s mighty jaws snapped ribs and crushed sculls, cutting short panicked shouts. The youngest of the party swung his sword at the angry Ashkor with amateur desperation. The blade merely bounced off the scaly hide.

Elijah wasn’t safe yet. The priestess rushed him during the initial chaos, closing the distance rapidly. She carried a twisted dagger in her hand and spewed blasphemies and oaths from her once soft and innocent mouth.

“Defiler!” she screamed, slashing wildly with her wicked blade. The small woman was quick, but the Elijah more than made up for it with wits and finesse. With practiced precision, he sidestepped and grabbed her wrist, expertly twisting it behind her back until she dropped her weapon with a pained cry. She flailed against him furiously, raking her fingernails across his face.

“Gah!” he cried as blood ran down the red streaks on his face. “That’s it! I don’t care if you’re a women or not!” He snarled and slammed the priestess face-first into a tree trunk. By that point, Cirothe had pinned down the tall man and was proceeding to literally eat his screaming face off.

“So you’re the chef who murdered Marcus Salbrecht,” coughed the priestess, her voice muffled by the tree. “It’s amazing how your loyalties have changed so quickly since then.”

Elijah’s heart jumped into his throat. “What did you say?”

She laughed weekly. “And now you’re attacking a woman,” she continued with sadistic venom seeping into her voice. “You’re certainly moving up in the world. What would your mother say if she were still alive?”

He growled, his eyes widening in horror. “Who are you? How do you know about Marcus and my mother?”

“I know many things about you, Elijah Belov,” she replied.

“Glad to hear that I’m famous.”

“Did you just feel guilty about what you did? Is that what drives you?” she asked, her voice making his skin crawl

“I learned a piece of the truth! My loyalties have no changed; I have merely learned the face of the true enemies.” He scowled angrily, smashing the priestess harder into the tree. “Tell me, priestess, how does it feel to be a blind follower? To be such a slave to your church that you would hunt down your fellow holy men?”

“They are heretics that must be purged for the greater cause.”

“Heretics?” he spat. “I’m a heretic to you, but not them. They serve the same false gods you do!”

She chuckled again. “They serve false gods, yes. I serve the Saint, the Matron of Despair – a real master with real divine power – the real goddess of Salvar’s church, unlike the works of fiction that your pathetic people have worshiped for the last thousand years. Those who refuse to accept Her truth will be purified with fire and steel!”

“Denebriel…” he muttered darkly. “You must be truly trusted to know her true nature, and you must be truly sick to serve the Forgotten One willingly.” He sneered. “I imagined that I’d run into some of her servants eventually. You must have been tracking the same people I am. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she hissed. “You won’t make it to the bridge. You’re a dead man!”

“They always say that, and at least I’ll outlive you,” he condescended. The priestess’s laughter grew even louder and more maniacal. Elijah snapped her neck like a twig with a swift motion of his arms, silencing her.

“This is not good.” He slumped to the ground and exhaled slowly in the abrupt silence. His face still bled, but he ignored it.

A low grumble drew the cook’s attention back to Cirothe. The green beast nudged a half-eaten corpse toward him. The Ashkore looked rather pleased with itself, like a cat presenting a mouse to its master.

“Oh… you’re trying to share?” Elijah asked with a cringe. He forced a smile. “Thanks… but you can have it.” He patted his mount’s flank and left the creature to eat, knowing that being too close during the feeding process could leave him missing an arm.

“But hurry up. We’ve got to leave right away.” The priestess’s words still burned in his skull. She obviously had friends close by, friends that would do their best to hunt him down and avenge her death. He scoffed defiantly; he wouldn’t go down easily.

Real rest would have to wait.

"What in Denebriel's name happened here?" Benerius Wilthelm stormed into the remnants of the camp like a man possessed, his sword drawn and ready at his side. A half dozen other men, most armed with bows and spears, seemed to materialize out of the forest undergrowth as the big man's bellowing echoed around the silent wood. All were dressed in varying shades of browns, greens, or dirty grays, their faces wrapped in long scarves to disguise everything but their eyes. With strips of burlap stuffed between the metal loops of their ring mail cuirass, they all moved silently, efficiently into the clearing to surround the enraged Captain. "Dammit!"

The camp, if you could call it that, was a picturesque visage of disarray, carnage, and death. There had once been a fire burning in the center, but something large and clumsy had plowed through the fire pit, kicking ash and embers everywhere. Grass, small saplings, and brush had been crushed, broken, and ripped up from the earth as if by a storm. That was all to say nothing of the bodies - three or four of them (maybe, it was impossible to tell) - that had been dismembered and tossed about. It was obvious that the wild animals that made the forest their home had been gnawing at the scattered remains, and the carrion flies were everywhere.

The stench, Teric found, was awful.

"Looks like some kind of battle." Someone observed needlessly, earning himself the quiet disdain of the lone man clad in black. Teric strode casually through the camp, calmly observing the scene, taking it all in as the others milled about aimlessly. He circled wide around the bull-headed Captain Wilthelm, who at this point had veins the size of tree roots bulging from his neck and temples. If the man's face got any redder, Teric was afraid he might start bleeding from every orifice in his head - so great must his blood pressure have been. The mercenary stopped when he got to the other side of the camp, pausing to gaze down interestedly at an arm which seemed to be missing its body. There was a queer looking tattoo of a misshapen heart on the forearm - a distinguishing mark that allowed the old veteran to recognize it immediately.

"I found Reynolds." Teric called out as he turned to fix Benerius with a knowing glare. The two men locked gazes like bulls locking horns in the wild, one calm and one furious as they stared each other down. "I told you not to let them wander off on their own."

"You don't tell me what to do, sellsword!" Captain Wilthelm took a couple lumbering steps towards the black-clad mercenary, the knuckles on his weapon-hand white with strain. For a moment Teric feared he may have pushed the unstable officer too far, and subtly fingered the hilt of his own weapon in preparation of a conflict. The two men likely would have come to blows, had not a strangely calming voice intervened...

"No, but I do tell you what to do, Captain." The voice interrupted, halting Benerius in his tracks. Every eye in the camp seemed to gravitate towards the slender, robed figure that had made its way to the fire pit. The hem of the blue and gray robe was dirtied from travelling, the hood pulled low to cast long shadows over the gaunt face. The man had appeared out of nowhere amongst a group of rangers and fighters accustomed to dealing with camouflage, and no one had seen him arrive. Father Daeven often came and went in such a fashion - warping to and away from the warband as if transported by some higher power. The man made Teric uncomfortable, but there were reasons enough in his bag - golden reasons - that kept that discomfort buried at the bottom of his gut. "What happened here, Teric?"

The mercenary pondered the question for a moment, looking about the camp and slowly compiling all the evidence. "Well," Teric started slowly, still thinking as he went, "judging by the tracks that criss-cross the camp, I'd say we aren't looking at anything done by a man." The mercenary moved towards the fire pit and pointed at the giant, clawed footprints that seemed to have been forced into the earth by something heavy. "You can see the claw marks from the individual digits, the small imprint of the footpad. I'd say we're dealing with a big lizard - a wyvern maybe - but I'd be more confident about that if such creatures were native to this territory. There are pieces of Reynolds scattered about over there," Teric jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate where he'd been standing before, "and the leather over there looks like something Wolfe was wearing last I saw him."

"Where is Warrior-Brother Gerald, and the priestess?" Father Daeven asked coolly.

"Haven't found them yet." Teric replied. "And judging by the state of Reynolds and Wolfe, I don't hold out much hope for them."

"Fortunately your hopes do not guide the fates of our missing faithful." Father Daeven's tone wasn't hostile, much like one would expect it to be if you examined the words of his statement. Rather, the man spoke in a very matter-of-fact tone that always felt completely detached from the situation. "You are here to track the blasphemers - to lead us to them and then aid my devout in executing them like the dogs they are."

Yes, I know what you paid me to do, Father. Teric thought, absently placing a hand over the satchel bag that hung at his hip. The gold was heavy, but it was a comforting weight. "I actually had a question about that..."

"I may have the answers you seek." Daeven intoned flatly, interrupting the question as if he already knew it.

"Alright." Teric collected himself for a second, trying not to let the old priest's demeanor unsettle him. "When we crossed the border, Captain Wilthelm and I found several border guards strung from a tree. They'd been ripped to pieces and deliberately hung as a warning. Is that the sort of behavior I should expect from these... dogs, we're hunting?"

"Will my answer have any bearing on your ability to track my enemies?" Father Daeven's tone was slowly growing impatient, curt. The man expected Teric to do his job without asking too many questions, that much was obvious, but the man didn't seem to understand how this sort of job went.

Which is probably why they need me. The mercenary figured silently as he answered. "Actually, yes." Teric replied. "If these people we're hunting were truly set on getting away as fast as possible, then they wouldn't be stopping to fight border guards and string them up as a means of scaring us off. If they did kill those guards, then our prey isn't as scared of us as I was led to believe, and they may even try to set up an ambush if we get to close. Whether or not they killed those border guards tells me a lot about how fast our prey is moving, and helps me gauge the point at which they'll notice us closing in and fight."

Father Daeven nodded slowly, his hood rising and falling. Teric might have gone as far as to say the man seemed impressed, but it was impossible to tell what the priest was thinking under all his garb.

"In that case," Father Daeven started, "no, the blasphemers we hunt are not capable of such brutality. The Aleran border guards were killed by someone else; someone moving in the same direction that we are travelling."

"Someone likely to interfere." Teric added.

"Don't concern yourself with this matter." The priest replied. "I've already dispatched several of my finest assassins into the wilderness ahead of us. They will hunt down and destroy whoever killed the border guards. You need only focus on finding the Sway agents I seek..."

"Sir!" One of the warband's rangers, garbed in a heavy forest green with the scarf pulled away from his face, appeared on the edge of the camp by a dense thicket of pines. The man appeared excited, agitated. "We've found the bodies of Gerald and the Priestess." He called out, his words sparking movement around the camp even before he finished uttering them aloud. "Gerald is dead, but the Priestess, Father, she's alive!"

[insert second dream sequence]

* * * * *

Elijah awoke with a gasp, his trembling hand grasping the hilt of his sword. A gloomy veil of clouds grayed the morning sky and silver mist lurked like a silent predator in the tall grass along the road. He felt choked by the eerie silence. No wind blew and nothing stirred. Cirothe gave an agitated grunt, jarring the weary traveler into consciousness and making him aware that they weren’t moving.

“What’s the problem?” he groaned with groggy irritation. “Am I not allowed to rest my eyes anymore?” The Ashkor beast growled deeply, glaring into the grass. “What? There’s nothing in—”

He stopped mid-sentence; he knew better than to doubt Cirothe’s instincts. There was something that he couldn’t see. Thus, the sorcerer closed his eyes and allowed his other senses roam about his surroundings unhindered by visual expectations. He reached into the subtle currents of magic ebbing and flowing and laced the energy into his sensory system, augmenting his perception until it reached supernatural acuity. And then he waited, soaking in the silence as though it were water from a Salvic hot spring.

At first, there was nothing save for a subtle, apprehensive itch in the back of his skull. He needed no more, however, to realize that he was not alone; he could feel malevolent eyes upon him. He focused harder, pushing magical energy through his expanding awareness.

There it was! As faint as a ghostly murmur, the former chef distinctly detected a second pair of human lungs from within the grass. A heart beat followed, fainter still than the breath. Then, he heard the all but silent, yet unmistakable creaking of a tightening bowstring. Instead of showing alarm, he merely smirked. The unseen crossbow fired with a sharp twang. With an effort of will, the mounted sorcerer summoned a windy gust of unnatural flame, consuming the bolt before it came within five feet of him.

He slid dexterously off of his mount. “Cirothe,” he said with a cruel, complacent grin that concealed his weariness. “Go hunt.” The green beast lunged eagerly into the grass with a hungry glint in its eye.

“No… NO! Argh!” The panicked cries of his unlucky assailant gave him great satisfaction. The distinctive crunch of crushed bones followed, silencing the screams.

“Damn, so much for interrogating him,” Elijah muttered over the racket of his ‘pet’ feeding. He sighed resignedly, massaging the bridge of his nose. Now he would never know whether it had been one of Denebriel’s scouts or just a particularly adept and ambitious bandit.

He had barely let his guard down for an instant when he heard heavy, charging footsteps from behind him. Years’ worth of carefully honed combat reflexes took over as Elijah simultaneously spun around and lunged to the right. An axe blade slashed through the air two inches from his face as he dove and landed with a painful skid on the muddy road.

Eli caught a fleeting glimpse of his attacker before rolling to avoid another attack. The axman was a tall, muscular male clad in tattered leather armor and sporting a brown beard and untamed hair. With his battered battleaxe in one hand and a circular wooden shield in the other, the hostile warrior looked the part of a mountain marauder from the Salvic wilderness. He was clearly not native to Alerar.

Elijah snarled and lashed out with his foot as he rolled, striking the wild warrior squarely in the jaw. The man grunted and staggered back just enough for Belov to spring to his feet. The sorcerer unleashed blinding, explosive volley of white-hot fireballs. The mountain barbarian raised his shield and advanced in the face of the barrage, crouching behind his shield and shrugging off the unnatural embers.

The bearded warrior powered forward, axe raised, and Elijah dove into the attack, dexterously blocking the strike at his foe’s wrist. His prompt reward came in the form of a shield smashed into his face. He stumbled backward from the force of the blow, his head swimming and thick lines of crimson forming beneath his nose. He cursed and the marauder gave a guttural, mocking laugh. Eli narrowed his eyes.

“This wasn’t a very smart thing for you to do,” he growled, venom dripping from his voice. He took the brief instant of respite to wipe the blood from his face in the most intimidating way possibly, and then he drew his sword. Just as the night before, the weapon’s hilt felt unusually cold to the touch, lacking the warm tingle of power that he had grown to fondly anticipate. He lacked the time to be concerned, however; it was a sword with a sharp edge and a point, and he needed nothing more at that moment.

The barbarian attacked again, but the chef swordsman swept aside the strike and, with a single fluid motion, aimed a dazzlingly quick slash at his opponent’s face. The bearded fighter brought his charred shield up to guard with unnerving ease and followed up with a renewed offensive. He battered the younger combatant back with a flurry of fierce, yet surprisingly precise blows that left little doubt in his skill and experience. Elijah grudgingly gave ground for several steps as the sharp clanging of metal striking metal resonated in his skull. The younger swordsman darted back in forth, staying at sword’s-length while struggling to find an opening in the savage’s seemingly impenetrable guard.

The barbarian thumped his axe against his shield and charged, his feet pounding the gravel road like a tribal drum. Eli danced around his larger, bulkier foe, dodging and weaving like a fencer to avoid the brutal attacks. He counterattacked with a series of quick jabs, capitalizing on even the smallest vulnerabilities in the marauder’s defenses.

The young swordsman intensified his attack, forcing his foe onto the defensive. He lashed out with a blinding volley of slashes and thrusts, his blade dancing through the air in a blur of light. The bearded warrior backpedaled, stubbornly guarding with his shield. He attacked back, slashing with his axe in a wide swing surely capable of cleaving a man into pieces. Eli dexterously sidestepped the blow and countered with a rapid and efficient slash, severing the axe man’s weapon hand at the wrist in a blur of metal and a spray of blood.

The older warrior roared in agony and rage, but Eli silenced him immediately by shattering the savage’s nose with the butt of his sword. He punched his defeated foe repeatedly in the face before kicking out his knee, sending the brute toppling.

“Now, perhaps we can discuss this like civilized men,” said Elijah, his smooth and condescending voice contrasting the fire in his gaze. He pressed his sword into his newfound prisoner’s throat. “I’m sure you know how this goes. Who are you, and why did you attack me?” The bearded warrior remained silent, staring defiantly through stormy grey eyes. The sorcerer snarled and stomped on the savage’s knee full force.

“Who sent you?” demanded the former chef coolly. The older warrior spat blood in his face, which prompted Chris to drive his blade through his fallen attacker’s already brutalized knee, evoking a stifled tormented groan. “Denebriel, right?. I expected as much, though I had hoped that false goddess held higher standards in her lackeys than… you. I would send you to deliver a message expressing that sentiment to her, but as it seems that you’re in no condition to walk, I’ll just have to kill you, instead.”

“Then do it!” the barbarian roared challengingly. “I shall die a warrior’s death and feast with my ancestors!”

Elijah chuckled darkly, glaring down at his defeated opponent with patronizing pity. “This is no warrior’s death. You have met your pathetic end at the hands of a boy – an exhausted cook with a sword on the run from an entire band of hunters worshiping some charlatan deity. When you meet your proud ancestors in the next world, they will not accept one so tainted by shame as you.”

He severed the savage warrior’s head just as Cirothe emerged from the vegetation. Dark blood dripped like ichor from the beast’s jaws as it tilted its head at the scene. Something that could only be described as respect entered the Ashkor’s eyes and, for the first time, it made no move to devour the corpse; this was its master’s kill alone.

“Let’s go.” Cirothe crouched as Elijah mounted, and they set off once again even faster than before. The Saint’s agents were closer than he had feared. He could feel the weariness take hold of him, slowly sapping his power. With no relief in sight, he could do nothing more than keep going and ration what strength and vitality he could.

Captain Benerius and his not-so-merry troop of rangers discovered Randall and "Running Bear" just before sundown; the second day in a row where their travelling halted at the scene of a battle. Just as he had the first night, the Captain went into a mad frenzy, storming about the scene of the crime like a demon. The rangers, with practiced ease, piled the two bodies together and set them alight. Two of the rangers stayed and watched the bodies burn - the rest went about the business of setting up camp.

Teric found a fallen log on a small rise at the edge of the battleground and took a seat, propping himself lazily between the horizontal trunk and the vertical remains of the tree's roots. By the looks of it, the tree had been hit by lightning years ago - the wood all charred and black, but old enough that soot didn't rub off on everything that touched it. The tree offered a good vantage point of the small clearing and strip of muddy road that lay below, and the mercenary kept a watchful eye on the camp as it sprang to life from the packs of the rangers. Little green tents seemed to materialize out of the undergrowth, small, covered fires were lit in shallow pits, and everyone seemed to ignore the blue and white monstrosity that appeared just outside the tree line. That monstrosity was Father Daeven's tent, and it was visible for just a moment before the priest used whatever magics he had at his disposal to make the tent vanish into thin air. Focus hard enough and one could still make out the silhouette of the tent - a shimmering, hazy blotch against the solid, unmoving background of the trees. It was a neat trick, and one certainly good enough to keep the priest hidden during the twilight hours.

Having settled into his employer's routine, Teric knew he had about six hours to get some much needed sleep before Father Daeven would rouse the camp and get them moving again. By force of habit, Teric half-expected to be called down to the main tent for a debriefing, but the mercenary had learned by now that Father Daeven liked to do his meetings in the morning - just before setting out. Confident in that, despite his gut instinct to go down there now, Teric hugged his coat tighter around his body and settled into the nook between the tree and its trunk to get some shut-eye...

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"Hey!" Teric was awoken in the morning with a gruff word and a stiff kick to the legs, the toe of Captain Benerius' boot digging into his calf painfully. The veteran campaigner opened his eyes and glared at the Captain balefully, but the intent in his gaze was seemingly lost on the bull-headed officer.

"Father Daeven would like a word with you." Benerius stated flatly before turning and striding back down the little hill towards the road. The sun hadn't risen yet, and there was no pink line on the horizon to indicate that it would rise anytime soon, either. Sitting fully upright, Teric cast an eye down to the camp, only to find that it was mostly disassembled and the men almost ready to move out.

Seems I'm the last to rise. The mercenary thought off-handedly as he gathered his belongings and strode towards Daeven's tent. The priest's would be the last tent to come down, mostly because he could pack and unpack his accommodations with a word. Magic.

"Ah, there you are." Father Daeven intoned flatly as Teric swept into the tent and made for the charcoal brazier smoldering in the center of the tent. The heat inside the blue and white fabric abode was stifling, but it felt good to get inside out of the weather for a change. During the night a mild dew had settled over all of Teric's clothing, making them damp and chilly. The heat from the brazier was quick to remedy that chill. "Have you eaten?"

Teric turned from the brazier, his hands still outstretched towards it, to look at the table set in the middle of the tent. On one edge, bordering a veritable mountain of books, scrolls, and artifacts was a tray of freshly baked scones. It was a tempting image, but the knowledge that there was nowhere in this camp to cook such delights gave Teric great pause. He wasn't much for eating foods conjured out of thin air.

"I snacked on a piece of jerky earlier." The mercenary lied easily. Daeven nodded.

"We can move right on to business then." The priest intoned. "Have you had time to decide what this latest battle can tell us about our enemy?"

This time Teric turned around fully, angling his butt - which had just spent hours pressed against the cold, hard ground - towards the heat of the burning charcoal behind him. The question Daeven had just asked was one in a series of questions the priest asked every day, but there was something about the way Daeven inflected his words that put the veteran edge. If there was any one thing Teric had grown to know about the mysterious priest thus far, it was that he was a very monotonous man - if he had a routine, he stuck to it religiously (no pun intended) - right down to the very last detail. He was the sort of man who, if he asked you the same question every day, asked that question in the same exact manner and tone every day...

...Today was different for some reason.

"We're catching up with whatever is causing us trouble." Teric replied to start. "I can tell you that much. We came across this scene earlier in the day yesterday than the battle we came across the day before. Means we're travelling faster - gaining ground. We'll gain even quicker assuming one of your two assassins managed to wound our prey."

"Anything else?"

"Whoever it is that's causing trouble, he's not just anyone." Teric divulged. "Those tracks we chalked up to a wyvern the other day - there are more of them here. Whatever got Reynolds and Wolf also got Randall. Running Bear, though, he was killed with a sword - a single deft stroke to the neck. Aside from that his body is practically untouched. I think we're dealing with a man and a lizard travelling together - and they are travelling in the same direction we are."

"It's an Ashkor." A soft, raspy voice interjected. Both Teric and Father Daeven turned to find Priestess A standing by one of the tent poles closest to the entrance. She was pale and weak, using the tent support to hold herself up as Benerius followed in behind her and placed his big hands under her arms to help her walk. There was a thick white scarf wrapped tightly around the woman's neck where Teric knew their mystery-troublemaker had assaulted her. The bruises around her throat had been hideous when they'd found her next to the remains of Warrior-Brother Gerald.

"An Ashkor?" Teric repeated back skeptically. "You want me to believe that the guy we're chasing keeps an Ashkor as a pet?" Even as he voiced his disbelief, Teric knew it fit. The lizard tracks, the gory battle scenes, the border guards.

"Our Priestess saw it with her own eyes." Father Daeven interrupted before the woman could reply, indicating with a wave of his hand that Benerius should help her find a seat at the table. Her breathing was labored and wheezing - symptomatic of damage done to the airway. The Priestess was lucky to be alive at all. "She also gave us other valuable information about Elijah."

"Elijah?" Now Teric was just incredulous. "You know his name? You know who it is that's been tearing your men to shreds, and you didn't think to tell me?"

"We only recently identified him, based on the Priestess' account of her ordeal." Father Daeven dismissed Teric's annoyed outburst. "Now that we have identified the threat, however, our mission becomes all together more important and more dangerous."

"I take it you've run across this Elijah character before then." Teric surmised quickly.

"Not personally, but I’m aware of him." Daeven almost whispered. "His name is Elijah Belov, a warlock of considerable power, and over the last few months he has proven to be a considerable thorn in Denebriel's side. He is a stalwart ally of our enemies, and our best guess is that he is here to protect the blasphemers we currently hunt. How he has come to know of their presence here, or how he arrived so quickly, I cannot say. One thing, however, is very clear. Elijah Belov must be stopped and the heretics he protects destroyed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand." Teric nodded. His job had just become a whole lot more complex than advertised...

Dense dark clouds billowed oppressively overhead like sulfurous volcanic smog as jagged daggers of green lightning slashed phantom wounds into the sky. Raging winds howled like a chorus of lost souls, tormenting a foreign wasteland of ash, barren rock, and human remains. Caustic gusts of toxic fumes and soot poisoned the air, stinging Elijah’s eyes and burning his lungs. The stench of brimstone and decay strangled him.

Where am I? he wondered, eerily alert and aware. Clearly, this wasn’t the real world; it had to be another dream. His unusual level of consciousness piqued his curiosity.

He was indeed dreaming, wandering through the inner labyrinth of his own mind, yet he possessed no memory of his hellish surroundings; he had never visited such a place in his waking life. Therefore, it must have all been spawned in his own subconscious. He shuddered; the thought of visiting such an infernal land in reality suddenly seemed far less alarming in comparison. What could it mean?

He shook his head and sighed. “This is an odd time to be analyzing my dreams,” he mused, covering his mouth and nose with the collar of his chef coat.

The tainted lightning gathered and intensified around a massive spiral of black and red cloud, pulsating like a massive, malignant eye in the heart of the storm. It gazed down upon a ring of jagged monoliths resting atop an imposing, desolate hill like a crown of black iron. Its ominous silhouette flickered menacingly in the storm. Elijah’s skin crawled.

“That’s a pretty clear hint.” He swallowed hard, steeling himself for the trek to the sinister shrine.

The trek seemed to drag on for hours. The laws of reality seemed to bend and shift around him. At times, it appeared that the dark circle would drift further away no matter how fast he walked. He continued, however, his legs practically moving on their own, until all of a sudden, he arrived at the base of the cadaverous hill.

The winds intensified, kicking up a foul ashen whirlwind that enveloped the monolith circle. He counted eleven of the ill-omened structures, all hewn from pitch-black obsidian. Gazing into them felt like staring into a void. The air fell silent as he stepped within the ring. At the center sat an unsettlingly familiar red-faced demonic figure atop and imposing throne of barbed, burnished steel, the runic prevalida blade on his lap.

“We’ve met,” stated Eli, his voice smooth and wry.

“At last you remember me,” replied the demon, its mocking voice deep and bestial. It grated like metal hooks through the dreamer’s skull. “I was beginning to wonder how much longer it would take.”

“Right, and who are you?” asked the sleeping sorcerer with a spark of defiance. He felt disquietingly calm in the presence of such a terrifying unholy being. “And what are you doing with my sword?”

“My name Xalleius, and this ancient blade is no possession of yours,” replied the demon, glaring at Belov with smoldering eyes.

“I beg to differ,” Eli challenged.

“Of course you would,” Xalleius snapped, leaning forward intently. “Because you are but a child who knows no better.”

The dreamer scoffed. “Let me guess, you think the sword is yours?”

“In a sense,” the abyssal creature replied, it’s sacrilegious voice assuming a surprisingly somber and scholarly quality. “This weapon possesses me as much as I possess it. The first mortal to wield it was Zachariah, champion of Denebriel during the War of the Tap. I bestowed it and its power upon him in exchange for releasing my trapped essence from its ancient prison. For a decade, I resided within him, and together we saw entire armies routed before us. But in his arrogance, he grew to scorn me and my gifts, the fool he was. With the aid of his treacherous, thrice-accursed mistress, this sword became my new prison. I am bound to it.” Anger infected Xalleius’s face. He clenched a thick silver chain running from the sword to his chest in a black gauntleted fist.

“Well, that was a heart-rending story,” Eli condescended with a sneer. “As much as I detest the false Saint and her servants, you probably deserved what you got.”

“Oh, that may be,” the demon replied, amusement swiftly concealing his rage. “But I did not bring you here to seek your sympathy.”

“All right, why did you bring me to… wherever this place is?” he asked. “I will assume that this is some part of my subconscious.”

“To an extent you are correct. This black circle is where your mind touches my prison. It was born the moment you took up my sword and has been growing within you like a malignant tumor ever since. Not even casting the weapon aside will stop it, now… even if you had the will to do it, which you don’t.” Xalleius smiled at the dreamer’s alarmed expression. “Does that frighten you, child?” A long, deep silence followed.

After a few moments, Elijah squared his shoulders and spoke with a calm conviction that surprised even him. “While I admittedly find this troubling, now that I am aware of your presence, I have little reason left to fear it. You are but an unwelcome guest within my mind, one that I will sooner or later find a way to evict.”

“Ha, you have got fire in you, I will give you that,” Xalleius laughed.

“Oh, you have no idea. Now why did you bring me here?”

The demon’s black, blistered lips formed a grin. “I would like to make you an offer. I can—”

“The answer is no.” The dreaming sorcerer turned and walked away. “I will not bargain with one of your kind.”

“The time will come, Elijah, when you will not have a choice but to accept my offer,” said the demon.

“There is always a choice, abomination. There is no task worth selling my soul to accomplish.”

“Not even defeating Denebriel and preserving your home country? What about your dear, dear Alexandria?”

Elijah spun around, righteous fire burning in his eyes. “Never speak her name again! Never soil her name with your blasphemous tongue.” Xalleius didn’t reply; he only grinned. And he laughed. The world around him shattered and fell into darkness, and still he laughed.

* * * * *

Elijah awoke with a growl. His eyes burned with anger and his fists were clenched painfully tight. He could remember everything, every word of the dream. The foul creature had begun invading parts of his mind through his sword, and now it sought to enslave him entirely. The ancient demon had surely done it countless times; all mortals say no at first, but eventually the beast finds the right opportunity, whether despair, rage, or pure desperation to offer its “gifts.”

A sinking feeling of dread gripped Eli’s gut. Xalleius commanded the power of the sword; he could give it and take it at will. He had given the sorcerer a taste of the power for free, but more would surely come at a very steep price. The demon surely knew about Denebriel’s hunting party on his trail, and would wait until Elijah’s enemies had gotten him cornered, hoping that in desperation he would accept the offer.

He will be sorely disappointed, though Elijah. Even without the sword’s power, he was a very formidable opponent. Travel and trials had hardened him into an experienced warrior and a powerful sorcerer. And if that weren’t enough, he sat atop a scaly monstrosity that could rend twenty men limb from limb without breaking stride.

What was more, his pursuers had yet to catch up to him with more than a few warriors. At that rate, he would be over the bridge and on the open road to Ettermire in no time. They would never catch him.

As he shook off his grogginess, he heard the faint bubbling and churning of water. He and Cirothe had reached the bank of the river! The bridge was close. Nothing would stand in his way.

Guided only by the light of the silver moon overhead, six men clad in cloaks as dark as the night around them thundered down the beaten road on steeds glistening with sweat. Dispatched from the party now making camp, these six lean figures on panting mounts were the best scouts Daeven had to offer - the swiftest and most cunning of his many, many followers. On special orders from their master they rode, racing along the dark path through the trees at breakneck speed. Their destination lay perhaps another hour's ride away, and with three hours behind them already, the horses were lagging under the cruel lashes of their riders. The beasts' eyes were rolling in their skulls, tongues flopping over the steel bit in each mouth as they were pushed harder and faster down the road. With a pitiful cry one horse mistepped and lost a shoe - pitching the exhausted beast sideways as it reared in pain and took its rider with it.

Five men clad in cloaks as dark as the night sped on without even looking back; their mission far too urgent to spare a moment for a fallen comrade...

The bridge, Father Daeven's words echoed in five pairs of ears, it must be secured at all costs. There is only one truly safe path across the river, and we will not afford our enemies the advantage of its use. Destroy it if necessary, but only if you cannot hold it until my arrival.

In a couple hours the party would awaken for an early march - setting after the black-clad riders on foot and bringing their master with them...

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They were moving fast; more running along the road than marching on it. Double-time had faded a couple hours ago into a brisk jog, and then accelerated an hour after that into something resembling a pell-mell sprint. The scouts, clad in their varying shades of greens, browns, and greys flitted through the trees on either side of the road like spirits. Sometimes visible, other times not, the skilled archers and woodsmen were silent as they ran; ghosts accompanying a company of steel.

Like the footsteps of the general infantry around him, Teric's iron-shod boots were loud on the packed dirt road - each foot fall a drum beat intermixed with the jingle and jangle of steel and iron cuirass. The group had started the morning as a small group of scouts with a couple soldiers under Captain Wilthelm's command, but over the course of the day their numbers had swelled. There were multiple parties it seemed; several independent groups of scouts and infantry that had thus far operated independently of one another. Each seemed to obey the all-encompassing orders of Father Daeven, and as they approached their target, the groups melded into one another to form one large war band.

Much larger than I would have anticipated for a mission like this. Teric thought as he kept time with the soldier next to him. It would seem Denebriel's lackeys are pulling out all the stops for something...

Their target was a small bridge crossing the Tagareth River, and one of the few bridges that connected the roads leading in from Salvar to the roads winding always towards Ettermire, the capital of Alerar. While it was possible to wade the river in several places, the Tagareth was infamous for its unpredictable currents. Those currents, plus the jagged rocks that seemed to line the riversides and riverbed like so many teeth, tended to herd individuals seeking to cross the river towards the few bridges that offered safe passage over the flowing waters. Father Daeven seemed to be counting on the fact that the heretics they sought would be crossing the bridge soon - assuming they had been gaining ground at the rate they believed they were. If anything, the priest was hoping to secure the bridge before the thorn in their side, Elijah Belov, made his way across.

I just hope we don't get there too late. The mercenary thought as he felt the muscles in his legs start to burn.