Chapter 8c: Lithor's Run

Leaving the priests behind, he continued on. He intended to walk to the Duke's palace and report the horrid affliction of his priests to the Duke himself. The Duke would send his guards to capture the sick priests, and hopefully a cure would be found for the disturbed men. If not, he would have to send a message to the order and have new priests brought in. He hated training new men. It would take months to show them how to perform their duties to the Piet’s exacting ways.

Within minutes, he reached a fork in the road. His tired body begged for rest, but this business had to be taken care of as quickly as possible. He turned to the northeast road, toward the castle. The south road led to the holy temple of Vaspar. He was intimately familiar with both roads.

Piet Lithor's clothes were soaked completely through and his breath wheezed in and out of his lungs as the walls of Castle Renier appeared between the trees in the gray, drizzle-filled distance. Relief coursed through his tired body. His pace quickened.

As the wall got closer, he noticed the blurred forms of people wandering across the road, back and forth along the wall. Odd. I wonder what’s brought so many people out on such a foul day?

A guard stepped out of the trees, a short distance in front of him. Piet Lithor waved his arms at the man while calling out in a breathless strain, “Guard…guard. I need your assistance right now!”

The man’s head flew up and his arm reached out as if asking for assistance. Piet Lithor stumbled backward; the relief he felt dissolved with the speed of a spoon of sugar in hot tea. His call not only gained the attention of the guard, but also a dozen other citizens who began stumbling in his direction. No! This can’t be happening. Has the entire world gone mad?

He turned and fled. Fear replaced his exhaustion and humbled his self-righteousness. He blindly ran through the drizzle as it grew into a downpour. His wet and filthy robes clung to him like a second skin, a discomfort that he hardly noticed. He had to get somewhere safe. Is there such a place, a place where the deranged masses couldn't go?

Vaspar. The holy temple of Vaspar.

Through the sheets of rain, ghostly outlines became visible on the road ahead - shambling, terrifying forms.

Piet Lithor stumbled off the road into the trees. The canopy of leaves lessened the downpour as he cut across the leaf-covered earth, huffing and dodging around the many obstacles he encountered. Cutting through the forest shortened his run to the temple. He broke through the foliage and onto the open road in no time.

The temple sat off the road before him. Trees shrouded the structure, hiding the beautiful stonework and stained glass in shadows. The Piet didn’t remember the building ever looking so ominous before.

A group of people stood in a line, just past the community well that served as a gathering spot for the parishioners. They stood and stared at the holy temple as if waiting in anticipation.

He stopped and stared at the temple. Faces peered out through the narrow openings that served as windows. Fear masked the people’s faces. He recognized Dray, the winemaker. His wide eyes stared out at the waiting people while Lana, the wife of the blacksmith, said something to him and pointed to the well. Whatever she had said he ignored.

Why didn’t the people at the well go inside? They stood as if held back by an invisible barrier. The thought nagged at his mind only a moment before he realized what it all meant. Holy ground! The ones at the well were inflicted by the vile curse that had turned his priests and the rest of the city into lunatics, and they couldn’t approach the temple because it sat on consecrated soil. The ones inside were like him, normal and sane. That had to be it.

He took one last look at the human line standing behind the well and made his decision. Holding the Sword of Tyrana before him with both hands, he ran towards the crowd of madmen, toward the temple. As he approached, the sword burst into blue luminescence and the crowd turned to face him. Their blank eyes gazed into his very soul with a madness and hunger he didn’t think possible. He didn’t slow as he crashed into their midst and barreled through, knocking one poor soul to the ground, past the invisible line. He almost tripped as he stepped on the soft stomach of the fallen woman and continued to run towards the temple. He reached the steps as the mindless woman thrashed in silence on the ground; water and mud splashed into the air as she convulsed. He reached the door and beat on it with the pommel of the holy artifact while the woman’s skin began to blister and smoke. The door opened and hands pulled the high priest into the temple as the woman’s thrashing subsided into weak flinches and her skin dissolved over her skeleton and dripped onto the holy ground.

“Thank Vaspar you made it here safely, Piet Lithor!” a tear filled voice said.

In front of the temple, the woman’s flesh smoldered and dissolved away from a blackened skeleton.

Chapter 8b: The Gate

He had never opened the portcullis before; that task belonged to brother Craige, who must have succumbed to the illness before the task could be done. If Brother Craige could open the gate, then he shouldn’t have a problem with it. He backed toward the wall, keeping the stumbling priests comfortably in view. Their lurching forms slowly advanced, but if he could find the gate mechanism he could still escape before they reached him.

He turned and immediately saw the wooden door, intricately carved in the likeness of his God, set into the support pillar of the gate. He pulled on the nose and lifted the door, shaking his head at his own sacrilege, exposing a plate-sized steel wheel with wooden handle at the top. This is going to be easier than I thought.

Holding the sword behind him to keep the priests at bay, he reached in and pushed the handle in a clockwise direction. The wheel didn’t move. He pushed the other way. The wheel still didn’t move. With wide eyes, he looked over his shoulder, making sure the priests were still a safe distance away. They shuffled toward him, but the priests still had a ways to go before they would become a threat. The Piet leaned the sword against the wall and grabbed the wheel handle with both hands. He pushed the wheel again, and it began to move, and the portcullis lifted an inch. Pushing the wheel took all of his not-so-considerable strength. It was a fight to get the wheel to turn even one revolution, but with sweat mixing with the constant drizzle, he kept turning the wheel until the portcullis sat a few feet off the ground; high enough for him to crawl beneath it.

He pulled his hand from the wheel and it spun backwards, lowering the portcullis. He dove into the box, grabbing the handle with both hands and stopping the wheel.

“Oh blessed Vaspar, aid your humble priest.” Though not completely true, it was a statement he mouthed whenever a project exasperated him, and this particular chore had him exasperated beyond measure.

With both hands in place, he lowered his head to his sleeve and tried to wipe some of the sweat and rain from his eyes. The damp sleeve didn’t help.

A splash erupted behind him. Piet Lithor’s neck crackled, twisting to look over his shoulder. Brother Rayne tottered thirty feet behind the panicked high priest. He couldn’t let go of the wheel to grab the sword so he swung his head back to the wheel, looking for a latching mechanism. His gaze darted all over the shadow-cloaked box, seeing nothing. Then he saw the dark line of a bar sitting flush against the side of the box. He let go of the wheel with one hand and slapped the bar down, wedging it against the handle. The portcullis dropped an inch before hanging in place.

Piet Lithor didn’t stop to congratulate himself. Driven by fear and necessity, he reached for the Sword of Tyrma and wheeled around to face the threat that stumbled toward him. The sword's blue glow erupted down the blade at Piet Lithor’s touch. He swung the artifact up, creating a barrier between himself and Brother Rayne, a blue arc of light like the afterimage of lightning it dissipated just as fast. Brother Rayne did as brother Foster had, turning his head aside and holding his hands up before his eyes as Piet Lithor backed toward the portcullis.

His back touched the gate and he squatted down, sword held protectively in front of him. The other priests were still advancing a short way behind brother Rayne as the Piet lay on the ground and scooted through the gate, mud and grit staining the front of his white morning gown.

Appalled at his filthy appearance, but wanting to get as far away from the sick priests as possible, Piet Lithor ran up the tree-lined road as fast as his tired body could carry him. Before he lost sight of his home, he looked back. The priests stood at the portcullis, hands reaching through the iron bars like prisoners asking for food. None of the mindless men had the sense to crawl under the portcullis. A half-hearted smile crossed his lips as he witnessed their ignorance.

Chapter 8a: Lithor's Artifact

"The righteous will scatter before the unrighteous like dust is blown from an ancient book."

~Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book

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Piet Lithor stood in the entryway of his home, standing on the balls of his feet, his eye shoved against the peephole in the door. He studied the courtyard, where Brother Rayne and Brother Foster aimlessly shuffled through the drizzling rain and short grass, neither paying any attention to the other. They looked foolish, tottering back and forth on their bare feet and bloodstained robes. Brother Foster’s small hat, a symbol of his divine authority, had slid down his brow, almost covering his eyes, adding to the ludicrous appearance.

He looked past the priests, to the front gate. His priests always locked it at dusk and unlocked it at dawn. He needed to know if it had been opened before everything fell apart. The well partially blocked his view and his vision blurred when he tried to look at distant objects. He moved his head sideways, to get a better angle on the peephole, but the peephole was small enough that it didn’t help.

“Blasted well!” he growled in frustration, momentarily forgetting that silence was his friend. He cringed and looked over his shoulder, making sure no one heard. Other than the faint sound of water dripping from the eaves, silence still filled the house. He didn’t think anyone remained. When he had finally gained enough courage to leave his room, the mansion stood empty of living souls. He hadn’t heard the shuffling footsteps of his deranged priests or seen them stumbling about. The only priest he had seen was poor Brother Clay, laying in a pool of blood; his insides strewn about him. Piet Lithor had never seen so much blood. He didn’t realize the human body could contain such a quantity.

He felt remorse for Brother Clay and more than a little shame at his own actions. He should never have left the faithful priest to defend his retreat. He should have been a braver man and stood with Brother Clay. The priest may have been saved if Piet Lithor would have stayed and helped him. Of course, they might both have been killed, and what purpose would that have served? He hated his cowardly actions, but had he stayed, he would have died beside the priest, his blood and organs would now be mixed with the faithful man’s. Yes, he had made the right decision.

Holding the sword to his side, he bowed his head and said a quick prayer for Brother Clay, that his soul be well recieved by Vaspar. The prayer only lasted seconds. His situation didn’t allow time for such niceties, not when maniacs roamed the halls and grounds of his home. His eyes opened and he scanned the room to make sure none of his priests were sneaking about. The room stood empty and quiet.

With a short prayer to Vaspar, Piet Lithor cracked the front door open. The creak of the hinge reverberated through him like a hammer on a gong. Cringing, he peaked through the crack to see if the two priests heard the noise. Brother Rayne had stumbled and fallen and was pushing himself upright, wobbly shoulders tipped precariously to the side. Brother Foster had walked out of Piet Lithor's narrow line of sight and was nowhere to be seen.

“Have faith in almighty Vaspar. He saved you once, and I doubt it was just to let die an hour later on your doorstep,” He mumbled to himself.

With a steady push, Piet Lithor opened the door enough to get his portly body through the gap. Brother Rayne struggled on his knees, still working to get himself in a standing position. The Piet had seen him in this submissive position almost every day for the past seven years as the priests prayed together to Lord Vaspar. The memory both saddened the high priest and terrified him, reminding him that the man kneeling in the grass hadn’t been a mindless killer twenty-four hours earlier.

He still couldn’t find Brother Foster.

Cocking his head to the side and stretching out as far as he could reach without leaving the dry safety of the entryway, Piet Lithor looked toward the front gate. Even with the well out of the way, the drizzle and his poor vision worked against him. The blurred portcullis looked to be open, but the fuzzy shadows made it almost impossible for him to tell. He would just have to go and hope for the best.

He stepped into the drizzling rain and stopped. Five feet to his right, hidden by the edge of the entryway, stood Brother Foster. The hat-wearing priest no longer appeared ludicrous to Piet Lithor with his hands rising to grasp the high priest and his mouth open in silent hunger.

Piet Lithor stumbled backwards, automatically lifting the holy sword of Tyrmra between himself and the grasping priest. The blade glowed with a foggy blue light and the handle quivered as if appalled or hungered by the abomination facing it.

The mad priest’s head turned to the side and his hands lifted to cover his face, as if ashamed of what he had become in the face of such a holy relic. Piet Lithor side-stepped around Brother Foster and towards the front gate with the sword held between them. His eyes only left the sick man to see where the other priest stood. The priest stepped back, never dropping his hands or turning his head.

When Piet Lithor stood between the priest and the gate he ran. His heavy frame hadn’t moved so fast in years, and he gasped for breath, pushing the ache that painfully formed in his side. As he reached the gate, he turned to see what the priests were doing. Brother Rayne, his bloodstained robes now filthy with mud and grass, stumbled toward the high priest along with the recovered Brother Foster. Other priests, ones that Piet Lithor couldn’t see from the entryway, shuffled through the yard in his direction. He knew each lax face that swayed in his direction and felt a twinge of betrayal. He had known all the men for years, and now they were after his flesh, his blood, maybe even his soul. After all of the things he had done for them year after year, this was the payment he received. He shook his head, reminding himself that they couldn’t control their actions before turning back to the gate.

The portcullis blocked his exit.

Plague by Bret Jordan

Story Synopsis

Renier is a port city that stands as a glorious gem on the edge of the kingdom. The people are justly ruled by their beloved Duke with the assistance of a benevolent wizard and a self-involved priest. Within twenty-four hours everything changes as a small group of strange lepers enter the port and cause a mysterious and deadly illness to rage through the city, killing most of the residents. Violent illness and gruesome death isn’t the end of the horror for the residents of Renier. Not by a long shot, as thousands of dead bodies rise from the cobblestone streets in search of living prey. Sword and sorcery battle against an unstoppable hunger as the few living residents try and escape the walls of an undead nightmare.

"Bret Jordan's Plague blends dark fantasy and zombie horror with genuinely chilling results. You won't be disappointed - get hooked on this serial!"
~David Dunwoody, author of Empire

"Bret Jordan has created an intriguing medieval world where blood & guts zombie mayhem is delivered with the brutal edge of a sword, not the barrel of a .45. Read it - you'll dig it!"

~Vince Churchill author of The Dead Shall Inherit the Earth & The Blackest Heart

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*****PLAGUE*****

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