Sanctuary from the Darkness

By David L. Dozer

When tragedy befell the young prince, Eranel of Knightscroft, he turned his back to those who cared for him and set off to find meaning in his suddenly empty existence. He searched to fill the void in his soul for many years, but remained lost until one fateful night ended his mortal life and forced him into a new, sinister reality.

Eranel is thrust into a battle between good and evil, humans and vampires, and the dead and the living, as he is forced to decide whom to trust and whom to fear. But as these supernatural forces struggle to control him, and use him as their pawn in a deadly struggle for power and revenge, he begins to understand and accept the path in which destiny has chosen to lead him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469722412

David L. Dozer

David L. Dozer graduated from DeVry University with a degree in Accounting, and now works full time in the field of Information Technology. He resides in Ashville, Ohio, where he lives with his wife Jennifer, and their 3-year-old daughter, Madelyn.

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Contents

P A R T I

P A R T II

P A R T III

P A R T IV

P A R T V

P A R T VI

P A R T VII

For

All of those who have helped my dreams to

Become reality.

And for

Madelyn Azriel,

Because it is all for you.

Love…

Revenge…

Forever…

Heavy beads of rain pounded the ground with increasing intensity as tiny fragments of soil were pushed into the air by the force of the crystal drops. For an instant, blue lightning struck the sky, illuminating the Black Hills to the West in a majestic flash. Strangely, a roaring clap of thunder did not follow the bolt as it usually did. A bitter wind swirled from the north, pushing the rain in all directions and forcing the trees into a spastic sway. The weather was harsh and unforgiving. This night was fit for no man.

A dark traveler pulled his long black coat tightly around his thin shoulders, desperately fighting to keep the frigid water from penetrating to his flesh. Each step became more labored as heavy earth caked his leather boots and weighted down his feet. He paused by a nearby tree and steadied himself on a gnarled branch, as he scraped his foot against the jagged bark, thick clumps of mud fell from his boots and rejoined the soggy earth. His body jerked as a sudden flash of blue electricity illuminated the shadowy path in front of him. For a moment, the end of the oppressive forest became visible in the flickering light. Brushing a matted strand of coal black hair away from his slender face, he set his sights on the clearing ahead and hoped to quickly end his long and treacherous journey through the Deriddian Forrest. Stepping out of the thick trees and into the open air, he gladly accepted the full hostility of the storm.

In the distance, a pale green light became visible through the ominous haze and served as a beacon of hope in the pitch black. Through his journeys, he had learned that terrible things came with the night, things that he did not wish to encounter. The undead roamed the land, looking for flesh to feed their unholy needs as their rotting tissue barely clung to blackened bone. These creatures came straight from the depths of hell, and did not return until the light of day spilled into the darkness, or so the legends told. Regardless of monsters, this was not a place he wished to be left without shelter. He silently chastised himself for being such a fool and allowing himself to get caught by the dreadful night. But it was much to late to remedy his mistake.

According to his trusty map, he had only been two miles from the edge of the forest, and at that time, more than sufficient light filtered through the canopy of trees. Apparently, his map had been incorrect, or perhaps somewhere along the path a wrong turn had been taken. He was more inclined to believe the prior. Since it was much too dangerous to bed down and spend the night in the forest alone, he pressed on as the encroaching gloom overtook the faltering shafts of illumination.

The rain had started sometime shortly after the last rays of light disappeared behind the mountains. Gentle drops of moisture began to fall from the rumbling sky and softly dropped through the trees. The cool breeze and the scent of the spring shower reminded him of days that now seemed so very distant. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head toward the heavens, letting the droplets splash against his face and run down his cheeks. He thought of her; her brilliant red hair and soft lips; and of her scent; and the way she smiled when he kissed her on her pale neck….

A startling clap of thunder had broken his trance as the darkness was chased away with a luminous bolt of lightning. Without warning the clouds had torn loose and attacked the earth with a deluge of water. The ground shook with each roaring thunderclap and the wind suddenly grew icy and harsh. Simply said, he had been naïve in even entering the forest. But as he approached the light, it seemed as though luck would be on his side this bitter night.

The eerie glow in the distance grew closer with every step as his slow gait became a quick trot. As he drew nearer, the image of a small inn could be distinguished through the green haze. His movements became more frantic as the footsteps of beasts could be heard rapidly approaching from behind him. The howl of the wolves grew near, as the sounds of death pounded through his head. His leaden feet drove into the mushy ground and desperately negotiated for balance. A yelp escaped from his lips as his ankle violently twisted in the snare of the deep mud and his face plunged into the soft earth.

There was no time to concentrate on the throbbing pain spreading from his ankle up into his calf. Without looking back, he buried his hands into the mud and forced his body back to a vertical position, stumbling slightly as he rose. Regaining his composure, he ran as fast as his injured ankle would allow. The tiny, dilapidated building came into clear sight and revealed a sign teetering on a single hook over the front door that read Sherwin Inn. The door, the door was now in reach. A sweet symphony of triumph rang out as life grew so near. Grasping desperately at the rotting door, he fell into a new life, but darkness always somehow forced itself into his light.

A short, grotesquely fat man slouched on a stool behind the counter. His glazed eyes did not move from the yellowed pages of the tattered book clutched by his grimy hands. It was odd to see such a man reading, but the stranger was exhausted, and did not give it a second thought. The flickering yellow light of a single lantern, perched perilously close to the edge of the counter, shone from his hairless head. The lantern light danced across the pine walls of the tiny reception area and illuminated the various items hanging from the walls, mostly mangy animal pelts and charts of the surrounding area. Doors to some of the rooms had been left ajar and the beds of straw lying on the floor seemed very appealing, considering the circumstances. The stranger gingerly closed the front door and stepped toward the counter.

Good evening sire.

The small man looked up in fright and began to tremble in his filthy clothes. His fingers cautiously ran along the bottom of the counter until they found the sword strapped underneath. Not knowing what to expect from the tall, dark traveler at this time of night, the small man was not about to take any chances.

A dripping mass of coal black hair fell to the stranger’s shoulders. His face was that of a young man, but his dark eyes showed the signs of a well-traveled life, and his clothes were tattered and torn. Clad in all black and soaking wet, the stranger imagined how frightening he must appear. One would never have guessed that he had been raised in the most lavish of surroundings.

What can I do for you? Squealed the innkeeper.

Yes, I need board for the night.

The Inn Keeper stared at the stranger for a moment. His eyes grew leery, and the lines on his face tightened as he spied the long sword dangling from the dark man’s waist. His reply was sharp.

There are no rooms available.

The stranger waved his arm toward the open doors. But, obviously there is a….

The Inn Keeper cut the traveler off as he haphazardly jerked the sword from underneath the counter and thrust it toward the stranger. The dull tip of the blade stopped mere inches from his throat. Instinctively, the traveler’s hand grasped the hilt of his sword. It was obvious that the portly man was not skilled with the weapon by the way that the rusty tip quivered in his hands. The traveler thought of drawing his weapon. It would take only an instant to stick the malicious innkeeper like a hog. But he was not ready to slay the terrified man, at least not on this dreadful night.

I stay open for no man in these dark times! If you even are a man. Now get the hell out of here, sire!

The traveler slowly released the grip on his weapon and turned toward the door as the sword forced him back into the dreadful night.

The innkeeper slowly faded into the shadows of the flickering light and his eyes flashed with a glowing red gleam as he smugly spoke to himself in a sinister tone.

Our time has finally arrived, my child. Redemption is ours.

* * * *

Get him!

The torrential rain essentially drowned out their shouts as the traveler stepped from the building and into the storm. Totally oblivious to the attackers waiting in the shadows, he scornfully glanced back at the Sherwin Inn and headed into the darkness.

As his boots sank into the soggy ground, he suddenly stopped, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his pulse began to race. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the swift flight of an attacker. In one swift movement he drew his weapon, tearing it from the sanctuary of its sheath and preparing it to strike out. The edge of the blade, which had been crafted by the most skilled iron men from the land of Willenhelm, ripped through the chest of the attacker, crushing bone, tearing flesh, and slicing his heart in two. The traveler pulled the blade from his faceless assailant, and frantically circled, searching for the next.

Out of the blackness, three assassins came charging toward him. Calls of death filled the air as their blades drew ominously closer. The traveler set his feet firmly in the earth and braced himself for the attack. He swiftly ducked as the blade of the first assailant screamed over his head. Instinctively, he drove his sword upward and into the soft stomach of the assailant, who emitted no sound as he dropped heavily to the soft ground.

As the next two struck simultaneously, he deftly blocked the dual attack with his sword and swung his boot into the man to his left. The attacker cried out in agony and fell to the ground, clutching his groin. The traveler then swung his blade into the neck of the other attacker before he could prepare to strike again. The harsh steel severed his jugular, sending a spray of red mist into the rainy air. Before the attacker took his last breath, the stranger removed his sword from its cavity of flesh and jammed it deep into the chest of the assailant who was still writhing in the mud.

He peered into the darkness, searching for more assassins to slaughter. In his search he caught sight of a pair of wicked red eyes glaring at him through the pouring rain. As the footsteps of more attackers became a splashing roar, he distinctly heard the grating sound of a maniacal laugh that rang with unholy satisfaction drift across the moist air.

His chest violently pulled for air as his muscles tightened and his senses blazed. It had happened so quickly. In no more than ten seconds, he had killed four men. Blood mixed with beads of perspiration and rain covered his face. He wiped his eyes and clutched his weapon closely. Gaping in horror, the traveler almost dropped his sword as they stepped from the shadows and into the eerie green light. They were a pack of murderous dogs, with lips twisted into evil smiles of delight, they moved in. What did they want with him? He had encountered thieves before, but never this many at once. There must have been fifteen men, all brandishing sharp swords and intent on slaughtering him. There was no other choice. Tightly gripping his blade, he screamed against the rolling thunder as he attacked the mob head on.

The traveler vainly fought as his clothes became soaked with blood, more his own than that of others. He knew not why he fought, but he battled valiantly nonetheless. Through his years of travel, he had formed many alliances, and by the same token, many enemies. His blade was no stranger to death, but all had been slain with just cause. The attackers fell one by one, but their ranks seemed unending as sword after sword struck out at him and bit at his flesh. There were too many for him to face alone. These men were on a mission to destroy him. He had lived his life alone, and now, that is how he would die.

Falling to the soggy ground, his face buried deep in the mud as his heart pounded in his ears and his pale lips tasted the salty kiss of dying blood. The pains of death flowed through his body as the life ran out of him and the cold rain washed his blood away. The elders were correct when they said one’s life flashes before his eyes before he dies. Images of the past violently flooded through his mind as he remembered his childhood and the days of leisure he had so enjoyed. He thought of the hunting trips with his father and the many social gatherings he had attended. But through the cacophony of fading memories, the last image he saw was of her. He could distinctly see her crimson hair, and he could feel her smooth skin against his. Gazing into her eyes for one last moment, he longed to kiss her warm lips and hold her in his arms. He spoke softly to himself, but the mud filled his mouth and muffled the dying words.

My love, I will be with you soon.

He closed his eyes and waited for the final moment. The last sensation he felt in life was that of cold steel tearing through his body and staking him into the damp earth. The unforgiving metal ripped through his spine and pierced his heart before it sank deep into the soil.

Darkness.

P A R T I

REVENGE

He awoke to a new reality, not knowing if he was in heaven or in hell, and not particularly caring. Flames rose around him and licked at his flesh with their lashing yellow tongues. Feeling no sensation of heat, or pain, or fear, only blind hatred coursed through his veins as he was consumed by thoughts of vengeance. Gazing into the flames, he saw dark shapes swirling through the fire and concluded that this was definitely not heaven. The dark shapes clawed at him through the serpentine firestorm and he twisted as the demons struggled to pull him into the inferno.

Eranel of Knightscroft

The name rang out like a bell through the endless fire. It had been so long since his name had been spoken that the syllables seemed foreign to him. Through his many years of travel he had stayed anonymous to all he met. Many people had crossed paths with the faceless stranger. Some had been slain by his blade. Other’s lives had been changed by his kind words and warm smile, and often, members of the fairer sex spent cold, lonely nights with the stranger, finding solace in the embrace of his strong arms. He would lay awake at night and imagine that the warm breast pressed against him was that of his true love. Throughout the three years he had traveled the land he had discovered many wonderful things, but the one thing he wanted most he could never have….

Eranel! Your destiny rests in my hands. The sinister voice grew closer as a black figure emerged from the swirling flames.

What sort of devil are you? Where am I? How do….

He was frightened, and this demon could sense it. The black shadow grew closer and interrupted, speaking to him as though he were a child.

Ah, Ah, Ah, so many questions from such a young soul.

Eranel spat. Where in the hell am I?

That is of no concern. At the moment you have much greater worries to ponder.

Eranel finally became fully aware of his surroundings. His arms were pinned to two colossal granite pillars and when he peered down at his chest, he gaped in horror as he saw the tip of a sword piercing his flesh. It was the very sword that so abruptly ended his life. Not a single drop of blood flowed from the wound, no pain was felt, only anger. Anger so powerful that it grew inside and filled his very soul to the point of agony. The being sensed this hatred deep in his heart and knew how to exploit it. Stepping from the enveloping flames, the eerie figure came into full view.

Eranel warily gazed at the dark demon. A blood red cloak made of heavy material and covered in ancient runic, a language used eons ago, draped over his lanky body. The edge of the hood was lined by a fine black fur and hung over his eyes, only revealing a sharp nose and a twisted grin. His arms drooped limply by his side and his bony fingers twined together in front of his waist. It was as though his muscle had vanished ages ago and wrinkled skin was all that clung to his primordial bones.

This was the creature his grandmother had told fairy tales about, he was certain of it. This was the creature that his father warned him about as a young boy. He would tell him not to go out after sunset, or else he would get you…who will get me daddy? The Necromancer Maleveous, that’s who. Everyone used the Necromancer as a way to keep the children from running wild at night. They all knew the legend, but most took it with a grain of salt.

Maleveous had been the subject of countless tales and various myths. He was once a mortal man, but legend told that his family was brutally slaughtered. However, no one knew by whom or under what circumstances they were murdered. Some even say that Maleveous himself killed his wife and two daughters while they slept in their cozy beds. It was hypothesized that he committed this atrocity in order to seal a deal he had struck with the devil. In exchange for their lives, he would receive eternal life and dark gifts of unfathomable power.

The Necromancer withdrew from the world and began dabbling in the black arts as his soul turned to darkness and his lust for blood grew ever stronger. He roamed the land, bathing it in blood, killing all he met, women and children alike. Stalking through the shadows, he would strike while his victims slept and drain them of all fluids. This debauchery continued until finally, a legion of warriors from the Willencroft army tracked him to his lair and killed him. They detached his head and left it as a trophy, forever sitting outside of his lair deep inside the Deriddian Forrest. As punishment for his heinous crimes, Maleveous’ soul was forever trapped in a state of purgatory, left to suffer between the realms of the spirit and of the flesh.

Eranel, I offer you the chance to destroy those who took your life. A new existence, a second chance, an opportunity to claim your revenge.

I accept. The words were ice and seemed disenfranchised from his lips.

Remember though, you must be cautious of what you wish.

Without thinking Eranel blurted out his retort, I accept. I want their blood!

A wide grin spread across the Necromancer’s face. Then their blood you shall have.

He grasped the sword with his bony fingers and tore it from Eranel’s chest. Eranel’s hands were instantaneously freed from the restraints. Maleveous offered the sword; it was quickly snatched from his hands. As he grasped the weapon, Eranel’s body began to burn and the pain coursing through him became unbearable. His skin bubbled and his eyes were dyed red as they filled with blood. His heart felt as though it had stopped beating, and his head swam as his mind was clouded by blackness. Aware of everything, but sensing nothing, he peered into the impermeable darkness, a darkness he would soon covet. And heard only the voice of the Necromancer calling out to him.

Godspeed Kandrell.

Kandrell, who was Kandrell? Hopefully he would soon find the answer.

* * * *

Eranel awoke into utter darkness. His breath came in short gasps and a sense of claustrophobia weighted on top of him. Panicking, he attempted to sit, only to hit his head upon something hard and unforgiving. He cautiously explored the small confining chamber with wandering hands and abruptly shrieked in horror as he realized he was confined within a coffin. Eranel tore at the poorly woven cotton lining, desperately trying to escape from his tomb. As he fought for his freedom and the rotting fabric shredded, a strange thought entered his mind. Suddenly ceasing to struggle, he wondered as to why his family had not buried him in a finer coffin. After all, they were of noble blood. Perhaps they had not received word of his demise. For that matter, why wasn’t he dead? He clasped his face with both hands and could feel the moist skin of his cheeks on his fingertips. Soft words fell from between his cold lips. I am not dead.

Eranel pushed off the top of the coffin, stirring up the layer of ancient dust. The rancid stench of death filled his nostrils. He did not how long he had been there, nor did he care. Only one thought filled his mind, that of vengeance.

His body felt quite different, more alive than ever before. A bewildering hunger grew deep inside of him, knotting his stomach and radiating throughout his entire body. Perhaps when his assassins were slaughtered, this strange thirst would be quenched. He quickly scanned his quaint mausoleum. He had a distinct feeling that it had not been constructed specifically for him. Perhaps it was the crumbling walls, the vines winding up them, or perhaps it was the