Chris had survived as well, but he was even less welcome to the thought of company than Elijah had been. It wasn’t homesickness, seeing as he was mere short weeks from his town. It wasn’t that he scorned the victory either, or that he was bitter for having fought for strangers. By all rights, doing such a noble deed should have made him feel good, and it did. He was happy for the town. He wasn’t the dark, quiet, brooding type. He’d always enjoyed the company of others.
So why this solitude?
The weary chef sighed. As much as he might deny it, Chris liked being the hero, but little had gone right that night. He had considered himself a potent individual and had admittedly gotten used to seeing others in awe of just a fraction of his power. Even Elijah, who had been harder to impress, respected the chef’s abilities. Here, though, even his best wasn’t good enough. Fire was the weakness of Vampires, yet even every ounce of energy he had wasn’t enough to vanquish the beast.
To be fair, he’d always been well aware that there were many forces out there in the world that were mightier than he was. However, knowing that and actually being thrown in the middle of it are two very different things. It was a humbling experience, as well as frightening. It was easy for him to think about sinister villains and beasts of unbelievable power from the depths of the hells when he could simply pretend that they were in some far away land, not right in his backyard.
“The more power you have, the more power you see,” Chris muttered to himself. He gazed at the starry sky. The thick blanket of clouds had drifted away like a film of smoke hiding the stubborn light of a thousand candles. Each star was small enough to pluck from the sky, and just one of them had more power than the entire world. He sighed. “The more power you see, the more you crave.” But where would he get that much more power? It was a question that he already knew that answer to. But could he go through with it? Once again, he already knew the answer. First, though, he would need to make an appearance at the Inn lest the others get suspicious. In a few more hours, the sun would be rising.
* * * * *
The cold Salvic wind swept across edges of the forest and through Malachi’s black hair, stinging his ears and nose painfully. On the bright side, at least he was still alive to feel it. That in and of itself would baffle him for the rest of his life. By all rights, he should have died. His chest cavity should have been smashed to dust like dried clay. The gods must have had plans for him. Why, if he hadn’t somehow risen again, that chef would have been killed; the vampire would have survived, the villager assault would have been crushed, and Xem’zûnd would still have had an agent within Salvar.
Malachi stopped sharply as he heard faint shuffling sound to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow dart from one tree to another. The priest cleared his throat.
“The lords of the night fear the dawn,” he called. A few moments of silence followed before the shadowy figure emerged from the night. “Good evening, brother Borris. It’s good to see a friendly face lurking in the shadows for once.”
“Well met, Malachi,” replied Borris, stepping into the moonlight. He was a graying old man, his face so heavily lined and scarred that it could have been carved from granite. His sky blue eyes were stern and distant. “But I was beginning to think that you’d had so much to drink that you didn’t notice me.” Malachi laughed and gripped the old man’s hand firmly.
“It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the young priest.
Borris nodded. “Aye, likewise. Now, for the business at hand.”
“The mission was successful,” Malachi replied. “My agents reported that he was definitely an agent of Xem’zûnd. Fortunately, Kincaid was vanquished and his tower purged.” His expression turned slightly grim. “Despite the fact that I almost died.” The old man’s eyes darted to the priest instantly.
“What? How?” he asked with a certain air of urgency. Malachi sighed and shrugged.
“That’s the strange part. I was fighting with the vampire, and he grabbed my staff from my hands and smashed it over my chest.” Borris tilted his head inquisitively. “The staff broke, Borris. I felt my chest shatter and collapse. Yet, less than twenty minutes later, I stood back up without a scratch or bruise on me.” He smiled softly. It was a smile that held an emotion very rare in such times: hope. “For whatever reason, that Gods must favor me. They must have a plan for me.” The older man sighed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” he stated. Malachi raised an eyebrow, his optimism and hope starting to crumble in moments. “You are too important to the Church for us to allow you to die so easily.”
“What do you mean?”
“How old were you when you were rescued by the Ethereal Sway priests?” he asked.
“Five years old,” replied the young priest.
“Well, any other time we would have just taken you in and given you food and shelter, instead of inducting you into the Order. However, one of our eldest priests was on his deathbed and we needed someone to take his place as a seal-bearer. We chose you and began your preparation, part of which involved a dangerous enchantment designed to save your life. If what you said is true, then the enchantment has been used up at the worst possible time, with the civil war raging as it is. In fact, the time may come when we’re ordered to sneak all of the seal-bearers to Alerar to keep them safe.” A long silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. Only the wind remained, whispering doubt and fear into Malachi’s ear.
“So I’m one of these seal-bearers?” he asked at last. Brother Borris nodded. “But what, exactly, is being sealed away?” A trace of fear entered the old man’s hardened eyes like a vessel in foreign waters.
“It would suffice to say that Xem’zûnd’s war in Raiaera is the least of our worries.”
* * * * *
Where is it? He knew it was there; he could feel it.
Chris dug, almost frantically, through the endless heap of ashes and charred human remains that choked the dark ravine behind what was left of Kincaid’s tower. His white chef coat was caked with black. He would need to dispose of it and use his spare one until he got home, lest anything get suspicious. Chris couldn’t believe that he was doing this. He was digging through a giant crematorium. The smell was atrocious; it made him gag every few seconds. It would all be worth it soon enough.
It would need to be very soon, though. The first traces of morning light were kissing the purple horizon. It would be morning soon and Chris would need to be back at the inn before the others started to wake up.
I know it’s here…
“Ha!” he shouted as his hand closed around the familiar hilt to the magical sword. Immediately, coils of cold energy slithered up his arm, causing him to moan softly. A grin formed on his face as he climbed out of the ravine, mystical blade firmly in his grasp. And somewhere within the darkest pits of the abyss, a dark god laughed.
Out of Character:
Spoil request: The Vampire's sword. It is a masterwork Prevalida longsword. It is covered with arcane runes and glyphs, though only one of them -- the one that feeds magical energy into its wielder -- is active. It also has a dark curse that will haunt Chris for a long time.
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