Chains of a Dark Goddess (3 page)

“Yes, Colonel.”

“It is our blessed Seshalla who has seen us victorious against the infidels. Not me. I am but an instrument. A slave to her will, as voiced by the Matriarch. If General Togisi no longer feels that it is in our best interests for me to make our battle plans, so be it. The Matriarch appointed Sir Togisi to lead us. So we can only follow and trust that his way is Her way.”

~~~

Breskaro found Colonel Fortrenzi sitting on his mount, away from his men, gazing out at the sea. Breskaro rode up beside him.

“Captain Amrasi said you seemed out of sorts.”

“Did he?” Fortrenzi replied distantly.

“Thought I would check on you.”

Fortrenzi attempted a smile. “That wasn’t necessary. I was just gathering my wits before the fight.”

“Are you well, old friend? If something’s wrong...”

He sighed. “I’m weary of fighting, Breskaro.”

“You’re almost done. After Midwinter in Spente you’ll be able to retire.”

“Every engagement risks a death I no longer wish to face on the battlefield.” He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through a thinning mane of smoke. “I should have retired already, but life at home is uncertain. Serving Seshalla has brought little wealth or comfort to my estate.”

“It’s not your fault your father left you massive debts.”

“Two decades worth, the rotten old bastard. By the time most officers would have made their fortune, I was making my first profits.” The cast of his face hardened and he replaced his helmet. “I should have been done with this after the last crusade. I wish to pass my final years in peace and luxury, not out here.”

Breskaro worried for his mentor. Fortrenzi had taught him the skills of war. He was once powerful, decisive, fearless, and a force to be reckoned with. Now, he went through the motions but his heart was far from war.

“Soon, old friend. Soon. Don’t worry. I will see you through today.” 

Fortrenzi studied his hands. “I have no doubt that you will. None at all.”

As Breskaro rode away Fortrenzi called out: “You were ever my best pupil, Breskaro! You’ve done me proud! Fight brave this day!”

Smiling, Breskaro saluted and returned to his command.

~~~

The Issalian archers released their first volley and immediately readied their second. Breskaro unleashed a battle cry and led his Valiants full-tilt downhill toward the enemy lines. Enemy arrows zipped by his head and thunked against his raised shield. A few Valiants fell. Those who remained rode ever harder. The last rain of Issalian arrows fell onto the Brekkans’ front line. But the Brekkan archers and slingers continued to pelt the charging Valiants.

Almost upon the enemy, Breskaro lowered his lance and braced for impact. From behind the Valiants, Fortrenzi shouted something and a horn blared. Breskaro risked a glance back and cursed. Fortrenzi’s Breakers, much farther away than they should have been, were breaking off their charge and circling back.

Unable to turn the thunderous charge at this point, Breskaro and his Valiants crashed into the enemy lines. His lance skewered a blue-painted barbarian through the ribs, lifting him into the air. Breskaro released the trapped lance and drew his sword. He deflected the swipe of a hafted-axe with his shield, rode beyond that attacker, then slashed the face of the next. The Brekkans directly before them scattered, but the disciplined Valiants remained in close formation. Breskaro chopped and cut relentlessly, propelled by momentum into the enemy’s lines. Only the might of his charger and the stoutness of his shield protected him from the many blows aimed at him.

When at last he ground to a halt, he found himself and his men swallowed by stout enemies who were more disciplined and better equipped than the scouts had reported. Many of these pale-skinned, war-painted barbarians wore hardened leather armor. Most of them carried good steel weapons, and they well knew how to use them.

His comrades waited on the crest of the hill. Doing nothing.

Captain Amrasi fought his way to Breskaro’s side.

“Colonel! What the devil’s going on!? Why aren’t they helping us? Did we miss an order?”

“I’ve no idea.” 

Breskaro lifted his sword high. 

“Valiants! Form around me! Attempt a retreat!”

Valiants flowed to his side and created a circle. In mass, they fought toward the front lines. The Issalian infantry began to march downhill, spears and glaives at the ready. The Imperial Lancers and the Breakers remained in place. 

Breskaro eyed them and muttered, “Goddess save us.”

Breskaro’s first-lieutenant was drug from his mount and slashed to death. Captain Amrasi narrowly dodged one spear-thrust, only to receive a shallow cut across his face from a second.

“Valiants! Steel your nerves. You are knights of Issaly and Seshalla. Make way toward the front lines! Slay the infidel! Fight with honor! Fight to the death!”

The remaining Valiants, half their number, fought as ordered. Every knight lost cost the Brekkans five or more men. But the Brekkans numbered thousands and the Issalian infantry was nowhere close enough yet to help.  The gathered Valiants dwindled to a dozen men, yet still they edged toward the front lines. 

An enemy spear drove up through Amrasi’s groin, toppling him from his horse. As he spurted blood on heathen soil, attempting to speak his wife’s name, Breskaro stabbed Amrasi’s killer through the throat. 

Breskaro met Amrasi’s fading eyes and nodded proudly.

Men Breskaro had known and served with for years lay dying all around him, moaning, screaming, begging the Goddess for help.

A spear struck Breskaro in the back. He lurched forward and nearly lost his seat. A second jab knocked him from his mount. Before he could stand, a burly warrior drove an axe deep into the horse’s neck. Breskaro used the horse’s collapse to break away. But in a heartbeat he was surrounded again.

He was the last Valiant alive, his strength waning fast. 

A sweet, melodic voice came to him, penetrating the din of battle, along with the scents of lavender and olives which overpowered the stench of the dying and the dead. 

“Orisala,” he breathed.

Breskaro went mad and fought with the prowess of a dozen knights, so fiercely the enemy peeled back in fear. 

“Orisala.”

He battled his way to the front lines where a lone Valiant warhorse yet stood its ground, unsure of leaving its fallen rider, who had been struck down by an arrow during the charge. If Breskaro could break free and run a dozen paces, he could mount the charger and ride away. He staggered toward it, but a blue-painted warrior leapt in front of him. 

A dozen more berserkers poured through the ranks of Brekkan infantry and surrounded him, shouting the names of their deities.

“Orisala, forgive me.”

Breskaro fought on, but the charger and the vision of Orisala grew more distant with each swing. The score of blood-oozing cuts and numbing bruises began to take their toll. Never before had his sword weighed so much. The infantry was still too far away; the cavalry yet remained in place. 

Breskaro stumbled over a corpse and fell. An enemy sprang toward him, his spear aimed at Breskaro’s heart.

Chapter 4

Present Day

The test of the Keeper of Death began. The illusion was fully realized. Instantly Breskaro had all the same injuries before and suffered the same fatigue. But he knew what was coming, and he knew what was at stake. 

He twisted, nearly wrenching his back, and raised his shield. The spearpoint glanced off. Breskaro rolled away from a chopping axe, staggered up to his feet, and ducked under a sword swipe. 

His eyes blazed with a fury that gave even these berserkers pause. “Orisala!”

He shield-bashed one warrior, knocking him back, parried a thrust from a second warrior, and slashed at a third with the Sword of Shadowed Light. The Brekkan raised his own sword to block, but Nalsyrra’s sword sliced through the steel blade as if it were cloth and severed the warrior’s head from his neck.

Using this advantage, Breskaro began to fight with wild, desperate attacks. He spilled intestines, slashed throats, and severed limbs. A dozen bodies piled up around him, but enemy berserkers continued to rush in. While Nalsyrra’s sword weighed little more than a feather, his sword-arm was already exhausted. He was staggering. An axe shattered his shield, tore through his armor, and cut across his ribcage. A flail flashed across his face, scratching his cheek and denting the nose-guard of his helm.

Doubt struck harder than any weapon’s blow.

Under withering attacks from the howling, pale-skinned berserkers, he faltered. A warrior thunked him in the stomach with the butt of his axe. As Breskaro doubled over, another lunged forward and thrust his spear into Breskaro’s chest. Exactly like before. 

Breskaro slumped, dying rapidly.

“No,” he muttered, blood pouring from his mouth. “I cannot ... fail ... cannot die.”

But how could he die again? He was already dead.

His eyes flared. His muscles tensed. He refused to go back into the Shadowland when Orisala needed him.

“Harmulkot … aid me!”

The Brekkan berserker sneered. The spearhead twisted, pulled out, then plunged deeper in. 

Shadowy whispers slid through the illusion. Breskaro convulsed. His heart ceased.

Then it began to beat again despite its wound. Malevolence blossomed within him and dark energy like a swarm of black and purple bees flowed from his ruined heart, down the spear, and onto the berserker. The man fell and thrashed. The cloud engulfed him and in moments he was reduced to a pile of smoldering bones.

With the spear still in his chest, dragging him forward, Breskaro stood. He jerked the spear free with his left hand. The remaining berserkers fell back, their drug trances fading. Brekkan regulars fled in terror. Breskaro slashed through a half-dozen unwise enough to remain near him. He reached the warhorse, climbed into the saddle, and rode toward his fellow crusaders.

Reaching full gallop, he passed through infantry and archers. All gave him wide berth, seeing the dark power in him. Sword out, ready to strike, he rode hard toward his old friends who still sat on their mounts, unmoving. He cursed their names. Pain wracked his body, but he had strength enough for this. 

Breskaro was a mere heartbeat away from General Togisi and Colonel Fortrenzi when darkness engulfed him. Save for a stabbing pain deep within his chest, Breskaro lost all sensation.

Chapter 5

Malevolence beat within Breskaro’s decayed chest. Not a living heart but a qavra stone pumping the cold fires of sorcery and hate through withered veins. He breathed: a sharp intake like the ripping of silk. Flaking eyelids peeled apart, unveiling lifeless eyes as dry as the dust gathered within the Varenni Mausoleum. 

He tried to move but his muscles only half obeyed. Sitting up became a flailing spasm that ended when callused yet feminine hands pressed him down.

“Be still,” Nalsyrra snapped. “My work isn’t finished.”

Nalsyrra chanted and drew sigils in the air over him. Sorcerous flame-trails followed her hands. His eyes glistened. Warmth entered his limbs. Muscles and tendons tightened. Saliva bitterly returned. Tingling sensations ran across his skin as with a sleeping limb awakening. 

Nalsyrra finished her ritual. “You can move now.”

Breskaro rolled over and vomited embalming fluid. The stinging scent of decay struck him and he retched again. 

He was alive, in a fashion, but the nightmare of the Shadowland wasn’t over. He could feel its emptiness in the distance, tugging at him.

He ran his hand over his chest and found the gaping hole. Within it, where once his heart had beat, was a gemstone half the size of his fist.

“Your new heart is a qavra,” said Nalsyrra. “Your spirit is bound to it. That is what allows you to animate this body.” She sighed and leaned against the marble slab. “It was a close thing. Your spirit partially returned to your body but then began to pull away ... You are lucky I trust my intuition. I put your new heart into place early. And only just in time.”

Through cracking lips he spoke. His voice was like the scraping of rocks. 

“In the test … I called on Harmulkot. Her power saved me. I guess that was when you put the heart in.” 

Breskaro sat up with a cascade of creaking bones, grinding tendons, and spasming muscles. Something snapped in his back.

“Going back into place,” Nalsyrra said. “You were in bad shape by the time they buried you. You are fortunate your people practice such meticulous embalming techniques.”

He coughed and bits of lung and embalming fluid sprayed out. He wiped his mouth and said, “I had always thought it a waste.”

“The restoration process will be complete in a few days. At that point, you will have speed and reflexes far surpassing that of an athlete in his prime and the strength and stamina of several warriors. It will not improve your looks.” From her pack she pulled a bronze mirror. “Best to get this over with.”

Breskaro took the mirror without hesitation and held it up. The sight of his cadaverous face made him gag. Death had robbed his color. His black hair was now but a thin white braid that hung down his back. His once olive skin was pale ash. But there was color forming in his eyes. Deep within those blackened orbs, a foul, viridian essence coiled like writhing snakes.