Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, “Therefore, it may be safely assumed that you did not murder your wards,” His head lifted back up to regard the others, “Furthermore, during this exchange and based on previous reports, I do not get the sense that there are any amongst you who have the desire or the antipathy to commit multiple acts of betrayal and murder. You possess the courage of your convictions which would prohibit that sort of behavior,” His head shifted slightly to scrutinize Parette, “For the most part.”

  “Then the only logical conclusion is that the Witchhammers released the mages,” Atiya stated.

  “That is correct,” Sul nodded, “And why do you suppose that would be?”

  Atiya leveled a dead-eyed gaze at Parette, “Because they stood to gain from it in some way.”

  “Indeed. Who were the ranking members of the magi in attendance at Velasgate?” Sul asked his advisor casually.

  “Archmage Abn Zulkir and Archmage Shiandra,” Atiya recited from memory, tilting her horned head quizzically, “Why?”

  Sul simply shook his head, “Our information from the Magi suggests that Archmage Shiandra is a modest woman and one of unassailable character,” Sul’s expression hardened, “But Archmage Zulkir is a man of means; nobility, I believe.” Sul’s demeanor became frigid, “As you well know, Knight-Lieutenant Parette,” He tossed a small bag upon the ground at the knight’s feet. It landed heavily, and silver and gold spilled forth.

  “Within one’s boot is a poor place to hide a coin purse,” Sul said very softly.

  “You bastard!” Keiran bellowed and attempted to attack the other man, only to be held back by the guards’ present, “You told us the mages escaped using demonic magic!”

  Sul rose to his feet and began to pace, his head lowered in thought, “Zulkir will no doubt return to the Conclave and engage in some form of suicidal stupidity, that’s certainly in keeping with his character,” He mused aloud before turning to Atiya, “Have our allies been warned to avoid the man?”

  “Agent Kelli forwarded the message received from the kitchen staff.”

  “Let us hope that they can keep themselves intact during whatever insanity Zulkir and his lackeys have in store. The signs all point to something dramatic…,” Sul reached into his uniform and removed a pipe and a piece of straw. He carefully set the straw ablaze, using it to light the pipe before crushing the flaming material in his bare fist and lazily dumping the still-smoldering remains to the floor. He took a deep inhalation and exhaled thoughtfully, “…which concurs with the information we have received from our agents amongst the mages and Witchhammers at the tower.”

  “Agents?!”

  Captain Sul and Atiya both turned to face her, “You have a question, Sir Vallorin?”

  “You…you have spies in the Witchhammers? And the Mages?”

  Sul smiled slightly, “Tell me; what is the name of the person who prepared your meals at the Tower? The name of the stablemaster’s son? The name of the person who cleans the floors of your chambers or ensures that your weapons and armor are polished?” Sul leaned forward, “The person who empties your chamber pots?”

  “My squire’s name was Abel. He was in charge of arms and armor while I was at the tower. As for the rest...I do not know, sir.”

  “The great powers of this world tend to believe they operate in a vacuum; they do not. Behind every great institution is an army of people who assure that it manages to sustain itself day-to-day. Without these people, the societies of Aegreas would collapse and yet their only reward is to remain ignored, unseen,” Sul settled back against his chair, “I see them, I know them, and they know me as do so many other individuals who have been pushed aside and labeled as ‘outcasts’ or ‘pariahs’. And what they see, I see. What they know, I know.” He tilted his head toward the woman, “Something to consider for the future.”

  Her chin lifted, eyes flickering to the others. The unease was almost palpable. “I see by your demeanors that you understand the implications of this,” Sul nodded, “As it should be. But there is a more pressing matter to address,” He raised his voice. “Knight-Lieutenant Parette, by the Code of the Witchhammers set down by Hierophant Corienth. I judge you guilty of desertion, corruption and acting in a manner unbecoming of a Witchhammer whilst in command of Witchhammer forces. Your sentence-“

  “You!”

  A flurry of movement interrupted the Captain’s decree and a young man in robes threw himself at Parette, “I knew it was you! I knew it was you! I saw you!” He screamed. The guards intercepted his frenzied flight and the young man clawed at the air trying to reach the older man.

  “Hold,” Sul’s command cut through the air. “Bring him forth,” The guard carefully lifted the boy up and brought him before the Captain, “Calm yourself. What is your name?” He asked the boy.

  “Evric, Sir.”

  “And you have a grievance against this man?” Sul indicated Parette.

  The lad wiped his eyes, “I was an apprentice in the Conclave before I escaped,” he pointed a shaking finger at the Witchhammer, “This man…he…sold me to someone visiting there and that man…used me.”

  “This man,” Sul indicated with his hand, “was paid by someone visiting you within the confines of the Conclave?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And that person raped you,” It wasn’t a question. The young man just nodded, wiping his nose. “And then?”

  “And then, when it was over, he took me back to the apprentice quarters and told me that if I told anyone, he’d tell everyone I was a virago!” he cried.

  Silence descended like death upon the proceedings.

  “I see,” Sul said in a lethally soft whisper.

  “This…this is hearsay!” Parette shrieked, his voice cracking. “This boy is a liar and a virago! He hates all Witchhammers!”

  “Is that true?” Sul asked Evric, “Do you hate all Witchhammers?”

  The young man looked up at him, no longer weeping but eyes red-rimmed with rage, “Yes.”

  “And given the chance, would you kill Witchhammers?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  Sul’s steepled his fingers underneath his chin in thought then nodded, “Very well. You may kill them. Guard, give the boy your weapon.”

  The Witchhammers cried out in protest as a guard handed the boy his sword. “Hold.” Came the order from among them. An older knight with one blue eye and one green under his heavy grey eyebrows had spoken and Sir Vallorin nodded hesitant approval. The remaining knights calmed themselves.

  The boy looked at the blade for a moment, then back at Sul, then finally on Parette, his expression locked in hatred. He advanced.

  “Not him,” Came Sul’s command.

  The boy jerked to a stop and looked at Sul, clearly confused, “Sir?”

  Sul lazily pointed, “Her.”

  The boy’s eyes turned upon Ceyrabeth. “No!” Keiran cried out and attempted to intervene, only to be blocked by the guards.

  “I don’t understand…” Evric stuttered.

  “It’s quite simple. You hate all Witchhammers. This young woman is a Witchhammer. Ergo, it is your desire to slay her,” he gestured, “Do so.”

  “But, she’s…innocent.”

  “She is a Witchhammer, is that not crime enough?”

  Evric hands trembled visibly, “I don’t—“

  “Very well then, another target,” Sul pointed again, “Him. The young man.”

  “No!” Ceyrabeth cried out, “He has done nothing! He’s innocent!”

  “So was Evric before he was defiled at the behest of a member of your order, Witchhammer.”

  “A member! One man’s weakness and cruelty is not the Order!” she countered.

  Sul returned his attention to Evric. The boy was still clutching the sword, but the tip was brushing the ground as though it were too heavy to hold upright.

  “You may take your pick then, Evric. Who amongst t
he Witchhammers shall die first for your suffering? You intend to kill them all, so proceed.”

  Evric looked into their faces: Ceyrabeth, her face lined with fear and concern. Keiran, looking very young and very afraid. The other Witchhammers wore similar expressions: fear, horror, dread.

  Sympathy.

  The sword dropped from Evric’s hands.

  “No,” he whispered, “They are innocent. They did not do this to me,” he pointed a shaking finger at Parette, “He did.”

  “A Witchhammer then, not all Witchhammers?” Sul asked quietly.

  “Yes,” The boy whispered hoarsely and turned away from the Captain, burying his face in his hands.

  Slowly, Sul rose from his chair and made his way to the young man, “Hate is a tool for the weak,” he stated, “You are above such things.”

  A hand touched Evric’s shoulder. The boy gasped and looked up in shock, “I’m so sorry,” Ceyrabeth said gently, “But no one else is going to hurt you.”

  The boy stood stiffly for a moment and then broke. With a wail, he threw himself into the woman’s arms. Ceyrabeth held him and stroked his hair, “Shh, it’s all right,” Sul nodded and then resumed his place upon the chair.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Atiya said simply.

  “Of course he is,” Sul replied.

  “This is all--,” Parette stammered, “I demand a fair trial!”

  “I have never heard an innocent man say that,” Sul commented, “Take note, Knight-Lieutenant Parette: Tears are not the hallmark of a liar. Fear is” He edged forward in his chair, “You stink of fear.”

  Parette shuddered and drew back as Sul continued speaking, “The Mithrac have a saying ‘The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted’,” He turned his attention to the androgynous chittering creature perched at his feet, “Chirak?”

  Chirak’s expression turned eerily somber as it approached Parette.

  “Move back!” Atiya called out in a clear voice. She helped the guards herd the other Witchhammers away from Parette.

  Parette was well past the verge of panic. Desperately he attempted to find shelter amongst the ranks of the other Witchhammers and saw only condemnation in their eyes. “What’s happening?” Ceyrabeth asked, stepping in front of Evric in an unconsciously protective gesture.

  “The penalty for your crimes is death, Knight-Lieutenant Parette.” Sul stated in a cold tone, “Chirak, proceed.”

  Parette was panting like a wild beast, “No, no! Mercy, please!”

  “That’s what I said,” Evric whispered.

  Ceyrabeth slowly moved backward, herding Evric into the middle of a protective circle of wary Knights and shifted so his line of sight was obscured.

  “We are hungry,” Chirak said to Parette.

  And then Chirak screamed a horrific wail of pain as it bent itself backwards in half. The scream became a high-pitched screech; grating and angry. A hideous crackling sound filled the air and Chirak’s clothing split and fell apart. The blue flesh underneath was bubbling madly as something underneath it writhed and thrashed as if trying to break free. Its torso puckered and burst to become a great fanged maw, drool and bits of its own ragged flesh clinging to it.

  “Imperius have mercy!” One of the Witchhammers cried out. The others were cowering away from the bubbling, shifting mass of meat that had been Chirak. Tendrils of flesh and muscle were vomited out of the snarling toothed maw and begin to crack and writhe. There was a second eruption of gore and a pair of clawed arms burst out of the sides of Chirak’s rapidly shifting torso. Long strips of skin peeled back and fell from the body, the tissue underneath warped, and writhing and it stretched becoming taller until it towered over Parette.

  “Oh, gods no!” Parette screamed. He turned and attempted to flee.

  The mass of bubbling flesh and teeth emitted a deafening screech pounced upon him screeching. The tentacles wrapped around Parette’s legs and brought him down, dragging him towards itself.

  “No! No! No! No! No!” he screamed and babbled, his fingernails breaking off in the dirt as he clawed for some purchase. The now-vestigial head of Chirak bounced and twitched, loosely anchored to a thin tendril of flesh. It continued to scream and stare blankly ahead, eyes wide and unseeing, locked in a rictus of agony as if horrified by its’ own actions.

  “Noooooooo!” Parette screamed.

  The beast sank its teeth into his back and hoisted him up bodily into the air. The tentacles began to burrow through the armor and deep into the man’s flesh. Parette choked and gurgled as his body was violated. The two arms that had sprouted from the torso were tipped with huge claws punctured the man on each side of his chest and pulled him flush against itself.

  With a final scream, Parette’s armor burst. His flesh bubbled and writhed. He looked down at himself uncomprehendingly as his body began to melt and flow like wax.

  And then gibbering monstrosity opened its deformed mouth wide and the tentacles pushed the screaming mound of flesh that had once been a Witchhammer in. The sound of his spine breaking was audible over the screams and the wet sound of tearing meat.

  Then, he was gone. The mouth closed. For a moment, those assembled saw Parette within the creature’s translucent skin. He was still screaming and clawing to escape as he was consumed.

  There was a sound like fat sizzling on a griddle and what appeared to be spider legs erupted from the creature’s lower portions, covered in fluid. The beast bounded away taking the screaming man within it and the sounds faded into nothingness.

  “We shall call a short recess whilst you and your fellows dine and revisit your terms. Enjoy your meals,” Sul stated calmly.

  Chapter 3

  The Burdens of Command

  ‘Diplomacy is the art of engendering indifference in the hostile and admiration in the indifferent. Use all resources at your disposal to see that those under parlay are treated well. They are not enemies, but opportunities. Treat them as you yourself will one day wish to be treated. Honor their pledges should they honor yours. Respect their oaths should they respect your own. And should they break either pledge or oath, break them in return and scatter their pieces across the landscape so that their annihilation may serve as a warning to others.’ – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius

  Ceyrabeth was furious. She had spent most of her life more or less angry, but this was a feeling she hadn’t had to deal with in a long time- this pulsing, glittering scratch at the back of her eyes that periodically sent little stars floating across her vision. That thrice damned idiot Knight-Lieutenant Parette…but he was dead now, and that was half the problem. That creature…Chirak, or whatever it was called…and the master that bound it. What kind of man was this Captain Sul, that spoke with such intelligence and compassion but kept flesh-eating monsters at his side like a pet?

  She wished to the gods that she hadn’t had to speak up. It was not in her best interests to have the Captain’s eye on her. There was so much she stood to lose if he looked too deeply, and spoke too indecorously. But it had happened and now she found herself in the rather incongruous position of being the spokeswoman for her fellow Witchhammers.

  Between the humiliation of the bog, the uncertainty of imprisonment, and the raw terror the creature Chirak had instilled, they could hardly be called Witchhammers. Even Keiran’s unfailingly upbeat outlook was faltering. He sat on the edge of the courtyard, the boy Evric sitting beside him with a bleak look on his young face. The poor mage had simply seen too much, re-lived too much and he was just plain tired.

  Stars hit Ceyrabeth’s eyes and she pulled in a deep breath, her hand automatically touching the pouch that contained her wyrmscale dose. No, she told herself, even though the desire to take it made her muscles clench painfully. She only had one left, having given her spare to Sir Mathias after their supply sank to the bottom of the bog. She would be damned before she would go begging to Captain Sul for wyrmscale, s
o she had to make it last.

  Stars again. She had to get herself under control. The past didn’t matter. Now, she had to make sure they all had a future. “We have to decide who is going to speak, and what we’re going to speak for. Quin, you’re technically the ranking…”

  “What’s the point?” Sir Mathias was still looking a little green around the edges. Ceyrabeth figured that was the result when you vomited up half your weight in bog water. “We’re all going to die here anyway. That madman is just playing with us.”

  “We can’t give up…”

  “Did you get a good look at his face?” Sir Tregan said ominously before making a sign to ward off evil. “Something’s not right there. I think he’s cursed…”

  Sir Corellan rolled his eyes, “You think everything is cursed, Treg. I’m surprised you don’t insist your breakfast be purified every morning…”

  “Better than being Tainted! I’ve seen what the Plague does to a man…”

  “We were all at Velasgate, Tregan…you don’t have to piss your pants over Taintbrood…”

  Ceyrabeth saw Keiran’s shoulders hunch at the mention of Velasgate. It had been his first real battle and it was a good thing that none of them had actually needed to fight because it was all he could manage to not vomit all over his armor. She was grateful that she had been the one to find him behind the tent, head hunched over his knees and unbidden tears making tracks down his young cheeks. He was steady as a rock against human opponents, but the sheer numbers and monstrous nature of the Taintbrood horde had simply been too much of a shock to the young farm boy. Ceyrabeth had just picked him up, gave him her sash to mop up the evidence of tears, and told him to stick close. Turning her gaze to Evric, she grimaced: she imagined that the young mage who had chosen to accompany her and hers during this break in negotiations didn’t need the thought of Taintbrood of all things crowding his already tortured young mind.