The Black Chapel
II
Pure white moonlight cascaded though the
skylight, a lying calm and beauty drifted in the air. Two black-stained
doors flew wide open into the darkness that dwelled within whether torches
were lit or not and Nicholas Bhyd burst into the chapel. He was soaking
from the storm that had raged outside: a cold, harsh winter rain that began
for no reason this evening and ceased for the same. Perhaps Lark
knew about his dear Tara and had sent her tears in mourning.
He wore a midnight black
cloak, chemise and breeches, as was the dress of the priests of Kraz.
A gold chain had worked its way out from under the chemise and hung loosely
about his neck. It had been a gift from his beloved many years ago,
in the foolishness of young love. As he felt the weight of the chain,
for a brief moment his thoughts wandered back to that summer day when they
had exchanged not only gifts, but also vows of eternal love, and their
blood had mingled in each other’s veins for the first time.
A great clap of thunder
jarred him back to the present and the tremendous grief that bore upon
his soul. He carried in his arms a limp figure, dressed in a blood-red
gown that was garishly marred by a stain upon the breast.
Nicholas moved swiftly to the altar, which was illuminated by the harsh
moonlight. There he laid the limp figure, and held its hand – it
was still warm. “Dear beloved,” he whispered. “Dear beloved,
come back to me.”
She moved her head slowly, excruciatingly, to look at him. He
placed his hand beneath her head to steady it, and gazed at her long, midnight-black
tresses. Her eyes were deep green pools from which sprang a river
of painful tears. She reached her hand to touch his flushed cheek,
and forced a loving smile. He tried to smile in return. It
was impossible. “Dear love,” she said, her voice only a floating
whisper. “Do not forget me. I shall love you even in death.
Do not forget me.” She rose to him, and their lips met. She
spent the last of her breath in a kiss that singed his soul far deeper
than any fires of Hell could have ever done.
She fell limp in his arms,
and he cried into her bosom. His tears of grief mingled with the
blood that still flowed from the wound that had pierced her heart.
When finally the flood had run dry, he leaned away, gazing fixedly at the
wound. He envisioned the swift flash of the dagger that had so expertly
killed her, the dark shadow with which she had fought so briefly.
He had known who it had been almost as soon as the figure had emerged from
the shadows – as if it were a shadow itself. The infamous Master
of Thieves, the great undead assassin: the Immortal Darkness of Bridgeville.
Tara’s temper had swiftly flared: the Master of Thieves was a scourge to
the order of the Black Hand; he had been waging a one-man war against them
for two centuries. Nicholas knew it had been a mistake the moment
Tara had leapt into action. It had torn his soul asunder when she
had fallen and the demon thief disappeared into the shadows from whence
he had come.
The tears began anew as
he stood, blurring his vision. He took his dagger into his hands
and turned both palms up to face the altar, a demonstration of both his
prowess and his subordination to the great Kraz. “The… Darkest… Kraz,”
he intoned in the language known only to the priests of the Black Hand.
“I am your greatest servant. I wish blood upon these hands.
You are no god of justice; I seek no justice from you. I seek vengeance.
I seek my loss to be repaired ten thousand-fold. I seek the height
of your power!” It was a chant, a calling taught only to the innermost
circle of Kraz’s black servants, the most powerful demand of the Black
Hand.
As he spoke, he felt himself
lifted from the ground just enough to remove his toes from the cold, black
marble floor. He looked about and found himself afloat within the
thick, silent moonlight, shadows flickering violent at its edge.
He felt the raw power of Kraz about him, within him: cold, black and hauntingly
ablaze within his soul. A black hand reached from the depth of his
mind, from the rotting disease of his heart and flooded his vision.
A deafening roar filled his ears, his skin on fire, every joint and muscle
seared by the black magic of another realm.
Suddenly, too suddenly for
a cloud to have simply passed before the moon, the brilliant moonlight
ceased to surround him, and he dropped to the hard black tiles on the floor.
He felt violated somehow; something within his very soul had been touched,
transformed. It was a price he had expected. He felt the very
power of Kraz thriving within his body. He looked to his beloved
Tara, and a snarl curled his lips. Every muscle and sinew tensed
at the thought of reaping his vengeance.
He turned and strolled out
of the chapel, the shadows parting before his feet. The Master of
Thieves would undoubtedly be in the city, waiting.
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III IV
V VI
VII VIII
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