Chapter Four: For Whom the Bells Toll.
The single tweet of a bird, gradually grew into a chorus, an energetic harmony as the small creatures nestled and dove through the greenery of the Shrine.
The emergence of a new day was upon them.
Tarkus lurched over the fire, asleep in an awkward position, beneath the lump of boulder shaped iron. Its ebon colour remained lifeless, a silhouette against the rising sun. The brisk sunlight teetered, swaying in the deep. The looming, ever present statues had their eyes closed in blissful peace. They were alive, Oscar thought, as he eyed them with an unconvincing glare. Oscar jostled with the strap of his shield and slung it over his back, in his other hand he held a longsword. It was a silver strip of iron, nothing more, nothing less, a sturdy reliable weapon in the hands of an elite, but it bore no weaving patterns, no majestic emblems or golden stripes. His shield denoted his rank, its blue face was tarnished, worn, the iron below making its way to the surface. Bronze aged leaves, jagged and interloping, patterned the edges and a heraldic emblem with a shield in the middle and two proud lions above it emanated from the centre. It hummed softly with a sapphire aura, an indication that it was fortified with magic resistance. His equipment was as much a companion as Tarkus. He looked at his shield and for a moment he was lax in sorrow, the emblem reminded him of home… Astora was a land to marvel at, tall highways of gold and in the centre a grandiose castle, its turrets as tall as the giants of Sens Fortress. No shadows loomed over, as the sun's rays shone directly upon Astora, as if Gwyn himself watched it personally. He reminisced of a past lover, the soft touch of her radiant bronze skin, her elegant, long golden hair that trailed over a beaming smile, the endearing hospitality… But it was all gone… Undead, hollowed men and women lingered aimlessly in their new abode. What he would do for one more day under its sun, free of Undead, of hurt…
Oscar had different interests to Tarkus and he was quiet unsure what Tarkus would really do, if he managed to overcome the challenges in Sens Fortress. No one had ever made it through Sens Fortress. Knight King Rendal had recently led a large army to assault its gate, head on, but he did not know if he had made it through there. Past the arduous trials of the Fortress was Anor Londo, home to Gwynevere, a lustrous Princess and sister to Gwyn.
The land of gods, what riches await the first man? He could only fathom, maybe it was as beautiful as Astora? No, such beauty had been vanquished.
A story had passed down through Oscars family as the outbreak of Undead occurred, he had told Tarkus one dusk filled night: 'There is an old saying in my family… Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords… When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.'
Oscar had dawdled far too long. He repeatedly changed his two handed grip, swerving the fine blade against the wind. A two handed strike could fell any monster, it was all about poise and thrust. He looked up at the verdant mountain, where concrete slabs jutted along its precipice. There were several slabs missing and others which hung lop-sided. The path wound up its side, soaring to an incredible height. Perched at the top was a swaying Undead, wearing battered armour and wielding a stump of jagged iron. At its pinnacle, a structure jutted from the cliff face, an aqueduct that coursed under the Undead Burg. And he knew, through this towering mega structure, through its many paths and intertwining mazes, was a tower, he could see it far off in the distance. At the highest point of the tower, the sun struck the bell and its round surface scintillated; a beacon of light, a beacon of hope in an otherwise perilous mission.
Tarkus held the ring in his palm, it was tepid, a tender, soothing warmth that pimpled his arms. His face was crisp, soaked in bronze, as if laid to rest in the sun for too long. A persistent, excruciating itchiness covered the red sores beneath his visor. He looked at the ring, the skin on his exposed hand was taut over his bones, which protruded obliquely. He was accursed.
He scrambled away from the fire, eyes darting between the observant vultures. He hurried back into his house and wedged the ring onto his little finger. He gathered his gauntlets and armoured himself head to toe, covering his disfigured form. His body was frail, enfeebled under his heavy black iron armour, but he had no choice, it was yet another burden on his shoulders. He knelt down and crawled along the blood stained wooden floor of a place he used to be safe in. There used to be a timber chair, with a curved base in the corner where he rocked calmly, beside a warming fire. A cot his son played in, that Tarkus crafted himself with the help of some neighbours. And Alandra… who would sing a sweet melody as she rocked their son in her arms…
Most of the bodies had been gathered and thrown into the bonfire, but there were a few left and beneath them was a soft, heavenly, humming glow. Tarkus moved them aside, the dead now… he was one of them… their stench was the smell of normality, and whiffs of fresh air were alien to him. He shot his hand under the decaying, brittle bones and pulled out an airy soft clump. Its edges moved, around and round, a bright white hovered precariously over a deep empty black. He held it in his palm, high in the air and clenched it, it dispersed a shower of white particles around his fist, the shockwave absorbed into his body.
Even amongst the dead, there was hope to be found.
He had indulged in fine wines till drunkenness had felled him, but he had never been addicted to it, now though, every thought was blacked out, only a faint glimmer of white resided in his mind. He was Undead, there was no going back, the eventual day of his hollowing would soon come, but for now he needed humanity to continue this human façade.
The light of day hung above, it drew forth, conquering the darkness, and the giant, timber door of the castle, and its impenetrable shadow, stepped aside. The riveted bolts across the onyx timber surface shone like diamonds in the rough and gold plated bands which streamed down its side; their blinding light a spectacle against the otherwise dull grey of the stone walls.
The interior shuddered at his presence, the castles hall was empty and its pillars shone a crimson, devilish glow, a burning tinge singed its surface.
A glint in the depths of the darkness caught Tarkus' eye, a white shimmer across a burnished, armour, a bent figure sat on the throne.
A rhythmic tapping of fingers, like a steady drums beat resonated across the wide, vast hall.
"Father?" A timorous voice murmured, Tarkus was shaking, one hand placed on the giant door, struggling to keep it open. He apprehensively stepped forwards and kept his eye on the throne from across the room. The doors slammed, a colossal rumbling crash bellowed out. A smattering of dust struck his back and whooshed past him into the air. The particles glittered under the rays of light, piercing through slits in the gable. Each step was mired with a rhythmic tension, a strumming, a strung out beat, the white glint spiralling in the void; then dissolving away. The light caught the man's sunken face, a delicate, adorned crown rest crooked over his grey covered head. A heavy necklace, with silver, bronze, gold, black iron and diamond beads hung from his neck. He was permanently bent, his necklace a shimmering crescent of greed, smiling at Tarkus.
"Where is my father?" Tarkus demanded, a flood of light surrounded his silhouette.
…
The tapping continued. Tarkus shuffled, legs apart, readying himself. Arms wide, fists clenched, poised, his stance kept his body planted and he stood tall, his shadow cast long, his stance menacing, defiant.
"A true Berenike…" The man leaned into the light, his twisted beard prominent, abundant with uncombed stringy strands. "…but if you're looking for a fight, you've come to the wrong place, Tarkus."
"Tarkus! Never approach a man with your guard down!" Iron Clad chided the quivering young boy.
"But, you're my father!" Tarkus squeaked innocently.
The old giant smiled down at him. He knelt down and touched his shoulder.
"It will become customary, like speaking or walking but I will drive that fighter's mind-set into you!" He fervently ruffled his son's hair.
"Always know where you stand, lest you be swept off your feet by some foul beast!"
Tarkus looked back, his helmets face burnt black, shielding the welling in his eyes.
"I am not looking for a fight… I'm looking for my father." Tarkus asked politely, slouched ever so slightly.
"He is in his chamber." The Balder Councillor replied drearily.
The pillars shadows, all around him, moved, with an imperceptible swiftness. A flowing trail of black cloth. A silver glint sprung from within and Tarkus ducked. A metal rattled and echoed, spinning as it slid down the shiny, marble floor of the grand hall. Tarkus glanced at the Balder, he had leant forwards, elbows on knees, a sneer plastered over his wrinkled face, a glint in his bottomless, beady eyes. The lecherous old kook laughed to himself.
Tarkus dived towards the nearest pillar, the suns boundless energy still coating it in a halo of glistening red light. Tarkus peered, the sun was brighter than ever. He rounded the pillar and stood before its blinding rays, back turned to it. He was unarmed and fighting an assailant in its natural habitat would be tricky. The man slowly emerged from the darkness, black leather wrapped and tightened around his nimble physique. He held a great, curved, thin sheet of steel. Its silver was blinding white in the fierce rays. A head band and muzzle were fastened across his face, only leering, darting eyes peered over the cloth. His hands were clenched, white knuckles tensed, protruding from the tangled fabric around his dainty fingers. Tarkus grinned. His skin was itchy, it felt as if small bumps were crawling through his arteries, an army of ants trying to break free, but he ignored the signs that reminded him he was Undead. He licked his parched lips at the thought of glorious humanity. The humanity he acquired earlier, had restored him, this brittle assassin would provide no challenge. His last thought flittered away as the assailant darted and weaved out of sight. Several sharp knives launched from the darkness, Tarkus held his arm up and they pinged harmlessly off his shell. Tarkus lumbered forwards, punching aimlessly as the assassin's great, swift blade cracked down. It struck his shoulder, slashing a deep gorge through his armour. Toe to toe this man would crumble and his dashing would soon turn to scurrying.
The Councillor cracked into a roar, the cackling laughter hiding the foes steps.
A blistering fast black ball rolled, it leapt into the air and from it emerged the man with all his spidery limbs. Tarkus lunged forwards with his knee, chest height and cracked the man's ribs. He picked up the fallen body and smashed it down upon his knee. A terrible, singular crack echoed and the laughter suddenly stopped. Tarkus launched the crippled body into a pillar and charged forwards. The giant bulk thrust his hand and grabbed the Balder with frightening speed.
"Pl- pl- eassseeee!" The words broke and stuttered, a pitiful plea.
(Never let your guard down.)
"(WHY?)" Why would the Councillor try to have him killed? But it seemed of no importance… his life was an empty vessel, searching for answers. Why had Alandra succumbed to the curse? His love… his son… that was the real why, then and there, Tarkus sought the answers, the unanswerable… he clasped at the man's throat with a forlornness.
"…why?" Tarkus sobbed, trembling, he held the man above the throne of his king.
"They're all gone…" The Councillor spat. A gush of blood dripped down his cracked lips.
"What?" Tarkus questioned… how did he?
"They went to Lordran… LAND OF THE GODS!" The Councillor yelled. The piercing outburst lingered, ricocheting around the hall until abruptly falling silent. Tarkus dropped him, he was unsure… had he killed him? His hand was tense, his force as heavy as ever… The Berenike wanted to fall, fall through the floor and into a gaping chasm, to suck him whole, he did not want to exist. He paused, one hand cradling his looping head. He fought through the pain, through the contemplations of his end and took the Rapier that clung to the Councillors belt and headed towards his father.
The lone tower sat amid the clambering heights of spiralled flanking towers and far behind the looming keep. The dominant keep, resting in the baileys centre, cast a constant darkness over Iron Clads chamber; atop a winding stair case, at the pinnacle of the corner tower, hushed away.
Tarkus became dizzy, round and round at a hurrying pace.
"FATHER!" He yelled, no one called back, a waste of valuable energy. He slugged up the steps, his tasset plates hung, grinding against concrete with an eerie screech, a dying whimper of scraping iron.
A light hit the top most step, the door was open. He clambered to his feet and fought the burning sensation of his aching muscles. A hanging curtain from his father's four poster bed, obscured the sheets. Tarkus stepped into the light and pushed the curtain around the twisting white oak posts. There was a motionless lump.
"Father?"
There was a grunt, human, as far as Tarkus could discern. There was a cough and the sheets turned. Iron Clads diminutive head poked out, his dying hair was sparse, his skin taut and pallid, to see his father in this state, it hurt more than any curse.
"Wha… what happened?" He did not appear Undead, but then… nor did Tarkus.
"I remained for days… No one came for me, or my father… or about the Councillor. There was no one left." Tarkus mumbled, the spite and anger towards the Councillor had vanished, he was insignificant.
Oscar sat down beside him.
"That bell earlier… it echoed throughout the tree's and mountains and past the countless Undead… Was that you?"
"Indeed." Oscar replied plaintively. The vague remnants of blue cloth lay in tatters beneath the broken links of his chainmail, and his armoured plates were bent, tarnished, with a multitude of multi-coloured blood. His longsword, a companion to any man in this wilderness, was strong, hardly nicked, a perfectly tuned blade, Oscar could wield it well. Only a slither of dark dried blood was visible along its curvature.
"The saying?" Tarkus turned to face the battered knight, he was intrigued by the foreigners fable.
"One more bell remains." Oscar leant back in the grass and freed a sigh from his lungs.
"Father, why must you be like this?" Tarkus asked, holding back a tear as his throat tried to choke him.
"I'm your son!" He held his arms out, they trembled, he tried hard to restrain his emotions, but he cared for no one more than this man.
"…Son… I have no son…" The man said, utterly confused. Whatever sickness had consumed him, it had destroyed him. Tarkus would always see him in a different light, no one could tell him otherwise. He just wanted once for him to have said…
"I'm leaving to Lordran." Tarkus sobbed. Tarkus stared at him, laying on his back, stricken with a terrible deluding disease. Tarkus clenched his jaw with anticipation, he could imagine it now, any second, say anything.
He turned to the archway and paused, putting his hand on the cold stone.
"Do not give up your soul, your humanity for greed!" The old man coughed, struggling to form a coherent sentence.
Say anything.