Chapter 46: Truth.

It was dark outside when the Council finally ended. Messengers had come and gone, giving instructions from nobles and merchants, bankers and bureaucrats. Petitioners had been seen—though only the nobles—and finally, Liam had his position and grant of the School at Doune confirmed. The latter was provisional, and it turned out, was something they expected him to pay for himself.

Liam didn’t much mind this, though Lord Douglas had made the appropriate noises about it being for the betterment of Scotland, and how much Liam had already given up for the Kingdom. Despite that, they both knew Liam was wealthy beyond any other Lord of the Realm, with—perhaps—the exception of the King.

Moray had only smiled, saying that while he was grateful, a full accounting of the Kingdom was required before any spending beyond the war with the Balliol Usurper was resolved. He had then left the Council to find the Lord Chancellor.

The absence of the Regent effectively ended the council, and the Lord of Douglas, now tasked with the investigation into the King’s murder, proceeded up the hill, his mood depressed at the thought of seeing the room in which his friend had died.

He'd said as much to Liam as they trudged across the cobbled hill-top towards the King’s chamber.

"I dislike that Moray gave me this task, as it means I will need look upon the place Robert was slain. Should I mourn overmuch, I will need your aid, Liam. You are to tell me what you see, as I may miss it.”

Liam nodded. He was about to reply when he saw Sir Iain Campbell and Llywelyn approaching. They were leading two of the steeds which had been given as gifts by the Lord to the young knight following the Tournament.

Both Iain and Llywelyn bowed to Lord Douglas, halting before them.

“Lord!” Sir Iain greeted. He was dressed for combat, his mail hauberk clinking gently as he recovered, standing tall and proud. “I hoped to see you before we left. We should be in Berwick within the week.”

Liam saw his Lord’s face break into a wide grin. “Your spurs suit you well, Iain.”

“Thank you, Lord. I doubt I would have gained my knighthood had it not been for your training. I doubt many Lords would have had the patience or kindness you showed me.”

“Nonsense, Sir.” Lord Douglas demurred, just as pleased to use the Knights rank as he was to hear the words. “You earned your spurs as well as any Knight I’ve seen. More, you’ve already proved your worth at the Tourney. Do not let doubt cloud your heart. You can achieve a great deal.”

“Though not the Princess’ hand.”

“Likely not that, no. Her value to the Kingdom is far greater now that her father has passed. Should–God forbid it–King David pass before his time, whoever marries her shall stand to inherit the throne. She is far more than a mere princess now, Iain. She is the heir.”

“Aye, Lord. I know… A group of nuns took her with King David this morning… she…we didn't have a chance to say...” He choked on the words, clearly fighting back tears. “If you see her, tell her…tell her that I understand.”

“I will, Iain.” The Lord of Douglas smiled to the man he’d raised, if not as a son, as a Knight. “Travel safely, and when you get to Berwick, tell my son William that we love him, and my brother Archibald as well. As for your journey, do not tax yourself overmuch, nor the steed.”

Iain pulled himself together. “Thank you, Lord. I shall.” Turning to Liam, Iain smiled. “I heard a rumour that the hero of the Tournament is now the Lord of Doune?”

Liam nodded and gave a slight bow. “I am, Sir.” He addressed Iain with the respect due his rank. “I only wish your duties would not take you so far from your friends because of my mistake.”

“A mistake made for the best of reasons.” Iain said. “I spoke with the Lord of Cadzow recently. He seems to recover well, as does Squire Glengarry. Both wished me to convey their gratitude. It will likely be a long time until we see each-other again, Liam. Look after the Lord and Lady, and may God be with you!”

He surprised Liam by pulling him into a fierce hug, then stepping back, allowing Llywelyn to say his farewell.

“I haven’t said goodbye to Andrew or Aidan. Can you let them know I’m well and wish them all the best? All of you will be in my prayers.”

Liam agreed he would. He could feel tears forming in his eyes. Llywelyn had ever been a balancing force for the pages, and now he was leaving on his own adventure, Liam worried he might never see his friend again.

His voice hoarse, he replied. “I will, Llywelyn. You take care of yourself and watch after Iain. I fear the Princess might be the worst of your worries if some mischief befalls him.”

Llywelyn coughed, hiding a laugh at his master’s expense. “He’ll be all right. Iain was born to be a knight, unlike me. I’ll send letters to Doune whenever I get the chance! Hopefully, they will find you and the others.”

Liam, too, promised to write as he helped his friend to mount. Unwilling to let him go without ensuring his safety, Liam spent a moment checking the horse’s tack was tight, as Lord Douglas did the same for Iain. Satisfied, they stepped back, the Lord of Douglas cuffing at his eye. Then, looking up at Iain, the Lord called in a steady voice. “Ride safe and may God look upon you well, Sir Campbell.”

“And you as well, My Lord! God Save you, and God Save Scotland!” With those parting words, and a fist to his chest, Iain let his mount follow the road towards the bridge over the Leven. The click of the horses' hooves striking cobbles giving way to the dull thump as they encountered dirt and mud.

The Lord of Douglas, clearly touched by the same emotions as Liam whispered. “God be with you, and may he keep you both safe.” It was a prayer only Liam, and perhaps God, could hear, but Liam crossed himself too.

“Amen.”

They saw Llywelyn and Iain raise their arms in a last wave of farewell before the darkness of the road enveloped them completely.

In a companionable silence, Liam followed his Lord onto the short path that led to the Kings sleeping quarters. Before the entry stood two guards who were barring the doors against the protests of the Renton Bailiff and several men.

The King's Men-At-Arms stood their ground, clearly disgruntled that they should be forced to listen to the bailiff's demands.

“What happens here, Goodman?” The Lord of Douglas asked of the bailiff, who spun from his conversation with on of the Men-at-Arms.

“Lord,” the man bowed, “I was just telling these men that they had no right to bar my passage. The King is dead, and…”

“And you thought to assess the King’s belongings to see if anything requires saving?”

The Bailiff blanched, clearly thinking just that. “Not at all, my Lord. I had no intention of doing so. I merely wished to check if there were any signs of a threat to the townspeople. We heard some kind of devil has slain the King.”

“If that is the case, where is the priest?” Lord Douglas reasoned. “Surely you goodmen are not prepared to fight a demon?”

“I… that is to say…” The man’s mouth worked for a moment. “Demon, you say?”

“Did you not hear what kinds of Damned creatures Squire Lamberton and I fought in the tournament?”

“But those were surely just stories?”

The Lord of Douglas shook his head. “Not so. The Squire here had need to use mighty magics just to defeat them. If I brought him, who did you bring?”

One of them men looked up at Liam. Seeing that he stood nearly a foot taller than any other man present, he shrugged, turned and left towards the town, muttering, “I told them it was nae bloody worth it.” As he went.

The others followed, leaving only the Bailiff behind.

“Well goodman. I suppose you still have the courage to investigate with us? Come on then.” Douglas strode past the guards, who stepped aside to allow him entry.

As Liam entered the chamber, he could see that it was remarkably clean and undamaged. The furniture was intact, and there was very little blood. Most seemed to have been painted on the wall and pooled on the floor next to the wall, though the oil-lamps they held to light their way did not reveal the text fully.

Liam brought more light into the room by casting flame a few times until the entire scene was clearly lit.

“It seems Robert left a message.” Lord Douglas said, moving closer.

As he approached, Liam saw words had been drawn upon the wall in blood. “This isn’t Robert’s….” Douglas cut off, transfixed by the words. The next moment, he half drew his sword.

His eyes focused on Liam with a hate born of wrath, and for an instant, Liam could have sworn the Lord thought to attack him. A moment later, the madness left his Lord’s eyes, though now they had turned to suspicion.

“You?” The Lord of Douglas demanded. “It was you?” He seemed to pause, confusion flickering on his visage.

The Bailiff, who also had drawn close enough to see the script, gave out a yell of alarm, and pulled at the club that hung at his belt. “I knew it was him! Bloody Magician.”

Their reactions shocked Liam, and he barely had time to deflect the Bailiff’s club as it descended towards his head. His raised forearm knocked the blow away, and the Bailiff, off balance, stumbled to the floor. Fortunately, the man lacked the strength to break any of Liam’s bones, and his raised forearm only smarted slightly.

The Lord of Douglas dropped his blade back into his sheath, seeing the Bailiff rising for another attack, he dove past Liam to grapple the portly fellow. The Bailiff struggled briefly before staring with confused eyes at Liam.

“Did I just….” He swallowed, seeing who held him. “My apologies, Lord. I don’t know what came over me.”

The Lord of Douglas frowned. “There is something very wrong here.” He said. “When I read the script, I felt as though you’d killed Robert before my very eyes.” He looked at Liam as he spoke.

“But I know that cannot be true, as I had you followed that night, and the guards all agreed you’d done your duties with the pickets.” Turning, the Lord looked once more at the script on the wall, his breathing becoming strained until he forced his gaze away from the bloody letters.

“That was not written by Robert.” Douglas said, pointing to the bloody script. “Robert always wrote in French. He could read the Latin, but never wrote it unless he had to.”

Liam nodded, examining the text himself.

“Magics foul, o’ god dismayed, Lamb did King-slay.” He whispered the words, wondering why the King would write those words. As he finished the words, he felt a strange compulsion strike him, and he suddenly wanted to burn the hall down around them.

He shook his head as the compulsion faded quickly. Liam read the words again, feeling the strange sensation once more, recognizing the feeling as one similar to what he’d felt from the Vampyre’s nails at Cadzow.

“Do not read the words again, Lord. They are bespelled.”

“Magic words? Can that be done?” Lord Douglas asked in confusion.

“I can think of at least one way with Runes, though this is a crafted spell. As yet, I cannot do something as detailed as this.”

The Bailiff had come to himself and put his bludgeon back at his belt, eyeing Liam and the Lord of Douglas warily. “Could a spell have swayed the town, too? Is it in danger?”

Liam frowned. “I doubt it, Goodman. The only people who might have read this are few, thanks to the Guards outside. By their reaction to me, they have not looked within.”

The Bailiff looked like he was about to be sick, and Liam cast a Healing Song upon him, hoping to aid the poor man. Clearly, whatever magics were stored in the message had affected him badly.

As he finished, a sound at the door caused all three men to turn. Sir Middleton, the Scottish Templar entered, followed by Lady Tatania and four Templar bodyguards.

Liam and James both bowed low as the Beati of Scotland entered the room. The Bailiff, not knowing who she was, bowed too.

“Tatania? What are you doing here?” Lord Douglas asked in puzzlement.

“I have come to tell you of the seizure of the Lady Cadzow and her daughter, Claire. A creature in the form of Sir Gilbert de Hay has used a compulsion to take them with him to Perth. Sir Peter found his wife suffering the effects of dark magic and brought her to me.”

“Once healed, she told me how Sir Gilbert had commanded that the Lady of Cadzow and her daughter accompany the King on his journey to Perth. When she protested, her voice seized up. Soon she could barely breathe.”

She paused, seeing the effect of her words had a greater significance on the group than she’d thought. “You already knew?”

“Not about that, Lady.” Liam replied. “The message which was written in the King's blood holds a similar compulsion. It names me as King Robert’s killer.”

“Truly? I do not see that message!”

Liam watched as the Beati approached the writing, seemingly unaffected by its sinister effect.

“I can see no sign of any compulsion, though the message that truly exists here disturbs me even more than the news I bring.”

She turned to her husband. “What does the writing tell you, James?”

He winced, but read the message once more. “Magics foul, o’ god dismayed, Witch-Lamberton did King-slay.” Liam watched his hand stray once more to the hilt of his sword as he looked at Liam, but this time, Lord Douglas avoided any other reaction.

“Though the message makes little sense as a poem, it compels me to want to harm Liam because of his magic.”

Sir William shook his head. “The creature seems likely to have expected the bishops to attend to King Robert’s remains. If they had, it is likely they would have called for a trail of heresy, or—in the worst case—an inquisition. The language it used would appeal to clergymen. As it is, we are lucky that the Earl’s men were the ones to conduct King Robert’s body to St Serf’s Chapel.”

Liam looked at the message with his magic sight, and suddenly all became clear. As he activated the spell, a vision appeared before his eyes. He displayed it so the others could read the notification.

Compulsion of Prejudice (Active)

A spell ward created through dissonance, the Compulsion of Guilt requires the caster to fashion the spell with the blood of the victim, and a secret of the caster. In order to target the spell, simply name your foe within the ward.

On activation, the spell causes those who view the ward to irrationally judge the target, wishing to cause them harm.

Cost: 300 Magic

Duration: Permanent.

Requirements: Blood.

Note: Counter-spells may destroy This Ward.

Lord Douglas looked at the vision. “Then what truth did this monster wish us to know? What truth did it use to confound us?”

Tatania answered before Liam could speak. “Scotland has already been invaded. Balliol marches North. He marches on Perth!”

“Then the council must be informed.” James said. He was about to continue when his wife interrupted him.

“There is more, though I must ask Sir William to tell it.” She said, looking over at the Templar.

The elderly knight gave them a small smile. “You keep your oath well, lady, but you may speak on matters that relate to the enemy freely. I simply ask that you keep the manner of how we gained that information closely guarded.”

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“I shall, Sir.” Tatania said, before continuing. “The creature that killed Robert is but one of many. All the Kings of Christendom are under threat, not just King David. I think they seek to weaken the kingdoms to assert control themselves, or at least prevent Christendom from uniting.”

“Then we face two problems here.” Lord Douglas said, frowning. “If Balliol is marching on Perth already, we have but a few days to reach it. More urgent, however, is the situation with King David. If we do not secure the King’s safety and find the Creature who slew King Robert, Scotland will surely fall.”

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Liam and the rest of the Lord of Douglas’ party spent the rest of the night awake, planning how they would deal with the problems they now faced. Tatania had spent some time with her husband explaining her plans and her new role, all the while watched over by her Templars. Meanwhile, Liam and the Pages had prepared as best they could for travel.

Liam found his friends had been on something of a gluttonous spending spree the day before. They had gained two extra sets of clothes for each of them, one of black for the mourning period of King Robert, and the other for travel.

Liam found his tunics slightly too tight, despite, or perhaps–seeing their grinning faces–thanks to their best efforts.

He became certain he was being had when he tried on the hose, finding them about three feet too long in the leg. Even the Lord had a good laugh at his expense when Liam stumbled out of the stall he’d used to change.

It was not a major problem, however, and a quick bit of needlework, some guidance from Lady Tatania, and help from his friends soon made his clothes wearable.

Only the Men at Arms like Fergus and Pat wore an armband to signify their mourning, their tabards and armour being more essential to their role. The pages had also collected numerous supplies for their travels and had stored a great deal of supplies in one of the three Wagons they’d bought from a Dunbarton merchant. These now stood in the Inn’s yard alongside the wagon Liam had brought from Ferniegair, which contained the Lady Tatania’s patients, Squire Glengarry and Lord Cadzow.

Both now had regained consciousness, and Liam worked to regrow their damaged flesh. His Regrowth ability had considerably improved from when he’d used it, and so the process took only a few hours. Neither man had the strength to move about on their own, however, as the healing had drained their bodies of stamina. Soon they slumbered once more, restored in body, if not yet fully in mind.

As he’d worked, Liam listened in on the Lady’s conversation with his Lord.

From what Liam heard, the Lord was not best pleased with her decision to pursue a position at the head of the Church, though the Lady had been unwavering in her position. Eventually, he’d stormed off to dunk his head in a rain barrel. His muffled curses were still heard, however, much to the amusement of his wife.

Later - and though he groused bitterly to Liam about it - the Lord of Douglas conceded. His wife had the right of it.

Much of his Lord’s frustration, Liam knew, was because of his exhaustion. While Liam had little problem in dealing with the extended time awake, his Lord’s vitality was flagging.

They all were tired as the sun rose on the Inn the next morning. As it did, Lord Douglas and Sir Middleton sent Messengers to the Earls and other Nobles requesting they gather to discuss urgent news. Despite Lord Douglas’ pleas, it was not until the Terce bells had been rung that the nobility finally arrived at the King's Halls.

The assortment of tired nobles and clergymen gathered under the black cloth banners which now hung, draped over the walls and ceiling in the King's Hall. All present wore black, as the Mourning period for the King had been proclaimed the night before.

The mood, however, was one of wrath and confusion, rather than mourning.

“How the hells did Balliol know of the King's death?” Moray raged from his seat before and below the king's throne. “There is no way for him to have known that, unless he is in league with the hell-spawned devil that slew our King.”

His voice boomed, causing many of the nobles who had been in their cups since after the Regency council to wince. The Earl of Mar gave Liam a grateful look, having sought him out for healing prior to the council.

Tatania spoke for Lord Douglas. “The creature which foully murdered our King, along with others of its ilk, has been slowly attempting to corrupt the kings and courts of the Christian realms for years. We do not know how far its influence extends, nor even what its true plans are—beyond that, God’s Kingdom on Earth is its target.”

“Who gave you leave to speak, Lady? And who are you to suggest such things?” Bishop Bane sneered. He had heard by now of the Beati, and clearly sought to put her in her place. “Do you claim some knowledge of these Hellish creatures? Or perhaps you have been keeping the companies of heretical orders?”

Moray glared at him, but the Bishop continued. “You make claim of a position you could not possibly hold. If the system is to declare you as a Saint, it lies.”

“That is not our purpose here Bishop!” Moray roared in a sudden anger. “I have seen her power with my own eyes, Bishop, as have the other Lords here. She is as she says.”

“That is not for Temporal powers to dictate to the church!” The bishop shouted. “If you are to continue listening to this woman, I shall have to arrest her on the charge of Heresy!”

“You will do no such thing, Bishop.” Moray roared, his hand moving to his sword. “Do not think yourself above the Scots merely because of your status as a prelate. Remember what happened the last time the Church went against the will of Scotland? You were there.”

The Bishop visibly paled at that. “You would forge another declaration against the Mother Church over a mere woman?”

“If pushed.” Moray challenged. A silence spread over the hall. Many of the nobles there had signed the Declaration of Arbroath, demanding the reinstatement of the Bishop of St Andrews and the acknowledgement of King Robert. Liam could see others too were nodding. The nobles well liked Tatania, not least because of her display of power on the Tournament field. Most had known her from the wars of Independence and were, if not friends, then happy acquaintances.

Moray allowed the muttered agreement of the nobles to subside. “This is not the time for such discussions. Now we must decide how we are to proceed. If Balliol has already begun his attack, we must discover where and who else is involved in its planning.”

Tatania, seeing the support from many in the council, continued. “Even if the creature did not plan to slay the king, it is likely that it is manipulating events on a wider stage and is, even now, making plans for the destruction of Scotland as an organized Christian nation.”

“That shall never happen!” Moray roared, slamming a fist into the arm of his chair. His, like the other earls of the regency council, sat upon a dais beneath the king's throne.

“It shall not be if we can reach Perth before them.” The Lord of Douglas interjected. “The Lady has other news, which is just as dire.”

Tatania waited, her gaze cutting through the conversations of the other lords. “We do not know who committed the foul murder of King Robert, but we know it was none that remains here. The only others who may have had easy access to the King were Sir Gilbert de Hay and some of his Squires. Through Sir Peter McDonnell’s wife, I discovered another compulsion. One which came upon her when she witnessed Sir Gilbert ordering that the Lady of Cadzow and her daughter accompany the King to Perth.”

“When questioned, Mistress McDonnell suffered a loss of her voice, and then, slowly of her breath.”

Liam watched the reactions around the hall. The name ‘de Hay’ was mentioned frequently, with a good deal of surprise and disbelief.

Tatania continued. “I do not suspect that Sir Gilbert is the culprit, rather that the creature has captured him and possibly taken his form. If this is the case, his knights and squires may also be Vampyre.”

“Then we must find the creature and eliminate it. If we can reach it in time, we might save the King and the other poor souls it has tortured.”

The Earl of Mar nodded his agreement. “Aye, but who should we send? The Lord of Doune is a reasonable choice, but who else?”

Douglas stepped forward. “I would go, if Liam is to be sent. In fact, send my retinue and my wife’s. The protection of the Beati would well serve the king, as would the presence of her bodyguard. As too to my retinue, Squire Lamberton is by far our most powerful warrior. Should the King be put in harm's way, few others could guarantee his safety.”

There were murmurs of agreement at this throughout the hall. Lord Douglas continued.

Moray nodded. “Very well. You shall go at once to Perth and see to the king's safety. If the monster who endangers him poses a threat, end it. Though if you can save Sir Gilbert…” His voice wavered.

“I shall, Thomas.” Lord Douglas assured, bowing to the Regent of Scotland.

“As for the Army, we shall follow you to Perth. If Balliol is on the march, he shall march swiftly to Perth, or has already besieged Berwick. Either way, the army is useless here.”

Turning to face the other high-nobles of Scotland, the Regent of Scotland raised his voice. “To WAR! Mar, see to the baggage, Lennox, to the van. For Scotland, we march. For Scotland and King David!”

The nobles, now with a direction and a war to fight, rose from their seats and cheered too. “FOR SCOTLAND AND KING DAVID!”

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Miles south and east of the town of Douglas, a figure rode at speed. His journey of two days had been exhausting, but the news he carried was urgent. Were it not for the ascended stallion he had stolen from Renton, such a journey would have been impossible.

If it were not for that caravan, I’d already be there by now. Father Doreen thought to himself. He’d had a hell of a time finding the route. Only the promised rewards had kept him true to his purpose.

Ahead, he could see the glimmer of lights coming from the crest of the hill up which he rode. He felt a sense of relief wash over him as the ancient hill-fort atop the peak came into view. This was his destination. Soon he could rest. Urging his mount to one last surge of effort, the portly priest came into sight of the camp.

Guards challenged him as his mount came into view. Raising his cross from beneath his cloak, he announced himself.

“Dismount and come forward. Bring the horse.” Came the voice of a guard. He sounded English.

Dismounting, Father Doreen pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing once more the large bronze cross that hung at his neck and the tonsured pate of which he was so proud. “I’ve come with messages from our Lord.” He called. “He bade me speak with Lord Comyn.”

The creature which had promised him so much had done no such thing, but Doreen knew no Lord would ever allow a clergyman to go unfed or without a clean bed. The common-folk might, though. He thought bitterly.

“Wait here.” Said the guard. He had the same look that the bastard Lamberton had. Taller and stronger than most normal men. Oddly enough, both of the guards did.

Doreen wondered how they’d become so strong so quickly, though it hardly mattered. His belly rumbled as he pondered what kind of stew would be prepared for him.

A shrill scream came from within the camp, which was cut off violently. Doreen shuddered, suddenly having cause to regret his journey. Still, the creature had promised him a bishopric for this service. A little fear was worth it.

It did not take long for the hulking figure of the guard to return. With him came a fresh-faced young man, looking no more than twenty years of age. His armour was pristine, and his body seemed to radiate energy.

Father Doreen knelt. “Lord!” He said, offering the satchel. Doreen found he couldn’t meet the noble’s gaze.

“From Cadzow?” He asked.

“No, Lord. From Renton itself. It’s from him.”

The Lord gave a noncommittal grunt and opened the satchel, producing a letter. He skimmed it, animated by what it said. Father Doreen smirked. It seemed this was good news, after all. Perhaps he might find himself rewarded.

“Balliol is marching early. He’ll be able to strike within the week. We are to meet him North of the Firth of Forth.”

“Aye, Lord. What shall we do with the camp?”

“Leave it. We might have cause to return. Take some of the new men and set them to guard it. They have reached level fifteen?”

“Most, Lord.”

“They will have to do.”

Father Doreen coughed, seeing that he was being ignored.

“What of the Priest?” The Guard said.

“Feed him to the Dungeon. It shall not eat well until we return. You may keep the horse.”

Horror filled Doreen. “No! Lord! The… He made an oath to me!”

The horror at the order paled to the horror he suffered as he watched Lord Comyn’s smile widen, revealing long canines.

“Oaths to your god mean little to us, false shepherd. Consider this a mercy. What we plan to inflict upon our enemies is far worse.”

With that, the Lord of Comyn retreated once more into the darkness of the camp.

Doreen knelt in the mud for a moment before he felt powerful hands seized him. He felt himself dragged towards an opening in the hillside. He looked about desperately, seeing cages full of people around him. They stared silently, as if they’d seen this play out over and over.

For a moment, he thought he was about to be slain out of hand, but the guards continued to drag him forward, unheeding of the cuts and scrapes his dragging legs suffered from the stony ground.

As they reached the entrance, one guard shoved Doreen forward, causing him to fall upon his hands. Prodding his behind with their spears, the guards jeered as the Priest of Douglas crawled forward into the dark. His sobs cut off after a few moments as he gagged, breathing in a putrid stench that pervaded the room.

Turning, he rushed for the cavern’s entrance behind him. Unseeing in his panic, he slammed into a wall. Shocked, he stared up. The entrance to the cavern no longer exited to the outside world. Instead, where the guards should have been, a silver-metal door stood, glowing with a faint light. Doreen touched it, but it was solid and unmoveable.

Notifications flashed up before his eyes, but he ignored them. He hated them. His life had been one of privilege and comfort before the cursed system. He refused to even look at it.

He turned, fearful of what may lurk in the shadows of the cavern. The light of the portal behind him was just enough for him to see by, though he wished it wasn’t. Fractured bones, rent flesh, and pieces of clothing lay scattered about the floor. It looked to be a burial chamber, though he cared not. Pots and trinkets lay against the wall, some broken but others intact. He spied something in the corner.

Gold. He covered his mouth and nose, loath to breathe the foul humours emitted by the decaying bones, and stepped forward. Nothing moved about him, so he took another step, then another. He was fixated by the gold now. It seemed to shine brighter now despite the gloom in which it lay.

He saw a foot, rotten and decayed next to the gold, but ignored it. It was not the gold. He wanted it. If he had this sum, he’d live handsomely once he escaped.

The foot moved suddenly, stepping forward. Father Doreen, not expecting that, screamed, closing his eyes as terror overwhelmed him. The scream merely encouraged whatever approached, and Doreen heard the clatter of bones, followed by a rasping laugh.

Something hit his neck, and he opened his eyes in surprise.

He immediately wished they hadn’t.

His body knelt before the form of death incarnate, blood fountaining from the stump of his neck.

Doreen blinked, trying to work out why he was no longer afraid. Why his head was…

Darkness, darker even than the surrounding cavern, consumed the Priest of Douglas.