Username: Shallarinath
Title: The Final Knell of The Dead King’s Bell
Word Count: 2533
Author’s Note: Where will vengeance get thee?
Story:

“Sire! Sire! Beornin!”

The loyal young page scurried across the courtyard to his fallen king. Cradling the kings head in his arms the page wept silent tears as dusk fell around them. The sound of combat and the pages cries had been heard throughout the castle keep and all the people therein gathered solemnly about the borders of the courtyard. Royal physicians streamed into the courtyard, but none made a move toward their fallen king, they knew that this battle was over before it even started.

“My King, don’t leave us! You can’t leave us, war is upon our doorstep!” the page sobbed “We cannot stand without you, we cannot stand.”

Suddenly an armored figure burst out of the crowd, covered in blood and shouting at the top of his lungs.

“They’ve taken the gate! The Trolls have taken the gate! Hundreds of them! Where is the K- Oh no!” the soldier knelt down to his dying king, his head hung with sorrow.

The king suddenly seemed to stir as his servants wept over him. He looked over to the corpse at his left. It was a traitor from within, paid by the Trolls to eliminate him. It had been so easy to snap the traitor’s neck in his giant hands, but not before… The king’s hand went to the sword implanted in his gut and, to the horror of all watching, he wrenched the blade free of his body and cast it aside.

“Fetch a sword and a chair for a dying man, would you good page Dolan?” the king requested with his strength failing as his lifeblood stained the cobblestones beneath them. Everything was so cold to the dying king, he could not feel the soldier by his side trying vainly to stem the flowing blood.

Running as if the hells themselves were upon him Dolan hurried to fulfill his king’s last wish.

“My King Beornin the Trolls are taking the castle, our troops flee before them like startled hares! You were the only man the Trolls ever feared, the man who could rally our men to stand and fight, and now you’re…” the soldier could no longer speak past the lump welling in his throat.

The page returned carrying the king’s own elegantly crafted broadsword, it’s ruby pommel twinkling in the last rays of daylight. He was followed by three other men who bore upon their shoulders a massive oak wood chair. Setting the chair upon the ground they ever so gently lifted their king into the chair and lay his sword across his lap. When the deed was done the king lay utterly still.

“My King?” Dolan whispered through his tears.

It was a long time before the king responded. Using the last of his once great strength he made his dying speech.

“The stars, if I could but look upon them once more, but they have gone dark. Every thing has gone dark!” then, his voice dropping below a whisper, he ushered Dolan to his side “My boy, be brave, be brave when the enemy comes. Take as many with you as you can. Be brave for me, for I am gone to the halls of my fathers. Farewell my loyal Dolan.”

The king’s proud form slouched in his chair hailing the death of Beornin Trollslayer, King of the West Marches. Suddenly the king stepped out of his chair, the courtyard was gone, everything around him was a whirl of mist stretching unfathomable depths in all directions. Beornin could no longer feel the cold, or the pain of his gruesome wound, he could no longer feel anything in this seemingly forsaken place.

“Charon! Where are you, is this not the land of the dead? Is it not your duty to ferry me across the River Styx and to the halls of my forebears? Come ferryman and take me where I am destined to be!” Beornin shouted into the gloom.

There came no reply, only the ever whirling mist seemed to move. Then something appeared out of the corner of Beornin’s eye, moving swiftly through the mist. Beornin brought his sword up defensively, only to discover that it was no longer in his possession. Suddenly a titanic figure loomed out of the mist before him. It was ten times the size of a man and had black feathered wings that seemed to stretch on forever on either side. It wore gray robes with a cowl that obscured whatever face the creature may have possessed, in its right hand it bore a sword with a blade stained black with blood. There was a sickly and bitter-sweet aroma that surrounded this creature that Beornin found both tantalizing and repulsive at once.

“Hold Beornin, son of the kings of the West Marches, I have come to fulfill my bargain with thee!” the creature commanded. Its voice was mighty and terrible, seeming to come a Beornin at all angles. The voice echoed at times both greatly and faintly, almost as if it existed in different places in time.

“What do you speak of creature? I have never seen nor bargained with you before!” Beornin said hesitantly.

“Ah, but there thou art wrong!” the creature said “Ye called to me with every act of kindness, every slain foe, every stone in your kingdom! I am the Angel of Vengeance, and I come to you offering a single wish with which to enact the vengeance that is owed.”

“Why need I this wish, Angel?” Beornin called up to the imposing figure “I had already killed he that slew me before my death! Leave me that I may claim my place in the Afterlife!”

“This vengeance is not for thee Warrior King, but for those whom ye served! Every man, woman, and child in your kingdom that now lay dead in their homes. Their killers must either be slain or driven from your kingdom, otherwise your people shall languish forever in the endless depths of Limbo. I cannot return thee to life for only my brother Death has such power, but should ye make the proper wish I can return thee to the realm of the living, for a price. If ye return to the realm of the living then upon the first light of day shall ye turn to dust, upon this second death thou shalt not be allowed to pass into the halls of your forebears, but instead be cursed to linger in the mortal world as a phantom until the end of days. What say you Dead King?”

The king pondered this for a long while. If he went back he would never know peace, but his people were all dead because he had not been there to lead and defend them against the wretched Trolls. Furthermore he was still their king, even in death, and thus it was still his duty to right the wrongs that had been done onto them.

“Angel of Vengeance, I have made my choice!” Beornin said, bringing himself up to the full height of his kingly stature “I wish to look one last time upon the face of my dear page Dolan!”

Beornin was sure he could feel the Angel smiling down upon him at his decision.

“As ye command, Dead King.”

A pillar of brilliant white light struck Beornin down onto his knees. Quickly recovering he found himself returned to the courtyard and the world of the living, his lifeless body was seated in front of him.

What a strange thing Beornin thought to look upon one’s own death.

Yet his body was not as he had left it, what was once woodland brown hair had turned jet black, and his once kind face was now gaunt and hollow. His skin was pale as marble in death and he was dressed in black armor that jutted wicked spikes from the bracers and shoulders. Beornin knew that he must use this body to fulfill his duty, but he was hesitant to take up this shadow of his former self.

The ghost of Beornin swooped into the waiting vessel. With a gasp the body came into undeath, and without so much as a heartbeat sprang from its seat with preternatural dexterity. Beornin pierced the darkness of the night with his new eyes, he was confronted with a bitter scene. Everywhere strewn about the courtyard lay the mangled bodies of his people. Nearest to him lay the body of Dolan, the page had fallen defending the body of his king. The lad had used Beornin’s own sword to slay two Trolls and now bore a smile in death as his corpse hands held up the sword, waiting for his king’s return.

The Dead King took up once more his sword that had seen the end of over one hundred Trolls. Instantly within his grasp it transformed, blade becoming black as the midnight sky as it elongated into a curve and was given a deadly serrated edge. The cross hilts became sharp tines that pointed outward with the blade and finally the ruby pommel moved into the center of the hilt where it glowed out into the darkness like a single blood red eye.

Beornin concluded that this was inevitably tied to the magic of the Angel, as was his armor and undead body. Looking to the stars he found himself in the ninth hour of the night, which meant he had nine hours until sunrise, and three hours until midnight. Upon this The Dead King formed an insidious plan, all he need do was wait and then he would strike with all the fury of undeath.

The Troll army was encamped at the castle gates, piling there all the treasures they had found and the bodies of their foes, which they would consume over the course of the night. Then strangely there came a ring from the great bell within the bell tower. It echoed faintly all around the giant, gnarled, forms of the Trolls.

BOOM!

“Thus rings the first knell of The Dead King’s bell! You have ’til the strike of the eleventh hour to flee my city! Should you remain then at midnight your lives are forfeit!”

The strange announcement that seemed to come from somewhere far off slightly unnerved the monstrous Trolls, but soon they passed it off as a survivor that they would kill in the morning.

The Trolls were gathered round their great cooking fire, their horned heads and jutting lower jaws clearly visible in the firelight. Then at the eleventh hour the castle gates swung closed and the bell sounded again, but this time much louder.

BOOM!

“THUS RINGS THE SECOND KNELL OF THE DEAD KING’S BELL! YOU HAVE SEALED YOU FATE, AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT YOUR LIVES ARE FORFEIT!”

The Trolls were visibly shaken by this new development. When they tried reopening the gates it wouldn’t budge, nor would it bow to the heavy weapons of the Trolls. They were truly trapped. The biggest and ugliest of the Trolls assumed the role of leader and dispatched a group of five to investigate the bell tower. They did not return.

Then midnight struck and there came a thunderous ringing about them that caused the Trolls to clutch their long ears in pain. A radiance light up the midnight sky as it turned the crimson shade of blood.

BOOM!

“THUS RINGS THE FINAL KNELL OF THE DEAD KING’S BELL, NOW YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

Something black whistled through the darkness and struck the Troll leader, cleaving his skull in two. From his head protruded a black sword hilt with a single, glowing, ruby eye. Then into the firelight strode The Dead King, and though he was much altered by the magic of the Angel they could still see the face of Beornin Trollslayer, the king that was supposed to be dead!

From somewhere within the army a javelin was thrown that struck Beornin straight through the chest and came out his back. For a moment he looked stricken, but then a malignant smile light up his undead face. Sickeningly slow he pulled the javelin out of his body and posed a question to the horrified Trolls.

“How do you kill what is already dead?”

From nowhere his bloodied blade appeared in his waiting hands. He rushed the Trolls, the slaughter began and the dying screams of Trolls rent the night air.

It was almost dawn by the time Beornin was finished. A huge pyre blazed in the courtyard behind him, filled with the bodies of his people. The Trolls received no such honor and, down to a man, were left were they fell for the crows to feast upon. Beornin sunk his blade deep into the cobblestones and hung upon it his black armor as a testament of sorts as to his second passing.

In the predawn light The Dead King reflected on what had transpired. All during the battle he had never felt a single pulse, a single heartbeat, in his body. It seemed that everything that had made him human was draining away, what would have made the greatest men whimper he now passed with a grain of salt. Every moment in this world in which he no longer belonged felt like dying all over again, and no matter how close he stood to the pyre he could not shake the chill of the grave from his tireless body. As he stood there, waiting for the sun to rise, he realized that to endure like this until the end of days meant he would surely spend most of it in madness, but he had saved the souls of his people from an eternity in limbo and that was all that truly mattered.

As the first rays of dawn touched his pale body Beornin closed his eyes and he crumbled to dust. When he open them he was not a phantom in the courtyard, but instead he was in the world of whirling mist once more with the Angel of Vengeance towering before him.

“What is this Angel?” he asked “I thought I was to be bereft from the halls of my fathers!”

“Indeed thou art banished from the halls of your forebears,” the Angel said “But I can only do so much and there is a law older than our pact that must be observed.”

“And what law might this be?” Beornin inquired.

“A people must have their king!” the Angel pulled back the mist as one might a curtain, and through this doorway lay a shining replica of Beornin’s castle “Your people await thee Dead King.”

Awestruck The Dead King drifted his ghostly form through the opening in the mist and over to the castle, whose shining gates were open in welcome. The good page Dolan meet him at the gate.

“Welcome, Sire, to Castle Knell! We have been awaiting you return.”

“I am most glad to see you once more good page Dolan, my weary soul can finally be at peace here, but tell me lad whence came the name Castle Knell?”

“It was named thus Sire,” Dolan said, a smile lighting his ghostly face “Because it was built upon The Final Knell of The Dead King’s Bell!”


The End