The Guardian

This story may contain cemeteries undead and magic read at your discretion.

Lightning split the eternal night, illuminating the path between the headstones. In the years I had been trapped in the cursed city of Cho Wren, the darkness had never let the lightning show. I hoped more strikes would appear. The dead milling around seemed frozen by the sudden light; even the shadowy wraiths that devoured the life from the living seemed frozen by the brilliance.

I caught the outline of a crypt and hoped it was the right one this time. It was hard making my way along the path. My joints seemed stiff and swollen from the storm, no doubt. I thought of my youth as I shuffled past the walking corpses wandering mindlessly amid the graves. The sun was warm on our faces when we marched in gleaming armor for the empire’s glory. We were the victors at the battle of Marrow and Constopolies. Then there was the bad one, Venricothon. I took a spear through the thigh, and still, we fought outnumbered, ill-equipped, and yet somehow, the Emperor led us to victory. Thirty to one, and we survived but not without our losses. Mirian, Tros, Balair, Quinathis, and many more brothers and sisters in arms die for the empire’s glory. If they could only see what has become of our great land, they would weep as I wept for them and how their sacrifice was wasted as the darkness fell upon the city.

Another flash of Lightning and something stirs amount the tombs stretched out along the hill. I feel it watching, my hand resting upon my sword; I don t recall gripping it. It’s half drawn, and the mist is rising from the ground, grayish tendrils swirling in a slight breeze; the walking corpses have shifted in their routine movements and walk away down the hill. What could make these things move in an ordered fashion away from this place? I continue along the path, broken stones twisting away with each step, just like our fallen on many battlefields. I have to move slowly or risk falling among them. I have no wish to lay broken amount the stones of the path where ghouls seek human flesh. There are the worst things in the dark. I wish to meet them no more than a ghoul seeking a meal.

The wind picks up, swirling my cloak as the first drops of rain splash against my face, odd this rain. I feel their impact, but it is not cold, warm, or wet. Phantom rain perhaps falling from the cursed darkness itself, we are robbed of even this comfort? I recall the rain on warm spring days with Shaliie and Dren. I miss them terribly, but with the threat against the Emperor and the demands of the insane cleric of Ogh, I knew they had to leave the city to safety far from here. You do not take chances when a God threatens your people. It is well that the Sorcerers were present when the attack came. Their ritual must have prevented the worst of God’s wrath.

I was there at the ceremony’s beginning, but I do not recall what happened. I have searched for something just out of my memory reach for many years; I know it is mine, and I must have it back. This crypt calls to me. I feel a pull toward this place more potent than before. I feel strength returning to me, and I rush toward the tomb. The urgency is painful, as if some part of me has been ripped out and screams to be whole again. I do not understand why this should feel so real, yet it is what I think that I know to be true. I run over the crack and loosened stone of the path as they tear away from the mortar that once bound them together. The crypt seal is steel and mortar, I assault the door, tearing at the bolts that hold it, but they won’t move. I throw myself against the entrance, armor clanging against the stone, and granite chips fly into my face. I fall to my knees, defeated, weeping for that thing I wish most restored to me.

“Did you think it would be so easy, Legionnaire?”

I know the voice; I rise to one knee, saluting my Emperor.

“Your search has lasted long, MY Guard; you have duties to attend to, yet you still search for the soul you gave me willingly.”

I risk a look at MY Emperor. I do not understand Why he wears a bone mask or how the eyes have changed to flames in the skull he wears. I know it isn’t a mask. I see the skeletal arm sliding from his gilded sleeve, gleaming through the torn leathery skin of his once handsome face is his skull. The memories come rushing back to the ritual, the tokens he asked of us in allegiance to the empire, the sorcerers, and their blades. I lay my hand on the crypt again, feeling the thing inside calling me. My fingers trace the name engraved in the stone door Qui, my ancestors’ tomb, and I understand.

“Yes, my warrior, you understand; it is hidden away where it will remain safe as long as you obey.”

He lifts his hand, and the ring is there, the promise from one heart to another in honor and love. Within the golden band, the spark that is my soul glows softly; then, the ring is gone. I feel the moment it leaves this plane and the anguish wells within me; what have we done?

“You have duties to perform Ginju Qui at the gates. Find your way there soon, and this trinket will remain safe,” he says as he fades into the mist. My Emperor, that undead thing hovering between life and death in exchange for power vanishes. I would tear it apart If I had the chance. I look at the reflection pool of my ancestors, and lighting strikes again. I see the rotting flesh on my face and the burning hatred for my Emperor.