¤ Another Point of View

The window of light dimmed, as the scene that they both watched faded away.

’But…that’s Verchiel? The fairy court? How- Who are you?’ The Soul looked away from the window, perplexed. ‘Why can you show me stuff like this?’

Ah, you made the Soul angry! You made it angry. Angry. Mad! The whispering in the air hissed into her ears, teasing her. Upset, she backed away, waving her hands apologetically. ‘Ah, no, I’m not blaming you or anything! Don’t listen to them.’ The Soul said hurriedly. ‘I’m just… finding this so weird[I].’

A little more reassured now, she could only spread her hands helplessly. I don’t know.

’Hmm.’ The Soul turned back to the window, touching its edges curiously, then startling when a tangible edge to the square of light could not be found. Running its fingers along a dull glowing edge, the Soul touched the square in wonder. She mimicked the Soul, exploring the flat invisible wall with her fingers. There was a familiar yielding sensation, at an area a small distance from the window. Triumphantly, she pushed hard at it, and another panel of darkness fell away.

[I]The dazzling light that poured forth caught the Soul’s attention. ‘Wow.’ It came over slowly, and then stood before the new square of light in this dark place. ‘Can I?’ The Soul asked, eagerness in its voice.

She extended a hand of welcome. Together, they peered into this new window.

¤ Maldrich

The dark grey stack of fur tops the rise, its small beady eyes blinking in the red-tinted gloom. The Dark Jr. Yeti seems to sniff at the air, even though it has no visible nose, then continues to move down the slope, flattening and contracting its furry body to gain traction on the swampy ground.

A tall fairy with electric green hair emerges from the behind the small hill, extending his golden wings slightly to balance himself. As he goes down the slope, Verchiel steps carefully, his lips curling slightly in disgust at the muddy marsh that made up the ground of the army’s camp. Even through his high-cut boots, he still could feel the cold fog on the ground swirl around his ankles. His aura practically shines in the dank gloom, cutting a clear halo around him in the murkiness.

The Dark Jr. Yeti was sent to meet Verchiel at some distance beyond the army camp’s perimeters, and carried with it a note from Maldrich that Verchiel was to proceed into the camp alone. His retinue protested, of course, but Verchiel waved them off impatiently. He was planning to go alone anyway; there are some things that he needs to settle privately.

The odd pair makes their way through a thick line of dead, twisted trees, their limbs reaching out into the reddish sky like dark claws of desperate monsters. There is an eerie silence creeping in the dead woods, guarding jealously the space where all wildlife had fled in terror. Verchiel moves calmly through it all, looking only in mild curiosity into the silent shadows between the tress, as if used to such lifelessness.

A few minutes later, Verchiel and his furry guide break free of the dead woods, and come right into the heart of the army camp. There are open campfires scattered as far as the eye can see, their reddish fires licking greedily at the still air but not imparting any of their warmth to it. Huddled around the fires are a myriad of creatures, all looking as if they had just stormed out of a nightmare. They fill the air with their soft growls, rustling and breathing, as they all stare at the glow that emerges from the edge of their camp.

Verchiel’s guide brings him onto a path of sorts, a stretch of marsh marginally more flattened than the bog to either side of it. Passing a campfire shared by several Werewolves and Lycanthropes, Verchiel coolly takes note of the powerful claws one of the Lycanthropes flashes as it growls threateningly at him. The Dark Jr. Yeti makes a squeaky reproach, and the Lycanthrope settles back into the gloom behind its campfire.

At the end of the path crouches a dark domed tent, its walls made up of animal skins stretched taut against a wooden skeleton. There are several brownish stains on the skins, as if blood of their former owners has yet to be washed off. Totems of grotesque faces stand to either side of the tent’s low square entrance, fat black flies swarming drunkenly around the rotting heads impaled on top of them; the gloom and decomposition making it hard to identify if the heads are of animal origin or not.

The Dark Jr. Yeti mops its way to the tent’s entrance, and then lets out a series of squeaks. ‘Bring him in,’ a hoarse voice rasps from within the tent. The stack of dark grey rotates on the spot until the Jr Yeti’s eyes land on Verchiel, and it squeaks again.

Tugging at his white overcoat to straighten it, Verchiel strides up to the tent and eyes the low entrance contemptuously. Bowing low now, he ducks through the entrance, and straightens up to his considerable height once he clears the door.

The inside of the tent is surprisingly roomy and luxurious, plush carpets with intricate embroidery covering the marshy ground completely. It is dimly lit, however, the sole sources of light in the circular space being Verchiel’s aura, and a small lamp on a low table in the middle of the tent. Nothing else of the tent could be seen, veiled as they are by shadows.

A young man sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor behind the low table, shoulder length black hair falling over into his pale face as he reads a scroll laid out on the flat polished surface, his Dark Enigma robes spread out in a circle around him. A worn Dark Ritual staff lies across his lap, a large skull’s head stained ominously with blood topping the rod of petrified wood.

He looks up just in time to see Verchiel straighten up from the bow he made to get through the door.

‘Ah, what honour it is, to have the mighty Lord Verchiel bow to me!’ The voice the young man uses is the same death rattle that responded to the Dark Jr. Yeti’s announcement. The harsh rasp is a strong contrast from the speaker’s pale, handsome face, like raw sandpaper on bare skin.

‘Only an arrogant fool will place a door such to boost his pathetic self-esteem, Maldrich.’ Verchiel says blandly, his emerald eyes hard.

The young man throws back his head and lets out an unnerving laugh that grates against Verchiel’s ears, sounding like the rattle of shattered bones. ‘Why, is mighty Lord Verchiel angry that his precious Orbis court is upset about a little reminder that I sent to you?’

Verchiel unfurls his golden wings angrily, towering over the sitting Maldrich. ‘You know that I am working as fast as I can to further our plans. I wish as much as you do that Ossyria is rid of El Nath as soon as possible. You have just set back my plans considerably with your impulsive message to that fat fool of El Nath!’

‘Lord Zakum does not think you work fast enough.’ Maldrich stops laughing now, his hoarse voice reverent and a gleam in his eyes as he speaks Zakum’s name. ‘He grows impatient.’

‘Zakum, Zakum. Who in Ossyria is Zakum.’ Verchiel drawls caustically, folding his arms in derision. ‘In all the times that I have worked with you, Maldrich, I have never seen this almighty Zakum that you speak so often of.’

Maldrich looks back down at his scroll, replying coldly. ‘You will regret those words ever left your mouth the day He rises, Verchiel. You dare doubt Lord Zakum?’

‘Of course I dare, Maldrich.’ Verchiel says, his voice carrying a hint of challenge now. ‘Can he possibly be just a hallucination of your broken mind?’

There is a soft zing in the air, and before Verchiel could blink, Maldrich is on his feet, his Dark Ritual raised before him and glowing with a Holy Arrow nocked on its staff. The Holy Arrow flickers strangely, as if tainted by some lurking darkness.

‘You can insult me, Verchiel. I will let it pass. But you move into dangerous ground this time, fairy,’ Maldrich hisses, his brown eyes crazed as he glares at Verchiel. ‘All my time at the Academy, I worked to find out the means to summon this demon warlord. You saw me, you saw my work. I even remember you said how ironic it was that a holy Priest should seek out an unholy demon.’

Maldrich’s voice drops into a dangerous low grind, the Priest still holding Dark Ritual and Holy Arrow aloft. ‘I tell you now, only a Priest enlightened on the unholy power of darkness could have sought out this particular demon. It took all my training as a Priest in the Academy, and all my power to seek Him out. My very voice is proof that Lord Zakum exists. I spoke the word that summoned His spirit to this plane, and my voice was rent apart by the word’s immense power.’

‘See this hand, fairy?’ Maldrich’s lips twist into a humourless grin as he indicates the hand with which he clutches the Dark Ritual. Its skin is blackened, the fingers twisted, their nails long and curled upon themselves; it is nothing more than a misshapen mockery of a human hand. ‘I maimed my right hand to give Him the strength to call forth the vast army that you see outside this tent. What more proof of Lord Zakum’s might do you need?’

‘I do not care, Maldrich.’ Verchiel only looks down nonchalantly at the Holy Arrow hovering over his heart, emerald eyes emotionless. However, his tone is more careful, as he picks cautiously at the words he speaks next. ‘If you wish Zakum to be real, then so be it. Just remember that it is a delicate time now, and you should not endanger your Lord’s plans and mine in a moment of recklessness. There are other forces in the court that I have to contend with, and what you are doing only makes it harder!’

‘Is mighty Lord Verchiel afraid now, then?’ Maldrich snorts, lowering his Dark Ritual and letting the Holy Arrow dissipate, ‘I don’t actually need you, Verchiel. That declaration of war is real, not just a reminder for you. My army is poised to strike El Nath any time at my Lord’s command.’

Verchiel’s composed mask cracks for a moment, as hatred flashes across his eyes. Smirking at him, Maldrich rasps. ‘How will you stop me, Verchiel?’

——————————————————————-
Links to previous chapters:
link link link link link link link link link link link
link link link link link link link link link link link
link link link link link link

Enter dark ebil Priest gone insane. Introducing: Maldrich. He just stormed into my head one day while I was thinking about the story, and insisted that I put him in the story, for the glory of Lord Zakum. Now.

What Lord Zakum? There is no Zakum in this story. Some people are really cra- *sounds of bones fracturing*

Maldrich: How dare you insult Lord Zakum!

I <3 you all. Indescane, Rew, Ezyan, iluvchocs, windiachick, evildragon, repty, and all the other mad people who have been with me on this ride. Even you, nameless readers. Cookies! Uh. White and milk choco chunks!

[Edit] ‘Taunt’ to ‘taut’. Thanks Ezyan for the spellcheck 😉