Winner of the 1st place in the 2014 Literature Competition
Ay me, how many perils doe enfold
The righteous man, to make him daily fall!
- Edmund Spenser, "The Faerie Queene"
The sickly green orb of Morrslieb eclipsed the cold grey ball of Mannslieb as the two moons rose in the summer night sky. Pale vermillion light illuminated the plains of Laverne, casting strange shadows as it fell on the mounds of corpses that littered the field. It flickered and reflected off the armored hauberks of dead knights and gently caressed the rusted ancient armor of their foes. The sickly scent of death held sway over the remains of the battlefield, the foul stench of rotting corpses both old and new.
Yet,
despite the tempting feast of dead flesh laid out before them, the carrion
beasts of land and air did not descend upon the plain. Whining wolves slunk
through the woodlands bordering the battlefield, their hungry eyes reflecting
the emerald light of Morrslieb, yet they did not advance past the edge of the
forest. In the sky, circling crows and ravens cried their hunger to the winds
before slowly flapping away in search of more wholesome pickings. The animals
knew better than to disturb this particular abattoir.
In
their place, far fouler scavengers slunk through the dead of Laverne, gorging
themselves on shattered wreckage of men and horses. Cackling madly, the ghouls
worked their way slowly through the piles of bodies that had once been the
heroic host of Count Carrone. Large bats and darker, more unearthly things
flitted through the air, their chittering replacing the cawing of birds. At the
center of the battlefield however, there was no movement. A large pavilion of
black silk sat there like a fat spider in the center of a web. Surrounding it
were the ordered ranks of the undead. All their unseeing eyes were turned
towards the pavilion, facing the beast that had dragged them from their graves
to fight for its cause. The wind sent tatters of rotted flesh and scraps of
cloth swaying as it whistled through the orderly ranks of the macabre army, yet
not a single soldier shifted in the slightest. Then, with sudden precision that
would have put a Reikland drill sergeant to shame, the dead host parted. Their
ancient armor creaking, the rows peeled back to create a perfect lane to the
front of the tent. Two undead warriors, dressed in the resplendent armor of
ancient kings and glowing with ethereal power, half-dragged half-carried a
tattered survivor of Carrone's army towards the pavilion.
Sir
Olivier Serrent, Grail Knight, Slayer of Gazulghust, Guardian of the Chapel of
Avigne, struggled against the bony claws that held him. His efforts were
futile. Weakened from his wounds and still half-dazed from the clamor of
battle, Sir Serrent's current strength was nothing compared to the unyielding
grasp of the two wights. The brutal wound across his ribs bled profusely as the
Grail magic imbued in his body desperately struggled to seal the cut. It was a
wight's sword that had done it. Those vicious black blades had a dark magic all
their own that was raging through his system. A normal man would have been dead
by now, not just weakened to the point of helplessness. Yet death on the
battlefield would have been better than this. He was not sure what fate awaited
him at the black pavilion but he knew it would not be clean or glorious. A wave
of nausea swept across the wounded knight and his head drooped. Serrent's mind
whirled with the violent memories of the battle that had just occurred.
Glittering in their martial finery, confident in the power of the Lady, the
army of Count Carrone had sallied forth from the city of Guscelin to drive back
the undead invaders that had stormed down from the mountains. Sir Serrent had
joined five of his brother Grail Knights to support the Count's offensive.
Indeed, he had been one of the most vocal supporters of the attack, shouting
down the advice of those who sought to hide behind the walls of Guscelin and
wait out a siege. More fool him, it seemed.
In
glory the army had ridden out and in glory they had died. He had seen that
glory himself! Such mighty deeds there were! Sir Etienne du Lac slaying a great
undead wyrm despite a mortal wound. The knights of Baron Gasgcone sacrificing
themselves in a charge to hold the flank against hordes of ghastly skeletal
horsemen. Count Carrone bravely engaging the dark master of the enemy host in
single combat. The fact that he had been cut down like a child was nothing
compared to the bravery of the act. Sir Serrent himself had spitted a foul
vampire clad in blood red armor upon his lance, but only after the fiend had
butchered the ancient Grail Knight Montfleur. Even as the vampire lord cut down
Count Carrone and led its wights in a brutal charge that broke the center of
the army, individual knights had heaped themselves in glory as they stood and
fought to allow their fellows time to withdraw. Sir Serrent had been one of
those, boldly launching a countercharge against the wights. He had fought like
Gilles le Breton himself until a dark axe had ripped through the neck of
Roncelles, blinding him with his own steed's blood. Desperately trying to jump
clear of the falling horse, he had not seen the blade that bit deep into his
side as he fell. Blinded and wounded, he had flailed at the dead around him
only to realize his arm was tra- The sudden shooting pain of his broken arm
hitting the ground snapped Sir Serrent out of his delirious reverie.
Both
the wights had released their grip, sending their captive tumbling to the
ground. The knight tried to rise, grimacing as the bones in his arm ground
together. Roncelles, his loyal steed of four years, had in the end caused his
master more harm than good when he collapsed on Sir Serrent's arm. Whispering a
prayer to the Lady and calling on the reserves of strength and fortitude only a
Grail Knight could muster, he pushed himself up onto his knees and then rose
unsteadily to his feet. He reeled slightly, the pain of his wounds threatening
to overwhelm him again, yet he managed to stand straight. Lounging on a throne
made of yellowed bones, the beast before him clapped mockingly.
"Oh
bravo, brave sir knight, bravo." The voice was soft and sardonic in its
tone. The faint accent of Bretonnian nobility, perhaps from Lyonesse, still
lingered in the speech as well. "If you would indulge a jest, I think you
might in fact be the last man standing on the field." The creature
tittered at its own joke. There was a chattering noise as the teeth of the
undead warriors surrounding the pavilion clacked together in an unholy echo of
their commander’s mirth. Sir Serrent spat blood at the seated figure, staring
defiantly into its eyes. They glinted and glimmered in Morrslieb's cruel light
like the eyes of a wild wolf. The vampire's skin was as pale as alabaster,
which only accentuated its statuesque features. The creature's armor, a
monstrous suit of black plate that resembled the chitinous hide of a beetle,
made not a sound as it leaned back in its chair. Idly, its skeletally thin hand
swiped away the bloody spittle that had landed on its breastplate. Despite the
seeming frailty of the hand, Sir Serrent had seen the vampire's strength in
action. With a single, one-handed stroke, it had very nearly cleaved Count
Carrone in half from shoulder to hip. "Now now, sir knight, that was not
very noble."
"There
is no nobility when dealing with beasts," Sir Serrent replied, the power
of the Lady coursing harder through his veins in front of this enemy. He stood
up a little straighter. "Foul creatures such as yourself do not command
any honor."
"What
a thing to say about women!" Once again the vampiress tittered at its own
humor. It smiled coyly at Sir Serrent, revealing incisors that would have put a
wolf to shame and flicked its long white hair back, letting its alabaster
features fall into a feminine pout. "Once I was the Contessa de Viruac and
many a knight treated me honorably as they courted me. Of course, knights fall
at my feet for a different reason now. Yet surely, as a lady of fair Bretonnia,
I still deserve some respect?" It laughed cruelly, its hand idly stroking
the hilt of the black blade that rested against its throne.
Sir
Serrent's eyes narrowed as the vampire named itself. The story of the Vampiress
of Viruac was well known. Unlike many female vampires of legend, this one had a
taste for the martial far more than manipulation. After the gruesome defeat of
Count Carrone, Sir Serrent knew the legends of its prowess were not lies.
"You are no woman, fiend," the
knight snarled, "I name thee beast, a creature of the old night. The only
courtesy you deserve will be the cold bite of a blade! Lady give me the
strength that I might deliver that blow myself!" Sir Serrent took an angry
step forward but staggered, stumbling to his knees.
The
vampire rolled its eyes dismissively.
"Such ungrateful effrontery will get you nowhere,
sir knight. Here I sit, willing to offer you so much, yet you treat me with
such disdain. It really is unacceptable." With all the speed of striking
snake, the vampire shot forward from its chair and gripped the Grail Knight's
neck in its hand before he even had time to react. It slowly dragged him up
from the ground, its claws digging into his flesh. Its sibilant voice whispered
softly in Sir Serrent's ear. "I could kill you now, Bretonnian. I could
sup on your holy blood and it would taste like the richest of wine on my lips.
I could crush your windpipe and leave you as food for my ghouls. You would feel
every single bite." Gone was the cheerful bonhomie of the last few
minutes. It was replaced entirely by the cruel voice of a hungry predator. Sir
Serrent tried to choke out a reply but was unable to. The creature's hand
clamped around his neck like a vice and tightened its grip. The vampire dipped
its other hand down to the wound in the knight's side, digging a single clawed
digit into the gash. Sir Serrent grunted in agony, unable to voice a scream of
pain with the hand constricting his throat. Slowly the vampire brought its claw
up and licked away the blood.
"Delicious,"
it sighed with delight. "I often find that the blood of Grail Knights is
exquisite in its taste. The purest wine is the sweetest, no?" The vampire
tittered again. "And yet," it said almost petulantly, "I will
resist." It released its grip on Sir Serrent, who tumbled to his knees,
gasping and spluttering for air. The vampiress swung round and stepped lightly
back to its throne, once more assuming a lounging position as it observed the
coughing Grail Knight rise unsteadily back to his feet. "Defiant once
more. How impressive. The battle is over, sir knight. Decisions must be made.
Paths must be chosen." The vampiress brought its hands together, staring
out at the knight over steepled claws. "In battle, you slew Geoffrey
Malmont, my most trusted retainer. You spitted him like a pig on a spike. I was
impressed. As such, I am glad you survived to be brought before me. Someone
will need to take Malmont's place at my side. I offer that position to you, his
killer. What say you?" The vampire smiled expectantly, its good cheer
seemingly returned.
Sir
Serrent spat again. "You dare, fiend? You dare to besmirch my honor. That
I would choose to side with you willingly! I would rather die." For a
second, the vampire look disappointed. Sir Serrent was stunned. Had the beast
truly believed he would take such a vile offer? He was a Grail Knight of
Bretonnia, chosen of the Lady. He would never submit to such evil.
"Death
is preferable, is it? I offer you eternal life, eternal youth, eternal
strength, and yet you ask for death?" The vampire's cultured voice was
sour. "I would leave you to the ministrations of my necromancers. They
would drain your blood in drops to study its magic. You would be kept alive for
years, a withered husk ever on the edge of death as they performed experiment
after experiment to test the holiness your 'Lady' bestowed on you!" Sir
Serrent continued to stare defiantly at the vampiress.
"If
such a fate is to be mine, so be it. As long as my Lady is with me, I fear no
death!" The vampiress hissed and started forward from her throne.
"As
long as your Lady is with you? Is she here with you now, sir knight? Look
around you," the beast said as it gestured one of its clawed hands at the
serried ranks of the dead. Beyond them, ghouls howled as they consumed the
corpses of Sir Serrent's companions. "Where is your Lady? Your army is
shattered. Your count is dead. Even now, you listen to the sounds of my ghouls
feeding on the bones of your brothers! Those they do not consume will join my
host and we shall reap our way through the mortals of this land!"
In
the face of the vampiress' tirade, Sir Serrent began mumbling a prayer.
"Lady give me strength in this-"
"She
cannot hear you!" The creature's voice cut through the prayer like a
knife. "She has no strength on this field, if she ever had any to begin
with. You will die here, sir knight. A wight blade has wounded you. Even now,
tiny slivers of evil work their way towards your heart. Whether I turn you over
to my necromancers is of no matter. You're only chance for life is to accept my
gift! Live eternally and become so much more than a lapdog to a weak and
powerless goddess." The vampiress gestured towards the entrance of the
silk pavilion. A misshapen hooded figure shuffled forward from the darkness of
the tent. In its hands was a beautifully wrought golden goblet brimming with
crimson liquid. "Here is your grail, sir knight, filled with my own blood.
I am your lady, offering it to you in return for your loyal service. One sup
from this and you will be stronger and faster than ever before. None will stand
before your might and live. Death will have no hold on you."
Sir
Serrent stared disdainfully at the chalice. It was a mockery of his greatest
moment, supping from the Grail one misty morning on the shores of Lake Redan.
The thought of that cold morning, the visitation of his goddess, and the
blessed taste of the waters of the true Grail strengthened Sir Serrent's soul.
"You mock me beast. I told you, I do not fear death. My only duty is to the Lady and
her people. If that duty ends here, so be it."
"Oh
yes,"
the creature frowned, tapping its fingers on the arm of its throne.
"Oh very noble. I believe it was the philosopher knight Crusson who once
said, the good shepherd lays down his life for the flock. How righteous."
The tapping stopped for a second and the vampiress' frown slowly turned
into a vicious grin.
"Fine then, I shall give you the chance to fulfill your duty." With a
snap of the creature's fingers, one of the undead soldiers stepped
forward from
the still silent ranks and thrust its ancient blade into the ground at
Sir
Serrent's feet. It was a magnificent weapon, long and single edged, with
an
emerald set in its pommel that reflected the green glow of Morrslieb in
the
most beautiful of hues. Despite the patina of age, the sword's edge
seemed as
sharp as if it was newly forged. The Grail Knight clenched and
unclenched his
fist as he looked at the weapon.
"There
is a blade, sir knight," the vampiress said disdainfully, "You may take it up
if you wish. Attempt to strike me down. You will not succeed but you may
try." Sir Serrent did not move to grab the sword. He knew beast's words
were true. Even at his peak strength, with the fire of the Lady flowing
strongly through his veins, he doubted that he could have defeated this
opponent in single combat. Yet that would not stop him from doing his duty. As
the only knight left among these monstrosities, he had no choice.
"Lady
give me strength," he whispered as he reached out towards the ancient
sword.
"But
wait, sir knight," the vampiress' words halted Sir Serrent's hand just as
it was about to close on the wire grip of the blade. "There is one more
thing." The creature's voice sounded like that of a cat looking down at a
cornered mouse. "After we are done here, my undead host will march on
Guscelin. With its defenders either feeding my army or filling its ranks, my
horde will lay waste to that city and its people. We will defame the temples of
your Lady and tear down the castle of the late count. I will personally feast
on the blood of every child I find." The vampiress licked her lips with a
narrow, blackened tongue. "It will be a most delicious slaughter."
Sir Serrent hand closed around the hilt of the sword before him. He would make
this creature pay for taunting him with its descriptions of its foul designs.
By the Lady, it would pay.
"And
yet," the vampiress continued even as Sir Serrent started to draw the
sword out of the ground, "if you drink from my grail and join me in
glorious undeath, I will halt my army here and return home to my keep. Guscelin
will be spared." For the first time since he had been dragged before this
monster, Sir Serrent's confidence faltered. The sword that he had hefted from
the ground dipped back down to the earth as he stared incredulously at the
vampiress. "Your words are lies, I cannot trust them!"
"Oh
no, sir knight," the beast purred, "I do not lie. I swear on the
blood of the Great Necromancer that flows through my veins that I will keep my
promise to you. Despite what you may believe, my kind are not without honor. I
was of the nobility once. Join me and Guscelin will live. The blood and service
of a Grail Knight is worth more to me than a dozen petty townships. Now, what is a good shepherd to do?"
Despite
the foulness of the vampiress, Sir Serrent could hear the sincerity in its
voice. Faced with a terrible choice, the Grail Knight's grip on the ancient
blade in his hand slackened. He looked away from the vampiress and up into the
night sky, as if seeking some sort of sign of what he should do. There was no
mercy to be had in the heavens. All he could see was the faint reflection of a
mocking face in the vermillion orb of Morrslieb looking down on him. He brought
his gaze back to earth, locking eyes with those of his tormentor. Silently, he
mouthed a desperate prayer to the Lady asking for guidance.
The mad cackling
of distant ghouls was his only answer.
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