Tenebroum

Chapter 17: The Viscount

After the floodwaters receded, the swamp focused most of its attention on the goblin tribes and their constant wars to the west of its domain, but that did not mean it failed to explore other opportunities. While the goblins warred, and the zombies chiseled ever deeper into the earth, it always kept a watchful eye out for new victims while it explored the edges of its domain.

No matter what else it was doing, each night it devoted some time to toying with Lord Garvin. Leo had led his vainglorious charge months ago, but entering the depths in his fruitless attempt to purge the evil from his lands had given the Lich a small but permanent hold on the man. While it didn’t yet know what it wanted to do with the man or the county of Greshen that he ruled over, it enjoyed filling the man’s dreams with dread, and memories of the swamp dragon.

In time that wasn’t enough, though. With enough drink, the Count could dull even those terrifying memories, so the swamp found a fresh torment for the ruler: his sons. Leo Garvin was gifted with three strong sons, any one of which would make a fine ruler when he finally passed on, so in those nighttime hours where the darkness reigned, it began to create intricate nightmares of betrayal and treachery between the family. Fratricide. Patricide. Regicide. By knife and by poison the Count and the Viscounts that were his sons died almost every night for several weeks, until the old man finally had enough.

Convinced that they were secretly at each other's throats and the gods were sending them a warning, he sent each of them away in separate directions. His eldest, Leo the fourth, went upriver to spend a season at the king's court. Theon, the middle child, was sent off to school at Abenend. Not for the whole curriculum, but just as a trial to see if he had any talent for it. Finally, Kelvun, the youngest son was sent down river with a royal commission, to remap the river. One of the main sources of income for the county of Greshen was the tolls that river traffic paid from the northerly kingdoms as they made their way out to sea on the Count’s waterways. The storm might have cleansed the land of evil, but it had played havoc on the maps and for every historical hazard it erased it added two new ones, so something would have to be done.

The darkness had only intended to deprive the Count of the emotional crutch that was his family to do further damage to the old man’s psyche, but it was thrilled at the idea that his youngest would soon be paying the swamp a visit. It intended to make sure the stay was a permanent one, though. Whether by sickness or violence the swamp was going to make sure that the boy’s body never left the thick dark mud of the river. If the count could extract silver ducats from every ship and barge that plied the Oroza then the swamp could take its tithe in blood.

Strangely though, that decision changed after only a few weeks. As the small river boat slowly made its way down stream, mapping sandbars and probing for deadheads the boy ate its fish, drank its water, and day by day unwittingly gave the darkness a window into his soul. And the swamp liked what it saw. The boy was practically a monster in his own right. His father had been a good, if vain man, but in the shadow of such men, crowded out by his older brothers, the boy’s ambition grew like a creeping vine. The sort that dug into old stone and rotted wood until it dragged the whole edifice down.

Night by night it probed the boy's mind with dreams that revolved around terrible choices, and Kelvun always chose power, no matter who suffered for it. The darkness was intrigued. It had learned many lessons from the bard. It had thought that absolute ownership of its minions was essential, but that too came with its own drawbacks, now that it knew about the Templars. A servant who could be picked out of a crowd by holy men would never be anything more than a pawn.

It needed someone that would serve willingly. Someone it could use only the lightest of touches with, and buy their loyalty instead. So for the last few days of their trip to the swamp the darkness sent the same dream over and over: that the boy was standing amidst the ruins of the mage's tower, looking down the stairs as they descended into the worldly darkness. In his hand was a bloodstained knife. Kelvun studied it, like he’d forgotten why he was holding it, and then, remembering, he kicked the body of the man he’d murdered down into the darkness. Some nights it was a member of the boat crew, and others it was his father, but the message was always the same: All the powers of the earth can be yours. All you must do is seal our dark bargain in the lifeblood of another, and you will rise, slowly but surely to the place you truly belong.

Far from being disturbed by his recurring nightmare, the boy was more cheerful than usual as they entered the swamp. That was just as well, because if he refused the wraith’s dark bargain, the swamp dragon that slumbered beneath them would rise up to rip him into pieces. It was the most fitting possible end that the darkness could imagine for a father that had failed to slay the monster on his last visit. It needn't have worried though. Their second night in the swamp they anchored on the shore near the ruins that were the heart of darkness. Kelvun let himself be led away into the dark after a couple beers by a crew member who had nothing good in mind for the lad. He never had a chance to take advantage though, because no sooner had they walked behind the rubble to shield themselves from the eyes of the rest of the boat crew huddled near the bonfire, than the young Viscount killed the old drunk.

In the swamp's version it had been a clean sacrifice, with a throat slit quick and clean. The boy had other ideas, because after he delivered a quick punch to the older man’s windpipe to shut him up he produced a short, sharp knife from his sleeve, and stabbed the sailor in the kidneys over and over while he struggled to breathe. The blood hadn’t even stopped spurting before the boy kicked the body of the dying man down the ancient stairs.

“I chose the worst one,” the boy called down after it. “The most vile old bastard of the bunch. I hope you see how serious I am about your offer, spirit, and hope that shows you what I’ll do to you if you cross me.” Yes, there was definitely a darkness in the lad that rivaled its own, in fury if nothing else. Normally the darkness would snuff out anyone that dared to speak to it like that, but the boy would learn his place in time.

Slowly the dead man at the bottom of the stairs began to rise, and with some effort, began to crawl up the stairs, one step at a time. It wasn’t a true zombie. Not yet. After all the water damage the flood caused, the darkness didn’t raise the dead permanently unless they had been embalmed and tanned. It was just a temporary vessel. A set of fresh vocal cords that would let it speak to the living for a few minutes to seal their pact.

To the boy’s credit, he didn’t flinch or try to run as his murder victim slowly crawled towards him with dead eyes. He just stood there while the dead man’s head flopped from side to side with each movement.

Finally, when it reached the top of the stairs, the corpse wheezed, “Obey me in all things and your father’s lands and title will be yours within a year.” The voice that came from the corpse's throat was much older and darker than the body it inhabited, but even that didn’t scare Kelvun.

“But that’s too soon. If my line dies so quickly, people will suspect I had a hand in it,” he protested.

“In. All. Things.” The darkness thundered in a way that was never meant for a human throat, finally succeeding in cowing the lad to a small degree, as the voice echoed through his soul and made a flock of bats take flight with their unholy reverberations. “Swear fealty to me, and you shall have everything your heart desires. Betray me, and I will feast on your soul for centuries to come.”

“And if I take your offer - what is your price?” Kelvun asked shrewdly. His voice quavered slightly, and he stank of fear, but he had not yet pissed himself or run screaming into the night. “Surely you want more than one man’s blood for such a gift.”

“What I offer you is no gift, boy. You will pay for everything I give you over and over until you are bathed in blood,” the corpse rattled. “I require a terrible tithe, to be paid in oceans of blood and mountains of coin. One coin in every ten that passes through your hands will end up in the bottom of the river to be claimed by me, every year you will personally deliver a token of our contract to me here, at this very spot, or you will live only long enough to regret it.”

“I so swear,” the boy said, smoothly dropping to one knee and bowing his head, as much to hide the fear in his eyes as to pledge his devotion. “I will have no master but you, and will obey you in all things.”

The corpse reached out his hand to the boy, blessing him, but not actually touching him. The last thing it wanted was to stain his soul too darkly. “Very well. It is done. The bargain is struck. Tomorrow you will continue on your trip, but wherever you go, I will go with you.”

“My trip? But there’s nothing important to the south,” Kelvun argued, looking back at the corpse. “Not until you get to Tagel by the sea, at least. Surely my place is back in Fallravea, so I can—”

This time the swamp did not yell or bluster. The corpse just clenched its fist in front of his face, and slowly, but surely his heart stopped beating because of the spiritual vice it was caught in. The Lich held its grip long enough for the boy to swoon, and released only when he was about to lose consciousness. Only then did the frail creature come back to life.

“You will do as you're told, even if you do not understand. Your father must be proud of you. Proud enough to inspire jealousy in your older siblings,” the dead man rasped. “That will play into what comes next, when you volunteer to map another poorly understood part of the Count’s domain.”

“What part is that?” the boy asked, still gasping for breath.

“The hills in the borderlands to the west of here,” the corpse answered, slowly beginning to lose what little patience it had left when it came to speaking with mortals.

“But those aren’t even Greshen territory. Not really…” the boy disputed, before he suddenly realized he was talking back to something that had almost effortlessly murdered it earlier. “I mean. Whatever you say. If the road to power runs through that savage place, I’ll take it.”

“You will,” the darkness agreed. “Now go back to your men and tell them a gator took this pitiful soul. I will put him to other uses later.”

The youth bowed one more time, and then rose, and with a single backward glance he walked back to the light as fast as he could without looking like he was running away. He’d walked into the darkness as hard as a seventeen-year-old man could be, but he learned to fear the dark like everyone else as he scampered back towards the relative safety of the light.

He would never be safe again, though. He belonged to the dark now.