Eckmoor was a dump.
The city was outrageously muddy—the type of muddy that got your socks and pants soaked after taking just a few steps down one of its godforsaken paths. Most of the houses looked to be wattle and daub rather than stone, and some weren't even whitewashed. God only knows how they managed to prevent fires in this stinking cesspit of a place.
Even the castle was a grim sight, favoring functionality over beauty by a great margin. Its keep was a hulking monstrosity of dark stone, soaring nearly one hundred feet into the air with ballistae on its parapeted roof. Ramparts thicker than the city walls ran around it in a near-perfect square, boasting countless arrowslits from which soldiers could rain volleys. It stood as the antithesis of a fairytale castle.
The walk to the castle's portcullis was a long one. Tommy shuffled past thousands of pedestrians and wagons and carriages, ignoring the many street vendors and beggars calling out to him. The city was bustling despite its horrors, possessing a population far greater than he had expected. And much to his surprise, they seemed content—a little too happy for people living in dung huts with leaky thatch roofs and clay ovens.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, eyeing the line to the castle. Hundreds of worthless, disgusting peasants stood patiently behind the portcullis, waiting for an audience with Lord Flint. What in the name of fungi did these people need to speak with a lord about? Their annual potato harvest?
Well, it was time to put on a show.
Tommy ruffled his blonde locks and spread some mud across his handsome face. Then, like a cheetah after a gazelle, he launched himself into a sprint up the shallow incline to the portcullis. "Make way, make way," he shouted, waving his arms.
The guards beyond the parapets nocked arrows and trained their bows on him.
"Halt," yelled the one at the portcullis, drawing his sword with a satisfying schwing.
"I carry important news for Lord Flint! Danger rides for the city, and it bears the colors of King Teaway," Tommy hollered, slowing his approach.
"I said halt!"
He stopped completely, falling to his knees in faux exhaustion. "Please, grant me an audience. Lord Flint must know of his approach."
The guard shooed the other peasants and snatched Tommy by his arm. "Open the gate," he yelled. "If he speaks the truth, Lord Flint needs to hear it.
After a few moments, the portcullis creaked open, and the guard escorted him beyond it. "Make any sharp movements and I'll cut you down like a dog," he whispered.
How rude. The guy was just doing his job, he supposed, but, still, did he have to be so mean about it?
There was but a single man guarding the keep's door, garbed in a black surcoat with a red, orange, and yellow flame at its center. "There's already one in there," he spoke, voice muffled by his great helm.
"This one claims he saw the colors of King Teaway riding for the city."
"It's true," Tommy exclaimed. "Green banners with white tea plants on them!"
"I will see him escorted to the king, then," replied the helmeted man.
For just the briefest of moments, Tommy wondered whether or not this was a smart idea. Perhaps being patient may have been a better option.
The helmeted man stared at him for a few seconds then turned to the gate guard. "Did you check him for weapons?"
"Well, no," he said, clearly embarrassed. "Sorry, sir."
"Spread your arms."
The man pat him down and found naught but a pouch of coins and a furled map. "Follow me," he said.
They made their way through the dim keep, following the red rug up the imperial staircase, past the many busts and sculptures and paintings that dotted the main hall. When they arrived on the second floor, a series of doors greeted them—two to the left and right, and a pair to the front.
"You will kneel before the king and wait until you are granted permission to speak. Do you understand?"
Tommy nodded. "Got it, big guy."
He pushed past the doors in front of them to reveal a large throne room. The carpet and walls were red, with white and gold columns pacing up their lengths, numbering eight in total. At the end of the carpet's stretch sat two golden thrones, only one of which was occupied.
A man—Lord Flint, he guessed—slouched in the throne. He was older, though not yet old, with the beginnings of wrinkles on his round face and long, greying hair. A gut stuck out above his legs, pressing against his expensive robes like a fetus would its mother's stomach. He did not strike an intimidating figure.
"My lord, I apologize for interrupting, but this one"—he gestured to Tommy—"claims to carry grave news."
Flint flicked his hand at the raggedy man knelt before him. "Escort him out and give him four talons for his wife and child. I would not have them starve when I can help it."
"Thank you, my lord," spoke the raggedy man, tears in his eyes.
"Approach, stranger, and state your name."
A dozen guards stood against the wall, hands on their swords, ready to strike Tommy down should he make any unsolicited movements.
Tommy knelt down. "I am Gabriel, a priest of the Black Cloth. We are a new denomination settled near Newhorn, granted legitimacy by High Priest Marcel."
"I see. That explains your robes, then. Tell me—why have you traveled so far to see me?"
"I'm afraid I've given your men lies to grant myself entry," Tommy admitted, then quickly continued, "My purpose in coming here is simple—I wish to heal your daughter with the gift our God has provided me."
"I'm sorry, my lord. This peasant will have his tongue removed at once," spoke the helmeted man with unconcealed vitriol. He moved for Tommy but was stopped by Flint's hand.
"He would not have come here unless he believed himself able to heal my daughter"—he paused for a second—"or able to kill one of us." He stood from his throne and walked forward a few steps. "Gabriel of the Black Cloth—prove to me our God has truly blessed you or I will see you drawn and quartered for your insolence."
"Though the God of Light does not like to be tested, I am sure he will allow it this once." Tommy placed a hand on his own wrist. "Greater healing."
A brilliant red light raced up his arm and spread across the whole of his skin, lighting him up like a flicked lamp. The sound of a humming choir came and went with it, a soothing noise to hear.
"By the light," murmured Flint, eyes wide, mouth agape. "You have truly been blessed."
"Do you believe I can cure your daughter?"
"You wield forgotten magic; I couldn't possibly say," Flint admitted. "But it is certainly worth trying. Please, follow me. I will take you to her."
"Is that wise, my lord?" asked the helmeted man.
"I do not believe it mere coincidence that a man capable of using such powerful magic appears on my doorstep just weeks before my daughter's death. He is a gift from God; he must be."
For all this guy's caution—his walls and his guards—he was awfully easy to convince. I mean, after a single spell, he thought Tommy was a 'gift from God'. It was quite a jump.
Lord Flint led him down a hallway and into a dark bedroom. "Quickflame," he whispered, setting alight the tallow candles atop an ornate dresser.
So, the lord could cast magic. That was interesting. Something to ask him about later, maybe.
The light made visible a girl in a queen-sized bed, neatly tucked beneath purple linens, resting her head upon wool-stuffed pillows. Her pale face was stunning, curving into a freckled heart embraced by long, wavy black locks. She was a beauty amongst beauties.
"Please," Flint begged. "Heal her."
Tommy took her hand and whispered, "Greater restoration."
A familiar red light ran across her fair skin, covering every part of her before fading away.
Then she opened her brilliant green eyes and stared into his deep blues, mouth slightly ajar. "Are you an angel?" she asked, voice low and weak.
He shook his head. "Not quite, no. I think I healed you, though. Do you feel any better?"
She sat up, drawing a gasp from Flint. "I can see again. And there's no pain or loud ringing anymore."
Good God, what ailment was she stricken with? Blindness, tinnitus, and chronic pain. What an odd trio of symptoms.
"My sweet girl," Flint said, tears pouring from his eyes.
"I'll await you in your throne room, Lord Flint," Tommy said, backing out of the room. He made his way back into the throne room, stalked by the helmeted man.
It was nigh an hour before Lord Flint returned, face stained with tears, lips shaped into a true smile. He reclaimed his throne and cleared his throat. "You have done me a great service, Gabriel, priest of the Black Cloth. Tell me what reward you desire and see it fulfilled."
Oh, here comes the fun part. This guy was going to think he was a saint after this.
"Doing God's work is its own reward. I ask only that you spread word of my gift to those who might need my help."
Flint stayed silent for a few moments then broke out into laughter. "You're a remarkable man, Gabriel. Tell me—who is the high priest of the Black Cloth?"
"His name is Isaac, but we call him the Crow. He is the tongue of God—the one who told me my miracles would work on your daughter."
The lord seemed captivated by his words, like a child hearing a fairytale for the first time. "I see," he murmured. "You have provided me with unequivocal evidence that your denomination is the true one, selected by God Himself. I will use all of my power to spread its good name and learn its teachings. Do you have any scripture to offer me?"
"The Crow is writing verses as we speak. God only provides him with some few words every day, so it takes time. What we have learned so far is His love for charity and kindness reigns above all else."
It took all his will not to break out into laughter. He was making this stuff up as he went, but this guy was buying it like syrupy hotcakes. What a clown.
"The Ostarians will no longer receive my tithe; the Black Cloth will. Tell me where I might find your church."
"Seventy miles east of Newhorn, just south of an iron mine. I thank you for your generosity, Lord Flint. I assure you—we will put the money to good use through charity and expansion. None of us receive a salary, after all."
Flint chortled. "You make the Ostarians look like greedy, sinful pigs."
How ironic. Tommy was the greediest and most sinful pig of them all.
"Please deliver me your scripture once it is completed," he pleaded. "There is much I must learn and unlearn."
"Of course, Lord Flint."
Tommy left the gloomy castle with a smug smile. He earned his denomination a benefactor and won a great deal of fame for Gabriel. But while things were going well for the church, his criminal enterprise was still a mere sapling in need of water.
To ensure it grew, he would need workers who could keep their mouths shut.
He would have to expand his undead army.