Short Stories - 2. Kelemvor's Faithful

Emrathil knelt before the altar to Kelemvor, praying for his comrades in arms. They had suffered a fate worse than death, their souls trapped in their bodies, unable to pass to the afterlife. And he had been ordered to free them from their curse of undeath.

The elven ranger stood, bow strung and in his hand. Maryn was first. He would be near the Blacklake district, preying on the Nashers. Emrathil was no stranger to the urban jungle, though he prefered the forest as most rangers do.

And so it was that an hour after he had set foot upon his path, Emrathil had Maryn in his sights.

The human carried a young woman in his arms, blood covering both of them. He stumbled toward an uncovered sewer grate, and would soon be out of sight, free to savage his prize further.

Nocking an arrow to his bowstring, Emrathil took a deep breath.

“Losi ta,” he whispered, before releasing the arrow.

As the missile flew, Emrathil recalled Maryn’s service as one of the greatest of the Doomguides. The man had lived well. Emrathil could only pray, as the arrow pierced the base of the man’s skull, that Kelemvor would grant him a peaceful rest.

The screams of the woman assaulted his ears as Emrathil hurried away. He could not be stopped, for his next mark would not wait.

The elf Keyleth, once the greatest healer in Kelemvor’s service, now made a shambling corpse. As Emrathil peered around the corner of a building in the Tower district, he saw the elf kneeling beside a corpse, chanting as her hands weaved a complex ritual.

She had tended to his hurts in the past, but now she used her powers for necromantic purposes. Another arrow flew to its mark, sinking into the elf’s spine before she could bring her victim into the horrors of an undead existence.

Emrathil was at her side in an instance, easing her passing with a dagger across the throat. As Keyleth’s body met the earth, he said a silent prayer over the two corpses, before moving on.

Two down, two more to go.

“Emrathil, you must cease your actions.”

Cyrus.

The half elf stood in the shadows of Blackdagger Keep, his red eyes glowing in the dark of night.

Emrathil gazed at Cyrus with longing. They had once been bedmates, sharing many nights together. How he wished things were different. But he could clearly see the mark of the vampire upon Cyrus’ ivory neck.

He reached for the arrow he had specially made for this. Ash, and masterfully crafted, it was designed specifically for putting vampires down. The elf had never thought he would be using it on his best friend.

Cyrus threw himself at Emrathil. The elf dodged, nocking the arrow and twisting as he fired point blank into Cyrus’ heart.

The vampire went down, silent as the grave.

“Emrathil! What have you done?!”

And there was his final mark. Sylvara.

She knelt beside Cyrus, weeping.

“He was your friend! He never did you any harm!”

“Kelemvor does not suffer the undead to walk the earth,” Emrathil intoned emotionlessly.

“He wasn’t undead! You’re under a spell! Pull out of it!” the human pled.

It was like a veil was pulled from his eyes. One moment Emrathil saw a vampire laying against the wall of a tower. The next moment, it was just Cyrus, looking so fragile in death.

Emrathil broke down. Falling to his knees beside the half elf, he cradled Cyrus’ head.

“Kelemvor have mercy upon me,” he sobbed.

Sylvara’s had rested upon his shoulder.

“You have done well,” she said.

Fire entered Emrathil’s side, a blade slicing roughly into his lung.body dropping across his lover’s, Emrathil looked up as Sylvara, who bore a blood soaked dagger in her hand, and a evil smirk on her face.

“Tell your god I will be coming for his throne very soon,” the lich said, fading away.

Emrathil’s hand found Cyrus’ as the black closed in around him. It made no sense. But then, it no longer had to. He was going to his judgement.