Vindictus - Story Teaser

The Light and the Dark – a Vindictus Prelude

The road outside of Colhen

Six days before the Burning

The uncaring stars burned in the night sky over the road outside of Colhen,
a dusty trail that led from the small town to the large city of
Rocheste. In a ditch alongside the road, two figures struggled. One of
the combatants, a man in a dark cloak, was grappling with a muscular
figure. The dark fur and muzzled face of the other revealed that it was a
Fomor, and an angry one at that.

The man in the hooded cloak
avoided the Fomor’s blows, the knife in his hand flashing; with one
swift motion he buried it in his opponent’s neck. There was an
animal-like scream and a gout of black blood jetted from its neck,
covering the man’s front. As the gnoll sank to its knees, its life
pumping from the jagged tear in its throat, a slow, sarcastic clap
filled the darkness.

The cloaked figure looked up. A man was approaching: tall, elegant,
and blonde, he seemed to carry a mysterious light with him.

“You’re getting old,” Brynn said, walking slowly toward the man in the cloak.
Nyle wiped disgustedly at the blood that covered his clothes. “I’ll have
to be much older before I fall to a single gnoll,” he said. He turned
his back on the still-twitching creature and fell into step beside the
magician.

“You were out at the Temple again?” Brynn asked.

Nyle nodded and his face took on a faraway look. “It comforts me to be
there, somehow. At times it’s almost like I can hear Her singing to me…”


Brynn snorted. “Morrighan’s not there you know,” he said. “I’m beginning to doubt She ever was.”

Nyle’s expression darkened, and he pulled a well-balanced throwing dagger from
somewhere in the depths of his cloak.

“It’s amazing She ever accepted your kind into the Brotherhood. The Paladins'
faith has always been weak. The Dark Knights are the true keepers of
Her flame.” Nyle said. The knife flashed through the air and buried
itself in the ear of a hunched gnoll that had been creeping through the
underbrush. They could hear the padded feet of more gnolls, approaching
quickly.

“Does it matter?” Brynn said. “She told us to work
together. ‘Light is not Good. Dark is not Evil.’ Our kinds have been
joined at the hip ever since.”






The two men shifted into fighting stances even as their conversation
continued. “I came to tell you about Tieve. She was late to work today.
She said she overslept.”

Nyle’s eyebrows rose. “Tieve never oversleeps. She can’t. As an Oracle she’s completely in tune with the rhythms of the world. She sleeps when she wishes and wakes when she wishes.”

“There is one way,” Brynn said. A pack of baying gnolls broke from the forest
and caught sight of the men. Blood-curdling howls rose to the sky. “You
know what it is.”

“Already?” Nyle said. “It’s too soon. The mercenaries are not ready.
There’s not one among them who can handle the truth of the Brotherhood.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,”
Brynn replied. He glanced back at Colhen with sadness in his eyes.
“The Burning is coming, Nyle. We’ve always known our situation was temporary.
We need to find ones willing to accept the Dark and the Light. It
doesn’t matter if they’re ready. The Brotherhood must be reformed.”

Nyle sighed. The gnolls were almost upon them. “You’re right,” he said.
“We’re going to need them. If Tieve’s time has come, we’re already
behind.” He grabbed the shoulders of the lead gnoll, and with an almost
casual brutality, swept the gnoll’s legs out from under it and stomped
hard on its neck. There was a sickening crack and the gnoll grabbed its
crushed throat, thrashing about as it struggled to breathe.

Brynn nodded as a bolt of light left his fingers and enveloped another gnoll
in flames. The fire was an unnatural shade of blue, and shone almost
white. “I am right,” he said. “And I pity the new Brothers for what they
shall have to face.”

Tieve ku sayang~ aku suka tgk Tieve~ ayat2 dia pon sgt caring~

aku rse da jatuh chenta sama Tieve la. hahahahahha

The Last Heretic


In the sewers below Rocheste

An enormous mouth filled with sharp, triangular teeth snapped at
Chiptooth’s face. The gnoll could feel the lizardman’s hot breath as he
struggled with both hands to keep those scissor-like fangs from ripping
out his throat. He looked around. His mace had fallen into the fetid
water. Not that it mattered. Had he removed a hand to try and reach it,
those powerful jaws would end his life.

It can’t end like this! Chiptooth thought. I will not fall before I earn my True Name!

Something crunched, and the heavily muscled saurian body sagged in his arms and
slid down into the water. A figure stood behind it; Chiptooth could just
make out a terrified face, light brown fur blemished by a small patch
of red near the muzzle.

“Redpatch!” Chiptooth cried. The fighting
around them had stopped. The lizardmen that had attacked them were all
dead, although two of his guards also lay bleeding out.

“Are you all right, Chiptooth?” Redpatch asked. His concern for his master
shined through the terror on his face. Chiptooth checked himself. He was
unharmed, though his fur was matted and filthy from two days in the
sewers. The stench down here was unlike anything he had ever smelled
before. Apparently the only thing that smelled worse than a human was
what humans left behind.

“I’m fine, Redpatch,” he replied. “It will take more than one low-level heretic to take out a Warpriest.”
Chiptooth began walking away from the carnage, his remaining four guards
spreading out in a protective cordon. He would not thank the acolyte.
Such things were not done. Nonetheless, Redpatch didn’t look reassured.

“You are having doubts about our mission, acolyte?” Chiptooth said, an almost inaudible growl in his voice.

“No!” the young gnoll blurted out. “No doubts at all! It’s just that I don’t like fighting against…”

“You don’t like fighting against those who should be our allies,” Chiptooth finished. The young gnoll nodded

“I understand,” Chiptooth said. “I too would rather be fighting humans
as well, instead of sneaking around underneath the festering hive they
call Rocheste. But we must search out the heretics among the lizardmen,
destroy their false god and bring them back into the fold.”

Redpatch nodded. “You never know where a heretic might lurk.”

Chiptooth patted the acolyte gently on the arm. “The priesthood is not an easy
calling, Redpatch. We fight not for personal glory, but to spread the
truth of the promise.” The words were true, Chiptooth knew, and they
gave him strength. He might have to wallow amongst the human filth, but
his soul would be clean when he bathed in the blood of the lizardmen.

The gnoll war party walked on for an hour until they at last reached a
large open area deep within the sewer system. It was his nose more than
his eyes that told Chiptooth they had reached the heretic nest.

The underground square had several entrances, but he knew exactly which
tunnel he was looking for. The odor that came out of that tunnel was
more than mere carrion. It stank of evil. The Warpriest took the lead.
He could hear it now, a heavy breathing like a forge’s bellows.

Chiptooth held up his hand to stop his followers. “When I say, we shall rush in
and smite this false god that has led our brothers astray.”

“No.” said the voice of his acolyte.




Chiptooth turned swiftly, his face a mask of fury. Then he froze. Behind him were
at least a hundred lizardmen. They had disarmed his guards and were
holding them firmly by the arms. Redpatch was grinning at him defiantly.


“Redpatch!” Chiptooth shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I am merely preaching the truth as you taught me, Warpriest,” Redpatch
said. The young acolyte tapped the red fur on his muzzle. Chiptooth
looked closer, trying to remember where he had seen fur that color
before…

“Traitor!” Chiptooth screamed. “Are you related to the
traitorous Chieftain? Black Scar’s betrayer?” He tried to launch himself
at the acolyte.

Redpatch laughed. “Traitor? Heretic? Those words mean nothing to one who has seen through the fanatics’ babble.”

Chiptooth continued, “What can they offer that bests His promise?”

Redpatch looked around at his lizardmen allies. “Them? They offer nothing beyond
the chance to live in peace. If forced to choose between their god and
ours, though…”

The lizardmen had grabbed Chiptooth and were
dragging him closer and closer to the tunnel. The breathing was getting
louder now. Something in the tunnel was waking up, and it sounded
hungry. Redpatch spoke over Chiptooth’s last inarticulate shriek.

“Their god has lots of teeth.”

Karok: The Northward Quest

Chakun the Shaman entered the hide tent just after Karok was born. His
mother Berdai, the Chief’s wife, was panting and red-faced. The newborn
was crying in her arms, one of the few times in his life that he would
be allowed to be so undisciplined. His father Hassan looked on as the
Shaman took his first born child in his arms.

“15 pounds.” Chakun estimated, examining the baby's body for any flaws that
would cause it to be cast over the cliff.

“Small.” Hassan grunted, looking disappointed. “He will be weak.”

“But otherwise perfect,” the Shaman responded. His eyes widened as the tiny
fist opened. In the baby’s hand was a small black lump, a dried clot of
blood. Among the Raven Tribe, such a thing was an auger of a mighty
destiny. Chakun showed the chief, but Hassan only shrugged. The Chief
did not believe in auguries or spirits. His faith was in solid weapons
and strong men to wield them.

“Small and weak,” the Chief repeated.




******

12 humans were staked out in the sun, captives from the latest foolish
attack on the tribe by a local village. They were dying by inches as the
hot sun baked the life out of them. Chakun saw the six-year old Karok
sitting cross-legged in front of one of the humans.

“What are you doing?” Chakun asked as he folded his nine-foot frame down
next to the boy. Like Karok, Chakun was small for one of the Raven tribe at barely
450 pounds.

“Studying them,” Karok said. “They’re so much like us, except so small.”

“We’re nothing like you!” spat the oldest and most elaborately dressed of the
humans. He looked to be a priest by his garb. “You are Fomors! We shall
sweep your kind from the world to gain Paradise!”

“Fomors?” Karok asked.

Chakun shrugged. “Their word for gnolls, goblins, anyone who is not human.
They believe their Goddess has told them to wipe them all out.”

Karok’s face looked puzzled, “Why would their Goddess want such a thing?"


Chakun shrugged again. “Who can say? Humans, goblins, gnolls, they’re
all the same – insane. They go off on foolish crusades for reasons too
complex for simple minds like yours and mine.”

The boy nodded, but his face remained quizzical. Chakun walked off, leaving the boy to his contemplations.

*******

Most of the screaming from the gnolls had died away. The younger children of
the tribe were stalking amongst the bodies, cutting the throats of the
wounded and taking small rings and items as souvenirs. Chakun came
across the 16-year old Karok leaning on his pillar and staring off toward the north.
Both boy and pillar were covered with blood and brains from the recent battle.

“The war-leaders say you fought well despite…” the shaman trailed off.

“Despite my size?” Karok said. At seven feet tall and 400 pounds, the Shaman
knew Karok had reached his full growth. He would always be the smallest among them.

“Why do you not take spoils from the gnolls, Karok?”
the Shaman said. “It is right to do so when we destroy invaders to the Herdlands.”

Karok shrugged. “What’s the point, Chakun? How much
longer can we do this? Invaders are moving in faster and faster now.
Eventually we will be destroyed. My father must know this.”

Chakun wanted to object, but he couldn’t. Karok was right. The Herdlands were
awash in blood as humans and Fomors swept in and slaughtered each other.
Both sides had approached the Raven Tribe to join them. Both had been
politely run off. But neutrality no longer seemed to be an option. If the Raven Tribe
was not interested in the great war, the great war was interested in them.

******

The Herdlands were dotted with campfires, but those of the enemy dwarfed in number those of the Raven Tribe.

Chakun found the twenty-year old Karok at the door of his father’s house. Inside lay the body of Chief Hassan.

“He did not make you Chief, did he?” Chakun asked. Karok said nothing. That
was all the answer Chakun needed. Hassan had always refused to see that
Karok was the finest warrior in the tribe, just as he had refused to
see that staying in the Herdlands meant death for his people.

He took a deep breath. “You need to leave here, Karok. Go north, where you’ve always wanted to explore.”

Karok looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “Leave my tribe before the battle?
You wish me to run like a coward?”

Chakun sighed. “No Karok, not like a coward.” He gestured to the campfires.
“You know what will happen tomorrow. We are all going to die and with
that, all memory of us. I have known since you were born that you had a
special destiny, and it is not to die here with your people.”

The warrior said nothing. Chakun took this as a good sign and continued.
“It is a new world, Karok. The old spirits grow silent; their songs
drowned by blood and the screaming of new gods. I do not know why this
is happening or what is to come, but I know you have a great part to play in it.”

Karok did not answer, but Chakun saw it in his eyes.
He went to bed, knowing that tomorrow would be his last battle. He
drifted to sleep content that Karok would not see it.

Vindictus Preludes: Numbers Never Lie



The world of Vindictus is vast, filled with tales both great
and small. Some are grounded in truth as solid as the rock beneath your
feet, others are flights of fancy with no more substance than a rainbow.
Vindictus Preludes invites you into the world of Vindictus, opening new
perspectives on the ongoing saga. These are just stories – but then
again, aren’t they all?


Melor squinted up into the clearsky and offered a prayer of thanks.
He leaned back in his chair next to the tiny lake behind the castle,
shifted his hands on his fishing pole and sighed. This was his idea of a
perfect day. He felt truly blessed by the Goddess.

“You are Melor, chief bookkeeper.” The old man started at the strong voice
behind him. As he stood and turned, Melor’s annoyance quickly turned to fear
when he saw who the voice belonged to. He froze, then began sinking to one knee.

“My lord… “ Melor began.

Ingkells, the lord of Ortell Castle, waved his hand.




“No need for that,” he said. “I’ve come to talk to you about the matter you
brought to my chamberlain.” The normally regal Ingkells was barely
recognizable in the muslin doublet and trousers of a common worker. “If
what you say is true, we must keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Of course, my lord,” the bookkeeper said. “I know you to be a man of honor
and wisdom, just like your father and grandfather. I knew that you
wouldn’t dismiss my report.”

“You served both loyally, did you not?” Ingkells asked.

“Indeed, my lord. After my loyalty to the Goddess, serving your family has been
the greatest joy of my life. It was your grandfather who first made my
family freeholders.”

“After you discovered an insurrection plot against him,” the lord finished.

“Yes, my lord,” Melor agreed. “There are only two things one can truly rely
on in this world. One is the promise of the Goddess, and the other is
that numbers never lie.”

*********************

It had started some time earlier, during the course of a normal battle inventory.

Melor still shrank from the smell of blood, sweat, dust and bile that
accompanied a victorious army through the Ortel Castle gate. First came
the hale, those who had survived with of the fewest wounds and bore only
scars and future nightmares. Then came the wounded, lined up in neat
rows where the Physicks would examine them and decide which of them were
worth saving and which would be left to die. The dead came last, placed
with minimal reverence outside the walls of Ortel. They would be either
washed and returned to their families or unceremoniously dumped in the
Martyrs’ Trench, the last stop for those warriors of the Goddess so
badly damaged they could not be identified.



Melor was supervising the blacksmith’s young assistants as they stripped
the weapons and armor off the corpses. One of them, no more than eleven
by his look, looked queasy. Melor put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“First battle inventory?” he asked, not unsympathetically.

The boy nodded, unable to speak.

“I understand,” Melor said. “It can be difficult to see the warriors of
the Goddess so. I comfort myself with the knowledge that they die for a
greater cause than you or I can comprehend.”

The boy nodded and
resumed prying the breastplate from the body of a man who’d had half his
head caved in by a Fomor mace. At a glance, Melor could see that the
helmet was a complete loss, but with a few hammer blows, the breastplate
would eventually armor another of the Goddess’ warriors.

…Except that it wouldn’t. This particular breastplate showed the marks of a
crude repair job. Melor was no blacksmith, but he would never have
trusted his own life to this junk. He noted the tiny inventory number
chiseled into it, then checked it against his records.

“This is impossible!” he muttered. Then he shook his head. He knew numbers never
lied, but he would need a lot of evidence before he made an accusation
of this magnitude.

*********************

“You realize what you’re saying, don’t you?” Ingkells said.

“Of course, my lord!” the bookkeeper said. “But numbers never lie. Someone
in a high position is stockpiling equipment, arms, and armor, and
substituting hastily repaired junk for our warriors in the field. The
size and distribution pattern of the materiel clearly indicate a major
rebellion is brewing. And by deliberately providing inferior equipment
to our men, these conspirators are murdering faithful warriors of the
Goddess. May She protect us, we may even be talking about treason!”

The lord of Ortell Castle nodded, but he didn’t look shocked or horrified.

“You do believe me, don’t you, my lord?” the old man asked.

“Oh, I believe you, Melor. That’s what makes me sad.” The lord took a step closer to the bookkeeper.

“I don’t understand, my lord.”
Ingkells moved blindingly fast, grasping the old man by his shirt and shoving him face first into the waters of the pond.

“You’re a good man, Melor, a man of faith” Ingkells said as the water began to
fill the bookkeeper’s lungs and darkness swam at the edge of his vision.
“So how can I explain to you that while numbers never lie, people do.”

The darkness was eclipsing everything now and the bookkeeper was sinking
into the abyss. He barely heard the last words of his Lord.

“…and so do Goddesses.”

Vindictus Preludes – Conversations Among Good Men




Pontiff Laurys sat in his beautifully decorated office and signed his name over and over again.

Sometimes I wonder if even the Goddess Herself could rescue me from the mountain of
paperwork this office generates, he thought.
Then he mentally excoriated himself for his unworthy
thought. If the Pontiff of the Goddess’ Cathedral could not keep his
doubts under control, what hope was there for lesser mortals who looked
to him for spiritual guidance?

“Your Eminence?’ The voice was gruff, yet servile. It grated on the Pontiff’s ears.

Speaking of lesser mortals…
Laurys thought. He sighed and looked at Gilliam, exasperated at the
interruption. Gilliam was as oblivious to the sigh as anything else
directed at him. The man took the dictum to “punish the unrighteous” too
seriously, and often missed the big pictures in his zeal..




“I have a report from Keaghan,” Gilliam said. “It’s been confirmed. The
heretic and traitor Ingkells is dead, apparently at the hand of one of
the new Royal Army recruits.”

Laurys nodded. He would have to issue
an order to have that mercenary brought before him. It never hurt to
cultivate friends among the up and comers in the military. His train of
thought stopped abruptly.

“Heretic?” Laurys repeated.

“I took the liberty of branding the rebels heretics as well as traitors,
Your Eminence.” Gilliam said, a touch of pride in his voice. “It will
still the voices of some of the more vocal doubters within the military.”


“You idiot!” Laurys hissed. “By branding him a heretic, you invite
investigation into the reasons for his rebellion. That could be traced
back to us. We cannot afford that!” The Pontiff stood up and pulled down
a false book in his bookcase. The wall slid back, revealing a dingy
staircase that led down toward the Cathedral’s basement. “Come with me.”

Gilliam fell into step behind him, realizing that he had made a mistake. Curse
this old man, he thought. That fat, beatific face and the aura of
righteousness he wore like armor had caused more than one opponent to
underestimate Laurys. He had sworn he would not be one of them.

The two men walked down the stairs until they came at last to the part of
the holy building that few people ever saw – and even fewer ever left.
Racks, iron maidens, wheels, clamps, and other instruments of righteous
punishment littered the room. Barred cages lined the walls, each with
their population of beaten prisoners. Men, women, children. Most were
human, but there were Fomors among them. Sometimes Laurys would come
down here just to clear his mind with the beautiful sound of evil being
burned from the bodies of the Goddess’ enemies. This time though, he had
a different purpose in mind.

He approached a battered and broken gnoll, currently lashed to an angled table.
Despite the grievous wounds that laced its body,
the creature’s remaining eye was still a glittering gem of hate.

“Your Eminence,” the creature mocked. “Have you come to kill me at last?”

Instead of answering, the Pontiff pulled a hot poker out of a brazier and
proddedthe gnoll’s flesh. When the howling shriek died away, the Pontiff
looked down at the gnoll.

“You told me it would work, animal! You lied and now it’s all falling apart!
Ingkells found out and he might not be the last.”

The gnoll did the last thing that Gilliam would have expected and laughed
through its broken teeth. “I didn’t lie, human. He did. Or maybe She
did. I don’t know. Who can know what goes on in the mind of a God… or a
Goddess? Maybe it was never meant to work for a human and you played
into His hands when you tried it.”

The Pontiff raised the hand
with the poker in it and, much to the gnoll’s surprise, slammed the side
of the metal bar into Gilliam’s stomach. The priest doubled over in
pain, the wind knocked out of him. The Pontiff shoved him to the ground.


“Get out to Ortell Castle, you idiot. Find out what Ingkells
knew and when he knew it. Find out who he might have told and what he
might have written down. Lean on Keaghan, the man thinks too much. Use
Riordan if you have too. Get a handle on this situation, Gilliam or I’m
going to be very upset.”

The younger priest scrambled up, one hand still protecting his wounded abdomen,
and left the room without a word.

A gentle smile returned to the Pontiff’s face. Gilliam would handle
things. Despite the setbacks, he knew he still had the Goddess’ promise
to depend on, and the time was now very near. He looked over at the
gnoll and began heating the poker up in the flaming brazier.

The Pontiff had earned some relaxation.