[R&S 1.6] Van Speaks with Dead (Patreon)

19th day of January 1526Temple in the keep of Wikkthronrarenta

The body had arrived tightly wrapped in a waxed linen shroud, sitting in a thin layer of ice, within an over sized coffin made of black olive, bearing a large seal of King Imrik in golden wax. Small holes bored in the bottom of the coffin let water drip away as the ice melted. The waxed shroud prevented water from soaking into the charred remains. After nine days of travel, little ice remained, but it had done its job.

There was only once place in Mistrya where ice could be harvested, and the highest peaks of the Stoney Ridge were difficult to reach and dangerous to traverse. Men must have risked their lives for this ice, unless the wizard king himself set out for it. Either way, a great deal of effort went into its acquisition. A great deal of care was taken to ensure this body arrived without putrefying.

Heralds had arrived a day before the body’s delivery bearing a simple hand written letter.

To my esteemed cousins,

Please accept this offering of peace. My sole aim is the safe keeping of our great empire. I seek to make amends for blood spilt and ensure no outbreak of violence between us.

King Imrik McGary

When a carriage arrived the following day containing only a box that dripped water, Kel Francine insisted upon inspecting the materials herself before permitting them within the keep. She opened the create, saw the shroud, cut away the waxed fabric around the head, but could not identify the charred remains. Before she could plunge a dagger into the corpse out of an abundance of caution, King Regent Van stayed her hand.

“If King Imrik wished us dead, there are more simple ways to see it done. Please, act as honor guard and escort the coffin to the temple.” he said before turning to the nearby footmen. “Inform the High Council and the historian they are needed within the castle temple. Let the Empress and the imperial guard know that a body has arrived from King Imrik, and that I am requesting their presence. Tell the workmen within the temple they have until we arrive to stow their materials and make the floor safe for visitation, then dismiss them the courtyard until further notice.”

The temple was in a state of renovation. Centuries old statues were being carefully disassembled for relocation. The many small travertine pillars from ages past were to be replaced by a few large but graceful quartzite arches carved by the finest craftsmen of Roxsis. Neat piles of stones stood in the wings of the chapel next to the disassembled head and arms of Astair, god of protection and leadership. A thin layer of stone dust lay on the cloths that covered pews, altars, relics, and the like. The base of the coffin, wet from ice melt, created a muddy ring while the people assembled.

“Are these the remains of the man who slew the child?” asked Empress Lissandra Wikk as she strode into the temple ahead of her bodyguards. All those in attendance, save her husband, genuflected until Van responded.

“There was a sealed letter with the body,” Van stated. The Empress motioned, and the King lifted the envelope, broke its seal, and skimmed its contents before speaking them aloud.

My dearest cousins, Empress Lissandra Wikk and King Consort Van Wikk,

We have not been able to see eye to eye on critical matters of safety, but that will not deter me from protecting the people of Arcadia from their oncoming doom. To further that end, I needed my longtime companion, my close friend, and my eternal servant. It is only right that she reside with me, and I could not take the risk that you might damage what remained of her had I made a more open plea for her return.

I offer my sincerest apologies for the death of Kel Francine’s squire. My men were under the strictest of orders to harm no one. Kel Thaeowin was a mighty warrior in my service for almost a decade, but through his zeal to protect me, he made a terrible mistake. While there is nothing I can do to bring the young man back to your service, please accept his life in exchange for that of your squire. He was one of my best. Please understand I intended no harm to any of your people. I hope you note the great care that was taken to avoid any loss of life or limb.

Should you decide to join me in acting as the shield of this realm from those beyond, I would gladly accept your aid; however, this is a path I am prepared to walk alone. I wish that you would join me, but I will do whatever it takes to protect Arcadia. I will let no harm come to our lands, and I will destroy any and all who threaten us or stand in the way of our defense.

King Imrik McGarySon of Empress WikkSlayer of ScoriaShield of Arcadia

Van lowered the parchment and gazed at the charred face under the waxed linen. “If this is what he does to his best men, what will he do those who defy him?” Van asked of the quiet room.

“King Regent, if I may,” came the quiet voice of the historian who had been furiously scribbling in one of his large tomes. “King Imrik has always had the best of intentions. He is a great man, but a man none-the-less. Whatever mistakes he may have made are surely outweighed by the good deeds he has done. I may only be an archivist, but I think I know the king better than…” he looked around the room, “…better than anyone here. He knows what he is doing. Would it really be a terrible thing to let him be?”

The eyes of council members and imperial guardsmen alike quickly found places other than Van’s face to look. They respected his position, rank, and history, they understood the conflict with King Imrik, by they struggled to see him as the opposition. Troublesome? Yes. Traitorous? Possibly. But he had lead these very same people through the darkest days of their lives. When towns and villages across the kingdom were set aflame, when people were dying by the thousands, when whole fleets up and vanished, it was Imrik McGary who brought an end to the violence and created the great empire they now led. It was uncomfortable to have the historian, the lowest ranking man in the room, speak aloud what they felt in their hearts. They feared the King’s response, but their shame is what averted their gaze.

After a short pause that stretched an eternity, the King Regent said, “Why don’t we ask him?” and pointed to the charred corpse before walking toward the altar. “Bring me a lit candle,” Van said to collection of servants and squires who attended the great people of the room and who hid themselves at the edges of the chapel near the stacks of quartzite. His footsteps echoed through the quiet temple, they paused as he pulled open the curtain on the rear of the altar to remove a bundle of incense, and resumed as he returned to the body. By the time the burning candle arrived, the body had been uncovered from its waxed linen cloth. Lighting the incense and beginning his prayers, Van moved around the corpse make sure the fragrant smoke washed over the remains. He stopped at the head after a single encirclement and brought the incense low to the dead man.

Van’s prayers were in his native tongue, a foreign language. Even though most of the educated people in the room understood him, it served to underscore the King Regent’s outside nature, and added tension to the conflict between him and the Drekkissian born King Imrik. This cleric was born a commoner, in a distant land, married the 4th in line for the throne, vanished overseas on some illdefined and never explained holy quest for more than a decade, only to arrive back in Drekkis just in time to see the empress assassinated, his lonely wife ascended the throne, be crowned King Regent, and immediately set to conflict with one of the empire’s greatest heroes. It was all legal. It was all according to the rules and traditions. He was by all accounts a good, honest, and just man who had dedicated his life to protecting the realms of men and serving the gods. But in their hearts, he was still an outsider fighting with one of their beloved sons.

Suddenly, the corpse exhaled a breath. Van’s prayers stopped. He cast the incense sticks aside as an attending priest scurried to gather them up. Placing his hand upon the chest of the burned body and speaking once more in the Drekkisian tongue, Van asked, “Does King Imrik use magic or illusions to augment his appearance?”

Even though the lips and flesh around the jaw had been burned away to reveal its teeth in a hideous display, and the corpse could have no more air in its lungs nor the ability to speak, it still moved its mouth and replied, “Yes.” The voice spoke with a Mistryan accent. It was clear, direct, and human, although somewhat distant as if being spoken from the other side of a door or thin wall. It was common knowledge that powerful clerics could Speak with the Dead, but most of those in the room had never seen it first hand. Those who understood what was about to happen had expected breathy or ghostly voices, perhaps wails or rasps. Hearing the knight much as he was in life was somehow more distressing.

“What does his true form look, sound, smell, and feel like?” came the next question from the Cleric King.

“The skin is like a dried and cracked mud flat. The eyes are green with honeycombs of yellow. The pupils run vertical. The hair black, gray, and wiry. The voice is clear, crisp, and sharp. The smell is sweet like rotting fruit. The touch is like a thousand flames crawling over your body.”

The onlookers murmured quiet exclamations to themselves, while the historian Clertus said, “This detail is exquisite.”

“Yes,” replied Van carefully, as if considering something. “Usually spirits are brief, even evasive.” Returning to the corpse Van asked, “What became of the bones of the golden dragon known as Shine?”

“Her form has been reconstructed in the keep of Crownhold. She curls around the dais, watching the court. We cannot escape our dragon overlords.” The voice was stronger now, and more clear. The High Cleric moved to the front of the crowd.

“Please, your Highness, stop this,” he asked of Van. “Something is wrong. Spirits should not speak so well. That last sentence…” he swallowed, “That wasn’t an answer to your question. That was independence. You must release him.”

King Van pressed on, “What were the circumstances of your death?”

The jaw wagged its teeth in the air as the neck flexed, and the head turned it empty, charred sockets toward Van. “I served King Imrik well. I did as I was told. I fought his enemies, I guarded his chambers, I created peace where there was violence. When I assaulted this temple…” the high cleric gasped “… he gave me two instructions: Kill no one, and see that his spells were not interrupted. I stopped a squire who would have broken my king’s focus. The blow should only have knocked him down, but the squire’s mail had no padding. I heard his ribs crack, his lung pierce.” The charred body began to raise its arms, resting half exposed finger bones on the coffin’s edge. “In front of my wife and children, my king called me a failure, a traitor. He said that I bore full responsibility for what was to come. I begged him to understand. I only did as I was told. I had served him faithfully from his first day upon the throne. He stripped me of my armor. My children watched as I burned, just as I had watched my uncles burn. Just as we have always watched them burn.”

The imperial guardsmen drew their weapons and put their bodies between the raising corpse and the empress. The high cleric shouted at Van to cease the spell while the councilors and priests retreated from the coffin. “What is King Imrik’s relationship with demons?” asked an unfazed Van in a commanding tone.

“He keeps one by his side at all times, and a half dozen more in his private chambers.” The body began to rise to its feet haltingly. “He studies their forms. He consumes their flesh. He feeds them spies. He feeds them the condemned.” The charred knight had found his feet. His movements growing ever smoother as he stepped from the coffin - only to tumble to the ground when the edge of an arming sword bit into his ribs and the point of another plunged into his lower back. The imperial guardsmen hacked the creature until it ceased all movement.

Van’s icy eyes toured the faces of the great leaders in the room. The spell to speak with dead opened a tiny conduit to the beyond, it shouldn’t have been enough for the whole spirit come through. The assembled knights, the High Cleric, and the Arc Mage stood in silent understanding while the other lords jabbered in astonishment with endless questions. Clertus opened his books once more and set to documenting the moment.

Empress Lissandra Wikk moved close to her Cleric King. “What does it mean?” she asked. “Can he be saved?”

“Empress,” Van struck a formal note, “the King of Mistrya is feeding upon the souls of his own people. If we do not stop him, he will come to feed upon ours. We have a duty.”