Had Atan’s legacy been one of ill-repute, he would have expected to be thrown in the darkest of dungeons while he awaited his trial. But his crime against his order seemed to have overshadowed his good faith. He had been stripped to rags and placed in the dungeons with nothing but his thoughts and the moan of air flowing through rock and stone. He did not even have his holy symbols to meditate with, forced to pray without the words of his masters for comfort.
The floor of his cell was damp and cold, and smelled of mildew. There was only the glow of a single torch in the hall that ran past his cell, its influence waxing and waning along the stone. His cell had a feather bed and pillow, with a nearly translucent sheet for warmth. Across from that was a chamber pot, which he’d hoped to avoid needing to use as the chance of someone coming to clean it looked slim.
He had wandered these cells twice before in his life. First was when he was inducted as an acolyte. His mentor had wanted him to see what awaited those who broke their oaths and the wicked who challenged those who upheld them. Now here was Atan.
The second time he had visited these cells was years after the end of the Dread Wars. It was a brief moment to fetch another paladin, he forgot which, but he would never forget the smell and the sounds. Rotted blood. Horrid shrieks. He thanked Celestials that he was not of the inquisition quite often since then.
Now, he was in these cells a third time, awaiting his judgment by the High-Council. He knew it would be a risk to return to Knightshelm after standing against Drake at Maplebrook. A part of him had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the Great Obelisk would have extended its protections of Jevrick to him also. It would seem that was not the case. The absolution of one’s sins did not absolve another of theirs.
But my oath still held. . . That was the confounding fact that Atan could not let go of. If he had truly broken his oath to the Great Obelisk, then surely he would have been struck down much in the same way Knight Jaks had been when his shard had been shattered. No, Atan was certain that he would be absolved by the Great Obelisk before the High-Council. He simply needed to maintain his faith.
Scritch. . .
The noise echoed from Atan’s neighboring cell. The sound of nails or claws scraping rock. There was something else in these dungeons with Atan.
“Errrk,” the something croaked. “Sad pally, errreek, alone in a smelly dark cell. . .”
Scritch. Scritch.
Atan scrunched his brow. What was this creature that addressed him? He’d hold his tongue until he knew. There were vile creatures in the world which could ensnare the unwitting, and they oft preyed upon simple slips of phrase—revealing one’s true name, making foolish promises, or agreeing to even the simplest of terms.
“Chk, Chk. Sad pally, why are you alone? Pally friends don’t want to play with you?” The creature made a guttural trill.
Atan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had a terrible sense about his neighbor.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
“Errk. Sad pally doesn’t speak? His tongue snipped? Sad, sad pally. Chk. Don’t worry, I mean you no harm. I am quite lonely myself, quite—eeerrk—sad myself. Sad Var’iq. Sad, sad Var’iq.” There was a rustle of what sounded like large feathers.
Atan searched for his knowledge of creatures. Harpy, perhaps. . . If he was indeed dealing with such a creature, speaking would bring him no harm as long as he did not let down his wits. The words and song of Harpies penetrated the mind of those who let down their guard, an affliction he’d rather avoid.
Better to meditate and ignore—
“Poor pally, dead wife, dead daughter. Dead, dead, dead. Chk. Who killed them, poor pally? Who slit their throats? Was it you poor pally?” the creature taunted in its shrill voice.
Atan grimaced. He dared not correct it, yet he feared how the creature knew of his family. Who had told it? Why was the creature in the cell beside him? The sneaking suspicion crept over him that he was being set up by someone within Knightshelm, someone who wanted Atan to let down his guard and become ensnared by the harpy’s enchantment. But why? Who?
Dawn Lord, protect me.
“Atan?” a haunting voice said.
The paladin’s heart quickened. For a moment he had forgotten his situation. The creature can mimic voices. . . how does it know her voice?
“Papa?”
Atan’s body shook. This daemon knew his wife and daughter’s voice. It should not, yet it was so clear. How?
Stolen novel; please report.
He snapped back to consciousness. His hands were gripping the bars of his cell, and he was now standing. “Zyon,” he muttered. The creature could influence him just by mimicking voices. Voices it should not know, but somehow did. Voices that Atan feared would undo him.
Dawn Lord, forgive me.
“Papa? Papa, is that you?”
***
. . .the present.
Jevrick’s Main Quest: Restore Maplebrook
- Earn Maplebrook’s trust.
- Rebuild houses.
- Restore population.
Side Quests:
- Who are they?
- Restore Atan to good health.
- Where is Nora?
- Is that really Clyde?
- Find out who burned down the chapel.
- Fulfill obligation to Atan.
===
Maplebrook’s Population: 392
===
Notable Townsfolk:
- Merchant Guild (Guild Master Vrak, Xanya)
- Apothecaries (Fern and Lysa)
- 4 Hunters (Oon, Molly)
- 3 Woodsmen (Bee)
- 5 Guardsmen (Ronald, Tobi)
- Tavern Keeper Bano
- Chef Hughie
- Others: Jane, Derek, Von, Maribel
===
Undead Servants: 2 Greenfolk Bandit Thralls (Timmins and Lana)
===
The dawn arrived just as my thralls and I finished our work. I kept the bones of each of the deceased townsfolk separate, which had been relatively easy since I had previously placed them into separate troughs.
My plan was thus: I would invite the loved ones of the deceased to come reclaim their remains for proper burial, but those who were not reclaimed I would seek to reanimate. Their souls were already in the care of the celestials, as the total destruction of one’s body destroyed their anima and untethered their soul. There were those who did hold even bones as sacred, which I understood, and would respect if asked. However, at this juncture, the dead were dead and soon a force might again threaten our town. I knew not how powerful, or how numerous, but I dared not take Atan’s warning lightly. Perhaps it was those bothersome paladins again. Maybe I wasn’t as favored by their deity as I had thought. It would be foolish to think I could understand that big rock’s plans. For all I knew, I had already completed the task it needed me around to address. Or, maybe it needed some time to prepare its forces to fight me. I knew not, but this time I would be ready to face whatever threat came to Maplebrook before it arrived, even if I had to make such preparation in secret. If it were between preserving the dead, or preserving the living, I would seek the latter.
So, I sent out Oon, Bee, and the other hunters and woodsmen, to deliver an invite to the remaining townsfolk to reclaim these remains. By the end of the day, fifteen sets of bones remained either unclaimed or refused. Here was the other beauty, and perhaps another attempt at justifying my plan: reanimation did not mean destruction. The bones would still be there should someone change their mind, I’d simply just have to dispel the magic binding the skeletons together.
When night arrived, I gathered the fifteen skeletons on the field beside where the dead animals had been gathered, which was beside a pit where we had burned the Greenfolk Bandit corpses from the previous battle.
This ritual would be quite lengthy for numerous reasons, least of which was the sheer amount of dead I hoped to reanimate, but when I was done I would have an army sizable enough to defeat the enemy of tomorrow.
As the sun faded, I sat cross-legged in the middle of the impromptu graveyard and began chanting the necessary ritual for a spell I had not used in quite some time: Raise Army.
***
Clyde woke dry-mouthed. His eyes fluttered open, and his body felt like a solid weight. He struggled to shift himself over in the tavern bed to grab his flask off of a nightstand beside his head.
“Come on you bloody weakling,” he cursed himself. With all his might, he swung his left arm over and successfully snatched up the flask. A sudden chill wracked his body. Infernos. He had to be quick. He must have overslept and prolonged his drink beyond its timing. He pressed the lip of the flask to his own and leaned back. . . but it was empty.
His eyes widened. “Afterlives!” He threw his body out of bed and got to his feet. Stars filled his eyes and his head swooned. He tried to shake himself back to focus—then his body quaked. “No, no, no. . .” He shambled toward the door of his room and threw open the door.
Some sickening sensation pushed through his belly, and up his throat.
“Curse you, stay down you drekin’ fool.” Clyde stumbled to a staircase and shimmied his way down one step at a time, his world turning into double.
“Drink!” He shouted. “Drink!”
Let me out. . .
“To Infernos with you,” Clyde cursed. He was halfway down the stairs. “Are you deaf? Drink!”
There was a clink of glasses from around the corner.
That sensation from within wrapped around Clyde’s insides. He shivered. He slipped and his back whacked against the steps.
It’s time, Clyde. . .
“No, no, no. . . Please. . . Drink. . . Drink!”
“Ser Clyde?” The bloody-tavern keep rounded the corner with a mug of ale.
Clyde pawed at his lips. “Drink. . . Drink. . .”
“Afterlives,” the tavern keep said. “Are you sure?”
Clyde stared at him with terrible hate. “Put. That. Ale. In. My. Bloody. Mouth!”
The tavern keep grimaced, and did as Clyde asked.
The burning ale washed through Clyde’s insides, drowning the thing within him. Drink spilled across his tunic, but he paid it no mind. His head buzzed, and his eyes drifted closed.
“Thank you,” he said, before drifting back to sleep on the stairs.