Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

Circumstance and happenstance

  "He hasn’t spoken a word, your Reverence. He could be a mute for all we know,” the man with the bloodied iron scraper said to the Inquisitor. Bits of raw flesh were still hanging off the tool of torture, the man shackled to the wall limp, probably passed out.

  The Patriarch stood still, his attention drawn to a few pieces of clothing and some belongings that were gathered on a shabby old table with jutting splinters and worn-away cuts all over its rough surface. He picked at some of the clothing with the edge of his patriarchal Rod, the sigils and High Helican scripts etched on its golden knob top barely visible in the dim torchlight of the torture chamber.

  He sniffed the air around the ragged, bloodied clothing, and a grimace of distaste and scorn appeared on his otherwise solidly expressionless face. Some said he sometimes looked as if he was wearing a mask, rather than a real human face. And then there were the tales of him sitting idly in the dark without ever sleeping, or that he never asked for food or drink to be served. Fewer still feared he might not be a man. It was indeed wondrous what the human mind could attribute to persons of unimaginable power. The rumours made the Patriarch laugh sometimes.

  None were brave or stupid enough though to point out such troubled thoughts in the presence of his Holiness. Others were too eager to circulate such rumors as well as the names of those who commented on such impertinent views of the Holy Avatar, the Patriarch.

  All these kinds of curious, imaginative and disrespectful people who could not impose self-discipline and mind their own business ended up in deep rivers, forever reaching for breath. Others met a similar fate in shallow graves, their bones exposed for wild dogs to chew on. Some simply vanished with neither body nor bone left behind, not even as a gruesome reminder.

  The Patriarch smiled at the thought of people being capable of voicing such audacity and felt almost impressed. Naturally, such phenomena had subsided considerably after it became a well-known fact that people with much to talk about can be heard the most. There was a popular saying that applied well to that fact: ‘When people talk, the Patriarch listens’. Still from time to time people tend to forget what has come to pass before their time, but they are on occasion grimly reminded not to speak of the Holy Avatar in anything less than reverent hymns to his Holiness, divine origin, and purpose.

  The Chief Inquisitor stood in reverent attention a few steps next to the Patriarch with his head bowed and his gaze averted from the Holy Avatar’s face. It was a sign of reverent servitude and deference, which was in fact nothing less than proper adherence to protocol. Before speaking, the Inquisitor cleared his throat and licked his lips momentarily, his forehead glistening slightly with perspiration. He stood in a bowed position with hands knitted together, hidden inside the sleeves of his surplice. With a deep voice full of worshipful tones, he simply said:

  “Your Holiness.”

  The Patriarch was still examining the small pile of clothes; the contents of a leather pouch and a small sack that were found on the man shackled against the wall, seemed to attract his attention. His visage showed a man detached from his surroundings, seemingly deeply engrossed in a detailed cataloguing of what the prisoner was carrying on his person. It was as if he was searching for something his servants and people might have missed, something important that he had to make certain of himself alone.

  There followed a brief period of silence with only the sputtering flames of the torches and the hollow sound of drops of water on damp stones accentuating it. A faint echo filled the otherwise almost empty chamber.

  The Patriarch then spoke, addressing the Inquisitor without turning his head or gaze with his examination of the prisoner’s belongings uninterrupted and now seemingly even more thorough:

  “Hmm? Speak your mind Inquisitor.”

  The Patriarch’s voice was commanding but calm, quite unassuming.

  The Inquisitor then bowed deeper before speaking. There was stiffness in his voice, the words coming out of him as if with pained difficulty:

  “The prisoner, your Holiness.. He has not given up any information yet, sir. The procrastinators found him where you indicated he would be, but there was no sign of his accomplices, your Reverence. His name is Philo Dutur. These are his belongings you are examining sir, in case you didn’t know.”

  The Patriarch cast a gaze of subdued anger at the Inquisitor, his otherwise serene face the cause of a disturbing, fearful sensation. The effect was rather unsettling and the Inquisitor bowed deeper still as a physical reaction to the Patriarch’s menacing look. It was evident he felt real fear afflicting him to the bone.

  The Patriarch took notice of the Inquisitor’s fear and felt pleased. Fear was a most useful tool he liked to regularly employ. He paused his examination of the items on the table, and turned to face the Inquisitor offering him his complete focus and attention:

  “You should be careful not to recite the obvious, Chief Inquisitor. One might have mistaken you for a blabbering fool of little use beyond shoveling dung in the heat-pipes. Or even for someone committing blasphemy in taking me for a fool. That would be most unpleasant. I would have to choose a new Chief Inquisitor and the technicalities of such an affair, though sometimes I must admit I find somewhat pleasant, tend to bore me. Not to mention there are ongoing issues that demand my attention and there’s little precious time. So please Chief Inquisitor, spare me the mundane and tell me something I can make use of.”

  The Patriarch seemed calm and restrained but his last phrase was uttered with such venom and malice that his uncannily melodic voice suddenly took on a sickeningly sweet quality. It felt like his last few words dripped of thick, clotted blood.

  The Chief Inquisitor who in his long years of service had witnessed and performed countless acts of relentless and inhuman torture, was apparently terrified at the prospect of incurring the Patriarch’s wrath. He physically recoiled and took a step back before kneeling to the wet, hard stone floor, pleading in all fours:

  “I beg your forgiveness most revered and wise of All, the Holy Avatar of the Gods. I have nothing more of interest to offer you, your Holiness. I spoke out of nervousness and feel ashamed for my failure. I have faith, you know it in your heart to be true. Shall I ever once again even imply blasphemy or sin strike me down with all your might, but not because of a slip of the tongue, merciful Luminous One.”

  The Patriarch could see the man was visibly trembling. He was just another weak minded fool. He would have to be dispensed of sooner rather than later, but not immediately. Other matters would have to take precedence. These were the traitors, more aptly sinners, that liked to pronounce themselves as rebels. The Kinsfolk, he believed they called themselves now. Delusional fanatics, sprouts of a seed long thought extinct, dire remnants of a long lost cause.

  He should have personally eradicated the lot of them, a long time before they developed the propensity to spread their mewling half-truths and insidious propaganda. Their riotous myths were always the preferred fodder of the easily deceived masses. He knew, he used such tactics himself.

  He had knowledge of certain noble Houses to be either sympathetic or actively participating in the heresy. Remis would have to be made acquiescent in this matter, compliant and pliable as the Patriarch believed he was. If needed though, he would be forcefully removed.

  He thought that he should have known better, he should have seen it would come to this before long. But there were niceties to be observed, rules to be followed before they were bent and finally broken. ‘There were always the rules,’ the Patriarch thought with a hint of exasperation in his brow.

  His hands were finally, figuratively speaking of course, loose. He would break down their spine, their will, and their determination. He had the means to accomplish that and with some careful steps it would all seem so natural, so typical of all failed revolutions; blood-soaked affairs of chasing wild dreams that turn into ashes when the night is through.

  His part would be small as always; the stage would be filled with o
ther characters, some willing and some not very so. But he would conduct the opening and closing lines of the chorus, and they would all dance to his tune. It would be a performance truly fit for Gods, if only for a limited audience. Nevertheless he felt he would genuinely enjoy crushing the fools utterly; they would offer a fitting diversion indeed.

  He had been absorbed in these thoughts for a rather discomforting period of time, the Inquisitor hanging by his ever word and even their absence. None dared break the forced uneasy silence and his apparently thoughtful concentration. The prisoner stirred, awaking from a merciful sleep.

  His moans drew the flogger’s attention who immediately reached for a barbed whip from a motley of tools and instruments, some evidently specific in their use and other much more common items put to such a use with surprising ingenuity.

  As he distanced himself back from the wall to have more room to lash out to the chained man, a shout from across the chamber halted him with his whip barely halting in mid-air:

  “Stay your hand!”, the Patriarch’s voice boomed deafeningly, matching and perhaps surpassing the authority he was imparted with however impossible that would sound. The torture chamber reverberated with his voice for mere moments, the flames of the torches quivering in response as if the air had been momentarily sucked out of the room.

  The flogger set down his instrument of torture and bowed reverently as fast as it would seem prudent, and then stepped completely away from the chained form of Philo, standing still and averting his gaze from the direction of the Patriarch.

  The Inquisitor managed a slightly expectant look towards the Patriarch, awaiting for the casual flick of the Rod that would sentence him to excruciating torture at the hands of the Patriarch himself, who had far more delicate and much more painfully agonizing unseen methods of torment at his disposal.

  No such move was ever made. The Patriarch instead motioned with his left hand, the one unadorned, his Mourning hand, for the Inquisitor to rise, before he added:

  “You are a pathetic fool, Inquisitor. Stop groveling, it sickens me. I never suffer fools gladly, but by necessity I shall. Serve your purpose and you might be able to redeem yourself and avoid my personal chamber of torture. You might even be able to save your insignificant little life you seem to value so much. I might feel less inclined to throw you to the boars, if you actually provide me with some names.”

  The Inquisitor was a middle aged man, lean and of austere face. Normally he would have looked menacing and unyielding to a common townsfolk in his elegant robes embroidered with his sigils of office and rank; he would have looked like someone important and powerful, someone to be feared and respected.

  He now seemed instead a hollow, reduced man: his surplice spoiled and mudded, his face contorted from the imagined agony in the hands of the Patriarch. His feet were barely able to support his weight and slight tremors coursed through his body. He simply managed to croak:

  “As is your bidding, your Holiness. But we need more time with the prisoner. He has proved, quite resilient.”

  The Patriarch was studying the prisoner intently with a deeply frowned face, as if trying to uncover everything he needed to know merely by watching him hard enough. His right hand, the one adorned with the Holy Diadems, was scratching his chin in a rather detached and insouciant way, in stark contrast to his earlier searing demeanor. He addressed the Inquisitor without turning around or barely moving his head, his voice carrying hints of aggravation:

  “What you need Inquisitor, are lessons in silence. You would have killed him without getting a word out of him. I will break him myself. Your crude methods can only serve as instruments of death, nothing more. Vacate the chamber now, the both of you.”

  The Patriarch’s voice carried a finality that could not be challenged. The flogger did not even bother picking up his tools, bowing once more hastily but affording time enough for what would seem to be proper reverence and then quickly heading towards the badly lit staircase that led to the upper levels of the tunnels.

  The Inquisitor had no intention of uttering a single sentence that could very well be his last and with a series of deep bows and small steps made his way to the staircase as well, being very cautious not to turn his back to the Patriarch at any one point. The moment he reached the base of the stairs as ready as he was to turn and hurriedly run them up, the Patriarch raised his left hand and with his gaze still fixed on Philo, he asked the Inquisitor:

  “The men you sent after the sinners deep into the tunnels, did you take care of them as instructed to?”, his tone sharp like clear ice.

  The Inquisitor stood at the base of the stairs with one foot already on the steps. He bowed low and replied in a somewhat controlled voice, rather than in the earlier whimpering tone:

  “They were blinded with hot iron, their tongues were cut out, their arms were chopped off and their teeth smashed to the last. As you commanded me, your Holiness.”

  “I see. There are tasks even the likes of you can accomplish then. Let it be known that these men were chastised for witnessing one of the Holy Grounds with unclean eyes and touched its walls with bare filthy hands, disturbing it with their impure voices. Parade them through the City tomorrow. Let the people see what happens to sinners and blasphemers.”

  The Inquisitor answered meekly after a small pause:

  “Thy will be done, your Holiness.”

  “Of course it will be done. I will tolerate no interruptions Inquisitor, not even from the Castigator himself. If he threatens you with death, remember that I will be less merciful.”

  The Patriarch’s last words struck true. The Inquisitor managed to simply nod and rushed up the stairs as if swaths of fire were behind him. A dull metal thud echoed, the large door to the chamber closing right behind the Inquisitor. The Patriarch then walked closer to Philo who was still alive and currently awake, unable though as he lay with his face towards the wall to look at his captor. A grin that threatened to tear the Patriarch’s face apart suddenly appeared on his face revealing his immaculate pearly white teeth for no one to see.

  “Alone, at last. Philo, was it then?”

  His next steps took him closer to Philo, the Patriarch’s boots barely making an audible impression on the stone floor. He noticed the pool of clotted blood lying under Philo, his back a horrible mess of deep gouges and bloody wounds.

  Rivulets of blood stained his whole body, from his shoulders down to his legs. His feet were bare and bruised livid underneath, the skin so deeply stained crimson that it was almost impossible to know whether there was any of it left. Philo’s thickset body had lost its healthy color; a pallid skin implied he was less than feeble.

  Philo did not answer verbally, neither did he nod. He simply spat vehemently and a thick mix of blood and saliva landed on a pool of his own blood, the little splash audible enough to register as an action of defiance or even possibly indifference.

  “These amateurs who worked on you were thorough enough, I’ll give them that. But amateurs still. Bleeding a man to death can only achieve in killing someone. Not in confessing his sins. Will you do that, Philo? Will you confess?”

  The Patriarch had leaned closer to Philo and was standing on his right side, looking at him with bright enthusiasm; a yearning expectancy loitering timidly in his voice. The Patriarch wished dearly for an easy answer, a “yes” that would make things smooth and civil. He wanted to see a recognition of being outplayed, an acceptance of defeat, the knowledge of pointlessness proven in Philo’s resignation from the fight before it could even really begin. There was such joy to be had in the feeling of superiority, that the Patriarch almost trembled with anticipation.

  But he also knew Philo would not choose the easy way out. He was too proud, too ignorant and too stupid to do so. He was unable to spare himself from the immeasurable heights of pain he would fail to endure, the unbearable humiliation; he would suffer the final destruction of his mind, body, and soul.

  He must have thought himself already a martyr for his
cause, a proud shining beacon against the darkness. Someone for the others to follow as an example; a stoic fighter, a proud man that could not be brought low.

  ‘How embarrassingly naive,’ the Patriarch thought to himself. He decided that he would leave Philo’s tongue and throat intact for as long as possible. Their own screams always became insufferable to them. Philo would be driven mad by the time he was through with him. A mad, witless fool. Not a martyr, but a wretched sack of flesh. An utter nothing. He would obliterate him completely, in the most literal sense. Philo Dutur would be in all manners erased, as he had never even existed, or indeed been born.

  Ah, the small mercies, the little joys of his life and work. That was what kept him interested, what made him tick. In the end it would all have been worth it, just for these bright moments of uninhibited truth and voracious feelings.

  When the cries blanketed all the senses, all thoughts and feelings. When the reality of pain promoted a higher sense of self; when those who had received his attention were indeed enlightened, their forms pure and bright right before they ended, like the last light of dying suns.

  It was, the Patriarch thought, an art form. He wished he could make Philo understand before he began, but that would be an exercise in futility. Words would not affect him; Philo’s ears and mind had been closed shut to him, that much was certain. It was of little consequence, because soon he would become so much more receptive, like a child only now beginning to learn. Philo Dutur would learn so much about himself in so little time.

  The Patriarch was filled with a fleeting sensation of jealousy: he told himself in his mind how blessed indeed these people were, to be stripped down to their essential self. How unique to be able to see clearly for just once; to understand what everything meant, the truth of life bared naked before their crying souls.

  He almost wished he could experience that first hand, but he had the knowledge ingrained in him. The pain and sensation were not worth as much as the revelation ever did. He felt almost violated; robbed of his right to discover, experience, and learn anew.

  It was as if he was a mere tool, that should never amount to much. A useful but otherwise uninteresting tool. These people here, he considered them so much more intriguing, entertaining; pure mysteries definitely worth uncovering.

  An inner rage that had been left neglected for too long flared up again. He could use that rage; he would use it to make Philo reallybelieve. Not just acquiesce, give up his friends, his family and all that he loved and held dear. He would make him a true believer, a man happy to die in servitude at long last. The Patriarch told him then, with a laugh and a grin:

  “I’ll make you believe, Philo. I’ll save your soul. You’ll see. Faith, Philo. Faith can work miracles.”

  Philo concentrated what little strength remained in him and smirked derisively before adding in a low but steady, unwavering voice:

  “I spit on your faith. I will die a free man. You can cage me no more.”

  And to accentuate his point, Philo did spit once more; reddish saliva came out of his mouth with broken teeth and the wounds inside it still open, bleeding freely.

  The Patriarch replied in a candid way, as if exchanging opinions with a peer:

  “Oh you misunderstand, dear Philo. I was talking about faith in one’s self. And I do have faith in myself, Philo. Here, I’ll show you.”

  That having being said, the Patriarch reached for Philo’s chains; a mere touch of his hand unlocked the first one and Philo’s body swayed immediately to his other chained side. It was all very sudden and Philo barely had time to put his feet down to be able to stand instead of slumping on the stone floor.

  When the Patriarch unchained his remaining hand, Philo tried to act as fast as possible. His right side, he believed, was nearer to the Patriarch; he mustered all the strength that he could and focused it on his elbow, suddenly jutting it towards the Patriarch’s groin.

  As he did that, he was already clenching his left fist, trying to gather some momentum by twisting his torso and perhaps landing a good punch on the Patriarch’s face. He knew that this was probably his last and only opportunity, so he thought he’d make it count and go for the kill as well, his mind focused on reaching the motley arsenal of torturing tools available.

  His elbow did not connect with the Patriarch’s groin. Instead, he felt a rush of air as if a void was suddenly created where the Patriarch had been standing. As his torso swooped around in its instinctive movement, his feet swiveled to accommodate the sudden move and his left fist came rushing down only to meet thin air. His body was awkwardly positioned now and precariously balanced, openly inviting hits of retribution.

  The Patriarch was not where he should have been and was instead at Philo’s left side now; it was as if he had instantly sidestepped him with inhuman speed, impossible reflexes, and divine foresight. As Philo turned his bruised head around to see, he had one eye completely hidden behind swollen tissue. His other eye was damaged and bled almost beyond recognition, but still it seemed to function. Evidently surprised and dumbstruck, he managed to ask the Patriarch:

  “No one can move that quick.”

  The Patriarch let out an almost hysterical laughter, his shoulders bobbing freely up and down in an unseemly lack of decorum. He then added, still snickering intermittently:

  “And yet, I did! A wonder made manifest! Praised be the Gods!”

  And yet another smirk before he stretched out his right hand, his adorned hand, the Hand of Tribulation, to grasp Philo from his forehead.

  Philo went limp almost instantly, his big bulk sagging down onto the floor; his legs were sprawled awkwardly and his arms simply rested against his body, barely touching the bloodied floor.

  His face, or what was still left of it, tried to take on an expression of pain; he flinched and his visage contorted violently. Suddenly his face slackened and his mouth opened up to reveal his broken teeth and the numerous open sores and wounds. He started to mewl incoherently, blood and saliva dribbling down his chin; he tried to voice incomprehensible words sputtered in blood.

  The Patriarch smiled. His face lit up at the sight of the broken Philo and he seemed pleased that his work was beginning to take form now. He asked Philo in a sweet, inviting voice:

  “Who else was with you in those caves Philo? Was it someone I know? Who were your friends, Philo?”

  Philo seemed to twist his body a little as if trying to escape an invisible grasp, and his head shook with involuntary tremors. The Patriarch tightened his hold on him, and his voice became a venomous hiss:

  “Who was it? I’ll pry it anyway from your dying mind you wretched fool, so tell me of your own volition! Unburden your soul! Who was it?”

  Philo let out a deep moan and his eyes tried to let tears flow, even though it was nearly impossible. His eyes were practically swollen shut and the tears welled up constantly, making what little vision he had left, a complete blur. His groaning became deeper, and his body started to shake involuntary; he could feel the spasms of death approaching, washing over him.

  The Patriarch screamed in hellish fury and the air around them cracked audibly. Small arcs of fierce blue lightning flickered between the Patriarch’s ringed fingers:

  “Who was it? Who entered the caves with you?”

  Philo’s skull was throbbing and enormous veins jutted from his head which seemed ready to burst apart, his scalp beginning to turn red hot. His throat managed to let out a few audible words while his head was still grasped tightly, forming an odd angle with the rest of his body as if it was about to snap:

  “Amonas.. Ptolemy.. Hilderich.. the curator boy.. Please.. End it..”

  The Patriarch grinned appreciatively, and then almost immediately his face wore an expression of mild disappointment. Resentment accentuated his poisonous words:

  “This Hilderich fellow, a Curator’s apprentice? How quaint! A schoolboy and a romantic!”

  He let go of Philo who instantly regained some sort of composure, however drained h
e was of his vitality close to the point of death: his heart was barely beating and his every breath had become copious and painful. His voice now little more than a whisper, Philo said amidst weeps and moans of pain:

  “End it.. Kill me.. You have your names now..”

  To which the Patriarch replied with a brilliant smile adorning his face:

  “But Philo.. I knew their names all along.. I just wanted to hear them from you.. Can you feel it? The stain of treason? It will go away before the end. Have faith, Philo. You know I do.”

  The Patriarch grasped Philo’s head once more. The screams filled the chamber, echoing around its damp stone walls.

  The guards above the torture chamber were used to the cries of the sinners. But not to whatever it was that they were hearing now. They became uneasy. Before long, one of them vomited.

  When the other guards came to relieve them, the screams and voices could still be heard. And that went on, and on, all through the night.

  When the Patriarch emerged from the door of the torture chamber, the guards posted there were almost ashen in color but still managed to stand to attention briskly enough. The Patriarch said to the first one he laid his eyes on:

  “You. Send for Ursempyre Remis to my personal chambers. And you, clear up what is left down there.”

  Both saluted and bowed deeply before silently rushing to perform their assigned duties. The Patriarch walked down the long corridor that would bring him to the staircase leading to his chambers. He felt stiff from the effort, but satisfied.

  He smiled to himself, before musing aloud:

  “Oh, Philo. What a charming little soul you once had.”