Cursed

Chapter 1

Medallion

Tark limped across the crimson bridge while dark blood dripped from his right arm. In his left hand, he clutched an immaculate emerald medallion that hung from a black chain necklace.

“Will you ever listen to me?” Korak pestered in his mind.

Tark couldn’t respond properly. His throat felt like it was clogged with barbed wire. Technically, he could talk to Korak just by thinking, but he didn’t like doing that. It felt wrong.

At the end of the bridge, Tark couldn’t take the pain anymore. He shut his eyes tightly and let his mind drift away. Korak, the demon of control, took over his body. Tark remained conscious, but couldn’t move his muscles. Dark smoke curled around his fingers and stretched across his arms to reach his worst injuries. The smoke was made of fathom, which was a powerful, chthonic substance. Tark used fathom himself sometimes, but it was usually Korak that did things with it.

One by one, Ixotark’s wounds closed. Sensations of relief washed over him with each one as the pain subsided. Fathom found its way into his mouth and down his throat. The soreness melted away and vanished. Within a few short minutes, Tark was completely healed. He didn’t like relying on Korak for health, but sometimes it was necessary.

Tark pushed on Korak’s grasp over his body. It was a mental struggle, one that he had done countless times before. He wrestled for control.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Korak berated, “We’re going to Lomin.”

“We are not going to Lomin!” Tark yelled into his own mind, “Give me my body back.”

“Fine,” Korak conceded, “You're very ungrateful. You know that, right? You let me in to heal you, then you push me away like I’m just a tool. We’ll conquer Lomin some other time. I want to find out what that medallion can do.”

Tark gained control of his limbs again. He collapsed onto the hot stone ground, breathing heavily. He always felt exhausted after Korak passed command back to him. It took him a moment to get up, but he eventually did.

Ixotark Dain Araxion inspected the medallion in his hand. It was glorious. For centuries, Narxoir possessed the medallion, but now it belonged to Tark.

According to Taenin, whoever defeated Narxoir and obtained the medallion would earn enough glory to become a legend. Tark was already a legend, but he couldn’t really earn glory the same way other people did. Defeating Narxoir was more of a personal goal for him.

“Where are you going now?” Korak asked impatiently.

“Baralask,” Tark replied, “We need a new quest.”

“Stop lying to yourself,” Korak said, “You can’t achieve glory. You’re seeking a destiny that doesn’t belong to you.”

Tark didn’t respond. He knew Korak was right. Tark’s destiny was to kill and destroy. That fact was written in the Book of Rokai.

Beyond the glyph-covered stones and monoliths, Tark found his horse, Renodin. In the Taenik language, Renodin meant nobility. Korak didn’t like that name, though, so he called the horse Tanrax, which meant bane. The horse was dark gray, with a jet black mane. It was larger and more muscular than most horses, with a loyal and relentless behavior. It was a brave and reliable horse, one that had never failed Tark.

“You’re smiling,” Korak noticed.

“So what?” Tark asked.

“You don’t do that very often.”

“I finally defeated Narxoir and took his medallion,” Tark said, “I thought was going to die in there.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re happy.”

“When I show people the medallion, they’ll see that I’m good,” Tark said, “Imagine how much my life will improve.”

“Are you going to do that in Baralask?”

“Yes,” Tark said, “I’ll admit, it’s not a very good city to start, but I also need another quest.”

Tark mounted Renodin and gave the command to run. The horse accelerated immediately, sprinting forward across the blackened Plains of the Vanquished. Narxoir’s fortress and the crimson bridge faded from view behind him. He felt good about himself. He had actually done something that would save lives. He was a hero, right?

While riding, Tark passed by a merchant wagon with two horses and four occupants, all of which were dead. Their skin had been replaced with black, crusty stone. The same substance that covered the ground. The scene was frozen in a position of horror. One man had an open wound in his side, permanently petrified by Narxoir’s black touch. Supposedly, there were several small towns in the Plains of the Vanquished, but all of them dark and desolate and dead.

Tark rode into the night. The stars shone in the sky, providing a dim light didn’t even illuminate the ground. Tark could naturally see in the dark, but Renodin couldn’t. When it got too dark, Tark shared some fathom with the horse to give it a temporary vision boost.

Korak went silent while the night passed, which gave Tark a good mental break from the demon’s vexing comments. He stared at his medallion, mesmerized. According to legends, the medallion held powerful magic, but it wasn’t the source of Narxoir’s destruction. He had planned to take the medallion for years, but he never really thought it would work. Obtaining the medallion should’ve been glorious enough to earn him a visit from Taenin, but that didn’t happen.

Taenin wouldn’t come down to congratulate someone like Ixotark. Not even if he cleansed the Pestilence. Tark was cursed. That’s just who he was. He was the Cursed.

The city of Baralask came into view as the sun rose the next morning. The golden beams of light blanketed the landscape. Tark was far from the Plains of the Vanquished, now. His surroundings were lush and untainted. Moss hugged the boulders that decorated the forest floor. Birds chirped in the sparse trees.

Renodin found the path in the grass that led to the city’s entrance. Tark passed the first living person he’d seen in a while, an elderly man walking with his donkey. Tark looked away instinctively. If the man didn’t see his eyes, he wouldn’t turn and run.

Tark rode past the open gates of Baralask. Two brazen guardians stood at either side of the entrance, clutching long, powerful bronze hammers. The humanoid creatures were designed to destroy dark beings; things like shadow maws and suppurators. As long as Tark had control over his body, the golems didn’t attack him. Whenever Korak or another demon was in charge, however, the brazen guardians seemed to know.

Tark guided Renodin directly to the stables near the entrance of the town. The horse was probably tired after a long night of traveling. The streets were somewhat crowded, but nobody had looked into Tark’s eyes yet.

Baralask was a major city for obtaining quests. People called them Kraen around here, using the Taenik word for “quest”. Most people didn’t know how to speak Taenik, but some words from the language were still commonly used. It was a holy language. Most of the people that did speak Taenik were privileged glory seekers. Tark wasn’t supposed to know the language, but Korak taught it to him several years ago.

Tark walked into a bar. Bars were usually unpleasant, barbaric places, but they also seemed to attract informants. If we wanted another challenging quest, he would have to find a reliable questmaster.

Someone walking out of the bar seemed to notice Tark’s eyes. The young man adopted a sudden look of worry and panic, but he didn’t do anything drastic. He simply left the building by himself at a fast walking pace.

Tark walked past several more people with his head down. The medallion was concealed beneath his shirt, but the black chain was still visible on his neck. In the corner of the room, there was a bald, bearded man with a large map laid out before him on a table. He was speaking with a brown-haired woman.

Tark approached the table confidently and started pulling out his medallion.

“Excuse me?” the man said, “I’m currently-”

The man stopped talking when he met Tark’s eyes. They glowed with an unnatural eerie light. His irises shifted between red, black, and orange hues. He had seen himself in reflections. He knew what he looked like, and so did everyone else.

“Cursed,” the man said, alarmed.

“Call me Ixotark,” Tark suggested, “Or maybe just Tark. I don’t like going by ‘Cursed’.”

People at nearby tables turned to look at Tark. He was used to it, but it always frustrated him.

The woman at the table stood up and slowly backed away towards the door. Everyone had their own way to react when they saw Tark. Some of them ran, some of them stood up confidently to earn a little glory, some of them tried to fight him.

“You’re not welcome here,” the questmaster said.

“I completed a quest,” Tark said, “I’ve been working on it for a few years now. I need a new one.”

“Why would you want a quest?” the man asked.

“Glory,” Tark said honestly. He always felt like a villain when he talked to people, but he truly had good intentions. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the Narxoir’s medallion. The large emerald spun in the air, reflecting light from candles and drawing the attention of even more people.

“What is that?” the bartender asked from behind Tark.

“This is Narxoir’s medallion,” Tark announced, “The great vanquisher is dead. I defeated him in battle.”

Quiet gasps and whispers flowed through the bar. There wasn’t a set of eyes nearby that weren’t staring right at Tark.

“Liar!” someone yelled, “A glory seeker killed Narxoir. You killed a glory seeker and took that medallion, didn’t you?”

“No!” Tark said defensively, “Trust me, I killed the demon myself. I am a glory seeker. I’m trying to be good!”

“I would’ve told you this would happen,” Korak said in Tark’s mind, “But you wouldn’t have believed me.”

Frustration consumed Tark as the nasty comments flooded his ears. Frustration wasn’t one of the demons in his head, but it was a feeling he knew very well. Sometimes it was even more controlling than Korak.

“You burned down my sister’s village,” a voice screamed, “The only thing left of that town is ash and bones!”

“You killed my brother!” another voice exclaimed.

“You’re destined to destroy!”

“Even Taenin hates you!”

Korak slipped past Tark’s mental protection as his focus faltered. The demon took over his body once again. His eyes glowed with a fiery yellow light. An explosion of fathom pulsed from his skin, tossing back tables and citizens alike. He clenched his fists with anger.

“You tried,” Korak said to Tark, “But you failed. I’m always the one to save you from your foolishness.”

Screams immediately erupted. People realized that they were standing way too close to a being of pure chaos and vile. Korak didn’t do anything immediately, he let people run for their lives. He reveled in it.

The medallion dropped from Tark’s hand and hung around his neck. With both arms, he conjured a powerful, dark ball of fathom. Demonic whispers reverberated through the building, coming from the dense accumulation of fathom.

In seconds, the population of the bar was down to three. Tark stood in the back corner, facing two brave glory seekers. They looked like brothers, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

“My name is Korak,” The demon said with Tark’s voice, “I am the guardian and advisor of the one you call Cursed. Together, we did kill Narxoir, but nobody cares when we do something kind, now do they? You scolded and threatened my companion, therefore summoning me to protect him. You might regret that.”

“We don’t know how you got that medallion,” one of the glory seekers said, “But we’ll take it from you right now.”

“Stop!” Tark yelled into his own mind. He desperately wanted control of the situation again. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t really evil, but sometimes Korak was just too powerful.

“Trust me,” Korak promised him, “It’s better if I handle this.”

The glory seeker on the left was sweating, but he got himself ready for a fight. He unsheathed an immaculate vanadium blade, which obviously magically tempered. The other glory seeker rolled up his sleeves, showing two golden wristbands. These people had relics, which meant they had been to the temple of the mystics. They were undoubtedly skilled fighters, but they wouldn’t stand a chance against Korak.

“Your move,” Korak said to them.

The man with the sword sprinted forward, ready to attack. Tark barely dodged the first wild swing, but the blade changed directions in midair and swung in for a second try. This time, Tark caught the sharp end of the sword like it was made of dull wood. Fathom covered his hand like a glove to prevent injury. He twisted the sword violently, ripping it out of the glory seeker’s grasp and throwing it across the room. The fighter reacted immediately, planting a solid punch right in Ixotark’s stomach. Tark stumbled back, then looked up and smiled wickedly at the man. Pain rushed through his body, but it did nothing to impede him.

The second man rushed forward with unfaltering determination. Tark grabbed the front of the first man’s shirt and sent a pulse of fathom through him. The glory seeker was thrown back into his companion. The golden bracelets glowed with yellow light when the two of them collided. Tark didn’t know very much about relics, but he assumed that the braces were for protection.

The two men crashed into the bar’s counter, smashing through the fragile wood. The one without wrist braces cried out with pain, but the other one rose to his feet immediately, sweating profusely.

“I’ll admit,” Korak said with Tark’s mouth, “I’ve had much more impressive fights. Is that everything you have?”

The wall to Ixotark’s left exploded inward as two brazen guardians ran through it. A bronze hammer arced through the air and hit Tark in the shoulder. He wasn’t able to react in time, so the blow broke right through his shoulder. Tark didn’t have control over his body, but he could still feel the immeasurable pain.

Before the second brazen guardian was able to attack, Korak released the cloud of fathom that still hovered above him. Savage black snakes formed in the smoke and engulfed the golem. With each bite, a portion of the guardian’s form evaporated. The poison burned through just about anything.

The brazen guardian fell apart and lost it’s artificial life. The room was filled with sounds of hissing and slithering. The first guardian tried to attack again, but its hammer was obstructed in mid-swing by a shield of fathom. The head of the hammer shattered, showering the polished wooden flooring with bronze shards. The golem stumbled back and lost its balance as its legs burned away. It fell to its back and died as the snakes overwhelmed it.

Each snake was a temporary creation of fathom, so each of them eventually evaporated. The standing glory seeker looked at Tark with pure horror in his eyes. He backed away and helped his companion get to his feet, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if Korak decided to kill him.

Finally, the dark, smoky fathom leaked from Tark’s skin and covered his wounds, healing him as it had before.

“You’re welcome,” Korak said in Tark’s mind. He gave up his control, letting Tark move his body again. He fell to his knees, fatigued.

The two men fled the building, which wasn’t even a functional bar anymore. The tables were turned over and smashed, broken fragments of glass and bronze were scattered around, and pieces of the flooring had disintegrated from the dripping snake venom.

“I didn’t thank you for anything,” Tark said to the demon in his head, “This was supposed to be a step forward for me.”

“It was a step forward,” Korak said, “We just need to figure out what that medallion can do.”

Tark sighed. He had a hard time caring anymore. Why did he think he could convince the people that he was good? Why did he even try?

He stepped over broken tables and chairs and made his way towards the exit. At least nobody had died this time. Every time Korak took control while people were around, things usually got ugly. In the streets around the bar, people were still running, they saw him standing alone, his eyes glowing with a pattern they knew as pure evil.

He pulled out his medallion and stared at it. It was supposed to improve his life. He killed Narxoir, right? That would save hundreds of lives in the future. He was trying to be good, but nobody would believe him.

Tark watched the chaos in the city. Everyone ran and hid. Nobody else was dumb enough to fight him, which was probably a good thing. When nobody was visible in the streets anymore, Tark was left standing alone. The demon of control was the only companion he had. He felt hopeless and despondent once again, but giving up wasn’t in his plans.