Chains of a Dark Goddess #1

Shackled by a dark oath to a wicked goddess, a fallen knight rises from death. Driven by love and revenge, he is drawn into a perilous conflict against zealous crusaders and ancient foes.

In a realm where sorcery and faith collide, the fallen knight Cairos Varenni rises from death, shackled by a dark oath to the goddess Harmulkot. Driven by love and revenge, he is drawn into a perilous conflict, wielding forbidden powers against zealous crusaders and unknown enemies. As shadows close in and ancient powers stir, the line between salvation and damnation blurs. Will he rise as a savior—or fall as a harbinger of ruin?

“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”

Not all paths lead to judgment.

Not all promises are kept.

Not all who die remain dead.

In the Shadowland, where time flows thick and heavy like molasses, where ash ever falls onto the desolate plains and jagged black mountains, where the doomed wander until their end comes—if it comes at all—a broad-shouldered man descended into a rugged ravine. It was seemingly empty of the ravenous demons that prowled these wastes. The silence was deep and watchful.

The man’s once-gleaming plate armor hung heavily on his frame. With each plodding step, its rust-streaked plates ground together, the rasp of corroded metal echoing through the ravine. Beneath the battered plating, the rings of his mail shirt lay cracked and tattered. A steel-clad kite shield strapped to his dangling left arm clung stubbornly to its last few specks of sky-blue paint, its emblems long since destroyed by tooth, claw, and venom. The longsword he dragged behind him carved a shallow furrow through the ash. Its edge was chipped and dulled by countless battles fought, countless battles without meaning.

The man never stopped to rest. He never doubled back. Head bowed, shoulders slumped, he marched ever forward through the Shadowland with the unyielding determination of a clockwork soldier, step after grinding step.

Having followed the noise the man made, a scaly beast crept into place behind a basalt outcrop. Razor talons flexed with an audible click, and a barbed tongue flicked out, darting between teeth that glittered like shards of glass. The creature’s giant black eyes gleamed as it gathered itself to strike—swift, silent, unseen.

The demon lunged. For a brief second, a grin flickered on the warrior’s face as he snapped his kite shield upward just in time. Flesh and bone hammered against steel with a spray of teeth and black ichor. Talons screeched along the shield’s surface as the man twisted, using the creature’s momentum to slam it against the basalt outcrop. The beast scrambled to rise, belly scales rasping over stone. The man gave it no opening. With a swift step and a sharp flick of his blade, he sliced through the demon’s corded neck. Head and body dissolved into a sulfuric haze.

He stared at the spot where the creature had been. His eyes cleared for a moment. He could do that too—let go and then fade into that final darkness.

He shook his head. No. He had to keep going. He was waiting. He had been promised something. He had been promised…

Paradise.

A weary sigh escaped him as he scanned the charred, ash-covered landscape. His eyes turned cold again like the dead sky above. Head bowed and shoulders slumped again, he continued deeper into the ravine.

An hour passed—though for him, it might have been years—and then a terrified scream shattered the silence. His gait steady and mechanical, the man trudged toward the source of the cry, his path winding through shadowed ridges of basalt until he came upon a young woman cowering on the ground, her back pressed against a large boulder.

She would have been beautiful in life. Now, she was as washed out and grey as everything else here. A monstrosity loomed over her, its mottled skin loose and sagging from its pustulant, bloated bulk. A wasp’s head crowned its shoulders. Its glistening black eyes broke her reflection into splintered fragments. From its mandibles dripped vile, green ichor.

As if struck to life by a bolt of lightning, the man charged. The demon, intent on its victim, didn’t notice him coming—but she did. Her eyes filled with recognition, and that slight shift drew its attention to the man. It turned, mandibles spread wide, just as the man’s blade struck deep, steel punching through its bloated chest with a wet crack. The demon clawed at the hilt and then faded into nothing.

The woman scrambled to her feet and threw herself into his arms with a sob. “Thank you,” she said, fingers clutching his ruined armor. “It was so awful. You saved me. Thank you, thank—”

Her frantic muttering ended with a sharp gasp as his sword stabbed into her side, just below her ribcage.

“This is better,” he said, his voice flat and distant as he drove the blade deeper. “You don’t belong here.”

He wrenched the blade free, and she staggered back, clutching at the wound, her eyes wide with confusion. Then she slumped to the ground, her form flickering before dissolving into shadow.

He rubbed at a dull ache at the base of his neck and sank against the boulder. The young woman reminded him of something ... someone. As the minutes passed, his eyes glazed back over, and the pain faded. He stood and continued onward—until behind him:

“Cairos Varenni!” a sibilant voice cried out.

He spun, his sword poised to strike. A woman unlike any other he had ever seen stood several paces away. She took a few swaggering steps toward him, her anklets of bone clicking. Silver-winged snake tattoos slithered against the unnatural jet-black of her skin. An orange gem embedded in her forehead flickered as if filled with torchlight.

Mesmerized by her, he didn’t react, even as she walked up and touched him between the eyes.

“Awake, champion, your services are needed.”

He stumbled back, shaking his head as the gray numbness peeled away. Clarity returned to his eyes. His hand moved to his throat, fingers finding the place where an axe had sundered mail and gorget alike, where steel had yielded and bone beneath.

His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed as his last memory of the living world surged back: infidels looming over him as he choked on blood.

“How… how long have I…” He gestured weakly at the dead land around him.

“Seven years.”

“I have wandered this hell for seven years? Why?!”

Her voice was sibilant, seductive. “Those who do not pass into either Paradise or Torment roam the Shadowland until they fade into Oblivion. Most last no more than a few weeks, if they do not fall to demons first. But not you, Cairos, for you are not done with life.”

He fingered the rose-stamped Eternal Sun medallion still fastened to his battered shoulder guard—a symbol of Seshalla, goddess of love and wisdom. His goddess. He had been her Knight Champion. He had died crusading for her. Yet she had refused him Paradise. Even the lowliest recruit, steeped in a lifetime of sin, earned Paradise if they perished fighting for her. She should have given him a drink from the Cup of Eternity with her own hand, as the Matriarch had promised.

“I dedicated my whole life to Seshalla. I died in her name, and this—this is how she honors me?” Throwing back his head, he clenched his hands into fists and roared. “Seshalla!”

He crumpled to the ground. “Why?” The plea was soft, but then his voice hardened. “How could you abandon me?”

“She cannot hear you.” The exotic woman gave another secretive smile when he glared up at her. “Perhaps Seshalla abandoned you, and perhaps she did not. Wiser men than you have placed their faith in lies.”

He studied the gem embedded in her forehead. It was a qavra, an ancient spirit stone that witches and warlocks used to cast their wicked spells. Except they wore them in delicate silver cages that hung from their necks. He had never heard of someone embedding one into their flesh.

“Who are you, witch, and what do you want with me?”

Her smile deepened. “I am Nalsyrra, of the Ojaka’ari. And I have come to the Shadowland to bring you back to the land of the living?”

“Why?” he asked. “And how?”

“I represent a goddess, one who still has power. Though not enough to save her people. For that, she needs you. As to how I can lead you to the Keeper of Death who guards the Way of Return. But you must face him and defeat him alone.”

Cairos laughed bitterly and climbed to his feet. “I am done serving fickle goddesses, Nalsyrra of the Ojaka’ari. I have learned my lesson. Tell her to choose another warrior to fight her battles.”

“If all she needed was a mere warrior, do you think we would have gone to the trouble to raise you from the dead? You were the Knight Champion of Seshalla and the commander of the legendary Valiants. You were a mighty warrior without peer, a brilliant tactician, and an inspiration to every man in Issalia’s army. You struck fear into the hearts of your enemies. You survived impossible quests. You are the one we need.”

“I am no hero, not anymore. That man is dead. I am nothing but a shade now.”

He turned his back on her.

“Reborn, you would have the strength and vitality of several men. A shade? Perhaps. But one with powers you have never imagined.”

He shook his head and started to walk away.

“You could see Orisala again.”

Cairos stopped.

“Orisala.” The name rolled off his tongue like a caress. He said it again, with more strength, as if simply hearing it brought him closer to life. “Could I hold her in my arms?”

“Yes.”

“Would I be whole again? Would I look like myself?”

“Your wounds were mended and your body preserved, according to your people’s traditions. But decay is inevitable.”

“Orisala,” he whispered, his brow furrowing in thought. “No. A walking corpse can bring no comfort to the living.”

“Comfort? Perhaps not. But what about salvation? Orisala needs you, Cairos.”

“What do you mean?” He spun around to face her. “I made certain she would be cared for, surrounded by loved ones. My squire, Kedimius, pledged his life to protect her. What has happened?”

“She is alive—but barely.”

He stepped toward her. “What?!”

“The priests who pulled her from the River Ayre saved her life. She cannot move or speak, though her mind is intact and alert. They have no idea who she is. They care for her out of religious duty but can do no more to heal her. She is all alone and trapped inside a broken body.”

“How could this happen?!”

“That is a tale only she can tell. But if you come back and serve her, Harmulkot will heal her.”

“Harmulkot?” Cairos laughed. “You expect me to trust Harmulkot? You expect me to serve that wicked old goddess?”

“You have no choice. And neither does Orisala. You are Harmulkot’s only hope, Cairos Varenni. Just as she is your only hope of saving Orisala.”

Cairos straightened his back. “If I return, I will see Orisala healed, and if Harmulkot betrays me, she will regret it.” He ripped the Eternal Sun medallion from his armor and tossed it away. “I will serve Harmulkot, for Orisala’s sake. Now take me back.”

“It is not so simple a task to get past the Keeper of Death.” Nalsyrra drew her sword and reached it out. The hilt was polished onyx, engraved with tiny runes that continued onto the thin, night-dark blade, where they glowed with a white shimmer. “The Sword of Shadowed Light. It is the only other help we can give you.”

“We?” He gripped the hilt of his own sword tight. “Who else is involved besides you and Harmulkot?”

“You are astute, Cairos. There is one other. A benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous is performing the spell to prepare your body for your spirit’s return. It is a demanding ritual, and she made a tremendous sacrifice to get you back.”

“Even though I could have said no?” Cairos asked. “There was no guarantee that I would agree.”

“Your benefactor never doubted that you would return to save Orisala. See that her faith is not in vain. Everything depends on you.”

Cairos sheathed his blade and took the Sword of Shadowed Light from Nalsyrra. Through its hilt, he felt a pulse like a heartbeat. “No deceptions.”

“None,” she answered. “Come now, Cairos Varenni. Follow me to your destiny.”

Click here to read Chapter 2