The scripture spoke of such miracles as being commonplace during the age of wonders, but today such things existed only in one’s imagination and faith. Cetrite considered, not for the first time, that he had been born in the wrong time.
Breathing out slowly, Cetrite started down after Harig. The bucket sloshed water but never spilled. Harig waited impatiently for Cetrite to make his way down to the dais. When he finally arrived, he carefully set the bucket down and looked up at the statue of his god. With knees that protested painfully, especially so after his recent beating, he knelt upon the hard stone. He waited a moment, then looked meaningfully at Harig, who gave him an irked look in return.
“Kneel and pray,” Cetrite demanded, though he should not have to remind the initiate. “Honor our god.”
Resentful, Harig knelt and bowed his head.
Though he suspected Harig would not pray, Cetrite dutifully lowered his head as well and offered up a silent but brief prayer honoring Castor. He was about to rise, when he decided to add something.
“Lend me your strength, oh great god,” Cetrite said silently, closing his eyes and mouthing the words. “These are difficult times. Though many have turned away, I have remained faithful. Help your poor servant through the last of his days. Give him the strength needed to serve you humbly and faithfully until you call him into your keeping.”
When Cetrite opened his eyes, he found that Harig already stood. The younger orc reached into the bucket, grabbed one of the scrubbing brushes, and approached the nearest altar. Placing a supporting hand upon the cold stone, Cetrite stood slowly. He waited a moment until the pain in his knees subsided, then picked up the bucket and approached one of the other altars, the top of which was covered with dried candle wax. Setting the bucket down, he took the remaining brush and began working away the wax. Harig had already started and was brushing in short but vigorous strokes.
Cetrite felt honored to perform this task. In the very heart of the temple, here in this holy place, he felt closer to his god than anywhere else. Cetrite paused in his brushing and glanced up at the great statue. Down the marble blade of the great sword ran blood that had long since dried. It was as if Castor had slaughtered a heathen, making way for the faithful.
Cetrite’s mood darkened at the sight of the blood. He had learned that in recent years the statue had been hollowed out. Hidden from view, a priest pumped animal blood into the statue during services, which flowed liberally out of drilled holes and down the blade, where some of it splashed upon the stone floor below. It was a simple design to impress the masses and yet, in Cetrite’s eyes, it was an unworthy trick.
Cetrite bent his head and continued cleaning the altar. It was hard work and his hand began to ache terribly. Still, he kept at it, for a little suffering was nothing compared to the service he had been called to do for Castor, his lord and master.
“I’m done,” Harig said, surveying his work. The altar Harig had worked on had been thoroughly cleaned of wax. He threw the brush into the bucket, where it landed with a splash, spilling some of the holy water onto the stone. “Since you feel so moved to do this grunt work, finish the last one.”
“You should feel honored to be allowed to cleanse the holy altars,” Cetrite said. “Though menial in nature, any small service we can perform is worthy in the great god’s eyes.”
“It is as I thought, then. You won’t mind finishing,” Harig said, tone reeking of satisfaction. “I am going to eat before the kitchen closes.”
Cetrite watched sullenly as the other made his way up the steps and out of the great worship hall.
“You feed your belly,” Cetrite hissed. “I will feed my soul.”
He turned back to the task of cleaning and scrubbing free the wax, which seemed uncommonly stubborn. Later, he would use the broom to sweep up the drippings. The scraps of wax would be returned to the temple candle maker.
Cetrite dipped his scrubbing brush once more into the holy water of the bucket and then returned to his vigorous scrubbing. As he worked, he absently muttered scripture, something he had long since done. Cetrite found it not only calming to the mind, but also relaxing to the soul.
An hour later, Cetrite was done. He surveyed his work, feeling a sense of pride. All three altars had been thoroughly scrubbed clean. He had even gone and ritually scrubbed the altar that Harig had already worked on. The black marble of all three altars fairly gleamed. Cetrite felt renewed, as if the task had cleansed his soul as well. Around the altars lay the wax drippings. He dropped his brush into the near empty bucket and reached for the handle of the broom when he heard something from behind.
It was a soft scratching sound, as if some small animal was behind the great god’s statue. Frowning, he scanned for the creature. In the dim light, he could see nothing. The fires illuminating the great worship hall had burned low, but truly his eyes were not what they had been. Cetrite let another breath hiss out. With age, he had lost much more than his youthful vigor.
He straightened up, prepared to investigate. It was not unknown for pests to get into the temple, but it was rare for them to penetrate this far. So deep under the mountain, there was no food to be had anywhere nearby.
The sound grew louder and the old priest realized that it was no animal. Someone was behind the statue. He scratched at his jaw, wondering if Karf had come to finally kill him. He fingered his athame. Did he have the strength to fend off the strong bull? Cetrite was no stranger to fights. He had won more than his fair share over the years. In fact, his broken tusk was a testament to a contest over a stronger male in which he had prevailed. There was more to winning than brute strength.
“Come out,” Cetrite called. “Though my eyes are not nearly what they once were, I can hear you well enough.”
“Can you now?” a voice hissed back in reply.
Cetrite’s brows drew together. Though the words were easy to understand, the sound of the voice was alien to his ears. Cetrite abruptly shivered and realized with a start that the temperature in the worship hall had dropped considerably. A frigid draft of air blew around his feet. A slight mist rolled over the ancient stone.
What was going on here?
“You can hear me,” the voice hissed from behind the statue, “now look upon me.”
A dark form separated itself from the shadows and stepped into view, illuminated by the dying fires.
Cetrite’s eyes widened. He dropped to his knees, barely even feeling the pain this time. He abased himself before the minion from his god. Like a tidal wave, emotion washed over him and he wept at the singular honor bestowed upon him by Castor.
“Thank you, my lord, my great, great god,” Cetrite called with his forehead pressed against the cold stone that was growing more frigid by the heartbeat. “Long have I waited for your return. Long have I remained faithful. My life’s work, my faith, my trust have been fulfilled. For that I thank you with all of my heart.”
Cetrite could hear the minion move forward, one uneven step at a time. The cold intensified with its proximity. Cetrite kept his forehead pressed firmly to the stone and began to pray.
“Are you faithful?” The minion moved even closer.
“Yes,” Cetrite said fervently. “Though only a rudimentary, and not without sin, I have kept the faith as best I can, my lord.”
“We shall see about that.”
Cetrite felt a light touch upon the back of his head and immediately a great force pushed its way into his mind. His consciousness fled in terror as the minion sifted through his memories. The minion’s power infused his being, and with the intrusion came indescribable pain. Cetrite had never felt such agony, but at the same time was elated, for he was being touched by a measure of his god’s power. The minion was a direct connection to Castor. It was a holy disciple, and for that Cetrite felt singularly honored.
The old priest cried out in agony as the minion probed deeper. The pain, he told himself, was transitory, and so he endured it. At last the light touch upon the back of his head wit
hdrew and the agony ceased. Silence followed. Cetrite cried unabashedly. These were not tears of pain, but of joy.
“The flock has wandered,” the minion hissed with a terrible anger that Cetrite could almost feel. “Though I did not believe it, I have seen it through your eyes. My lord is disappointed. However, you spoke truth. You alone, lowly priest, remained faithful. For such devotion, and strength, Castor rewards you.”
Cetrite felt another touch on the back of his head. Instead of pain, he felt a sense of warmth flow into him, diving deep into his soul. His aches and many pains vanished in a heartbeat. His mind became clear like it had never been before as the power of the god he loved with all his heart continued to flow into him. It was an exhilarating experience. Cetrite felt rejuvenated, reinvigorated.
The touch withdrew and the minion stepped back. Cetrite almost protested as the flow of power ceased. With the touch had come an intense joy, a direct conduit to his god. It had been severed and yet Cetrite found there was something else there in its place. He could sense it, deep down, something that had not been there moments before. It was the direct connection to Castor that he had wished for, a ball of warm energy that burned brightly amongst the darkness. He could touch it with his mind, and when he did, the power flared. He’d been infused with a measure of Castor’s power. He had been judged worthy.
“Look upon me,” the minion commanded.
Cetrite sat back on his knees and gazed upon the minion. Twisted as it was, it had clearly once been human. Castor’s touch had turned it into something else, transforming it into something new, something beautiful to Cetrite’s eyes.
“I have come from a different time to right a terrible wrong,” the minion said. Cetrite’s heart soared to new heights at this admission. “The High Father has sent an agent of evil, a human male, to keep me from accomplishing my task. He must be stopped. For this, I require your assistance.”
“You have it, my lord,” Cetrite said without hesitation. “My life is Castor’s to command.”
“Good,” the minion said. “It is time for the Horde to return.”
Cetrite felt intense joy at hearing those words. The scripture spoke of the Horde and the promise that came with its return. Nothing—no race, no kingdom, no other god—could stop the power and unity of the Horde. Like a great tide, the Horde swamped everything.
The minion dragged its gaze around the Great Hall, before it settled upon the statue of Castor. Cetrite felt that its eyes lingered on the sword with the dried animal blood. After several heartbeats, the gaze turned back upon Cetrite.
“It is time we restore the faithful to their proper place,” the minion hissed, and Cetrite could almost taste the anger and rage infused with those words. “Tonight, we will purge the unfaithful from this temple before moving on to greater things. This night, your athame will finally taste the blood you so crave and it so deserves. With its use, you will be suffused with more of Castor’s will.”
How he had longed to hear these words. They touched his soul. Cetrite glanced down at the hilt of his sacrificial knife. His hand had strayed to the handle. Cetrite gave start, for the hand was not his own. The gnarled knuckles had straightened. The wrinkled and slack skin had tightened and smoothed out. The age marks were gone. He blinked in astonishment as he moved his arm. The muscles bulged, as they had in his prime. He felt his face and was astonished to find the skin smooth, taut and firm. The bruising and split lip that Karf had given him were gone, healed. His hand inadvertently brushed against his broken tusk and found it once again whole.
Cetrite’s gaze returned to the minion. Castor had given him back his youth and strength. The great god had returned and Cetrite would do his utmost to fulfill his will.
The minion turned, moving over to the statue. It rested a hand upon the statue’s leg. The hall was filled with the sound of a great crack that echoed loudly against the walls. This was followed by a bell tolling throughout the temple. Dust shook loose from the ceiling and filtered downward in a stream as the bell tolled again.
Cetrite tore his gaze from the minion to Castor’s lantern. Incredibly, the black, lifeless marble began to emit a soft, pale blue glow. Within a handful of heartbeats the light intensified to a strong radiance. The entirety of the worship hall was bathed in holy brilliance. It was everything and more that Cetrite had dreamed.
The minion looked back upon the priest. “Together, we shall bring back Castor’s will into this world. But first, as you have cleansed these altars, so too will we cleanse the unfaithful from these hallowed halls.”
“Yes, my lord,” Cetrite said and pulled forth his sacrificial dagger. He glanced in the direction that Harig had gone, licked his lips, and wondered whose blood his athame would taste first, Harig or Karf?
Chapter One
The night air was cool, and a serious improvement over the dank chill of the dwarven underground. Stiger rode in the back of the empty supply wagon as it bounced uncomfortably along the moonlit dirt road.
Stiger had drawn his legs up and held onto the side of the wagon, which seemed to hit each and every rut and pothole as it trundled slowly, almost painfully along. It was an uncomfortable and jarring ride as the two mountain ponies pulled him inexorably onward toward what would, he was certain, become his new prison. He would’ve gladly walked, but the commander of his dwarven guard had not permitted it. Instead he rode, while they marched the miles away.
Stiger rested his back against the teamster’s box, his gaze on his guard. There were eleven dwarves marching behind the wagon, armed with swords and wearing the heavy armor that he had come to associate with dwarven infantry. A twelfth, wearing a simple tunic that appeared stained with drink and a tattered purple cloak, drove the wagon. Stiger suspected he was a civilian.
The pace was slow, but Stiger had nowhere to be. He had stepped back in time through the World Gate just a week before, and with that fateful step, his life, his purpose had ground to a halt.
The man he had come to save was dead. The minion had killed him before Stiger and Father Thomas had even arrived. Castor had won. It was that simple. With Delvaris’s demise, the future would never be the same. He could not set things right in the past, nor could he return to his time. For the first time in a great long while, Stiger was without orders, without duty, and without a plan. No one required saving and no one needed killing.
Stiger smelled smoke. He looked to the left and in an overgrown field fifty yards away he saw a military encampment. His eyes took in the neatly ordered tents, the dwarves sitting around campfires, the sentries on duty. He counted thirty tents in all, which told him the military formation inhabiting the camp was at least company strength. The wagon continued past, slowly working its way one bump and jolt at a time farther down the road.
“Ho,” the teamster called out unexpectedly. “Ho’up.”
The wagon slowed to an unexpected stop. The ponies took an extra step, and the wagon lurched forward another two feet before stopping. This was followed by a light clunking sound as the teamster engaged the wagon’s brake.
Stiger’s guard detail were called to a halt. The commander of the guard stepped up to the back of the bed and motioned for him to get down. Stiger glanced around and saw to the front of the wagon what appeared to be a small farm. He estimated it was around two hundred yards from the dwarven camp they had passed. There were only two buildings, a medium-sized barn and what looked like a two-room farmhouse. Stiger also saw a chicken coop, springhouse, a pen for pigs and another for sheep. Yellowed light leeched out from the shuttered windows.
The teamster and commander exchanged a few words in dwarven that Stiger could not understand. Then the teamster gave a shrug of his shoulders and climbed down off the driver’s box. He took a moment to stretch out his back and then stumped off toward the dwarven camp.
Stiger had assumed he was being moved to a new cell, but the dwarves had taken him out of the mountain and into the valley. He had asked where exactly they were going, but his guard did not
speak enough common to make the answer intelligible, or more likely hadn’t bothered enough to tell him.
Stiger noted several guards positioned around the farmhouse. They were looking in his direction.
“So,” Stiger said to himself with dawning realization, “this is my new prison.”
“You,” the commander said in the common tongue, drawing Stiger’s attention. The dwarf’s accent was quite thick and harsh. Stiger did not know his name, but he was an older dwarf, with his neatly braided beard reaching down over his chest armor. He had an unforgiving and intolerant air about him. Under the moonlight, the gray of the dwarf’s beard almost seemed to glow with a pale ethereal light. The commander placed his hands on his hips, before pointing at the ground with one hand. “You, come. Now!”
Not liking the dwarf’s attitude, Stiger glanced around again, stalling. The bastard could wait until he was good and ready. The dwarf gestured impatiently for him to get out of the wagon.
The dwarf raised his voice. “You, come, now!”
Stiger doubted very much if the dwarf could speak more common than that. Stiger climbed slowly out of the wagon’s bed and dropped onto the ground. He reached back in and grabbed the scabbard of his sword, slipped the strap over a shoulder, and settled the weapon in place. Stiger’s hand came to rest upon the hilt, and he felt the comforting tingle run up his arm and into his body. The dwarf took a nervous step backwards. Several of the dwarves’ hands slid to the hilts of their swords. By their grim expressions, they looked like they meant business.
Stiger removed his hand and held it up for them to see he meant no harm. He could not understand why they had let him keep the sword. The dwarves had taken everything else, his armor and all of his possessions, including his purse. They had left him only with his tunic, his boots, which were thoroughly worn out, and the sword. Thoggle had insisted he keep the sword with him at all times, saying it was dangerous to anyone else but him.
The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4) Page 2
