Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer: The Dark Keeper
- Ark, Library
The Dark Keeper
Magic is a double-edged sword. While the gleaming side of the blade aids man - curing our illnesses, closing our wounds and easing our daily lives - it is its darker twin which holds the most temptation for weak souls, though it carries a steep price. Invariably, the shadowy side of the mighty sword extracts its payment from the lives of those who would entrust themselves to it, twisting and using them to further its goals. Sinistra, the school which teaches this treacherous magic, is understandably ostracized on civilized continents. It concerns itself with powers that should not be toyed with: the manipulation of one's innermost thoughts and life and death itself. As the saying goes: "What is dead should remain dead."
During my travels I have encountered cases of Sinistra use; not just once, and certainly not because I practice it myself - no, I would not dare take even a single step on that treacherous path and my experiences have only served to solidify that stance. But every continent has its secret retreats where such magic is practiced, dark gorges absent solid ground and hope. Since my duty as a wanderer compels me to frequently enter the worlds of eclipse and beyond, I can give account of a warrior with arcane talents who achieved mastery of the art of fighting with forbidden magic. Our encounter was more by chance than intent...
The sky cracked and thundered. Lightning cast the parlor in its garish, ghostly glare and made the candles and fireplace flicker. Rain pounded against the windows and on the roof. Outside, the wind shook the walls, howling and screaming between every clap of thunder. I had a steaming bowl of cabbage soup in front of me. Its sour stench tickled my nostrils while I took a spoonful, blew on it, and ate. The soup was awful, but it was the only fare on offer, aside from a particularly stale chunk of bread. All the same, I had eaten worse. The shabby inn had seen better days; it was beginning to come apart at the seams, one might say. It rained an awful lot in that region - almost every day in the period between winter's bite and summer's burn - and it did not do the wood any favors. The inn and the village it belonged to were nestled in the Dark Valley; the area couldn't have been more aptly named.
In one corner of the inn, soldiers from the Order were busy carousing, singing and brawling and pulling the young serving wenches onto their laps. Most of the other patrons were peasants and farmers.
"How's it suit you?" the buxom hostess with red cheeks and patterned apron asked me. Her husband owned the tavern. She was cleaning the neighboring table, where an old swashbuckler snored away the evening.
I twisted my mouth in response.
"Well, you better be thankful we've still got cabbage. Snails robbed us of all the rest. Out of nowhere, they started multiplying and wouldn't stop, until we finally found a way to get rid of them."
"Did you hire a mage to take a look at your fields?"
"Aye, we had one of them around here. Do you have the second sight, or do you simply know more than others, foreigner?"
"Because of my gray hair and wrinkles, you mean? Don't let yourself be fooled, my dear - there's more youth in me yet than you might think. I can taste his novice spell in the soup," I replied with a tired grin.
The hostess laughed heartily. "Who are you, anyway? Folks with any decent jokes don't usually end up here."
"I'm a wanderer."
"One with a name?"
"I have none and there's no need for one."
'Oh-ho the mysterious type, ain't we? Have it your way. What do you want in our town, wanderer?"
I sipped on my stale beer. Outside, it thundered again, even louder than before. "Just passing through on my way to the Frostcliff Mountains."
"Well, you didn't choose the best time to make your journey. It's gotten mighty dangerous since the rebels set up camp in the valley," she said, glancing at the drunken Order soldiers.
"Is that why all these soldiers are in the village?"
She nodded. "These rebels are criminals, the whole lot of them. They should all be hanged! They tore in here last spring, expecting we'd be willing to give up our land so they could hide from the authorities. "Oh yes," they thought, "let's draw the peasants into our schemes!" But there they were mistaken. I'm not about to be punished as some sneak-thief's accomplice! It's not been easy for us, that much is true, but instead of risking death I'd rather things stay the way they are. I just can't understand why so many southerners support them; they're causing nothing but trouble everywhere they go..."
I ignored the hostess while she chattered to herself and turned my attention outside. Something was happening there, though clearly no one else had noticed. But I heard it through the crack of the door: the heavy, iron-shod boots splashing in the puddles on the street, horses snorting in the wet cold. Someone was coming. Instinctively my hand clutched the hilt of the blade I carried concealed under my cloak.
The soldiers' cries of laughter were interrupted by thunder, but now the deafening sound was not caused by the storm. The front door burst open, nearly tearing off its hinges with the force. A flash of lightning illuminated the silhouette of a man in heavy, black armor towering in the door frame, a tapered helmet hiding his countenance. Everything about the mysterious figure seemed deadly and sharp, as if one could cut their eyes by simply gazing upon his armor. He bore an enormous sword on his belt, glistening dangerously in the storm. Most dangerous of all, though, was the crest painted on his shield: the red-on-black hammer which formed the sigil of Kilana Hammerschlag.
For a moment the inn collectively held its breath. Then the high-pitched shriek of a woman terrified out of her wits cut through the silence. The half-drunk Order soldiers clumsily stumbled to their feet as the terrible man ducked through the doorway. He was followed by two lackeys - less tall and not as well-armored - bearing the same rebel sigil.
"Begone, rebel! You ain't welcome here," one of the soldiers slurred.
The warrior in black advanced wordlessly.
"Take to your heels before we cut your legs off!" another added, sounding less than confident in the face of the giant.
"You stink of snake, little one - and of piss-beer," the rebel said, voice dark as tar and murderously low. The blade had moved from its position on his belt into his hands.
"Get lost, you whoreson-" The soldier choked on the insult. With an ugly sound the large rebel's sword cleaved him in two. The remaining men of the Order raised their weapons, but none dared to attack the giant.
"No harm will come to you if you don't interfere," the rebel announced to the patrons, who cowered under the tables. A few immediately seized the offered opportunity and fled the establishment. "I'm afraid the same can't be said for you, however." He pointed to the soldiers.
An icy feeling of terror settled over the inn while the warrior murmured an incantation. I heard the words clearly - like an echo, they reverberated, although he made no noise. I rose, both my hands tightly clutched around my weapon.
"Sorcery! A wild mage! Run or he'll steal your souls!" one of the patrons shouted in panic while he ran to the door.
I had never seen a mage of the forbidden arts in the rebels' ranks. Either dear Kilana had changed her recruitment criteria or something here was rotten. I suspected the latter. One of the soldier's eyes rolled upward, leaving only the white of the eyeballs visible. Suddenly he lurched as if out of his mind and wheeled around with his sword held high, away from foe to face friend.
"Eltin, what in blazes are you doing?! Why are you attacking me?!" his neighbor exclaimed while fending him off.
Utter chaos ensued. More mumbled incantations from the rebel. When he finished one, a soldier collapsed, the next spell sent another man to attack his comrades. Jugs burst into pieces, tables got knocked over, panicked shrieks, explosions coming from who-knew-where, the soldiers' blood splattering on the wooden floorboards and walls, soldiers who were killing each other. They did not stand the ghost of a chance.
The warrior laughed madly while observing the massacre. Relaxed as if he was attending a theater play, he watched with relish how his puppets danced until no living foes remained. "Behold what happens to those sticking with the Order - ah!" He cut himself off with a surprised shout.
One of the common folk had grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed him through the shoulder, right under the shoulder plate.
"You vile peasant!" He pulled the pitchfork free and used it to impale the peasant against the wall. The poor man choked, hacking up blood for a few last heartbeats - then his head sank to his chest.
Paralyzed by terror, the bystanders watched how the giant examined the blood pouring out from under his armor plates. Then he walked toward the corpses and stretched out a hand above them. My right eye, the one with the special vision, gave it away: He was absorbing their energy, healing his wounds with the powers of the dead.
Dark magics completed, the warrior shuddered. "That was a mistake. I wanted to spare you - well, it's a real shame with your pretty tavern. Go on ahead, I'll be there in - let's say two moments," he told his companions, sending them outside.
He sat himself at the counter and downed the contents of another man's cup under his visor. I anticipated what he intended to do. A wizard with such powers would be able to raze the inn and the surrounding fields to the ground - the people included. I could not allow that to happen.
"You will never lay a finger on these people again." I had positioned myself behind the warrior, prepared to do what was necessary.
Slowly he turned around, eyeing me suspiciously. A muffled laugh rattled under the helmet. "Bold. But I doubt you can so much as hold a sword with your hunch, old man." He calmly rose to his feet. "Don't waste the last years of your life. Attacking me is pointless. I am immortal."
He wanted to take a step toward me, but I raised the hand I had concealed under my cloak. The counterspells had already been cast, all precautions taken. Suddenly, the warrior paused mid-stride, as if petrified. "What... what are you doing?" he asked angrily, trying to move without success.
"You seem to believe your dark magic will protect you from everything. You were mistaken."
"Leave me be!" he screamed.
Now I closed in on him. Raised my voice in a shout until the walls were shaking, grabbed the man by his helmet and, with iron will, forced him to his knees. "Nothing remains for you to be done here. You’ve caused enough suffering. I know that you do not belong with the rebels. You pursue your own goals, in the name of what you might call justice. But mark my words, whoever you are and whatever evil dwells inside you: With your dark powers you bring harm to innocents and punish them for deeds committed by their masters. Someday, it will backfire on you and your foul magic will consume your heart. For now, you will go, without protest. And when I learn that you and your men returned to attack these villagers, I will find and kill you. Have you understood?"
He nodded under fearful whimpering. As soon as I released him and let the spell preventing him to move dissolve, he got to his feet and hurried out the door. Shortly after, a rataplan of hooves resounded from the street - the men rode out of the village at a gallop.
I lowered my sword and sheathed it, so I could lean on my cane and take some of the weight off my feet - weakness washed over me in a crushing wave. The ordeal had cost a lot of my strength. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and temples. My sight had turned hazy, with colorful lights sparkling around the fringes of my field of vision. Slowly, the villagers approached me.
"Sir Wanderer, are you hurt?"
"No," I said. "I am fine. It is high time to leave this region. I've already stayed here too long."
"But you need to rest, please. You saved us, we owe you our thanks."
I brushed past the people crowding me and limped to the door, braced on my cane. On the threshold I turned. "Burn the corpses. Bodies defiled by forbidden magic seldom stay dead for long. Then leave this place."
I stepped outside, into the raging storm, and pulled my hood far over my head. The voices of the hostess, her husband and the other villagers were swallowed by the clattering rain.
In the following years I heard many tales of this arcane warrior in black armor, whose dark magic and cold-bloodedness spread terror on battlefields and within the ranks of the Order. Presumably he led an independent splinter group of rebels, who had broken away from Kilana Hammerschlag. I cannot say from whence he came originally, but I doubt he ever set foot in that village again. Back then, I probed into the darkest caverns of his consciousness to awaken his deepest fears and forever bind them to the village. That certainly did not protect the inhabitants from other dangers, and neither they nor the other settlements in the Dark Valley were spared the devastation of the conflict. I never found out the exact reason for the dark warrior's antipathy toward the Order, but delving into his mind revealed a hatred so intense that it had to be personal. For this, I have decided to call the combat style of that warrior in his heavy, dark plate armor, who knew the arts of Sinistra, the "Dark Keeper".
