Kar’thun Dur

In the heart of the city of Dhunlok, on a promontory along the shear banks of the river Ki, stood the Temple of Order and of Death. Rising from the surface of the calm river, came a fog, churning over the banks into the twisting cobbled streets and broad avenues surrounding the deserted temple. Yarrow shambled up the grand stairs to the Sanctuary of the Dead and there beside him, mounted on a steed of desiccated flesh and exposed bones, rode a witch of haughty power, dressed in fine dark riding leathers and a simple white blouse. She wore a cape thrown over one shoulder that was clasped at the nape of her neck by a burnt gold pendant. Together they topped the wide stairway and entered into a large open chamber with a lofty vaulted ceiling and moonlight streaming in through yawning panes of glass set high in the wall opposite them. The clip-clop of the risen steeds hooves on the cool polished marble echoed mutely off the surrounding pillars and high walls of the inner temple. At the center of the chamber, where the silver light of the waning moon lay illuminating, Death’s altar of rough hewn stone supported the final rest of Yarroc a’Mon, King of the Kimens and Lord over the lands of Dhunlok.

At the foot of the altar, slumped against its uneven, stained side, slumbered a man wrapped in the robes of the dead. A low indistinct sound came from the priest, softly echoing through the chamber, bouncing off the walls where others lay, long entombed, disciples of Order and of Death.

“The lout sleeps through his vigil,” said the haughty witch atop her steed, “what’s more, his oafish snores fill this hallowed hall. Wake him up at once,” she said, turning to Yarrow with a glare, “and do not be gentle.”

With a staggered gait, Yarrow walked to the stone altar and kicked the slumbering man. The heel of his boot struck the priest’s shoulder and sent him to the marble floor where he lay sprawled, half his body illuminated by the waning light of the moon, the other half cast in the shadows of a dead temple. As the man slowly rose to his hands and knees, glistening red wine spilled from an unstoppered wineskin at his hip and pooled at his knees. With a gauntleted fist, Yarrow took hold of the sodden priest and threw him against the altar. There the beaten man lay collapsed.

“Bartholomew,” tisked the fair lady with vexation, “I hope all has been prepared.”

“I have done what was required of me, Ahredel,” came a pained slurring of words from the man named Bartholomew, “The Last Rite has been revoked,” he reached for the wineskin, “the blood sacrifice,” he raised the skin and drank deeply of the wine, “has been made ready. I wait only on the instrument of our Lord, the means by which He may sunder and make two whole.”

“Then your vigil is at an end priest,” said the stiff backed Ahredel, “Good Prince Yarrow carries with him the means, the instrument, by which we my offerup the sacrifice-- sunder and by sundering make whole.” And then with a cruel smile that twisted her fair face into an ugly leer, the witch of haughty power sat forward and said, “I hope you slept fitfully there against that blood soaked carving stone. Perhaps you sought one final rest, a last gasping breath to remember?” Ahredel laughed scornfully, “How sentimental,” she spat.

Bartholomew grunted as he rose to sit his back against the rough hewn stone of the altar. His red, watery eyes met the witches, holding in their depth a feverish intensity, “Let me see the blade,” he rasped, “It is time, yes? All is prepared. You say he carries the sword.” His voice betrayed him, growing hysteria mingled with his every slurred word, “show it to me,” he begged.

Ahredel, Second born of witches three, from atop her hollow, risen steed, dispassionately waved a delicate hand toward the skeletal figure of Yarrow, “Show him,” she commanded.

Tarnished armor groaned, as Yarrow a’Mon, First Sword of the River King, Eldest son of Yarroc a’Mon, Fallen King of Dhunlok, drew forth the ancestral sword of the a’Mon line. And as the blade escaped its scabbard, a different light seemed to cast itself from the moon lit steel, one that filled the hall with a warmth that oddly repelled those present.

“Concord,” wheezed Bartholomew, eyes widening as he gazed upon the sword in Yarrow’s raised hand. He took another long pull from the wineskin, emptying its last sour drops into his red stained mouth. “I am shaking, trembling with expectation,” he said, a deranged smile spreading across his haggard features, intensifying the throbbing madness in his eyes. “Tell me, Prince Yarrow, did it hurt much when it finally came? Do you remember? The fear and agony…” he paused, struggling with the last, “the final surrender? I admit to...,” he licked his stained lips, his whole body ridged with anticipation, “to not looking forward to this next bit.”

Still with Concord raised before him, Yarrow looked down on the mad priest of the dead, and with a voice of grating stone said, “Fear? Agony? Yes. I remember.” The warm light of the two handed sword seemed to give new life to his dead features. “The final surrender? That has yet to come.”

Ahredel sneered down at the terrified man, “How does one ascend if not by pain and suffering? Here we strive, pawns in the war between Order and Chaos. This Balance, our very existence, is the terrible friction of their eternal encounter. Pain, suffering, agony--they are sparks flung from the flames of Ascendancy.” A heavy, low hanging fog began to creep into the Sanctuary of the Dead, swirling in the shadows among the pillars, filling the chamber except for where the light of the moon touched the stone. “Tonight, Bartholomew, you shed the humiliating role of pawn. Tonight you will become a devouring flame. And your flame will set the whole of existence ablaze.”

The priest of Death cried out in mad exultation at the words of the witch, “Set me ablaze!” Ahredel smiled down with disdain from her haughty, stiff backed perch, and with a strained, almost reverent, voice said, “Yarrow, set him ablaze. Tonight a new god is born.”

The desiccated warrior shambled out from fog and shadow with radiant Concord held before him, and plunged the blade through tender breast of man and rough stone of altar alike. Where sword met stone a sundering occured, cleaving the altar in two halves of a whole. A deafening crash filled the sanctuary, echoing through the vaulted spaces briefly before silence returned. Bartholomew sat holding the blade that skewered him, the frenzied energy that had racked him moments before slowly dissipating,”...a new born,” he gasped, “taking its first breath,” and then was still. Into the sundered altar fell drops of blood from the wine soaked sacrifice, and there on its broad flat top rose up Yarroc a’Mon clad in the ceremonial armor of kings.

“My Lord,” said Ahredel, bowing her head, “I am at your serves, Kar’thun Dur.”