Lorath's Return

Salith handed the chalice to the final disciple. The silver cup flashed bronze in the torchlight and the black opals encrusting its surface looked back at him with pupils of light as the cowled figure drank deeply and handed it back. The disciple returned to his place in the circle around the altar, and as one, the thirteen turned towards the darkest corner of the large cavern where the door to the crypt was only just discernable in the faint flickering light.  The rustling of robes and the scraping of feet ceased and for a moment the hissing of torches was accompanied only by the wet, rhythmic pattering of blood as it dripped from the flue carved into the stone altar before him.

The disemboweled corpse of Salith’s predecessor was lying on the altar. The former high priest had been a willing sacrifice, the thirteenth such in as many centuries, and if the prophecy proved true, the last to be given in the rite. Salith pushed his hand into the cadaver and felt his way up into the chest cavity until he found the lungs. Running his fingers gently across the still warm, slimy surface, he whispered a few brief syllables. The chest rose suddenly and the lungs filled. They remained inflated as he extracted his hand and used it to brush a smear of blood across the slightly parted lips. Salith whispered the name of his lord. The body twitched, but the mouth moved smoothly as, in a wet guttural croak, the same name was slowly pushed out of it from the fully inflated lungs.

“Looooooraaaaaaaaaaaaath.”

Then, as one, Salith and the twelve other priests began to chant the name.

“Lorath. Lorath. Lorath…”

At first they spoke slowly and softly. As the seconds passed, the pace of their chant increased and they grew louder, staring intently out of their shadowed hoods towards the door of the crypt. As the dreadful anticipation became palpable within the chamber, torches began to sputter and flare randomly. The corpse on the altar again started twitching, more and more violently as the chanting approached a crescendo, the thumping of the skull against the stone almost managing to counterpoint the chant.

A slight vibration became discernable beneath the soles of their feet. Then a faint rumbling could be heard. The priests were at the level of a scream now. The vibrations grew more powerful until it seemed they were in the midst of a minor earth quake. The rumble grew louder and small stalactites began to fall from overhead sending up clouds of dust on impact.

At last the thing the Order of Lorath had waited thirteen hundred years for happened. The seal on the crypt was broken. The door exploded outward in a cloud of fine dust and, roaring with triumph, the dark looming figure of their master emerged from the stone-dust fog.

***

Three days later at the heart of Lorath Keep, on the mountain above the crypt, the seven high priests who had survived the exuberance of their master’s emergence, along with the replacements for the other six, gathered around a large pool of mercury. High above them, their master lurked in the Shadow Tower, meditating to recover the full strength of the power of his previous life.

The priests were divining images from the pool. They focused their spying on the wizards of Hale Spire. Twice the ages had seen Lorath rise up out of the crypt which was the only prison that could hold him in death. Twice the wizards had found the ivory staff, the only weapon capable driving Lorath back to source of his power and turning it against him to hold his indestructible form in the closest state to death possible. Twice they had found the single individual of pure heart born to wield the staff. Corum, the orphan boy from the slums of Junis and Kara, the serving girl from a country inn lived on in legend and song as the wielders of the staff; the heroes who had defeated Lorath.  The staff vanished each time Lorath was defeated, but found its way back into the world of men each time he was resurrected.

The priests had witnessed several fleeting images of the leader of the enemy wizards. He traveled through what seemed to be a wilderness, though occasionally farms or rural villages could be discerned. Traveling with him was a young man, hardly more than a boy, in rough country clothes. The farm boy carried a white staff. The sight made the priests uneasy, but they were not greatly discouraged. The power of the staff was immense, but in each of the previous battles, Lorath had come within a hair’s breadth of overcoming it, and each time he had gained some insight that could yet help him to prevail.

Salith ascended the spiraling stairs to the Shadow Tower to report their latest divining. At the top he stepped quietly through the thick iron banded door. His lord sat in a massive stone chair, clad head to toe in black steel and leather. Behind a hideous ebony mask, his face remained a mystery of the ages. Lorath stared into a black spherical void speckled with dancing crimson lights floating in the air before him. Salith went prostrate before the door and waited for his master to acknowledge him.

After many long silent moments the deep ominous voice spoke.

“Report.”

Salith rose and moved hurriedly across the chamber to stand before his lord. The floating black sphere was gone. With all the mad courage garnered from a lifetime of evil rites and black magic, he gave his report. Nervously, he noted Lorath’s gauntleted hands clenching into fists, and he could hear a low rumble beginning to echo out of the mask. As Salith finished delivering the bad news, Lorath growled and slammed a fist down on the arm of the chair. A chip of stone from a grotesque carving flew from the armrest and into the shadows. Then Lorath went still and silent for several moments. Salith waited.

At last Lorath stood. He rose with such abruptness that Salith was startled and he stepped back almost tripping over his own feet. The dark lord stood still for a moment, seeming to stare out of the black holes to a point above Salith’s head. In a low, calculating voice Lorath spoke.

“What is the state of my war chest?”

“We have gathered for centuries, Lord. Your wealth is great enough to raise vast armies,” Salith replied.

“Good,” Lorath rumbled in that same calculated tone. “The wizards will not drive me back into that hole again. I have a plan.”

“Yes, Lord?” Salith dared with eager anxiousness.

“I’m retiring,” Lorath said.