the small, stone temple building caused Wulfstan to offer up a quick prayer to all the gods of Vestland in deep, sincere thanks for now he truly felt that there was hope.
By taking the river road from Vestland they had approached Karameikos from the south-west and their route towards Duke Stefan’s palace had lain directly north from their landing position. By Wulfstan’s reckoning the abandoned shack where High King Erich and Slade waited for him lay to the west of his current position with the temple to the north-east. Between his current position and the temple was the massed undead, who it appeared to him had finally finished their gory meal and were becoming restless; beginning perhaps to seek for the prey they had lost. Wulfstan decided there was simply no more time to waste; he would have to make a run for it and pray that he reached the sanctified ground before the skeletons and zombies reached him.
Wulfstan took a deep breath, very, very quietly picked up a large branch from the ground and then began to run. As he had expected, he was immediately noticed by the massed undead. Before he had even taken his first step he had decided the quickest, most direct route to the temple was to run almost dead centre through the mass of the milling undead. It was, he knew, taking an incredible risk but it was a calculated risk nevertheless. Wulfstan felt confident in both his speed and his bulk; he stood well over six and a half feet tall and was very heavily muscled but he was also unusually agile. It was something that all of his instructors had remarked upon during his training and now it was something that he planned to put to good use.
As he ran Wulfstan held the thick branch like a club; it would not, of course, hurt any of the undead but it would serve to push them out of his way as he dashed through their midst. He reached the bulk of the undead within seconds, running at top speed. In a silent shuffle the first of the skeletons and zombies turned, arms outstretched ready to strike him down with the deadly cold of their touch. Brandishing his makeshift club Wulfstan knocked four of them off their feet with his first swing and kept running. He swung again and knocked down another group of undead and still he did not stop running. Again and again, slowly and deliberately, the skeletons and zombies reached out for him only to be knocked away by his heavy swings of the tree branch. Even quicker than he had hoped he reached the edge of the sanctified ground of the temple; a place where the undead could not follow.
Wulfstan did not slow his speed as he crossed the well maintained grounds of the temple. The white stone building was small; barely half the size of some of the temples found in Vestland’s capital, Noorvix, but soft, welcoming light was shining from the two windows on either side of the wooden door in the centre of the temple. Suddenly he paused, looking at the temple more closely. Something about the temple felt wrong, some subtle thing he could not immediately discern. Glancing back Wulfstan saw that the undead had stopped at the edge of the temple grounds, so obviously it was a working temple if its grounds were still consecrated, and the light indicated that someone was within. Still he felt hesitant. In his very bones he felt certain that something was not right about this temple.
Pushing aside his strange feelings Wulfstan knocked sharply on the temple’s wooden door. At first he could hear nothing from within the temple but just as he was about to knock again the door was flung open. Inside the doorway stood a cowled priest, human and obviously in his middle years. The priest was powerfully built; Wulfstan could see the muscles under the black linen cowl that he wore.
“Yes,” the priest enquired in the Common tongue. Although all of The Kingdoms of Kaynos had their own individual dialects most people could also speak in what was called the Common language. It was said that this was the language that had been spoken when The Kingdoms were united in the long distant past.
“I require your assistance, please, your holiness,” Wulfstan answered in Common.
“Certainly my son, come in, take shelter,” the priest answered, a slow smile spreading across his slightly weathered face.
As he stepped across the threshold Wulfstan felt his unease deepen, it was like an itch he could not reach to scratch. Something was very, very wrong in this temple but what was it, he wondered?
“Tis strange to see a traveler in this part of Karameikos at night,” the priest spoke from behind Wulfstan, so close behind it was almost as though the priest had whispered in his ear.
“That’s why I’ve come,” Wulfstan began and stopped as he looked towards the back of the temple. As he stared at the stone altar he knew why he had felt such a feeling of foreboding about this temple. The temple was dedicated to the god Bhaal, god of blood, war and destruction. Bhaal was an evil god whose priests practiced the magic known as necromancy in addition to having their own blood-soaked rites. Wulfstan felt his blood run cold; he was in more trouble now than ever.
Slowly Wulfstan turned around, the middle-aged priest standing directly behind him, still smiling gently. From his quick glance at the temple he felt certain the priest was the only occupant. The small building had only the large room with the altar, where they now stood, with one door giving off onto what would likely have been the priests own chambers. Wulfstan tried to behave naturally but the image of the altar and the glaring red eyes that were the symbol of Bhaal above it filled his head. Coated in blood, mostly dried although he was sure he had seen signs of fresh blood also, the stone altar was large enough to lay out a full-grown man. Obviously cut from a single piece of stone it bore silent witness to countless ceremonies involving the shedding of blood. Wulfstan knew little of the rites of Bhaal, he had never wanted to know more, but he did know that blood-letting, murder and human sacrifice played a big part in his worship.
“Have my pets been bothering you?” the priest enquired gently.
“Your pets?” Wulfstan repeated, feeling stupid.
“I sensed their restlessness earlier, their...” the priest paused briefly, lingering over the word, “hunger. I assume that was you.”
“The undead,” Wulfstan began and stopped, his mind reeling from the implications of the priests words.
“Yes, we have so few travelers come through here anymore,” the priest spoke sadly, “I’m afraid their appetites have gotten quite out of control.”
“I see,” Wulfstan said slowly, backing away slightly from the still smiling priest.
“How fortunate for us all that you have come along at such a time. Miraculous I would have to say,” the priest continued in his low, almost dreamy voice, “but then Bhaal always provides I have found. One way or another, Bhaal always provides.”
Wulfstan had less than seconds to react as the priest sprang at him, a long, thin-bladed knife suddenly appearing in the older man’s hand as if by magic. But Wulfstan had been extremely well-trained and he had been watching the priest closely; watching his chest, not his eyes. His instructors had drilled into the recruits that the chest was the point to watch in hand to hand combat, not the eyes, it was the chest that would tell you your opponents’ next move. He easily dodged the priests’ blow, the knife edge catching only the tail end of his loose linen shirt. He dropped to a low crouch, watching the priest carefully. Although the priest was armed where Wulfstan was not and well built, Wulfstan still felt confident; he had never lost a fist fight and he was not about to start now; especially not with so much at stake.
The older priest circled around towards Wulfstan, still smiling serenely. As the priest lashed out again with the long knife Wulfstan was ready; he grabbed the priest’s wrist and tried to dig his fingers hard into the tendons but he had missed his mark slightly. Although the priest screamed with pain and rage he did not drop the knife, instead he brought up his leg driving his knee deep into Wulfstan’s groin. He felt the pain as a hard knot deep in his lower belly but fought against it. Unfortunately he did, however, lose his tight grip on the priest’s wrist. Immediately the priest capitalized on his loosened grip and slashed down viciously with the blade, slicing a deep cut into Wulfstan’s upper chest.
Wulfstan
blinked rapidly, fighting against the haze of pain from his groin and his chest. He backed away from the older man, desperately seeking to give himself some time. He could feel himself beginning to pant heavily; he realized now that he had underestimated the older priest. This was not turning out to be the easy fight that he had anticipated. Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply Wulfstan circled the priest again, dodging quickly another swift strike of the knife. As they circled and feinted around each other slowly he could see that the older priest was beginning to tire.
Pressing home the advantage Wulfstan let his body sag slightly, as though he was fading from his wound. As he expected the priest sprang forward, arm raised for a fatal slash of the knife. Wulfstan tightened his hand into a fist and drove it deep into the priest’s belly, seeing with satisfaction all the air go out of older man from the blow. Before the priest had any chance to recover Wulfstan quickly reached up again for the hand holding the knife. This time his probing fingers found the nerves and tendons of the priest’s wrist and pushed down hard, grinding the nerve against the bones. With a scream the priest dropped the knife and sagged to his knees. Wulfstan