The Undead Sorcerer

Chapter 1

I take my usual seat at the third bar of the night. Furthest from the lights, away from people, and not too far from the door in case I need to get some air. My drink, almost as weak as the dim lighting in the bar, warms my lips. I take a long swig before heavily dropping it on the counter to catch the bartender's attention. Knowing he's in for a good profit with my tolerance here. The bartender smirks, seeing the money before he has it in his hands. Whatever, so long as I get a drink and don't get kicked out for overindulgence. However, someone takes a seat next to me, ruining my solitude. They smell like booze and sweat, but who am I to judge? I wouldn't be in a dirty place like this if I were so high and mighty. I haven't anywhere to be, no one waiting up on me, nor anything to occupy myself with other than getting myself plastered. But before intoxication completely consumes me, I pull a letter out of my long overcoat and stare at the blue emblem on the front. It stares at me for some time, mocking me, daring me to see if it's real. There's no way this is a letter with the king's seal. I haven't been a Knight in years, not since the war ended and my family fell out. So why now? Why would royalty contact a drunkard who hasn't been seen nor heard of in years?

"Here goes nothing," I mutter to myself. Finally, I open the letter. It sounds just as wild as I thought it would. He wants a meeting with me at the royal chapel. It's probably an arrest for something. That has to be it. I will finally be arrested for crimes against humanity, God, and whatever devil they want to throw. I prefer going to hell.

"Hey," someone taps my shoulder, half startling me to death.

"Ya, what," I slur, "What?" I ask him when he holds out a cupped hand. He wants money. I sigh at the poor drunken beggar. "Sure, I can help a buddy," I grumble and let some coins fall into his hands. It should be enough for a good drink and slip into a blackout for the night. However, he pockets it and continues tapping on my shoulder. He's asking for more money, now pulling out a knife. I grab his wrist in a vice, causing him to drop it. A hiss of annoyance escapes me as I throw him, though I only meant to push him off his feet. People look up, now taking an interest in me. This is precisely what I was trying to avoid.

"Hey, who are you causing trouble, eh?" some guy gets up now and is storming over here. It's a big guy with a large blade wrapped and strapped to his back. "What's the meaning of this?" he demands to know why the beggar scurries off.

"That drunk pulled 'eh knife on meh. Serves 'em right," I state, hands up innocently. "I'll be on my 'erry way," I offer.

"I've seen you around. You' a troublemaker at almost every bar in the city. You have some nerve to be playing the victim wit' a record like yours," he warns me. I crack a half-drunk, apologetic grin. If he only knew.

"There wouldn't be trouble if skulking vultures like you weren't looking to start it. Can't ya leave meh alone," I swear at him, "Ya damn vulture from hell," I hiss. I grip the edge of the bar counter. I need to get some air. My medicine is wearing off. I jump to my feet when someone grabs me from behind. Their hearts race panicked now.

"Hey, let me go; I'm just trying to," I begin when I see the guy coming for me—his hand balls up into a fist. My breath is caught, stunned by the sudden cold, snowy wind that burns my lungs as a group of soldiers beats the living hell out of my frozen body at night. I blink back to the warm, dim-lit bar. My muscles tense for the fight- condemned or not, if we fight – I won't be able to hold back. So, I take a beating, and a good one, too. I stare at the floor, unsure when we met or when I'll leave. Well, I came here looking for a blackout. I suppose I got what I asked for.

My eyes slowly open, dizzy and hazy. I give the room a once over, but it's not the same dirty, sweaty, or blood-bath I expected. No, this room is clean. A moan escapes me. It even smells clean. One would almost believe that they had died, but I know better. I'm not going to a good place when I die, not for what I've done. Yet I feel warmth and softness, soothing my aches and pains. I wiggle my fingertips, and clean, indulgent fabric brushes against my hand. I could sink and lie here forever. This is much better than the crummy, splintered bar floor. Forget where I am; who cares? A door shuts quietly. I smell perfume, herbs, and blood. My wounds may no longer ache, but I'm hungry. My medicine, I need it now. I risk cracking my eyes open again. A nun, cloaked in white, has entered, her back facing me. My overcoat hangs across the room. Was I brought to the church?