He pulled his warm fur cloak around him as he watched the soldiers march through the village bellow: kicking down doors, dragging out bodies, looting reserves of gold and frozen liquor. It made him a little uneasy, but he did his best to hide his distaste.
He was surprised how easy the city was to take: no standing army, no militia resistance, not even a scream on the wind. Dren and his allies made their way up the frozen tower, beset upon by fiery ghosts and terrible undead, until they found their goal: the remnant of the last Ashwalker, lord of flames. In the blink of an eye, the fight was over: the bones lay shattered on the floor, and the last true Ashwalker was vanquished.
Now, a few weeks later, the dusty tower was cleaned to make way for the new ownership. The dusty marble surfaces were cleaned, and the great golden throne was polished to make it sparking and new - only the mildew-ridden and bloodstained cushion remained, a reminder of that terrible struggle. Still, it was serviceable, at least for Dren Frostreaver.
The room was also draped in a calming silence, a silence that now was quite rewarding, and had nearly made him forget the woman next to him. She had done nothing but smile since she had entered the city. The Queen had ruled these wastes for some time, and had declared war on the world beyond. Dren had little respect for her. So little, in fact, he did not even bother to remember her name. He would simple refer to her as "ma'am", or "your majesty"...
Even more rarely: "mother".
"Soon..." she spoke. "Soon, it will be our time. I can feel it, Dren. All that stands between us now is time." "Time is the only thing that ever stands before us," Dren spoke, coldly. He hated the way she would ramble, and he was far too sober to tolerate it today. He didn't often find the need to drink, but here recently, he found it to be his only comfort, and came to rely on it.
She spoke to him for some time, but Dren did not listen. His thoughts were distant. He tried to focus on the events of the present, but found it hard. Sickening, even. He decided he would find his thoughts elsewhere, and perhaps a bottle of spiced wine to go with it.
Dren made his way down the tower and into the keep, shouting to the first servant he could find. "WINE. NOW." The servant disappeared hastily. Dren spotted half a dozen men carrying a fine coffin made of Onyx. "You there, stop."
"Y-yes, m'lord?" one of them spoke. His voice echoed with fear and respect, as though he were speaking to a prince. Dren liked that change from the normal.
"What are you doing?" Dren asked of him.
"We're taking the remains to the crypt, m'lord; it was the Lady's request that we do so."
"And where did you find such a fine coffin?" Dren inquired. The box was very ornate, and decorated with writings and illustrations in some long forgotten language. Time had worn the writing to where it was unreadable to even the best archeologist, but the symbol of a burning man with a heart set ablaze was still clear as day on the coffin's lid.
"It was here, m'lord, hidden away in storage. The Queen said it was fitting."
The servant returned to Dren with his wine. Dren took the glass and sipped it. "I wish to accompany you, if it is not a bother."
"Not at all, m'lord! Please, follow us." The men then began to carry the heavy stone coffin down the stairs. Dren finished his glass in one mighty gulp then slammed it on the ground. "WINE. NOW." The servant ran away terrified again. Dren didn't know why it pleased him to torment the boy so, but he did it regardless. He then turned to follow the procession to the crypt.
*~*~*
The crypt was freezing, far colder than Dren had suspected. Its granite floors and walls did little to keep the cold out, and seemed to instead just trap it in. It was also very long, filled with maybe a couple hundred near identical coffins: other Ashwalkers, or their followers laid to rest.
Dren knew their legend well. In his adventures, he had run into many crypts like this. Beings of incredible power: the ability to command fire, and bend it to their will. They had charred the world many times over, each time wiping the slate clean, and leaving others to rebuild when they were defeated. This cycle continued for millions of years, and Dren knew that it was likely to occur again.
 |
| The crypt was freezing, far colder than Dren had suspected. |
But unlike her, he did not grow up in a palace, where he trained to control his elemental gift; it was discovered by a powerful mage who could reverse magical curses. Unlike her, he had trained to control fire, rather than command it. Unlike her, he chose to wear that mark, before he even knew what it was. And, most importantly of all, unlike her, he had always had to take power; she was born to it.
Dren quickly became bored with the simple burial rite. The mighty coffin was placed on a great granite slab deep in the tomb, past a statue of the original Ashwalker, and a shaman came to read a few words over the remains. Dren decided to return to the keep, where he could find warmth, and perhaps find a bit more wine.
*~*~*
Dren returned to find his servant waiting for him. The servant took the bottle to pour him a glass, but Dren seized it from his hand and smashed the tray to the ground. The servant scattered to clean the broken glass as Dren drank from the bottle.
"Excuse me," a voice spoke from behind. Dren turned to see a man in a thick hooded cloak standing before him. He wore simple clothes underneath, with a bit of fine jewelry and a crooked smile. He bowed before him, and revealed a scroll that looked quite old. "I have a message for the Lady."
"I can deliver it to her," Dren spoke,"what's the message?" He took another swig of his bottle before crossing his arms.
"No, I must deliver it myself. Especially considering how much I was paid... you must be Dren Frostreaver." The man's smile was chilling.
Dren raised an eyebrow. "A good guess. And who, may I ask, are you?"
"My name is-" the man began, but Dren interrupted him.
"I don't care about your name, only your post," Dren sneered. The man laughed. "I am but a simple messenger, sent to retrieve a scroll of importance from an ancient vault far away from here."
Dren sighed, then motioned to the stairs. "She's at the top of the tower, likely trying the throne to see if it suits her. I will accompany you."
"I imagine you would," the man said. "If not, I would have insisted: you will not want to miss what I have here."
*~*~*
The Queen sat on the throne, and did her best to appear as though she was enjoying it. Dren had been around her long enough to tell that she was uncomfortable. "How is the throne?" Dren asked, only with a slight hint of sarcasm.
"I must admit... it is not as comfortable as I hoped."
"I imagine a skeleton needs little comfort. You have a visitor, mother." Dren took another swig from his bottle, met with a terrible glare from the Lady. The hooded man bowed, and offered a simple greeting.
"My Queen."
The Queen quickly became overcome with what Dren only assumed was joy. She quickly reached for the scroll, which the man gladly gave her. "Where did you find it?!" she asked.
"Oh, my lady, it was in a place far away, and is of no consequence, I'm sure." The Queen quickly unrolled the scroll, and began to read it. Dren looked puzzled. "What is it, mother?"
"A ritual," the hooded man interjected. "One you may find most interesting."
The Queen's face went from excitement to concern, then to something that resembled shock. She quickly rolled the scroll up and handed it to Dren. He opened it to find a very old text, much of it which he could barely make out. It detailed a process of becoming a Lich, an immortal undead with incredible power, and then infusing the phylactery with fire. Dren stopped there, for he knew exactly what this was: the Ashwalker ritual.
"It seems that according to this," the Queen began, "this entire place was once not frozen like it is now. The original Ashwalker performed this rite in this very place, deep within the tomb we found. It shattered the earth, and cast a great ash-cloud into the sky, making this place a barren waste land..."
Dren rolled up the scroll, then handed it back to the Queen. "Well, what does this mean for us?"
"Isn't it obvious?" She seemed quite excited. "We must begin at once."
Dren said nothing. Instead, he took a sip of his wine. The Queen stood from her throne and hurried her way down the stairs. Dren looked to the hooded man. "You know she is insane, right?"
The man smirked. "Yes, but she pays well."
"I imagine." Dren took another big drink. "You know she is the reason I took up this habit."
"A shame indeed, my lord." The man bowed to Dren. "Well, I must be off. Best to the both of you, I suppose..." The man took his bow, then made for the stairs. Dren finished off his bottle quickly, smashed it on the floor, and went in search of another.
He was too sober for this.
*~*~*
Dren hadn't realized that the crypt ran so deep. Beneath the resting place of the most recent addition lied a secret passage to a large stone room, lined with onyx. Great statues of robbed figures surrounded the room, each holding in their outstretched hands a large fire, filling the room with light. It was warmer here, but it was not the heat that caused Dren to sweat.
He found his mother, as well as a few other guards, positioned in the center of the room, next to a great stone altar. The altar was simple, but behind it was a large statue of the Ashwalker, with his skeletal arms stretched out, and his ribs open. Exposed lay a burning heart-shaped ruby. Dren had seen a million of these before, and a million rooms like it, but now that it came to this, something made him feel uneasy again, though he couldn't place it.
He approached the altar, fully armed with his sword and dagger. The guards let him pass, and his mother looked up at him as he approached. "Good, you're here. We can begin."
Dren walked around the altar, twords his mother. "So, who is to go first?"
She continued to focus on her preparation. "I think it's best we do it together, considering what happened last time someone did this." Dren wasn't expecting that. "I wasn't aware that was an option," he told her. But it did give him an idea.
He approached the altar as his mother grabbed a dagger, and sliced into her palm. She didn't even wince as she cut, spilling blood all over the altar. She motioned for Dren to do the same. He revealed his dagger, a blade he had used many times, and slid it across his palm. The magic in the blade burned the wound as blood dripped down the hilt and onto the altar. He couldn't help but wince at the pain, but shook it off and continued.
His mother flipped a few pages in her ritual book, and pointed at a line. "Here. We read this together."
Dren couldn't understand it well, but he had seen enough to know it was Abyssal, the language of the Nine Hells. He spoke each syllable carefully, and as he did, he gripped his knife tighter.
He felt his life force begin to swell inside him, circulating, them slowly approaching his center. It startled him: he didn't expect it to work so soon. He glanced at his mother, who was almost giddy with excitement. It made him sick, to see her in such joy, and this made him feel even more ill.
When they turned the page, Dren saw his chance: a seal, marking the end of the ritual. He bid his time, reading carefully, and waited until just the right moment...
Then he brought his dagger to his mother's throat, and with the fury of all his hatred spilled her blood on the altar.
She gasped and fell over, looking him in the eyes. He paused for only a moment, then lifted the book by himself, and continued to read. He, at last, realized why he felt such unease, and why he felt so ill to see some petty witch read these words: they were to be his. This power, promised by ancient pacts and scrolls, was to be his, and shared by no-one else. No-one else could contain the fury that such power would provide, and it was his duty alone to seize it for himself.
He felt uneasy, you see, because it all belonged to him, from the very moment it was made.
 |
| ...and, to Dren, nothing had felt more right. |
And suddenly, in a flash, it was all gone. The tomb, the cold, everything. Alone was Dren, left holding a dagger in left hand, and his heart in his right. His heart had turned into a fiery red ruby that buzzed with power, and his flesh was charred to the bone, marked with a bright red of flame. His robes lay in tatters. He could no longer feel the cold of the bitter winter, nor the bite of the southern winds. Even his own hatred seemed to have been scorched away.
All that remained was pure, unbridled power; and, to Dren, nothing had felt more right.
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