There was a deep serenity in the night air, but that didn’t stop the horses from charging forward to the large city in front of them. The two warriors were on alert, using the light of the blue moon to observe their surroundings. Solomon kept his left hand over the bag slapping against his left leg. Its oppressive weight constantly on his mind. They slowed their horses when they came into the light of the main gates. Two soldiers brandishing their weapons.
“Halt, who goes there!”
Solomon raised his left hand, “Solomon Wise, paladin of Touldan, and my wife Schybara” he said, “We have an important delivery for his holiness.”
“Our apologize, Sir Solomon,” the guard said, “Open the gates!”
The gates creaked open, and the guards saluted the two as they entered Mrythala. The capital city glistened. The white stone buildings reflected the pale blue light of the moon. Unlike Jericho, Mrythala was a city built with beauty in mind. Solomon’s gaze turned to the castle towering over the city.
It reminded him of a crown. A large central tower with six towers circling it. The golden dome roof of the central tower glistened in the moonlight. A bright spinning light shone in the top of the six towers. Guiding lights for the weary pilgrim.
It didn’t take long to get to the upper city. The building was a small castle unto itself with three keeps topped by spiked towers. Statues of dragons, gargoyles, and lions looked down upon the street guarding the building with their menacing stairs. Despite the statues, warm inviting light shone through the stained-glass windows bestowing true beauty to the world. This castle built for the Seven Virtues was known as the Grand Cathedral.
An attendant rushed down the cathedral’s front steps, “Master Solomon,” he said, “Welcome back, his Holiness is expecting you in the sanctuary.”
Solomon dismounted and handed the boy his reigns, “Thank you son,” he said heading up the steps.
The cathedrals insides were just as grand as the outside. Golden candelabras and scones decorated the wall alongside rich tapestries showcasing the Seven Virtues. An offering box sat in an altar on the left side of the foyer with candles and incense burning beneath it. A sister in green and gold robes and white veil stood by a podium on the right side. She smiled towards them and gestured to the large oak doors on the other end of the room.
The sanctuary retained the sense of grandeur with seven stained-glass windows depicting the Seven Virtues. The pews were arranged into two columns with ten rows in front of a dais. A man in finely dressed robes knelt in front of an alter with seven statuettes.
“Your Holiness,” Solomon said kneeling down in front of the dais, “I’ve brought an important package from Jericho.”
“I’ve received the message from Jericho’s bishop,” the Archbishop rose and turned to them, “May I see the necronomicon?” Solomon reached into his bag and pulled out the tome. The Archbishop looked it over, “Good, there’s little necrotic emission. Elithis’ prison is still intact.”
“I see,” Solomon said, “I was a little concerned when I didn’t feel excessive necrotic energy coming from the book.”
“Follow me, this book needs to be sealed away.” The Archbishop led them to a set of stairs that went down.
Torches lit up the stairs giving off an eerie feel. The stairs ended into a large circular room. Six large vaults were built into the chamber. A bear, ant, crow, tiger, viper, and fox were carved into the stone above each vault. The vault beneath the fox was shut tight with magical runes glowing into the door. An intricate mural was carved into the floor.
“What is this place?” Schybara said looking around in awe.
“What do you know about the gods?” the Archbishop said looking towards the Vygaern.
“I know the Virtues protect life while the Dead Gods want to destroy it,”
“It’s actually more complicated than that,” The Archbishop said putting the Tome of Elithis into the vault. He pointed to the floor mural.
It showed their world with its denizen going about their day. On one side was a world of golden light, stars, and the seven Virtues looking down upon the mortals. On the other side was a world of darkness, death, and the six Dead Gods bound in chains. The six Dead Gods were reaching towards the mortal world, their necrotic energy causing part of the world to die.
“The truth is, the prison of the Dead Gods isn’t a prison, it’s their own realm,” The Archbishop said, “Currently, their locked away since the divine energy coming from the Virtues overpowers the necrotic energy coming from the Dead Gods which seals them away. For the Dead Gods to break free, they need to increase the amount of necrotic energy. That’s why they created the necronomicons.” The Archbishop closed the vault and activated the runes. “The necronomicons open up directly to their realm allowing necrotic energy to freely pour into our world from their prison.”
“Why the vaults,” Schybara said, “Why not destroy the books.”
“We’ve tried destroying the books before,” he said, “But since they’re connected to the Dead Gods, they keep coming back every few centuries. So, it was decided that sealing the books away would be a better solution. We already have the Grimoire of Demuire sealed, and now, we have the Tome of Elithis. Once the Wight King is killed, we can seal the Treatise of Bellidrex.”
“Then destroying the Wight King is our next move,” Solomon said, “Your Holiness, may I see the Sword of Touldan?”
The Archbishop looked wearily at Solomon, but nodded, “Very well.”
The Archbishop led them through the halls of the cathedral and into a large domed room. Along the rooms were statues of the Seven Virtues each standing ten feet tall, and at the base of each statue sat a weapon. The glowed with an ethereal golden light that made the lanterns hanging on the wall pointless. They stopped in front of Touldan.
The god of justice was dressed in plate mail with a cape flowing in the wind. His sword was shoved into the ground with his hands planted on the hilt. At the base of the statue, resting in a pedestal, stood a sword with a glistening white blade. The golden hilt and cross guard shone with light.
“I must warn you Solomon,” the Archbishop said, “Touldan will judge your soul. Should you be found…wanting, your life will be forfeit.”
Solomon nodded and stepped up to the swords. He gripped the handle with both hands, and divine energy surged through his whole body.
Why do you want to be a hero?
A memory surfaced from Solomon’s past. A bald, elderly man with a missing leg sat on a wooden chair watching a young boy play knight with a broken wooden stick.
“Grandpa, I’m going to be a hero when I grow up,” the boy said with a toothy grin missing his front tooth.
“Oh,” the elderly man said, “Why do you want to be a hero?”
“So I can save people!”
The elderly man whacked the boy with his crutch, “Don’t be a fool boy!” he said, “Heroes don’t fight for a faceless person they never met. They fight for the person most precious to them.”
The boy rubbed his head, “Who would you fight for Grandpa,” he said.
“If it was me,” the elderly man looked to the aged woman in the window, “It’d be for your Grandma, and my fool Grandson,” he pressed his crutch into the boy’s chest, “Find someone who means the world to you, then you’ll become a great hero.” Grandpa gave him a large smile.
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Why do you want to save the world?
Another memory.
Solomon panted as he sat on the ground. He pulled off his helmet and gave a silent prayer in thanks for the icy spring breeze. It chilled the sweat pouring down his face which sent a refreshing sensation through his body. With a few deep breaths, he looked upon the ruined battlefield.
Hundreds of undead littered the ground. Their bodies slowly turning to dust due to the divine magic that struck them down. Three dozen knights stood tall as they took the time to refresh themselves. Their armor bearing the scars of battle, and their weapons just as worn, but that made their stature even more imposing.
“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,”
Solomon turned to the knight. This one stood out from the others since his armor was decorated with gold and silver, along with the green scapular worn by the paladins of Touldan. The paladin pulled off his helmet and let his greying ginger hair dry in the breeze, and his blazing brown eyes wrinkled with his taunting smile.
“If this is all you’re capable of then maybe I should request another squire,” He turned to the towering Vygaern man to his side, “What say you Benharren?”
“I say we give the boy some time sire,” Benharren said with a small chuckle, “It takes time for the lowlanders to get accustomed to fighting in the highlands.”
“I don’t know,” the paladin scoffed with a large smile, “A hero wouldn’t have problems fighting a few hundred undead in these conditions.”
Solomon blushed as he knelt before his mentor, “Forgive me, Sir Garrod,” he said, “I won’t disappoint you again.” The other knights howled in laughter.
“Son, it was a joke,” Garrod sighed, “This isn’t the Grand Cathedral, so loosen up.”
“Yes sir,” Solomon saluted.
“Damn kid doesn’t listen,” Garrod growled in frustration, “Let’s go everyone, that necromancer is around here somewhere.”
The knights secured their armor and returned to formation. Solomon groaned as he rose to his feet, and thankfully, Benharren helped him back onto his horse. Garrod moved to the front of the formation and ushered his men forward. Solomon rode behind Garrod’s left side while Benharren rode on his right.
“What was it like fighting undead for the first time?” Garrod looked over to him.
“It’s…not what I expected,” Solomon said as a shiver ran down his spine.
Garrod nodded solemnly, “The undead may look mindless, but there is more to them than people realize,” a small smile came to his lips, “But a hero should already know that.”
“I…didn’t sir,” Solomon felt his face heat up.
“Virtues save me,”
“Master Solomon,” Benharren chuckled at them, “You needn’t stand on ceremony when we’re out in the field. His majesty is trying to help you get comfortable.”
“Yea kid, loosen them knickers of yours!” a shout came from the knights behind them, followed by laughter.
“Look Solomon,” Garrod turned to him, “I understand that you chose to be my squire because of my heritage, but there is more to being a hero than wielding one of the sacred weapons.” Solomon nodded as he listened intently, “And the first lesson is to know when to let things go, because if you don’t…then you’ll break.” Garrod’s gaze turned distant.
“I don’t understand,” Solomon said.
“Heroes carry a heavy burden,” Garrod said with a sad smile, “Few have the spirit to be one, and even fewer who can keep at it. That’s why the Virtues gave the weapons a flaw.”
“How are the weapons flawed!”
“The weapons were made to combat the Dead Gods and their abominations, but they are useless against everything else,” Garrod laughed, “That way they can’t be abused.”
Solomon scoffed, “A hero wouldn’t do that,”
“Some would,” Garrod gave him a knowing smile, “Humans are capable of good and evil in equal measure. It’s why the Dead Gods keep gifting us their books, so they can take advantage of us,” he gave Solomon a stern glare, “It’s important for a hero to know the evils they are capable of, otherwise they are doomed to fall.”
Honoring a fallen mentor.
Everything turned white as the memory changed.
This time Solomon rode at the head of a column. The light left their eyes as they looked upon the horrific scene. Bodies littered the ground, many torn apart by the undead monstrosities. Broken wagons laid on their side with burned sides. They made their way into the carnage, and Solomon’s eyes fell onto the body of a dark-skinned man with multicolored tribal tattoos.
“Did anyone survive?” Solomon said.
A cry answered, and Solomon ran deeper into the camp. The cry came from underneath a broken wagon tarp. Solomon lifted the cloth and found a young woman with purple-black hair with color shifting tattoos holding onto two small children. There was a hole in her gut. The children in the woman’s arm were torn in half. The color from their skin long gone.
“Ma’am, you’re hurt,” Solomon said placing a hand on her wound.
“Leave me!” the woman said, “Let me die with my babies.”
Solomon began healing her wounds, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” he said.
The woman fell unconscious as the healing took the last of her strength. Solomon and his men set up camp. They put the woman in a tent to rest while the men began cremating the bodies. Solomon sat next to the woman, brushing the hair from her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
“Where am I?” she said.
“You’re in our camp,” Solomon said, helping her drink from a waterskin. “My men are seeing to the bodies of your people.”
“You should have let me die,” she said tears flowed from her eyes, “There’s nothing left for me here.”
“Don’t say that.”
“My husband and children are dead. My clan is gone. What do you think I have left!” she said with a glare.
“You have your life,” Solomon said taking her hand.
Tears ran down the woman’s face, “What should I do?”
“You…can join me,” Solomon smiled at her, “I’m aware of how skilled the vygaern are in battle. Your skills would be a godsend, and I’d be honored to have you at my side.”
“Fight?” The woman wiped away her tears, “You’re right. If I did nothing, it would bring shame to my husband and children.”
“What’s your name?”
“Schybara,” a fire burned in her eyes.
A broken spirit reforged in love.
The memory changed.
Solomon stood on a battlefield. The corpse of a Wight General laid at his feet, and Schybara stood next to him breathing heavily. Many soldiers laid dead alongside the corpses of the undead. The survivors tended to the injuries, many would soon succumb and join the dead. Priests wandered around the battlefield, chanting their prayers warding off the lingering necrotic energy with the Virtues’ divine.
“Another victory,” Schybara said, her wounds healing in the light of her aura, “Our second in ten days.”
“But the casualties are high, again,” Solomon said, “We should head-”
“Master Solomon!” a soldier ran up to them, “Come quick!”
They followed the soldier across the field and stopped in front of a fallen soldier. His face was deathly pale, but his chest rapidly rose and fell. His helmet lay next to him with large clumps of red hair on the ground. Solomon stared in horror at the black and gold gauntlet on his left hand.
“Damn fool!” Solomon said kneeling next to the body, “What would possess you to wear a cursed gauntlet?” He laid his hands on the man’s left arm, divine energy fighting against necrotic.
The boy gasped between breaths, “M-Myraelle…I’m sorry.”
“Go get another priest!” Solomon said to the soldier, “Let’s see if we can save this idiot.”
Solomon pushed more of his divine energy into the gauntlet. The necrotic energy lashed out as dark green lightning that snapped at Solomon’s hand, but he pushed through the pain. Slowly, the divine energy seeped into the cursed gauntlet. The gauntlet started to glow with golden light, and with a thunderous clap, the aura of death dissipated. Solomon fell back as a priestess ran up to them.
“Quick, start channeling…healing into him,” Solomon said with heavy breathing, “I’ve cleansed the gauntlet, but he’s still on death’s door.” The priestess fell to her knees and placed her hands onto the soldier’s chest. Golden light entered his body. Solomon rose to his feet, “Move him to the infirmary once he’s stable.”
The memory changed to Solomon sitting next to the dying soldier. His breathing was steady, but he still looked like a corpse. Slowly, the soldier’s eyes opened.
“W-where…am…I?” the soldier said.
“You’re in the infirmary,” Solomon said, “You’re lucky we got to you in time. Why would you wear a cursed gauntlet?” the soldier didn’t speak, “Fine, then who is Myraelle?”
“A…girl,”
“I figured that, but who is she?” Solomon said giving the man a hard stare.
“She’s a girl back home,” he said, “But her father, the bastard, wasted their money and sold her into slavery,” He took a deep breath.
Solomon held up the gauntlet, “So you endangered you life in order to save her!”
“I need that!” the soldier said reaching out with his left hand. He screamed in horror. The flesh around his left arm up to the elbow was gone, revealing the bones of his forearm, wrist, and hand. The flesh around his elbow was blackened and melted.
“Be thankful it’s just your hand,” Solomon said handing him the gauntlet, “If we hadn’t gotten to you sooner, then you would have died. Unable to save your precious Myraelle.”
“T-the power…it’s gone,”
“I cleansed it,” he said placing a hand on his shoulder, “If she is important to you, then you must value your own life first. You can’t save her if your dead.”
“How can I save her now?” the soldier said with tears in his eyes.
“I'll show you how,” Solomon said, “Once you get better, I’m taking you on as an apprentice. We’ll save Myraelle.”
“Thank you,”
“What’s your name son?”
“Halligan, master Solomon. My name is Halligan.”
A wayward soul brought back.
Solomon pulled upward and the sword slowly budged. Then, the sword came free from its pedestal, and the divine energy that burned through Solomon turned into a gentle warmth. The weapon felt lighter than a normal sword, and it felt like an extension of his own arm. It felt right.
“Solomon Wise,” the Archbishop’s voice echoed through the room. Schybara stood behind him with tears in her eyes and her hands over her mouth. “Touldan has judged your soul and found you worthy. From hence forth, the Sword of Touldan is yours until the day you no longer need it.” Solomon took the sword’s scabbard from Touldan’s statue. “Go and rid the world of evil. Go and destroy the Wight King.”