Читать книгу The Vlishgnath Chronicles - Daniel Mitchell - Страница 7

Episode 1

The very faint, weak-sounding knock one might expect from a small child echoed throughout the entry hall. Cleric Heros, a kindly old man with wrinkled features, gradually made his way down the long hallway that led to the massive front doors of the church. Old age having long since set in, the spring in the elderly cleric’s step had diminished considerably the past few years. The rapping noise sounded against the doors again as he began to draw near. Putting on his warmest smile and showing no signs of discomfort as he wrapped his arthritic hand around the iron ring, Heros pulled open the door, his voice sounding increasingly disturbed as he spoke.

“Greetings, and Mithos’ blessings be upon you. I am Cleric Heros, and…erm, church services have concluded…for the…good heavens, young man, what has happened?!”

The man standing before him looked barely capable of supporting his own weight, his clothing hanging loosely from his gaunt, emaciated frame, and looking to be the garb of the peasant class. Sunken eyes set in bruised sockets stared blankly at Heros, then quite suddenly rolled back in his head as the man lurched forward and went unconscious, his body going limp and falling into Heros’ arms. Heros groaned, his joints creaking as he braced himself to support what little the man still weighed, then reached up to tug on the emergency pull cord nearby.

Sir Vlishgnath, the Cleansing Light, sat alone along one of the presently near-vacant long tables that lined the church’s mess hall, a few other sparsely scattered members of the clergy taking a late meal as well. Church meals were notoriously lacking in flavor; a traditional thick, brown, and bland stew with unseasoned beef and chunks of potato served with some raw vegetables, a hunk of day-old bread, and a mug of water comprised the evening’s meal. Vlishgnath was halfway through his vegetables and was thoughtfully dipping a piece of bread into the flavorless brown stock when the emergency bell tolled. He frowned at his tray for a moment, at first due to his meal being interrupted, but then due to the begrudging admittance that it wasn’t much of a meal to begin with, before pulling on his gauntlets and rising from the table.

Clad in his family suit of armor, the exquisite set of full plate mail was masterfully crafted from adamantine. The cuirass itself was fitted with an outer layer of black leather, a pattern cut out of it to allow metal to rise up through it in his family crest. Intricate holy runes and symbols were painstakingly worked into the rest of the suit, the helm bearing neither crest nor plume but instead a pair of angelic wings on either side. Clasped to his pauldrons was an ankle-length pristine white cape, identifying him as the divine emissary of Mithos. Taking his kite shield up in his left hand, he tucked his helmet under his left arm and strode purposefully out of the mess hall.

By the time Vlishgnath arrived on the scene, a small crowd had already formed. Numerous paladins and clerics were blocking the main hall, all of them gathered around Heros and the wilted stranger. Those at the back of the group and subsequently nearest Vlishgnath immediately recognized him as he approached. The assembled clergy quickly parted to allow Mithos’ chosen champion through.

Assessing the situation through vibrant cerulean eyes, Vlishgnath’s normally soft features hardened into a cold, discerning visage. Kneeling down next to Heros, he spoke to the sickly man lying in the cleric’s arms with a gentle and comforting tone.

“You’re safe now, friend. Tell me what has happened.”

The man drew in a pained, rasping breath before coughing profusely. For a long moment he said nothing, continuing to stare off into space as if he had no awareness of the crowd gathered around him. Then, with unnatural slowness, the man turned his head to face Vlishgnath, his eyes flittering as if on the verge of passing out. Reaching out with bony fingers encrusted in soil, the man’s arm shook as it struggled to support itself, grasped Vlishgnath’s cape where it clasped to his pauldron, and made a feeble attempt to pull him closer.

Vlishgnath obliged by leaning in so the stranger wouldn’t strain himself being heard. The man’s speech was forced and by the way he sounded was causing him a great deal of pain.

“Drenton…everyone…dying…watching from the shadows… red… eyes…”

That said, the man cut off, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his constitution gave way as he sank into unconsciousness.

Vlishgnath stood in the study of High Priest Vogoth, who was seated at his desk with a small assortment of high-ranking clergy gathered within as well. Amongst those gathered were Cleric Heros, who was already giving his first-hand account, Sir Grisbane, the Herald of Justice, Arch Cleric Angelis, Arch Cleric Rasthmus, Arch Cleric Brogam, and a young acolyte who had yet to receive his clerical robes. Brogam had appointed the young recruit to fill him in on the proceedings from time to time, as the elderly arch cleric was prone to dozing off sporadically.

As Heros finished up recounting what had transpired, Vogoth nodded solemnly, pausing for several moments to reflect before addressing the assembled clergymen. He had a soft, ponderous voice spoken with the deliberation of the inconceivably wise.

“Where is the man now?”

It was Angelis who answered, a very young man with feathered blonde hair, sky blue eyes, and a soft unimposing voice. “He is in the infirmary wing.”

“What is his condition?”

“He’s been fed and is presently trying to sleep. Nightmares are causing him to awaken frequently, sometimes screaming and thrashing so badly he has to be restrained.”

“How is his mentality?”

“His mind may very well be destroyed, your holiness. We’ve yet to get any pertinent information out of him other than he hails from Drenton.”

Grisbane cleared his throat and then spoke. His was the voice of a gnarled veteran combatant, having seen much and no longer easily impressed. “Is Drenton even on any of our maps? I’ve never heard of it that I can recall.”

Vlishgnath, his gaze never moving from the floor, responded. “It’s a small farming town about a day’s ride from Ascention. In his condition it likely took him five or six to walk here. So whatever is plaguing Drenton, it will have had at least a week that we know of to grow in strength and influence.”

Just as he finished speaking, the novice hurriedly whispered the recent proceedings into Brogam’s ear, the aged arch cleric yawning and rubbing his eyes before speaking in the bleary voice of one just waking up.

“It seems to me that this would fall under the jurisdiction of the church. Our recently erected chapel there has been met with a paltry following at best. Assistance from the church would help them along the path to the true faith, as charity often does.”

“We do not offer assistance based on the number of converts we can draw in, Brogam,” Angelis rebuked. “We do it because it is the right thing to do. Because we must.”

Brogam continued after pausing to yawn once more. “Of course, Angelis. However, surely you cannot deny the people of Drenton will be more receptive to our sermons if they see us leading by example?”

Angelis nodded his consent.

“I think we can all agree,” said Vogoth, “that at the very least a unit should be dispatched to Drenton at first light to investigate this plague our new guest has mentioned.”

Grisbane nodded firmly. “I’ll take three of my best men and ride for Drenton at dawn.”

“Then it is decided. You there, boy…awaken Arch Cleric Brogam and inform him of what has been decided so that he may retire from my study. I grow weary of his snoring.”

The report came five days later, during which the stranger from Drenton remained bedridden and increasingly showed signs of having gone quite insane, yielding no other useful information. The report was delivered by one of Grisbane’s chosen men, Sir Thunderclese, the Divine Might of Mithos. A broad-shouldered, blonde-haired, and blue-eyed paladin, Thunderclese possessed the rugged sort of handsomeness that allowed him to be very flexible with the church’s laws of celibacy. Yet still, one could neither deny his devotion nor his service record, so his indiscretions were usually overlooked.

Vlishgnath received his summons to the high priest’s study, arriving to find Thunderclese already standing at attention before Vogoth’s desk. With military formality, Thunderclese remained facing Vogoth when the door opened and closed, Vlishgnath falling in line next to him. For Vlishgnath, the act was out of respect rather than duty; as the divine emissary, he answered to no one but Mithos himself.

“Yes, your holiness?”

Vogoth looked up from the parchment laid before him, his expression grave, and spoke in a troubled tone. “I’ve just received the report from the unit sent to Drenton. Things are more serious than we thought.”

He handed the report to Vlishgnath, who laid his helmet down on Vogoth’s desk to take it in both hands. The report was penned in Grisbane’s handwriting and looked as if it had been written in a hurry.

--Field report as testified by Sir Grisbane, the Herald of Justice--

Unit arrived in the village of Drenton to find severe famine and drought. Approximately one-third of the town’s population has succumbed to starvation. Cause of devastation appears to be paranormal. Requesting following reinforcements:

Relief aid for remaining survivors

One (1) specialized division cleric (specified below)

>Interplanar hostility suppression unit

Due to the nature of the situation, immediate deployment will be necessary.

Scrawled at the bottom was Grisbane’s formal signature along with a makeshift seal made with his signet ring.

Vlishgnath read the report over then addressed Thunderclese. “What makes Grisbane so certain that there is paranormal activity occurring in Drenton?”

Vogoth nodded to Thunderclese, indicating his consent for Thunderclese to turn away from him.

Thunderclese nodded in response, turning to address Vlishgnath. “Once our unit arrived in Drenton, the severity of the situation was immediately made quite clear. According to one of the villagers who still had the presence of mind to answer our questions, famine and drought beset the town roughly two weeks after the majority of the population began having the same recurring nightmare: a glowing pair of eyes calling to them from the shadows, beckoning them into the darkness. I myself have witnessed firsthand that something appears to be moving from shadow to shadow, waiting until it knows it is in the corner of your vision where it cannot be seen.”

Vlishgnath took a deep breath, turning and meeting Vogoth’s gaze.

After a moment’s silence, Vogoth sighed, and then spoke. “The church requests that Mithos’ chosen champion escort the reinforcements to Drenton and offer assistance if necessary. Will you answer the church’s call?”

Vlishgnath grinned at Vogoth’s patronizing use of the church’s call for aid, to which Vogoth replied with a tired smile of his own.

“Indeed I shall,” said Vlishgnath. “But I’m taking Sir Maximus with me.”