|
|
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.
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI
copyright november, 1999 noah mclaughlin