Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

  This was a study of some sort, but surely it was too plain to be the personal study of the high priest?

  His thoughts were interrupted when an attendant rushed in with several candles and placed one on the desk, one on a small wooden table between the chairs, and one she placed in the holder next to the door before bowing and exiting the room.

  Regis walked in after waving her away. Jerius hadn’t even heard her come down the hall, nor did he hear her leave.

  “Every Priest of Ladis is blessed with a small study within the chambers of the high priest. This will be yours. Use it to further your studies of our faith and gain wisdom and knowledge.”

  Jerius looked around the room once more with tempered excitement. He had never had his own study before. The Prophets who served in Arranus shared a common area with only a small bedchamber which they also shared with at least two other priests. This was his own personal space. A place to study and to learn. And to grow in influence.

  “Allow me to be your first guest,” Regis said as he sat in one of the black chairs and indicated that Jerius should fill the other. “We have several matters to discuss.”

  “Yes, My Lord," Jerius said before taking his seat opposite the high priest.

  For a moment, Regis just looked into Jerius’ eyes. He had the distinct feeling that the man was gazing far deeper into him then he was comfortable with. The older man took a deep breath, and then looked as if to make a decision.

  “The Isol invasion could not have come at a more difficult time for the faith,” he said. “We were on the verge of something truly magnificent.”

  Jerius tilted his head just a little. Obviously the rebellion was happening at a poor time for anyone. The Theocracy was light on soldiers after having sent so many to the Disputed Lands. Its castles were old and in need of repair, and its roads were passable at best. This he had seen firsthand after coming all the way from Arranus to the capital city.

  “As you know, the King and his political allies have been trying to use the new war in the south as a means to gain more power. We cannot allow the King to do such a thing. For too long, the faith of the Theocracy has been what has held this country together. I will not see it torn apart by our ruthless leader’s ambitions.”

  Jerius could not believe his ears. The High Priest of their faith was speaking of the king, his own brother, as if he were an enemy.

  “Are you not on equal measure with the King?” Jerius found himself blurting out. He regretted saying this as soon as the words escaped his lips.

  The high priest lifted a hand and stroked his short goatee as he stared at Jerius once again. This time, his eyes were cold and calculating.

  “That is how things are to be,” he said in measured tones. “But in recent years, the King has begun to act more like a monarch with ultimate authority and treat those of the faith like counselors instead of equal rulers.”

  There was a pause as Regis looked to the side.

  "Even me," he said in an undertone.

  Jerius shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I feel like he no longer respects the church,” Regis said, returning his gaze to Jerius. “I am looking for a way to put that respect back into him and his family. What I need at my side to do this, is a faithful priest who is willing to obey me without question.”

  Jerius swallowed. In his adherence to the faith of Ladism, he had recently been all too willing to give death to those who stood in his way to power and to seek out for himself position and power at the cost of others. He truly desired station. He wanted greater things for himself, not the lonely life of a Prophet. Was he willing to do whatever it took in order to gain these things? Was he willing to become the giver of death again, if that was what the high priest ordered of him?

  Perhaps he would have said no in his earlier days. But, then again, even Jerius had felt the tension between rulers from the king's court and the faith. Hadn’t he been the one to deal the deathblow to Prince Farnus?

  If this was the means to improve the station, so be it.

  5: Green Rose Wilting

  The company crowded the little bedroom. Customers had come into the inn’s common area and, as the first one nearly fell over when he saw Silverwolf, they all retreated into the bedroom until they could go back out into more spacious quarters.

  Ealrin wasn’t sure what happened to the man who saw Silverwolf. He refrained from asking anyone. Gorplin, Jurrin, and Olma sat on the bottom bunk on the left side of the room. Ealrin and Serinde sat opposite them, with Blume reclining on the bunk just above the others. Barton lay above on the topmost bunk. Holve stood by the door.

  The room was hot. Summer had lingered in the city of Prommus. A small breeze moved the hot air in the room just enough to tease them with thoughts of coolness. Ealrin pulled at his shirt and looked over in between the bunks at the stream of light coming in. Even though they were on the third story of the inn, they hesitated to open their window all the way, small though it was. Ealrin was certain that if they needed to, they would be unable to escape through the grimy opening.

  Well, maybe the three smallest of them.

  Ealrin leaned up against the bedpost, thinking about the man who lay on the highest bed. Barton had come with them, even helped to free Holve from the executioner’s blade. But what Ealrin couldn’t figure out was why. Why did the man who was a former scout for the Isolian nation and enemy of Holve decide to come with this group of people who had clearly aligned themselves with a man he considered a traitor?

  It didn’t make sense to him.

  Yet here he was. He didn’t talk much. Whenever he did, it was a muttering about Yada’s curse under his breath. Holve said he could be trusted, though. So they didn’t throw him out in the streets.

  His dark skin would give him away as Isolian in a quick glance. Ealrin feared for Blume sometimes, because he knew her skin was darker than the rest of theirs. But then he remembered that not only did she have other things to concern herself with, namely that she was a witch and a heretic in the eyes of the Theocracy, he also laughed at the idea of someone trying to best her.

  Yada still had Blume’s treasured necklace and the books they had safely carried across two continents. Both of these were keys to Blume increasing in her magical knowledge. Seeing as how she had been able to perform with a piece of stolen Rimstone, it wasn’t as important of an obstacle as it could be.

  But Blume still let loose with magic at odd times and usually, so it seemed, without her permission.

  This meant that she had been relegated to the tasks around the Green Rose that helped her stay away from the eyes of most of the occupants, though that was what they were all trying to do in effect. Ealrin could see it was wearing on her.

  She was getting bored. And a Blume that was bored often got into trouble.

  Ealrin heard her sigh deeply and begin to ask the question most of them were thinking.

  “Where is Miss White Hair?”

  Just as the last word was out of her mouth, the door opened and Holve’s hand moved to his sword. Each of them had received a weapon of some variety, stolen from various houses, guards, and people here and there. Ealrin began to reach down for his own blade, only to breathe and return to his normal position.

  It was only Silverwolf.

  “I seem to remember not wanting you to come along for this little expedition,” she said, looking at Blume.

  Ealrin heard her snort in reply. The assassin let it go without a word and moved to Holve, whispering in his ear.

  Even in here, Ealrin thought, getting a little upset. They were surrounded by friends and comrades. What could they have to fear from speaking out loud? Unless...

  “Good,” Holve said, nodding his head. Silverwolf didn’t add anything else to it before she leapt up onto the bed, disturbing Barton’s sulking.

  “Ugh!” he said, moving and making the bunks shake.

  “Oh, get over yourself,” Silverwolf said, leaning back against the wall and helping herself
to most of the bed he was occupying.

  Barton began to argue, but was cut across.

  “Alright,” Holve said to the group, clearing his throat and ignoring Silverwolf and Barton’s bickering. “We’ve got news.”

  “Bah,” Gorplin said, looking irritable and putting his chin in his hands. “I hope it’ll explain why we’ve been holed up in here for weeks on end.”

  Ealrin smirked. He agreed with a little of the dwarf’s mood.

  “The King and the Priest who rule the nation are at odds with one another,” Holve said. “Which means they aren’t prepared for a good retaliatory strike against the Isol invasion. They’re weak. The chaos is going to be good for us, but there’s still something we can’t leave Ladis without.”

  “My amulet?” Blume asked, sitting up expectantly.

  Holve nodded.

  “I know Yada and she is fierce. She will not be deterred from making this invasion work.”

  “Praise Yada,” Barton said from his seated position. He sounded sad, but resolute.

  “Go praise another bed,” Silverwolf shot back.

  “At any rate,” Holve began again. “We’ve gotta get that amulet back, but it won’t be easy. Yada is not a forgiving woman, as you’ve clearly experienced. So, we’ve got to give her something in exchange. Something worth more to Yada than a precious amulet. I’ve got a bit of an information network still manageable here in Ladis and I’m trying to get the pieces all back together. Several of my spies are displaced or worse. But I believe we’ve connected enough of them back. There was a project we were trying to complete before the last invasion failed. I think we can now finish it.”

  Everyone in the room was looking at Holve. Ealrin was more than curious. What project was a spy network decades old trying to accomplish that would still be useful today?

  “What was the project?” Serinde asked. Ealrin wanted to know, too.

  “That stays hushed for now,” Holve replied. The room deflated a little of its excitement out the cracked window.

  “Mister Holve, you’re teasing us something awful. I don’t like all this secrecy,” Jurrin said, looking up at their leader with an expression Ealrin felt in his own heart. A mixture of doubt and worry.

  “I agree,” Serinde offered. Ealrin was surprised. The elf didn’t say much, so when she chose to speak it was often with great intention. Were they all feeling the same way as he did? That they were keeping secrets unnecessarily? The same thought crept into his mind, however. Perhaps there was a reason to the intrigue.

  They did still have an enemy in their midst.

  “But,” Holve continued, looking around at them. “We should be able to move soon. I’m getting us safe passage out of the city.”

  “And out of my tavern,” came a voice from the door. Holve spun and put his hand to his sword again, but relented.

  It was Deliworth, and he looked in a foul mood.

  “My son may have thought you were the greatest thing to happen to the rebellion,” he said with a sneer. “But I’m still of a mind that you’re going to get yourselves all killed. Wouldn’t matter to me. Taking up my bed space and forcing me to close my parlor an hour early.”

  Holve sighed. Ealrin saw his shoulders drop a little.

  “Just play your part and we’ll be out of your inn,” he said in a voice Ealrin recognized as one of patient endurance. It was still seasoned with a twinge of annoyance.

  Deliworth humpf-ed, but stayed at the door.

  “Cook needs help in the kitchen,” he said. “We’ve got a guest ordering plates of food for him and his friends. Can’t keep up.”

  “Any volunteers?” Holve asked, turning back to the group.

  “Little Miss Magic should,” Silverwolf said from above the bunks. “She can whip up something in a blink, I’m sure.”

  “Why don’t you cut up some meat if we’re comparing skills here?” Blume shot back.

  “I’ve cut up enough today,” Silverwolf replied. Ealrin didn’t have to see her face to know she was making a smug expression.

  “Blume if you would help, I’m sure it’d go quickly. Take Jurrin and Olma with you,” Holve said, trying to look reassuringly at her. Then Ealrin saw his face fall.

  Blume’s expression matched his and they both started to look around.

  “Oh, Mister Holve!” Jurrin said, popping up and nearly squeaking with worry. “Where’s Olma?”

  6: Meat

  Snart was the boss. Everything was going according to his great plan. But now that he was the boss, everything that he had hoped for had happened. The Veiled Ones had managed to cross the expanse of the human lands and find many men to eat.

  A war was a good time to search for flesh. But now the Veiled Ones were getting tired of meat that was dead and rotting on the ground. They wanted meat that was still wiggling. Snart agreed, for the most part. Meat that was caught and eaten while it still screamed was the best to consume.

  But too many men were ahead of them now. Men in blue and white robes with a half star written on their banners. Men who could Speak to the stones. Snart was unfamiliar with these men. Only his kind had ever made the stones do their bidding. But now there were many big men and women who could bring forth magic from the stone.

  And their magic was by far stronger.

  Snart had seen a man engulf an entire congregation of lizards in a single blast. They wiggled and hissed as they died. His own color had eventually won out after the man grew tired and was unable to cast out the flames from his hands any longer, but still. The moment had shaken Snart.

  He did not want his lizards to burn. Especially not him.

  So he would burn the men himself, if he could only learn.

  For centuries, the Veiled Ones only ever used the stones to blend into the jungle. To make themselves so perfectly invisible that they would need no other weapon. Stealth was their deadliest friend.

  But against these new men, they would need to learn new skills.

  It was strange to be outside of the protection of the jungle canopy. But Snart knew this was where more men could be found. Fresh men for his followers to eat. While they feasted on the corpses of another battle gone wrong for one side or the other, Snart took a glowing rock from the cold fingers of another man in the blue robes.

  It felt warm in his claws. Familiar and yet foreign.

  He thought of flames. He thought of fire. He called to his mind pictures of the stone burning and held the rock out high.

  Nothing.

  The wind blew over them and Snart felt his body chill with the breeze. He could not even produce warmth for himself. He hissed at the rock, but did not throw it. He would keep it. In fact, he would keep them all.

  “Shrak, Scral, come here,” he hissed. Two Veiled Ones of his colors came close and bowed down to him. Their spears were low and their mouths were red. They had been feasting.

  “Collect the stonesss,” Snart ordered. “All of them. Put them in bags and bring them to me. Every ssstone you findsss.”

  “Yesss, boss bossss,” they said, and slinked off to obey him. He could tell they were disappointed with the interruption. He made up his mind to kill one of them when they returned. Just to make a point.

  He was the boss. There would be meat for everyone to eat. But the most meat would be for him. That was the best part of being the boss.

  All the meat one could eat.

  Snart looked over his Veiled Ones. They slunk over the ground, clawing and biting at one another, trying to get a taste of fresher meats. This would not do. The Veiled Ones needed more meat and they needed more land. If the Veiled Ones were to return to their ancient splendor, they would need to become strong.

  They would need to fight.

  “Ssssnart!” he called out loudly. “Boss bosssss!”

  The reply came hissing over the sound of the warm summer buzz.

  “Ssssnart! Boss bosssss!”

  Snart began to use his precious spear to tap the ground. Click, against a rock. Thump ag
ainst the grass.

  Over and over he repeated the pattern.

  Click. Thump, thump.

  Click. Thump, thump.

  “We travel to dissstant man landsss,” he hissed. “We find sssspecial stonessss and kill fresh meat, meat.”

  Click. Thump, thump.

  Click. Thump, thump.

  Thud. Clack, click clack.

  Snart whipped around to see who dared to defy his orders. It was Shrak. The dirty, filthy, low bellied lizard was daring to defy his own color.

  “You saysss more meat meat,” he said, throwing down the handful of stones he had halfheartedly collected. Scral had at least a dozen more. “But you haven’t gotten us fresh meatsss. Only rotted, grossss flessssh.”

  He took his spear and pointed it at Snart, hissing loudly.

  “No more disssgusting meatsss!” he shouted. “Ssscral! Boss Bossss!”

  A few Veiled Ones picked up the cry and continuing the beat.

  Thud. Clack, click, clack.

  Snart paid them no mind. It was his duty to weed out the weak betrayers. And he was going to kill Scral anyway. He twirled his spear around his body and pointed it at the usurper. Snart was going to show his Veiled Ones that he was the one who was going to lead them to greatness. He was going to lead them to land. He was going to give them meat.

  Jumping out with his spear at his side, Snart threw the special stone at Scral’s ugly snout. The lizard, expecting the spear, did not move in time to block the stone. It smashed against his snout and he went reeling.

  Snart had the advantage.

  He flung his spear into his opponent just as he crashed into him. The pair went tumbling to the grassy ground. Snart could feel Scral’s claws biting into him, but feebly. The lizard was stunned.

  Fighting to regain his footing, Snart clawed away and turned. He saw Scral scratching at his face where the rock had hit. Veiled One blood was traveling down him, covering one half of his face in the black, sticky liquid. Snart saw the wound where his spear had pierced his challenger, too. A flow of black came from that as well.