His father made a gurgling sound as Arald pushed the skewer further into the old man's back. His hands clawed uselessly to his neck as the blood rose and began to pour from lips pulled back in a snarling rictus of death and, with a sudden, final twist, Arald wrenched the skewer free. He watched the gibbering wreck of his father, until the blood turned dark and grim, pumping ever more listlessly from the gaping wound, only then allowing himself to look beyond to the lifeless form of his sister, body sprawled upon the bed, legs splayed and neck jutting at an awkward, unnatural angle.
The anguish washed over him as he reached out to touch her cheek, her eyes glazed, staring at nothing. With care he removed the golden cross from about her neck, fingers brushing the violet bruises that now adorned her ruined throat. He choked back his grief and dragged his father's body from the house, leaving it for the wolves to find, before returning inside, gathering his meagre possessions and, with one last look at his sister's face, setting the house ablaze.
He stood watching until the fire quietened, only then noticing the pain in the palm of his hand where in a clenched fist he held his sister's cross, it's four golden points digging into his flesh, blood blossoming neatly from the wounds. He carefully placed the cross about his neck and tied a rag round his injured hand and then, without so much as another glance towards his home, or his father's corpse lying in the dirt, he set off into the woods.
Many stumbling miles later, he regretted setting out after nightfall, the darkness of the forest impeding his progress even more since the pale moon had passed behind a thick blanket of cloud. His foot caught on a treacherous root, and before he had time to react he was tumbling, head over toe, to land with a splash in a dank stream.
Rising from the water, he fearfully glanced about him, eyes centring on a thick expanse of shadow above the far bank that seemed, somehow, more defined, more complete that it's brothers. He reached for the small dagger at his belt, only to find it gone.
"Four times marked, under the glare of a waning moon." intoned the shadows, in a voice thickly laden with an ominous echo as Arald's palm began to ache.
"A crime of revenge, the Night Lord's sweetest boon." a figure was slowly forming in the gloom as, beneath the rag, the boy's hand began to bleed anew.
"Twice more, on far flung paths we shall meet" Arald could now make out the speaker, wearing a hood, and caught sight of an eye, wicked and glinting in the darkness beneath.
"And then, bathed in blood, the Night Lords you shall greet." and on the speaker's final words, there was a blinding flash so bright it caused Arald to submerge himself beneath the murky waters once more, until the pain had subsided. He arose to find the world as it was before, black, cold and dark, though the moon now peeked from behind it's shroud. Arald dragged himself from the stream and lay exhausted, the shadowy figure's words emblazoned upon his mind.
-----
The prow of the ship tore through the azure waters, as Arald and the men leaned upon the railings, killing time before they reached their destination. The monastery, it's mosaicked paths rich in all manner of plunder, sat tantalizingly close to the coastline, but it's pious denizens had always remained safe behind their walls. Yet the captain had a plan, although this he had yet to reveal. "We'll see what tomorrow brings" he would enigmatically reply.
Hours later, as the monastery came into view, the plan was revealed. They would make for shore and simply walk through the gates of the monastery, which sat high above on a craggy finger of rock jutting from the cliff face. Arald pointed out that this was absurd and the sentries would surely spot their approach, but his concerns were waved away. He felt a familiar sense of foreboding, but willed it away, deciding to trust in his captain's confidence.
Touching the cross about his neck for good luck, Arald descended into one of the boats making for shore, before starting the steep climb up the winding path to the monastery gates. They were forced to stop short when an arrow, fired by one of many fully alert sentries, buried itself in the ground before them. Arald cast a despairing glance towards the captain, who only smiled in response. He raised his horn and blew a note high into the air. For a moment, nothing, and then the gates flung open. The surprise of the sentries was matched by that of the men.
Arald stood mouth agape. "Their sentries are meant to be incorruptible!"
"The Holy Guard are indeed incorruptible, but serving wenches, I am saddened, and fortuitously gladdened, to say, are not." came back the captain's laughing reply. He turned then, and pulled his sabre free from it's scabbard, the blade glistening in the morning light, while on the unconquerable walls the sentries were in panic.
"On, you horrible bastards" the captain screamed, gesticulating wildly with the point of his blade. "Take everything the glitters, and grab the women too. Burn the rest to the ground!" and with that a great cheer rose, the men streaming in through the monasteries open gates, while the sentries made ready to mount their a futile defence, their impenetrable walls now breached.
Within the fearsome walls, all was chaos, as everywhere the sounds of battle and distress reigned. The sentries of the Holy Guard tried their best, but with the battle raging on all sides their numbers were spread thin. The priests, meanwhile, put up a spirited a defence, but died just the same. Soon, with the plunder leaving in a steady stream back to the boats, it was time to put he monastery to the torch.
They worked methodically, moving from building to building swiftly, for the dry thatch would take but moments to catch. Arald kicked in the door of the last building and was about to fling his torch when from inside he heard the unmistakable wails of an infant. As if in a dream, he stepped across the threshold and saw two babes lying in their cots. Shuddering with the thought of what he must do, he stepped back outside and tossed his torch through the doorway, staggering quickly away lest he hear their wails.
Later that night, deep in the belly of the ship, Arald grasped fitfully at sleep, falling in and out of a shallow slumber as the ship rocked gently back and forth, like a mother cradling it's child. He shuddered involuntarily and cast off the thoughts of the infants he had murdered. It was practicality, that's all. They couldn't be brought along, and they wouldn't survive on their own. Best to let them suffer but for a few moments. Although the waning moon shined brightly through the porthole, it seemed as if the shadows in his cabin had grown deeper. In particular, the far wall was pitch black, all but for a glimmering point of reflected light, as if from a blade. Or an eye.
Arald jumped to his feet with a start and grasped blindly for his blade, before a familiar, but forgotten voice intoned inside his head.
“A crime borne of blind duty, or one of need?” the speaker mockingly asked, his eye piercing through the gloom of the cabin.
“Or one borne of simple greed?” again, Arald marked the dark and heavy hood that further masked the speaker's features.
“Innocent skin burns, blackened blood boils” but this time, to Arald's surprise, the speaker stepped forward.
“The Night Lords drink a toast to your toils.” and Arald glimpsed sight of a visage, calm and terrible, as if carved from blood-stained wood, one that shook him awake once more. The moon still shined through the porthole, as Arald struggled to unravel where dream and reality begun.
-----
“Father thought it best to hire mercenaries to protect his only son, yet it will be those same cut-throats and murderers that crush his army in the field, isn't that right Arald?” the Prince crowed.
“Yes, my Prince.” Arald replied, barely bothering to temper the venom and disdain in his voice, which the Prince was entirely oblivious to.
Arald had to smile at the situation. He'd been but days in the Prince's company, and already he could tell that the man had no love for his father, nor for anyone else, save himself. His plan was imbecilic, and the Prince didn't even think to suspect where Arald's loyalty lie. But, like his son, the King was too trusting in the power of his coin.
On the morning of the battle, Arald and his men lay in wait, horses gently whickering, as impatient as their men to ride out. But there would be no battle for them today, much to the Prince's chagrin. His plan was executed to near perfection. Arald and his men waited for the sounds of fighting to reach them, then rode up the hill, the sun rising slowly behind them and in full view of the warring armies. But the King's men failed to react, still determinedly hacking their way through the Prince's forces. The awaited call for retreat never came, nor did the charge of Arald's cavalry, saving the day.
Hours later, under a waning moon, Arald sat alone about his camp-fire honing the sabre that, once, had belonged to the captain, long since gone to grave. Instinctively, his hand rose to the golden cross about his neck and, with a chill, he nervously awaited a fourth and final visit from the mysterious shadowed figure. His ears pricked up at a noise in the distance, horses, riding fast, and it wasn't long before they came into view.
“You'll regret this, you bastard.” the Prince spat down at him.
“Gut him” he ordered, and his men dismounted and advanced. Arald sat and continued to hone his blade, ignoring the presence of the Prince's men until, with a startling quickness, he leapt up and let his sabre sing, cutting red ribbons that hung in the air but for a moment, before dripping to the floor. The Prince, eyes wide in shock, gasped with fear and made to escape, but for Arald's hand grasped tight upon the reins. He yanked the Prince from his steed and, without ears for the pleading noises escaping the Prince's mouth, he skewered the heir to the throne through the neck and watched coldly as he choked away his last, gasping breaths.
“A crime of ambition, truth be told, there's none more revered” Arald spun round to see the shadowy apparition walking towards him from the trees.
“By those who play the game, year after year.” he could see clearly now the speaker's face and saw, beneath the heavy hood, the dark stained red of a wooden mask.
“And with the death of a bloodline, your initiation is sealed” with unnatural speed, the speaker pulled forth a black poison blade, ominous in the moon's light.
“A thrall of the Night Lord's, to their will you will yield.” the creature lunged forward, trying to bury the vile blade deep into Arald's gut, but he sidestepped smartly an brought his own blade up, across the creature's throat. It spun through the air and landed with a heavy thump next to the fire, it's wooden mask split in two. Beneath the wood was only inky shadow and, as Arald looked down upon it's depths, he felt nothing but revulsion.
"Wait" the creature gurgled. "We offer you power, glory and wealth unimagined. You will never achieve these things without us, without the Night Lords."
"We'll see what tomorrow brings" Arald replied, before severing the creature's head.
