Copyright
THE VLISHGNATH CHRONICLES
Copyright © 2012 - Daniel Mitchell
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0988629291
ISBN-13: 978-0-9886292-9-5
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserve above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business estrablishments, locales is entirely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party web sites or their content.
Managing editor - Amanda Meuwissen
Associate editor - Celeste Estes
Associate editor - Wendy Herman
Book layout/Cover design - Mario Hernandez
A BigWorldNetwork.com Book
Published by BigWorldNetwork.com, LLC
202 North Rock Road | 1303 | Wichita | KS | 67206
www.bigworldnetwork.com
First U.S. Edition: April 2013
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my parents, who are entirely to blame for the way I turned out, and to Charlee, who lives with said results on a daily basis and hasn’t changed the locks yet.
A note from the author
A note from the Author
When I first submitted the beginnings of The Exorcism of Drenton, I didn’t even expect to actually be accepted as a series writer for BigWorldNetwork.com. Going from writing solely for my own amusement to working with a highly talented and dedicated team of editors was very intimidating at first, but they were very patient and understanding with me and I cannot thank them enough. While I’m on the subject of thanking people, I’ve got a few: my parents, for starters. I wouldn’t be where I am today were it not for them (in a literal and figurative sense). Charlee, my stalwart companion and the love of my life for keeping me organized. Everyone who gave me their support and encouragement throughout it all, I sincerely appreciate it. All my friends who cheered me on, and who helped inspire me along the way…thank you tremendously. A tremendous thank you to my good friend Brent and his company Sylvart Studios for making me look so dashingly handsome instead of just plain handsome. And lastly, to you, whoever “you” might be, for reading this. It is the realization of a dream for me, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Title
by Daniel Mitchell
BigWorldNetwork.com
Kansas
The Exorcism of Drenton
Episode 1
The very faint, weak-sounding knock one might expect from a small child echoed throughout the entry hall. Cleric Heros, a kindly old man with wrinkled features, gradually made his way down the long hallway that led to the massive front doors of the church. Old age having long since set in, the spring in the elderly cleric’s step had diminished considerably the past few years. The rapping noise sounded against the doors again as he began to draw near. Putting on his warmest smile and showing no signs of discomfort as he wrapped his arthritic hand around the iron ring, Heros pulled open the door, his voice sounding increasingly disturbed as he spoke.
“Greetings, and Mithos’ blessings be upon you. I am Cleric Heros, and…erm, church services have concluded…for the…good heavens, young man, what has happened?!”
The man standing before him looked barely capable of supporting his own weight, his clothing hanging loosely from his gaunt, emaciated frame, and looking to be the garb of the peasant class. Sunken eyes set in bruised sockets stared blankly at Heros, then quite suddenly rolled back in his head as the man lurched forward and went unconscious, his body going limp and falling into Heros’ arms. Heros groaned, his joints creaking as he braced himself to support what little the man still weighed, then reached up to tug on the emergency pull cord nearby.
Sir Vlishgnath, the Cleansing Light, sat alone along one of the presently near-vacant long tables that lined the church’s mess hall, a few other sparsely scattered members of the clergy taking a late meal as well. Church meals were notoriously lacking in flavor; a traditional thick, brown, and bland stew with unseasoned beef and chunks of potato served with some raw vegetables, a hunk of day-old bread, and a mug of water comprised the evening’s meal. Vlishgnath was halfway through his vegetables and was thoughtfully dipping a piece of bread into the flavorless brown stock when the emergency bell tolled. He frowned at his tray for a moment, at first due to his meal being interrupted, but then due to the begrudging admittance that it wasn’t much of a meal to begin with, before pulling on his gauntlets and rising from the table.
Clad in his family suit of armor, the exquisite set of full plate mail was masterfully crafted from adamantine. The cuirass itself was fitted with an outer layer of black leather, a pattern cut out of it to allow metal to rise up through it in his family crest. Intricate holy runes and symbols were painstakingly worked into the rest of the suit, the helm bearing neither crest nor plume but instead a pair of angelic wings on either side. Clasped to his pauldrons was an ankle-length pristine white cape, identifying him as the divine emissary of Mithos. Taking his kite shield up in his left hand, he tucked his helmet under his left arm and strode purposefully out of the mess hall.
By the time Vlishgnath arrived on the scene, a small crowd had already formed. Numerous paladins and clerics were blocking the main hall, all of them gathered around Heros and the wilted stranger. Those at the back of the group and subsequently nearest Vlishgnath immediately recognized him as he approached. The assembled clergy quickly parted to allow Mithos’ chosen champion through.
Assessing the situation through vibrant cerulean eyes, Vlishgnath’s normally soft features hardened into a cold, discerning visage. Kneeling down next to Heros, he spoke to the sickly man lying in the cleric’s arms with a gentle and comforting tone.
“You’re safe now, friend. Tell me what has happened.”
The man drew in a pained, rasping breath before coughing profusely. For a long moment he said nothing, continuing to stare off into space as if he had no awareness of the crowd gathered around him. Then, with unnatural slowness, the man turned his head to face Vlishgnath, his eyes flittering as if on the verge of passing out. Reaching out with bony fingers encrusted in soil, the man’s arm shook as it struggled to support itself, grasped Vlishgnath’s cape where it clasped to his pauldron, and made a feeble attempt to pull him closer.
Vlishgnath obliged by leaning in so the stranger wouldn’t strain himself being heard. The man’s speech was