Ch.47

From her dried and cracked lips, came small gasps of air in slow repetition. Her heartbeat, beating like a drum in her chest, ran throughout her entire nervous system. A feeling of fear sank in. The end was nigh.

The crackling of the flame intermingled with the voices of the knights talking outside her tent. The faintest line of light, shining through. She could see them just barely, the knights discussing on the topic of her state. Then, they stood up, the dark figures beyond the cloth, aligning themselves next to each other. A shadow blanketed the tent, the light flickering on. The tent was pulled open, and there, before her, stood another. His armor was as pitch as the night, yet a writhing cloak befell his back, nor did he have weapons at his side. She recognized this knight, yet unable to see his face, she knew his identity.

"My lord..." She said ever so faintly with a pained smile.

Indeed, he had come for her, leaving with her in his arms, her body pressed against his armor, with his knights in tow. They took everything, leaving only a single, black and engraved coin behind.

With the destruction of the palace, a new throne room was established, one that was long in the making within the Temple of Fall, at the very peak of the mountain, overseeing the stars. This room was grand in size, an oval shape at which pillars aligned the entirety of the circumference, with a throne at the top of a stairway, overseeing the great hall at the end of the room. The pillars were large in size as well, engraved with royal designed. The throne room was carved out of stone, and could fit thousands of people. Yet, at this moment, as he sat upon his new throne, he oversaw only a few while still wearing his armor. Eleven of his commanders, his three wives, and his steward Chester stood before the throne in hearing of their lords wise.

"Vampiris sanguinaris. Also known as the blood curse." His voice echoed out, a hollow and deep voice. "It is an infection, one that transforms the infected into a vampyr, a vampire, as it was read. If the infected is too weak to endure the painful transformation, they die, but then are raised against as a ghoul, an undead. An unholy fate that strips the once sane of their mind and will, turning them into a mindless abomination. One of our own has contracted the disease, and she now lies, quarantined, and sedated. I have called you all here to tell you, that these, vampires, are a threat unlike the Highelves across the waters. The huntsmen of today are raiders and warriors, who pillage and conquer, but centuries ago, they were hunters who were skilled in their class. There were witch hunters, who utilized the magic of witches in order to kill them. Monster hunters, who would hunt and kill various monsters, such as trolls and orcs. Then, there were vampire hunters, some of the most skilled, who hunted the most dangerous of creatures, not because they were especially more powerful or skilled, but because what they hunted, was smarter. The vampire. Accursed beings of the night, as they were defined, intelligent and dangerous because of their immortal lifespans. They were immune to most diseases and poisons, drank the blood of the living, could regenerate even greater inflictions than the cave troll, and could wield magic like witches. The old huntsmen were skilled in their art and were proficient writers. They would document even the smallest details, and would spread their warnings as far as they could. When I was younger, I was fortunate enough to have obtained a record written by a Huntsmen who had learned and translated his teachings into Common. He wrote of many horrors, almost all I believed to be false, at the time. Now, as the symptoms of the sick match perfectly, I know the truth. My commanders. Step forward."

"Yes! My lord!" Each of the eleven knights marched forth a single step, speaking out loud in unison.

"I am creating a new division whose purpose will be to fight on par with these creatures. The true depths of the danger is unknown, but we must prepare. I trust you will gather capable men, willing to put their lives on the lines in defense of the kingdom, in slaying of the undead. As many as you can gather, specialized equipment will be arranged. Which of you is willing to take on the responsibility of commanding this division."

A moment of thought was shared between his commanders, as they looked to each other to see who among them should step up, as they were all willing. After the moment had passed, one of them took to claiming the mantle. "My lord, I, your loyal servant, Goron Bane, am more than willing."

"Then from hence forth, you will be known as Goron Bane, High Commander of the Fourth Order. Behind the order of knights, priestesses, and rogues, your order will consist of a new class: slayers. Your purpose, to specialize in the slaughter of higher level enemies. I expect nothing but success from you, High Commander."

"Thank you, my lord! I shall not fail you!" His voice boomed with certainty and vigor, a hint of ferocity in his gaze, mixed with excitement from the honor placed upon him.

"Chester. I require you to oversee the north in my stead."

"Of course, my lord. Anything to ease the burden on your shoulders."

"You men may leave." At which the men obliged, leaving only his wives before him. He wouldn't treat them the same as his men; not would he sit, raised before them in his throne as though they were the same as any other of his people. No, he would raise himself up from his throne, taking a step forward and emerging from the shfi'nyl at the foot of the stairway. "How are the little ones?" He asked.

"Healthy. Strong." Astra answered for them.

"Feriah?"

"She is learning well."

Just as Marasia answer, he lowered himself onto the steps behind. Seeing him sit down, paired with his slackened posture, Marasia would come to understand just how much of a toll his body was taking. He was quick to move close to him, to take hold of his arm in worry. "Darling! Are you all right?"

"I am fine." He told them as they coddled around them and he noticed the silk that Kalia was holding in her arms. "What is that you hold?"

"A sash we have sewn for you." Said Astra.

"It holds our love for you." Marasia grabbed hold of the edge of the silk, revealing a sash embroidered with the Fallenic symbol and their names at which they had sewn personally. "We hope that you would keep it with you, even during this time when we are unable to touch you."

They would press themselves, their bodies and palms against his cold armor as though they were pressing against the flesh that lay beneath. He would take the sash that they had sewn for him, and he would adorn his armor with it, wearing it over his shoulder so that it would fall before his heart.

His ailing body grew worse with every day that passed, with the pain that was like itching and ant bites being numbed by the constant use of drugs. Yet, he would not lay idle nor rest, instead pushing the limits of his body that had been in peak condition for years, to the point of exhaustion. He would drown himself in his private work, recluse in his laboratory; a hidden room inaccessible by any other through simple means.

Here, he stored his most valuable items and records. It was a vast, dimly lit room filled with an array of technological and magical devices far beyond the capabilities of medieval kingdoms like Highland. Hidden deep underground, the laboratory was sealed off by layers of magical and physical barriers, accessible only to Erik. The walls and ceiling were metal-plated, and the floor was a special stone resembling marble. Shelves held jars of preserved organs, tables were piled with plans and drawings, and metals, gems, and mixtures were scattered in countless containers.

Each step he took was deliberate, his every step, silent as the dead, his movements precise as he navigated his labyrinthine domain with unerring accuracy. He passed a shelf, his gloved hand gliding over its surface as he moved. He grabbed a potion and drank it through a small opening in his helmet, exposing only his mouth and avoiding even a breath of outside air. His mind was a storm of worry and restlessness, yet he refused to sleep. He pulled a lever, the sound of whirring machinery guiding him as lights flickered on, revealing a wall of shelves. His fingers, encased in metal, tapped along the edges of the shelves until he stopped at the fifth one, yanking it open to reveal a drawer full of spears.

Carrying the spears, he entered another room, feeling his way along the left wall. His knuckles bumped into a shelf holding a ring. He took the ring, slipped it on, and then aligned the spears on a rack with their points facing the iron wall.

From other drawers, he gathered crossbows, bolts, vials of liquids, pouches of dust, bundles of wire, flares, and barreled weapons of iron and wood, along with cases of silver shots. He had prepared an arsenal fit for a well-supplied army, with enough weapons, bottled supplies, and rations to burden ten healthy Telvanian steeds.

As he prepared each doorway, he slipped an enchanted ring onto his fingers, sometimes wearing two on one finger, his fingers which had grown thinner over the passing days.