Knights of the Atrocity (closed)

Prologue (revised 9/20/15)

This story is incomplete and has been shelved for the time being. Anyone interested in my work can read Rhistmaege, my newest and COMPLETED work. Thanks!

An acrid haze wafted through small fissures in the stone floor, filling the small chamber with a damp, pungent smell. Seraath Asbegath crossed the slick, ruddy floor of the ceremonial barrow carved deep beneath his stronghold and began the initiation of the latest recruit, adding to his formidable arsenal of lethality. Puckered, angry wheals traversed the rippling back of the kneeling deserter from Praagenmoor's Second Lancers. He stiffened as the Master Knight of the First Order of the Atrocity took his head into his hands. Seraath's ancient eyes locked upon his, piercing the Veil and Marking his soul, forever linking him as a member of the Atrocity.

A hooded Barrow Knight bowed his head and removed a chalice from a tarnished silver coffer and placed it upon the crumbling white stone altar in front of his liege. Seraath closed his eyes, recited the Tome's Rite in the Old Language, and began a series of intricate hand movements over the cup. A turbulent darkness stirred from all corners of the room, ebbing and flowing, intensifying into an unholy black. The recruit recoiled from the passing wispy touch, fingernails digging into palms, as it reached towards the leader of the dark knights, twisting and churning like a roiling tide, before finally seeping and settling into the wrought iron cup. Seraath raised the chalice, drank deeply, then poured the oblivion down the throat of the initiate. The ceremony was complete. The hulking man from Praagenmoor rose to his feet and received his first order from Seraath.

"Find the newborn to House Respenval at Keilvespar Castle in Steepleward. Bring it to me alive."

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At that same moment, in a faraway town, a teenage boy thrashed back and forth across his disheveled hay pallet, arms and legs twisting and seizing in a series of tremors, before he finally jerked to consciousness. Hardin Woodwrell plucked at his soaked night shift as he sat up, and wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them close to his chest.

He had lost count of how many times he had been awakened by the same recurring dream: an overwhelming presence weighing him down, threatening to suffocate and snuff out his existence, followed by a blinding explosion. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his hands together, pulled his threadbare blanket back over his bony shoulders and stared off into the darkness. It was going to be another long, sleepless night.

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The heavy door boomed shut behind the small man, trickles of dirt and small fragments of sediment falling at his feet. A series of mechanized whirls and clanks echoed down a finely hewn sloping corridor of serpentine bands of brown, mustard and red stone.  A fiery glow emanating from a small opening at the end of the hall cast a sheen upon the crooked man's vast forehead.  Beads of sweat dripped off a jagged scar on the tip of his awkward nose, soaking his tangled and matted grey beard.  Wrinkled hands hung still at his sides, ignoring the stinging burn in his vapid eyes. 

He began to wobble and leaned unsteadily forward, his paunch hanging further over his knotted twine belt.  He swayed back and forth, seeming to be oblivious to the bulging satchel hanging over his shoulder.  His legs quivered, then quaked and started to bend. Bony knees poked out of tattered breeches that were speckled with stains, splotches of dull colors creating a patchwork effect.

When at last it seemed he would buckle and drop, a melodious siren call rang out from the end of the passageway. The crooked man straightened, as a puppet come untangled, feet plodded unnaturally forward toward the beckoning voice, a jingle accompanying each jarring step.  At the end of the hall he passed through a shimmering wall of golden light, then came to an abrupt halt. A shaky hand wiped sweat from clear hazel eyes. He stretched his neck to the left and the right, leaned forward at the waist, aching to be free of the burden he carried.  But the call pulled him closer and he shuffled into a massive chamber.  The man lifted his head toward the top of the cavern and let out a strangled, garbled cry. Hazel eyes froze. Before he could blink, the crooked man was incinerated to ash. Gold coins flashed in the light, as they showered to the floor.