The Long Night

By Sean Van Damme

Darkness has fallen across the land and with it come horrors that man hasn’t seen in thousands of years. Hiding from his past on a small farm is Alen Tar, a retired warrior and leader of men. His home is one of the first attacked by the evil that comes with the night.
Driven from his home Alen sets out of a quest to end the darkness, along the way picking up a group of unlikely heroes, from a brok

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Van Damme
• Release date: Oct 23, 2011

Sean Van Damme

Sean Van Damme grew up all around the country as part of a military family, finally settling in the Richmond Virginia area. A love of stories and writing has been with him his entire life. A long fling with script writing and movies led Sean to try and major in film ending up instead with what turned out to be his second love, TV news. After graduating from Virginia Commonwealth University (go Rams) he started working at a local TV station as a video editor and photographer. Sean lives in a nice little house with his Fiancé Elizabeth their dog Gaius (Baltar not Creaser) and cat Gracie. Writing full time is his dream and hopefully this book will be the first step.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A sword, backed by fire, slashed through his field of vision. Screams echoed in his mind. The dying were crying out, the crackling of fire stifling their screams. A shadow moved forward in the flames and quickly gained ground. The shade moved at an unnatural speed that blurred the air behind it. But it wasn’t a shadow. What he saw was a man adorned with black armor. His pale face was surrounded by hair that was black as night, and in the center were two red eyes that burned with malicious intent. In his right hand he held a long bastard sword, its blade covered from tip to pommel in blood, rhythmically dripping from the point. The figure kept coming toward him, his footfalls growing louder. The ground shook under his stride, the sword moved suddenly above his head coming down to strike the killing blow.

Alen Tar quickly shot up in his bed, covered in perspiration, breathing hard. His nightshirt was sopping wet as was the scratchy old wool army blanket on his bed. Blinking his eyes adjusting to the darkness, he put his bare feet on the cold wooden floor and pushed himself up. He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair and wiped the sweat off his wrinkled weathered face.

From below him, Alen could hear the faint sound of clawing against wood. The haze of sleep was slow to fade. But he knew something wasn’t right. He looked down at Caden, his massive brown mastiff, lying next to the bed. Awake and alert, his ears perked up listening for the same scratching.

Alen shook off the fog of sleep as he heard the scratching again. This time Caden got to his feet and walked to the door, his ears back and nose to the ground. Alen reached over to his nightstand and picked up a small oil lamp. He pushed the lever at the bottom striking a piece of flint and steel near the wick setting it ablaze, washing the room in a soft yellow light. Next to the lantern sat an old rusty boot knife with a cracked wooden handle. Alen gripped it in his hand. The blade pointed down. Slowly he opened the door to the soft creaking of the hinges. Before he could reach down for Caden’s collar, the dog darted into the dark hallway.

Damn it, Alen muttered as he started off after the dog. He knew he couldn’t keep pace with the animal. He was just hoping that he could keep enough light on him to see what Caden was after. The massive dog dived down the steps clearing them in two bounds, leaving Alen lagging behind. He rushed down the stairs almost losing his footing in a fruitless effort to catch Caden. Once Alen reached the first floor he saw the source of the scratching.

Lying on the ground by the door, slowly inching forward, was a man covered in blood. His breathing was shallow, and his leather armor ripped to shreds. Caden ran up and starting licking the wounds before turning back to Alen, his eyes big and black. Alen recognized the man immediately; it was Boregard, one of his closest friends. Alen quickly rushed to his side and crouched next to him. Boregard was an older, heavyset man, whose wrinkled chin was losing the war with his neck. Two bright-blue eyes pierced out of his old doughy face at Alen.

What took you so long? Boregard said, his deep baritone voice forcing out a laugh that came with a small amount of bloody spittle.

You know me. I’m a deep sleeper, Alen said, letting out an unconformable chuckle as he looked over his friend’s wounds. Boregard’s leather armor was hacked to pieces barely hanging on his body. The sword in his hand was shattered, only the hilt and half the blade remained.  The small shield in his left hand was just a splinter of wood and leather attached to his wrist. 

Looks like you came from one hell of a fight, Alen said his eyes wide as they repeatedly scanned over his friend’s broken body.

It’s here, he choked out, trying to sit up.

Stay still you old fool. What’s here? Alen looked around, wondering who or what could have done this. Boregard was an exceptionally skilled fighter; it would have taken a seasoned warrior or a large force to leave him in such a condition.

Darkness, goblins, but not as we know them. More twisted. Evil. Filled with a bloodlust I have never seen. They are everywhere. The Farmlands. Must get back to the front, he said, finally righting himself against the wall.

Then why are you here? Alen asked, watching the shallow breaths of his friend, and the blood pooling where he sat. Alen tried to put pressure where he thought the primary wound was, though it was quickly becoming apparent that Boregard had more holes than Alen had hands.

Had to rally the troops. Needed to get as many people as we could. Couldn’t hold out forever. Thought you could help us. With each passing word it was becoming obvious that Boregard was growing weaker, losing more and more of what little time he had left.

You know I’m… Before Alen could finish his sentence, Boregard reached forward and grabbed his nightshirt and pulled him down with what strength he had left.

Nobody is retired tonight. Franks needs every man who can hold a sword. So you get to the Drunk Pig. Don’t make me kick your ass out the door, he whispered sternly. Alen could tell that Boregard had wanted to yell at him, had tried to scream at him, but that the energy just wasn’t left in the frail shell of a body.

The grip on his nightshirt loosened as the hand fell away hitting the wooden floor with a thud. The outburst had been his last. His back went limp as he slid forward in the bloody puddle.

Alen looked around, forcing back tears, transfixed on the corpse that was once his best friend. A single bark from Caden snapped him out of the haze that was over taking him. He saw the dog pointing his head toward the open door.  Quickly Alen darted forward and slammed the door shut. He dropped the chain across the door and pushed in the dead bolt.

He had mentioned goblins. Alen hadn’t seen goblins in these parts in years, and even a large pack of ten or twelve wouldn’t have been a match for his friend’s sword. Goblins didn’t fight in any cohesive style, simply charging and swinging their crude stone weapons, with only grunts for communication.  Tactics were something far beyond them. It should have been a simple matter for Boregard to win any fight against goblins. 

Alen walked over to his chest and pulled out a quilted shirt, chain vest and leather over tunic. Laying them down he pulled out a long sword, still in its sheath, wrapped in a leather belt. Quickly, Alen pulled on the quilted shirt followed by the chain vest over his nightclothes, and the leather vest on top of that. He stood and strapped on the sword, drawing it with a satisfying ring of steel on steel, Alen quickly shoved his feet into a pair of boots. Slowly he moved back to the body of his old and dear friend. Leaning down, he quietly closed his eyes and said a short prayer for Hyack to guide his soul to the next life. Alan Tar had never been an ardent follower of the faith but its tradition’s had been strongly engrained in him throughout his long life.

With a quick, deep breath, Alen grabbed his lantern, and gripped the long sword in his other hand. Motioning to Caden, he opened the door and stepped out, the dog trotting along behind him.

Outside the night was black, but it wasn’t an ordinary dark night. The moon and stars were nowhere to be seen. The darkness was as thick as ink. Alen couldn’t even see his fingers as he wiggled them a few inches from his nose. The lantern hardly made a dent in the dense blackness that had settled over his farm. He took a step forward and felt his foot hit something solid. He lowered the lantern and saw his foot crushing a small green hand. Moving the lantern up the arm connected to the hand he saw the small, frail, spindly green body of a goblin.

Something looked odd about the little green creature. Its body was covered with black blisters that seemed ready to pop. The goblin’s mouth was foaming with thick yellow bile. What was normally skinny and frail seemed bloated. Alen kicked the goblin over on its back. He could see where Boregard’s blade had laid open its chest cavity for the entire world to see. Caden leaned over and gave the goblin a sniff, then quickly pulled his head back in disgust. Alen looked over as the dog started aggressively barking at the corpse. This was something new. Caden had never been scared of goblins before.

Alen gave the light a swing over the rest of his surroundings. He thought he saw more bodies on the ground, but they could have been anything. It was so dark. Something very wrong was going on here. He could feel it in his bones. Another goblin corpse had the same pox marks as the one at his feet. Another came into his view at the edge of the lantern light as his eyes tried to adjust. Had some disease swept through the Goblin caves, driving them mad? No, it couldn’t be that, they were here with too much organization. If it had been a simple madness, they would have killed one another deep under the ground. Maybe some kind of power struggle, though he didn’t think they had any kind of power system to fight over. None of this made a lick of sense to Alen’s frantic mind.

Just as Alen was about to step forward, he heard a groan and a shuffle. Quickly he flipped around shining his light on one of the bodies. The blisters were popping; green fluid was flying into the air covering the body that was twitching as if trying to force itself back to life. Alen took a step back as he heard the popping sound again to his right side. Whatever this pox was, it was more than a simple illness- much, much more.

He lunged forward and drove his sword through the head of the first goblin, stopping the twitching. Quickly he turned around again, only to see that three of the small bloated green creatures had stumbled to their feet. The blisters popped- oozing black puss. Clutched in their hands were crude axes, no more than sharp rocks tied to the ends of thick sticks.

Alen slashed at the first goblin, hitting it square in the stomach, spilling the goblin’s guts across the ground. But the form that was once a goblin kept lumbering forward. In the shadows he could see the other three or so bodies starting to come back to life. Alen swung wildly again, hitting one across the face, the blade cutting about halfway through, till the dead unnatural thing lumbered forward, finishing the job Alen’s sword had started. Caden was barking his head off, growling and baring his sharp white teeth, ready to lunge at the first goblin that came in range.

Starting to get desperate, Alen backed into the farmhouse door. He swung the lantern at the closest shape. The lantern’s glass middle impacted squarely on the goblins head and shattered, covering him in burning oil. The rest of the goblin’s body quickly caught fire; a high-pitched shrill scream was let forth from his mouth, so loud that Alen could barely hear it. He could definitely feel the pain ringing in his ears, as could Caden, whose bark turned into a whine. The goblin flailed about, running into his companion, who also caught fire. The remaining blisters on the last two started to pop, combusting faster than any liquid Alen had ever seen.   

Quickly realizing that he was about to be pushed back into his house by the burning undead, Alen darted past them. Caden was not far behind. The first immolated goblin ran into the wall of Alen’s house catching it ablaze. The light from the burning wall stopped the goblins in their tracks. The little green monsters staring up at the blazing farmhouse.

The burning house did far more to illuminate the area than the lantern ever could. Alen could now see the entirety of his small walled in farm. The potato field, the small cabbage patch, and the tomatoes, that were just looking ready to harvest. The wind started to pick up, blowing the fire to his crops. The fire consumed the tomatoes like a ravenous man with an insatiable hunger. Seeing that his farm was lost, Alen ran toward the gate. He kicked it open, the doors creaked apart and Alen could hear moaning and screams of terror that were being carried on the wind.

What in the hell? he muttered to himself, as his cabbage patch burst into flames. Quickly Alen reached down and grabbed a wooden pole that he was going to use in his tomato garden. He ripped the sleeve off his nightshirt. Alen wrapped the cloth around the top of the stick and plunged it into the fire.

The town center of the farmlands was about two miles down the road, which was flanked by trees and the occasional subsistence farm like his. Before him the darkness was just as thick as it was behind him. Alen took a deep breath and started walking forward. He hoped that somebody would be left alive in the Drunk Pig like Boregard had suggested.

Chapter 2

The young man raised his hand to knock on the door, and then pulled it away. He looked around, dancing nervously on one foot then the other. The day was starting to get dark. Probably rain, he thought. He raised his hand again to the solid wooden door that stood before him, knocking three times. He took a deep breath then took a step back. Inside he could hear footsteps coming toward the door.

Many years had passed since he was last here. Waiting, he wondered whether she would still recognize him. It was silly to think she wouldn’t, though. He clamped his feet to the ground so he wouldn’t look like a creepy bobbing sword target.

The door flew open and a heavyset woman with brown hair looked at him for a second before wrapping her arms around him in a heavy bear hug. He couldn’t breathe. The embrace was too strong to let out even a squeak.

Daren how are you? I thought you had gone away forever! she said, letting him go. You’re just in time to help me with the tomatoes, come on, she said pointing toward the garden a ball of twine in her hand. 

Daren followed her with a bit of trepidation, trying not to forget why he was here. He knew this was more than just a social call to an old friend. Watchers never made social calls. Everything was serious now, life and death. His was a draining calling, but it was the life that he had chosen, and the sword at his side reminded him of it every second of every day.

What brings you back to the farmlands, ya rascal? I thought Amsted and you were out having wild adventures. Not paying any mind to little me left here all alone, she said, stopping by the first plant and pulling out a small length of twine and slicing it with her knife. She handed it to Daren and pointed to a drooping tomato plant.

You know we heard the call Corra, and that coming home isn’t something we get to do often, Daren said, setting to work tying the vine back to the lattice work. It had been many years since he had done field work with Corra. It felt like old times, fonder times.

Phooey. You used to always come by in the early days. Then all of the unpleasantness happened and you both vanished, Corra said. The hurt look in her big green eyes filled him with a nagging guilt in the pit of his stomach. He knew that it could never be the same no matter how much he wanted it to be.

Yes, that… Daren started, his sentence trailing off. He didn’t know what to say, and didn’t have the heart to say what he had come here to. He never could bring himself to do anything to hurt her. He tied off another vine, biting his lip, as he tried to decide how he was going to say what he had to say. The sky was getting darker. He was sure it had to be rain. Hopefully they could get this work done before the sky opened up.

Speaking of my brother, where is he? I figured that if you finally came back he would as well, Corra said hopefully, handing him another bit of twine. She pushed another plant against the lattice work, standing closer to Daren.

That is what I came to talk to you about, Corra. Nobody has seen Amsted in almost a month, Daren said, his voice heavy and full of worry. Worry for his friend and the sad news that he had to deliver, the mission that he was determined to finish. He finished his vine and turned to Corra for another piece of twine. Instead he got Corra’s eyes just staring at him.

What do you mean nobody has seen him for a month. Don’t you Watchers keep eyes on one another? I mean you are Watchers, for Hyack’s sake.j She yelled at him. What happened to my brother?

I don’t know. He went out for his patrol four weeks ago and never returned to the tower. It was a short loop around the grounds. He went by himself. The next morning we followed the path, and found nothing. No blood, no disturbed branches, no sign of a struggle, not a damn thing. Daren said it had been strange. He hadn’t expected Amsted to leave a trail. He was too good, but if something had happened he thought that there would have been some evidence. But there was just forest, and that had frightened him to the core.

I have been looking ever since. I have looked everywhere talked to everybody, but nobody knows anything. If they do they won’t talk to me. I’m just lowlife Watcher scum, he said, looking down at the knot that he had just tied. He didn’t want to see Corra’s pretty eyes filled with tears and desperation that she might not find her brother. A brother she hadn’t seen or corresponded with in five years. That wasn’t fair he thought. She had sent him letters. Amsted had just refused to open them, casting the sealed envelopes in the fire.

Corra reached out and lifted Daren’s head and looked into his face. Her soft hand was comforting.  You were wondering if he had come by here, she asked.

I was hoping. I know it’s was a long shot. But better try than not, Daren said, letting his head sit there, not wanting her hand to leave. At this point I’m about to head to Lysta because I have nothing. No leads, no ideas, nothing. The trial is colder than a winter’s night. He sighed looking at Corra’s soft face and big eyes. They were filled with worry and a hint of longing.

You know we haven’t spoken in five years. He forgave you, but me…oh I committed a sin worse than conspiring with Val’mal himself, she said, looking directly at Daren. Why would he come to me if he were running from you? What happened? I knew this would be the death of him. He was happy here, she said, with despair bleeding into any attempt to stay calm.

He was happy with us. Amsted was moving up. Commander Tiller made him second Watcher. All he could talk about were improvements to the tower and outreach. Amsted had been so busy, in those last few weeks. Daren could see him running around the tower fixing things telling people to look alive- telling jokes, bringing the collective spirits of the entire outpost up. Now the rooms were quiet. He looked at Corra. He had lost her, and now he had lost Amsted, the reason he had lost her.

He wasn’t sleeping much, though. He was always doing something like writing and planning, Daren said, looking at Corra. She hadn’t aged a day since their last fateful encounter. He remembered that night fondly still even if the final price had been higher than he ever could have imagined.

Then why would he run away? Maybe somebody killed him. I always knew that going off with you people would be the death of him. Mother always said it would happen, she muttered, looking down at the ball of twine in her hand.

Daren stood and walked over and wrapped his arms around her. He laid a soft kiss on her cheek as a single tear started to run down the side of her face.

I can’t think of a single person who would have wanted him dead, he said, squeezing tightly.

She reached around and gave him a light kiss on the lips. Daren quickly pulled away, standing strait as he took a few steps away from her, tugging down on the yellow and green tunic of his order.

No, this is what got us in trouble the first time. I won’t let it happen again. Amsted was hurt by it then and I won’t engage in it with him missing, Daren said his voice off kilter, embarrassment creeping into his speech patterns.

It’s fine. I’m sorry, Corra said, picking up the twine.

I’m sorry I shouldn’t have… Daren stammered, his eyes darting from Corra to places around the field.  It’s getting really dark. How long have we been out here?

Not long.  It did look like rain earlier, but I can’t even see the house, Corra said, their argument forgotten.

We should probably head back, Daren said, as he walked forward, his right hand outstretched. The world around him started to get noticeably darker.

This definitely isn’t rain. Corra said, reaching out for his other hand as they headed toward the house. 

What is… Daren said, his ears perking up at the low rumbling slowly crossing the field.  Daren dropped his outstretched hand and drew his sword.

What is it? Corra asked.

War drums, Daren said, pushing her forward toward the house. Run, he said as the horrible drumming got louder.  

Chapter 3

Hilltop was abuzz with activity as midday crossed the town. The vendors were out. Mothers and their children were enjoying the beautiful day. The heat of the previous week had left, but not to the point that fall was upon them. A bell in the barracks rang three times, signaling a change in the town watch.

Sitting on the high wall around Hilltop was a short man clad in brown boiled leather over a chain shirt and a small half helm. He stood up from his stool and stretched, cracking his joints, as he extended to his full four-foot height. Renal leaned his javelin against the guard post and started walking to the wooden staircase next to the front gate. As he was coming down the steps his replacement passed him, a tall man with a big bushy brown beard and sour look. The two exchanged a curt simple greeting. Renal couldn’t stand the day shift, and the day shift couldn’t stand him.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he met a man coming from the other side of the wall. Renal had always thought he looked young enough to still be sucking from his mother’s tit. Renal knew that this young man had already seen enough combat to last a lifetime. He didn’t carry it in his face, but the slow slump of his walk told the story of battles long past.

How was the night, Ed? he asked coming up beside the man and matching his slow pace.

Dark and boring, he replied in a dry voice, as he did every morning.

Heading home to the wife? Renal asked with a hint of mischief in his voice.

Not yet. Heading home to your whores? he countered.

Not yet, he said laughing at their daily joke. The two men walked in silence, as they crossed the town square, with its large fountain, adorned with the eagle of the Hillgast family. They walked past the open-air vendors, the barracks, and the sound of training coming from the yard. The two militiamen walked into the Empty Flask Pub, a routine that they had been following daily for the past three years.

The pub was packed with people crammed into the midsized building with the lunch rush in full swing. The sound of drinking and conversation enveloped them. The pub had ten round tables in the center of the room, and a handful of smaller tables around the walls. Across from the door was a large bar, where the bartender was standing talking with one of the locals, wiping old ale from a mug.

An old man was jabbering at the bar. Renal knew he spent his entire day at the bar trading tails of times long past. He didn’t need an audience to talk, just a tankard of beer. Renal had spent many days and many a pint listening to the old man talk. Though in recent months nobody paid old Logie any mind. He mostly told his stories of the Lysten army and the long winter to himself.

Renal draped his sword belt over the back of the chair and sat down. Ed took a seat with him at one of the smaller tables looking at the door. His feet didn’t reach the floor and he swung them back and forth like a child. He scanned the pub and saw the large serving wench coming toward them. Renal liked the old maid even if