24 Hours Till The Raid

  Adrian knelt over the paupers’ graves, knees in the clay and his hands plucking out the weeds that had been growing. He had asked his older brothers to manage it, yet the vines had already taken the wooden grave markers as trellises for their growth. His eyes stared forward, and his hands dug deeper into the clay. This was as close to farming as he’d get, especially when Johnathon had decided to reinvent the family farm into a lodge.

  Anthony, at least, had the decency to try to find a job as a [Guard], but he used Adrian’s reputation for his own good far too often.

  The only person Adrian wanted to keep in contact with was Alicia Skye, but she had gone to Flowers-By-The-River as well. She was four years younger than him and Ashley, so even if Ashley hadn’t dropped out, they would never have met.

  And he knew he couldn’t complain; his family had it all—at least to the outside. Yet Mother and Father were buried here and not in the cemetery proper, though they were at least guarded by the sanctified land around Amaril’s Dawn.

  And so were Amelia and Matthew Hart, who had passed away only months after each other. Matthew was devout—if a bit too simple—and never meant to harm anyone. He had received advice from the Florans about the shelf life of corn and how it’d help the Phoenix Queen in her expansion war.

  The Florans didn’t tell him that only growing corn would ruin the fields, since they figured they’d be able to repair the damage they caused. But like most clergy, the demands of the state mattered more to them than the petition of the people.

  His fingers bled, and he instinctively sucked in air. He ground his teeth together, his thoughts lost on whether that criticism was important. He was a [Paladin], and represented the institutions—even if it was more for Amaril than Flora.

  Yet Amaril didn’t save Amelia either. She had taught him how to read and write and told him stories with her own daughter. Mother was distant, far more concerned with the taxes and denominations of coins. Amelia would make him a hot meal and read him stories of the [Templar], an organization that had long faded.

  Amelia too faded. Dragonpox coated her skin in its blotchy, scaly segments. Bubbles and pustules formed against her skin. Matthew was too far out with Flora—hoping the services he provided would let the clergy make an exception on the cost.

  They did not. Adrian saw the light fade from Amelia’s eyes, and then the hope and desire to live fade from Matthew.

  Both told him Ashley would come to visit, and then rationalized that she was far too busy with school for something simple like that.

  Adrian hated lying, but knew that not answering Amelia when she asked if her daughter had written to her was the same as telling a lie.

  It was the first time he ever lied, and he had hoped he would never have to repeat it. That was proven wrong time and time again, and that sin always weighed on his soul.

  Like what he had told Ashley: Amelia’s last words were to a nothing-figure, telling her how beautiful she had become and how proud she was to finally see her. She died thinking her daughter finally came. No promise was ever made.

  Adrian closed Amelia’s overjoyed eyes and set up the sanctification fire as he was taught. Matthew died from grief a few months after—and he too was burned. Adrian was slated to die from the disease too.

  Yet Amaril saw the hate and sin in his heart and “blessed” him, when Father Farrow offered him a chance to join the Academy.

  A life away from his nothing family. Of course they’d be paid.

  But more importantly? A chance for a nothing [Farm Boy] to make a difference.

  Adrian Skye was immune to disease.

  One of the first gifts of Amaril—the ones that separated a [Knight] from a [Paladin]. Father Farrow told him it was a blessing.

  His attention shifted away from his parents’ graves and toward Amelia and Matthew Hart’s markers. Of course the weeds had claimed these too, since their only daughter couldn’t be bothered to…

  He bit his tongue again. Alone and silent, this was the real him. In his thoughts, he knew he was a sinner and not worthy of Amaril’s Gaze.

  A part of him despised Melissa, who never once had a kind word to say about his scrawny figure.

  A part of him despised Ashley, who couldn’t see him as a brother.

  He despised Mark, Jasmine, Mary, Laura, and all of fucking Oakheart.

  And he despised himself for thinking that way. They did nothing wrong. They were fellow people just as lost as he was.

  Ashley lost her parents and was forced into poverty by the guild. Melissa was raised by a single mother whose husband had died in the Phoenix War. Mark was just tall and conventionally attractive, but the son of Father Farrow, who had his own problems. Jasmine was the daughter of a [Whore].

  He sighed, having finished his cleaning. His palm opened up.

  The warmth extended from his hands onto the clay below. The clay shifted into soft dirt, covering the four markers in a proper blanket. Grass grew atop, and then, a field of asphodels.

  “I will ask that you go to the Fields,” he prayed, and let the flowers bloom. They blossomed beautifully, created from the divine. He smiled to himself, his hands bloodied, but his mind unburdened.

  He stood up, finishing his monthly visit to the graves. It was the only place he would not be bothered; it was a taboo to disturb the dead—or the living—in a sanctified graveyard.

  His head turned toward Amaril’s Dawn, and he walked to the church. Father Farrow and the inquisitorial knights would be awaiting him.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Ah! Lord Skye. Matron Illiya wishes to speak to you,” Brother Seed immediately pounced. Like all Florans, he wore the raggedy brown cloaks that were meant to simulate poverty and adherence to the simple life.

  And like most Florans, it was designed well. Adrian’s eyes stopped appraising him after the first glance found the tattered hole over the shoulder. Whoever actually worked and tore a hole against the shoulder?

  “Does she now?” Lord Skye responded, his brown eyes dismissing Brother Seed from his gaze. Instead, they turned toward the simple pews and altar to Amaril, and then the back doors where his private quarters would be.

  “Yes, it’s about the harves—”

  “So, nothing serious.” Lord Skye cut him off, causing Brother Seed to choke on his words. “Illiya knows how to ask for an interdiction from the Order, right?”

  “Yes, of course, but that takes time, you see, and we were hop—”

  “Get the interdiction.” Lord Skye dismissed, moving past the man.

  Brother Seed’s eyes went wide, then his brows furrowed. “Young man! This is Matron Illiya, and you do not ma—”

  Lord Skye stopped, and snapped back to Brother Seed. “Get out.” His words were soft, and although—like almost everyone else in this world—Seed towered over him, there was no misunderstanding of stature.

  Brother Seed tried to return the gaze, but Lord Skye already knew the most important way to deal with others he did not care for.

  Lord Skye broke the gaze and walked away, the conversation finished. Games of stature and status only mattered if you respected the other person. Cold dismissal—apathy—would always win.

  He heard Seed curse. Another game. If he acknowledged it, tried to bring Amaril’s law about sanctity—it meant that Seed mattered.

  He did not.

  Adrian pushed the door to the back open, and found Father Farrow standing in front of four men, each older than Adrian, and a few older than Farrow himself.

  “Ah, Adrian, my boy…” Father Farrow began, opening his arms toward him.

  Adrian grimaced underneath his scarf. “Father Farrow, I’m on duty. It’s Lord Skye.”

  “Nonsense, Adrian. Come, I was just telling these men about you, and about our hometown hero leading the crusade! Would you care for a cup of tea, lad?”

  The four men snickered, but Lord Skye’s head snapped to them. They immediately stiffened. Adrian’s gaze softened, returning to Father Farrow. He wanted to groan, to be sarcastic, to fight back—but he had been scolded many times for being too lax in uniform.

  Another thing he could never get right.

  It was easier to maintain composure.

  “Sure, Father Farrow. However, I need to talk to my men.”

  “Of course, lad.”

  The wizened man hobbled out of the lounge, and it left Lord Skye with his knights.

  They eased back into their chairs. “Skye, what the hell was that?” Bartholomew called. “You doing okay, bud?”

  Skye lowered his scarf and leaned against the wall. He would have loved to tell his right hand everything—to share his thoughts and the growing storm inside him. But he had to lead. He didn’t have to lie.

  Skye finally locked eyes with Bartholomew, and lowered his head. “We are marching to our deaths. I don’t know if five people can kill a [Vampire Lord]...”

  Maximilian rose and rested his hand atop Skye’s shoulder. His blonde hair was long and smooth, and if Skye wasn’t aware the man came from [Fishermen], he would have thought he was a noble himself.

  “We’ll be fine. Nyla’s water blesses us, and besides, we have Amaril’s Son with us.”

  Lucas scoffed at that sentence. “Right, fish-boy. Because we’re near a damned ocean.”

  Skye quickly looked at him. He wasn’t a [Paladin], so those high standards people expected of Skye weren’t for the knights. He envied it.

  Max rolled his eyes. “All water. The rain, your blood…”

  Lionel stared at Adrian. “Are we going to die, Skye?”

  The truth, or a lie?

  I don’t know. I really don’t. That was what Skye wanted to say. But that would cause panic among the men. Saying no was a lie. And yes was far too depressing.

  Bartholomew looked at Skye’s face, then turned to Lionel. “If we die, we die for a good cause. Sick bast—” Bart paused, then continued. “Sick Count has been desecrating the bones and stealing souls.”

  The three others fell silent.

  “A [Vampire Lord] can’t do that,” Skye added, glad Bart covered his weakness. “I suspect there’s a [Vampyre] too.”

  That caused Maximilian to raise an eyebrow. “You just said the same thing twice.”

  “...They just sound the same. One’s a night-thing, the other’s a man—or whatever excuses itself as one,” Skye responded quickly.

  “Okay? And why does that matter?”

  “...Only those blessed by the Enemy can manipulate souls,” Skye recited.

  “Look, Skye, we get you’re smart, but no one likes it when you do this. Just tell us what that means, so I know how angry I have to be,” Lucas cut in. Lionel nodded. Even Bart turned his attention fully to their commander.

  “Free will is divine. It is one of the few things no divine caster can create. We cannot create a soul—they are given to us by Amaril, by Flora, by Nyla—whoever you believe granted it,” Skye explained.

  “Okay?” Lucas snarked.

  “...So, the only way to make something do complex tasks that require reason and thought is to have a soul. The Enemy cannot use divine, but can use arcane—which manipulates. She can take a soul and force it to do her bidding. This can be anything from the Dreaded Legion—the army the Phoenix Queen opposes—to one [Vampyre] I killed who had turned her husband’s soul into an automated door opener.”

  “...What?” Lucas responded, about to laugh.

  Skye glared at him, but continued. “A soul is conscious and kept alive, unable to act on its own—only to be commanded. They will never know their creator’s grace unless they are freed. The Phoenix Queen, in her…” Again, he had to stop himself from insulting the institution.

  “Stupid ideas,” Bart finished for him.

  Skye rolled his eyes, but nodded. It was a game he had to play. “Allows monsters to live until they cross that line. Soul manipulation is definitely a line they cannot cross. Besides rampant murder.”

  Lionel immediately made the sign of Amaril, and Maximilian opened his sacred flask.

  “Fuck, man…” Lucas just muttered, and Skye stopped Bartholomew from correcting him in the holy grounds.

  “Bartholomew.”

  “Lord Skye?”

  “Get the men rested and fed. We’ve twelve hours before we move out. We’ll be attacking at night.”

  “...Night, for a vampire?” Lucas asked.

  “I don’t want the civilians there to be hurt. Thankfully, they are allowed to go home. The only ones remaining are night-things,” Skye explained.

  However, Bartholomew stepped in. “Knight. Stop questioning your commander. If you’ve a question regarding the decisions, you will bring it up to me in private. Skye might be new to the organization, but it is not grounds for you to start questioning it.”

  Skye gave an appreciative smile to Bartholomew, and Lucas lowered his head. “Yes, I apologize, my lords.”

  Maximilian looked at Lionel, and the two nodded. “Lord Skye?”

  “Yes?”

  “May we go out to town then, on the grounds that…”

  Skye looked at Bartholomew. The older man returned his gaze and nodded. “You may,” Skye answered.

  The three of them cheered, and Bartholomew went to join them. “You’re not coming, are you, Lord Skye?”

  “No. I have things I need to think about.”

  “Don’t worry. Amaril won’t let his Son have a widow before she’s wed. And, hopefully, after—not until your fifth kid.”

  Skye smiled at Bartholomew, glad to have a small group of friends. He didn’t care much for the institution, but loved this.

  When the four left, all that remained was to unburden his soul to Father Farrow.

  He was glad there was a seal of confession, and no outsider would know.

  The Raid Is Imminent

  After the men were allowed their fun, and then rested, they performed simple drills. Practice, practice, practice.

  The five of them mounted their steeds and carried their silvered weapons. They rode around Oakheart, through Lyrelle Forest.

  Adrian sensed a [Night-Thing] moving away from the mansion, toward the farmlands, but that wasn’t his concern.

  When they broke out into Upper Oakheart, the corruption was imminent. The ground was gray and decaying, and the region looked like rot. Bartholomew looked about, confused and worried. “What is this?”

  “...Blight. Ashley was right—there is a blight,” Skye said, looking at the dirt. “Lionel.”

  “Yes, lord?”

  “Collect a sample for the [Agronomist]. I will find out who did this, since it was not Elias,” Lord Skye commanded.

  “Yes, my lord,” Lionel stated, pulling out a sanctified vial to place the decaying floral matter into.

  “What’s that mean for us, my lord?” Maximilian asked.

  “It means that you four will be taking front guard, and I am going to sanctify the land.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the four answered, as they approached Hawthorne Manor.

  It was beautiful, massive, and well above even Adrian’s pay grade. The ground below was gray and withering.

  “Amaril, First of the Nine, Lord of Light, Giver of Breath, and Keeper of Life… I ask of thee…” Adrian began. The four huddled around him, as the lights on the manor flicked on.

  Burning, golden light broke through the darkness of the night and began to touch Adrian’s body, and then the dirt below.

  “The Enemy has claimed this land, and draws from its breath. My beloved Father, Divine and Righteous—burn it away.”

  The golden light flooded Oakheart Common, as black mist seeped out. Blood poured from the dirt, and the screeching of the damned began to encompass him.

  Adrian’s eyes opened, feeling what was inside: nine night-things, and one lord.

  He chuckled, relaying that information to his crew.

  “We’re going to have a fun night,” Lord Skye stated, as the sun broke through the night.

  Amaril's Gaze was upon the Manor — Dawn was approaching.