Chapter 2: Interrogator

Hey guys, heres chapter two of Spectral Knight. If you want to start at the start chapter one is here.

The soul gave out a shriek of agony that only Iryl could hear. “Now then,” Iryl started his voice dripping with malice, “Tell me the truth why you attacked us. I know you are fanatical enough to stay silent to the grave, but you’re already past that point.” Iryl focused his mana into a command. “Tell me.” The soul writhed in agony, tearing itself apart with a need to obey, but fanatical cause to stay silent. The candlelight flickered in the darkness, and went out, the spirits soul-light the only source of light in the room. The interrogation was taking place in the Inns basement room, dark and windowless for secretive adventurers or light-hating visitors. Iryl although diminutive was ineffably menacing, looking up at the spectre he exuded palatable menace. The spirit spoke, a sibilant voice issuing from its lips; “I hunt evil in all its forms, for that is my redemption.” The spirits face was contorted with pain, an X shaped scar glowing red in the spectral white of the spirits face. Iryl sighed with knew that after a month John’s spirit was weakening, and soon would give in to his orders. But when would the shade of the fanatical assassin break? Iryl knew that whoever had sent this zealot to kill them must have realized that his man had failed. Another attack could happen at any moment.

Suddenly an initiate in pale blue robes barged opened the door and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “The temple of Ani requests an audience. Your frien-” and suddenly stopped the word stuck in his throat. The room was dark, yet the spectre glowed with an unearthly white light. As an initiate of the god of life the sight of the spectre must have shocked the child. Iryl started to speak to the child, but before the second syllable the child was gone. Banishing the spirit to the underworld he briskly strode outside his room and into the hallway. The light blinded him momentarily, but he strode on. The normally cheery man was grim and foreboding as he exited the inn, the sign of the Silver Star creaking slightly in the wind. Despite the weather the town square was full, for it was market day and everyone in the city was at one of Romah’s many congregation points. Guards watched the crowd, intervening in the disagreements between the people in the crowded area. Merchants displayed their wares proudly on their stalls. The farmers sold their goods at the West Gate, so here there were no foodstuffs, but here everything else was for sale. Adventurers of all races moved through the crowd in scattered groups, but for the most part they were human. Xenophobia although strong was temporarily put aside for the great motivator - greed. There were dwarven mining groups, elfin diplomats, gnomish merchants selling intricate goods and even an ogre strode through the throng, bedecked with all manner of weaponry his bare chest displayed tribal tattoos and crude piercings; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer. Tools and axes, swords and shields, pots and pans, shoes and shirts were all displayed above stalls, competing for customers. Tinkers, tailors and cobblers had stalls to repair goods; blacksmiths took orders for their forges. The citizens milled about, travellers strode through the mass buying supplies. An ogre strode through the throng, his bare chest displaying tribal tattoos; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer.

Iryl paused for a moment and waded into the throng. Being substantially smaller then most men, and not as sturdy as a dwarf he had some difficulty navigating the crowd, and soon found himself being washed away through the swarm of people. He wished he had more useful and less feared magics, with which to forge a path. Gritting his teeth he pressed on, occasionally clambering onto crates of goods, or merchant stalls in order to see where he was heading. After an exhausting twenty minutes he emerged from the crowd on the doorstep of the Temple of Morr, the ancient of death. None wanted to offend an eldar god, particularly one with such a grim reputation. The temple of Ani, the ancient of life was just around the corner. Iryl walked past the sombre, morbid temple, pausing only to flip a silver piece into the temple’s large obsidian donation bowl. Prudence payed, particularly when one worked within Morr’s domain. Momentarily he was at the temple of Ani, where again he flipped a silver into the temple’s donation bowl. Again the temples stairs were free of the crowd, although here the gap was smaller. Offering a quick prayer for Jarrod’s health, he berated himself for not thinking of his wounded companion more often, as he entered the temple.

The temple was a verdant place of life, with babbling brooks and flowing creeks pouring down miniature waterfalls, all surrounded by trees, shrubs, bushes, grasses and flowers of incredible lushness. Inside the building the grey stone of the city was gone, vines crawling up every wall, mosses and lichens covering every rock, insects and small life scurrying about. Colours seemed to explode from every flower, from beetles and butterflies, and from small fish darting about in their aquatic paradise. Around the temple there was a few scattered individuals talking to priests and praying. A group of elves were engaged in conversation with the head-priest, identifiable by the golden trims on his robe. Seeing Iryl he asked the elves to wait, and joined him. The priest started talking almost immediately, “Don’t worry about little Alex, you gave him quite a fright with your necromancy. But here we work closely with the priesthood of Morr, for as we are the guardians of the living, they are of the dead.” An ineffably knowing look entered the old priests eyes, “We all have our own paths, and despite the unlit road your path may take I think your motives wholesome. Your friend is through here.” Gesturing with his arm the ancient yet unusually spry man gestured to one of the many doors the chamber had. Door however was a misnomer; it was a gap in the vine-covered stone, where a man could pass into a smaller chamber of pristine beauty. In this smaller chamber life also emanated from every object in the room, except one. Gaunt and bony, Jarrod sat on a mound of earth blanketed with short turf in the middle of the room. Jarrod’s fine features were wasted away, his physique once the envy of every young man in Argon and the desire of every young woman, now was fit to compete with a skeleton. His hair grew wild in a dark mane, however his eyes still gleamed with mischief and life. Although he was no the brink of death, there was life and joy in his soul.

“Appears I overslept a few weeks,” Jarrod started, his voice sounding stretched, “and I was wondering when you and Ægon were going to turn up. Speaking of him, where has he got to? I can’t imagine him leaving you and me behind.” Iryl sighed wishing he didn’t have to bring the news to the remarkable survivor. “He’s dead… well kinda dead anyway…” Iryl started muttering. Jarrod shocked asked, “How in the name of ten-thousand unpronounceable gods can someone be kinda dead?! Either the kids dead or he’s not!” Iryl opened his mouth as if to explain, then suddenly turned to the venerable priest, who still had an infuriating glint of understanding in his eyes. How does this man stand there unshocked by all this? Iryl wondered before asking, “Would it be against the rules here to bring back a spirit here?” Amazingly unfazed by the question the old priest took it in his stride. “Normally we let such people do such things in the temple of Morr, but as your friend here can’t leave the temple we can make an exception.”
“Thankyou… fath-”
“Call me Vince”
Iryl suddenly focused and from an unseen portal stepped Ægon’s spirit. Iryl explained “Ægon is a spectre, a spirit given the ability to walk in this world, upon bit the material and spiritual planes on existence. However unlike wraiths he wasn’t removed from a living body, there is none of that dark influence. Unlike most spectres he can still tap into the flow of magic like he could when he was still alive. He can remain in this world by himself, although in order to explore the city he elected to stay in the spiritual plane, as around here people are wont to assume he is evil and start breaking out the torches and pitchforks.”

Jarrod, although familiar with the Iryl’s morbid magics was clearly surprised by this sudden turn of events. Vince however seamed unflappable and just nodded as if he had known all along. Ægon forced a grin saying, “Death has its advantages. I can get around easier and there are a lot of interesting people to meet.” Winking he continued sadly “Although I won’t be able to get drunk and tumble pretty ladies with you anymore.” Jarrod smiled, full of false bravado and replied “Well, you wont be able to regret it all the next morning either…” The conversation faltered, an awkward silence blanketing the room.

Cutting through the silence Vince quietly pointed out “Don’t you have something to say Iryl? You seemed awfully worried last we spoke.” Suddenly remembering his purpose here he explained to Jarrod the events since the fight in the forest, how Ægon managed to carry Jarrod, and help Orr to the guards. He told of slow weeks since that time with Jarrod’s life hanging in the balance; the time spent attempting to glean some knowledge from the fundamentalist assassin’s shade. Jarrod made the same connections as Iryl – “Someone’s after us,” the ex-guard gasped, before finishing “we better watch our backs.”

****

Some hours later Iryl emerged from the temple, a contingency plan for the next few weeks in place. Ægon and Jarrod would remain at the temple until Jarrod was fit to travel and defend himself. Iryl was to continue his attempts to probe John’s ghost for information. By this stage the day was all but over, and the lilliputian necromancer had no trouble crossing the street, the crowds had dissipated except for a few stray individuals. Iryl was soon tucking into a hearty stew in the inn, but the taste was lost on him; the filling fare reduced to tasteless mush in his mouth. Soon he returned to the basement, using the red-hot pokers of his mind on John’s helpless spirit. The spectres silent screams of agony contrasted with the steel in Iryl’s eyes; John felt every kick and every blow that Iryl had ever felt. He felt the knife Iryl had got in the ribs from an overzealous priest of Iskandos, the fires of his house burning down around him leaving only the ashes of his innocence and childhood. More then this he felt the rejection, the hatred that emanated towards Iryl for who he was born, the fear of the other children and of his fellow man. Every scar physical or mental that Iryl has suffered was simultaneously inflicted upon John’s distressed soul, and reverberated and magnified exponentially becoming a chorus of pain through John’s essence. Iryl smiled, cold and unfeeling. John confessed, his soul no longer caring for salvation beyond the end of the pain. John told Iryl everything, anything to stop the pain.

Iryl continued the torture, more pain then physically possible to inflict on the living, always increasing. Iryl stopped. He felt sickened with himself. Throwing up on the floor he emptied his stomach and still felt nauseous, wishing he had more to throw up. Appalled at himself, at the torture he had inflicted on the soul before him, even after he had the information he needed. His faith stripped bare; here was a man like any other. He had sunken to their level, could he claim the moral high ground any longer? He let go of his magical grip on the soul, letting Morr’s harvesters take the soul to its destined afterlife. Morr pictured the grim forms of Morr’s harvesters in his mind. They seemed to be spirits and cadavers in various states of decay wearing tattered black robes. Their eyes were madness, the black of knowing your own death but without insight. In their hands they carried scythes and sickles with which to harvest souls, or knives and blades to sever the spirits connection to the mortal coil.

Momentarily one of these grim entities of death appeared its teeth grinning in a gruesome grimace, its jawbone exposed by rotting flesh. Its hood covered its eyes, and in its hands was a war scythe of cast iron, so heavy no mortal man could carry it. From a rent in its robes two skeletal wings rose, as the grim harvester approached the demised fanatic. It lifted its hood as it approached, and the deceased zealot gave out a gasp. The soul disappeared, all trace of it leaving even the spiritual realm to whatever afterlife awaited him. Replacing its hood the morbid soul harvester nodded to Iryl as it followed John’s soul into Morr’s domain, where the ancient being of death judged all souls, laying all their deeds bare and sending them to their fated afterlives.

Continue? Chapter 3 is here.