by Remi Michaud
Rites of Ascension II:
Blood of War
By Rémi Michaud
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
To my children, Leanna and Alex.
Daddy loves you.
Prologue
Threimes wished he had never gotten out of bed that morning. He wished he had just rolled over, pulled the blankets tight to his neck and closed his eyes again. But he had not. As if he'd had any choice in the matter. Piotre, his valet, had come striding in at the crack of dawn, when the light filtering through the windows of the king's bed chamber was still more muted gray than white or gold, had tossed aside the velvet curtains of his canopy, and smiled dazzlingly at him as he pouted.
“Rise and shine, Majesty!” he had said cheerfully. “Tis another good day to be alive.”
That's when he should have decided. Right then. He could have told Piotre to bugger off. He could have rolled over and pulled his blankets to his shoulders, maybe over his head.
Because no more than three hours later, he sat in the mammoth throne that had been installed the week before, the great gaudy thing that made him feel like a child when he sat in it, trying not to yawn, listening to the ridiculous bickering of the two ridiculous men who stood before him. The men may have been ridiculous, but the discussion was not. His final decision would have far reaching effects.
Salosian or Gaorlan? That was what he had to choose. For him, for his kingdom, still only a generation old, his father having pulled it out of the ashes left by two bitter (and supremely powerful) rivals, for the future.
But at the moment, the two lead delegates, Shoka and Salos, were bickering like two senile old men.
Except for their ages—which Threimes thought waspishly had to be north of a hundred but was in reality closer to, say, sixtyish—the two men were as disparate as could be. Shoka was a dour, haughty man, prone to dressing in very expensive and garish robes, who demanded obeisance. Rumors had it that Gaorla himself had visited him, had blessed him, chosen him to be His representative here on earth and though there were plenty of witnesses who could corroborate it, Threimes was not sure he believed it. Most of those witnesses were Shoka's allies. Salos on the other hand, was a ball of spindly energy, with bright, laughing eyes that contrasted sharply with his simple robes.
Threimes's choice seemed obvious. Shoka was a joke. Too self-righteous, too greedy. Salos, at least, was able to show a little humility—real humility, not that fakery Shoka paraded: “Look at me! I bow to Gaorla so readily! I'm humbler than you!”— and a real desire to help the people of the new kingdom thrive. The problem was, Shoka had a lot of supporters especially among the nobility, most of whom came from the wealthier merchant families that had existed before his father had created the Kingdom of Threimes. And that meant Shoka had a lot of gold to throw around. Gold that could be used to continue the process of building Threimes into the kingdom his father, the great Threimes I, had wanted it to be.
Oh gods.
“I tell you, you heretical fool, that Gaorla has spoken to me. I am His chosen and I shall lead the church-”
“Yes, and then what?” Salos retorted with a smirk. “You want Threimes here to hand over the keys to the kingdom? The keys to the treasury? You not plumped up enough with your fancy silks and gold and stuff and such?”
Face mottling with fury—which was a pleasant change from the smugness, in Threimes's eyes—Shoka raised a fist, and hissed between clenched teeth, “I will not tolerate this from you, you filthy swine. I will not-”
“Oh spare me. I love Gaorla as much as the next man but I think if he actually chose you to be His representative, well then he obviously is capable of the simple human act of error.”
Now Shoka's face drained of blood, paling until Threimes thought he could see the bone beneath. “How dare you,” he howled. “How dare you-”
“Gentlemen,” Threimes said. He tried for authority, for strength, but with his head pounding like a miner's hammer, he was afraid it came out as more of a whine. Not very kingly. Then again, when he had been a child, he had never imagined he would be wearing a bloody crown. He had never imagined he would be required to make decisions that would affect thousands of people, millions maybe, for generations to come.
He was not cut out for it.
“Can we please lower our tones a notch? I fear your squabbling is leaving me a little light-headed.”
The two men fell silent and turned their glares on Threimes. Salos was indignant. Shoka was, once again, smug. This deliberation had been ongoing for weeks. The day of choice was quickly approaching. Which one? He thought he knew, was pretty sure of it actually. He was not proud of himself for it.
He had never been meant to be king. A merchant, perhaps a merchant prince, like his father had been before the powers that be (had been) had thrust the damned crown at him, but a king? His young self would have laughed at the very notion. His old self, his current self, still did sometimes when it was not too aghast to be able to conjure up more than a dark horror.
As for these two men, he knew who had to be chosen, who would lead the kingdom's church, for there was too much support, too much at stake.
Feeling a bit of that dark horror, trying not to shrivel under the calculated gazes of these two and of the score of others in the new throne room, he thought to himself again that he was just not very good at this.
Part 1:
The Abbey
“Without a proper contextual framework, knowledge becomes meaningless gibberish...”
-excerpt, On Logical Thinking, Geldram
Chapter 1
Rumors spread as rumors do.
The spring was quite beautiful as springs go. Crops flourished under warm rains and the warmer sun, and men were kept occupied throughout the land with the hundred sundry tasks required of farmers and merchants. Trade was brisk; the caravan routes were teeming with everything from single mules packed to overflowing with sacks and hampers, to full caravans of a dozen wagons and more, these latter normally accompanied by a dozen mercenaries for protection.
Banditry was rare, for the king had decreed that each section of road be patrolled regularly by bands of soldiers, but sometimes, enterprising young men and women, not particularly interested in performing an honest day's work, did try their hand at it. Generally much to their regret, and thick tree limbs along the caravan routes bowed under the weight of swinging bodies. Children gamboled in fields, fished and swam in ponds, or rivers, or lakes—whatever was nearby—or played in the streets of towns and villages and cities alike.
Overall, the kingdom of Threimes seemed to hum like a well oiled machine as the weather warmed and the events that had occurred in the capital city earlier that spring faded from the minds of the populace.
All seemed well as far as things went, but rumors abounded. It was general knowledge that the Soldiers of God were massing—they were not circumspect about it—though for what, no one could say for certain. Most would stop there, and change the topic—you never knew who was listening and what might give offense; the Soldiers of God were known as a prickly lot. Some few, if plied with enough ale, would whisper in dark corners of taverns that it had something to do with the terrible massacre at the temple, but there was never more information to be had, no matter how many drinks were purchased for the speaker. In fact, no one seemed to know exactly what had transpired at the temple except that it had been bad. Though rumors abounded.
Less commonly spoken of, was that the king seemed to be quietly marshaling his own army, and where there was at least some speculation as to why the Soldiers of God were massing, there was no better reason for the king to be gathering his troops than to say maybe he felt threatened by so many Soldiers of God in his city.
Word also filt
ered in that far to the north, the Dakariin seemed restless, but it was a distant thundercloud; there was almost nothing but vague innuendo traded only by the most paranoid souls about what it might mean.
And far in the south, there seemed to be more reports of some kind of unrest. Witnesses reported seeing ships drafting low, almost swamping under too much cargo, making their way toward the deserted northern shore of the Sun Sea.
Messengers on horseback raced through the villages on the Eastern Caravan Route; a few were waylaid by roving squads of Soldiers of God, but the messengers always fought to the death. When messages were found, they were either written in an undecipherable gibberish or they burst into flame the moment their seals were cracked.
No one seemed to know what this meant. No one seemed to know that all of these things were symptoms of the same disease. A disease that would soon blanket the land in war and blood.
* * *
Prelate Thalor Stock sat perched on the edge of his desk, idly tracing a finger along the cool smoothness of the sculpture. It was his favorite one: a jade stallion about the size of a man's head, that had been carved so skillfully, so perfectly capturing moment of stretching its legs in full gallop that sometimes, in those rare moments when he indulged in woolgathering, Thalor imagined it might leap right off its pedestal and fly like the wind. It reminded him of him: powerful, graceful, beautiful, immobile only because of circumstance, yet ready to break free and leave an indelible mark on the land.
His assistant continued to read the daily report to him but he only had the barest attention trained on the young lady. He was still fuming from the first item she had read him. Three weeks ago, that heretic bandit Kurin and his monstrous ally, Jurel, had escaped his clutches along with a traitor, one of their own Soldiers of God, leaving behind a trail of devastation and blood the likes of which had never been seen in the sacred halls of this temple. Now, the report came in that they had vanished, eluding the best trackers and spies the temple had. Fools!
Finally, the droning litany stumbled to a halt and his assistant stood fidgeting, staring at the pages in front of her as though she was busy memorizing the prelate's schedule. He allowed a small smile to ghost across his lips. Most of his assistants acted this way in his presence; he was by all reports an intimidating man. He allowed a tense moment to pass before he spoke.
“Tell me my dear,” he said, his voice so quiet, so silky, he may as well have screamed, “how did those men manage to slip past our nets?”
Her wide blue eyes flicked to his and the color drained from her as she struggled to suppress a tremble. Realizing her blunder, she hastily averted her gaze. Another smile shaded his lips though his eyes bored like ice picks. It was only right that those beneath his station should fear him.
Her pretty lips moved soundlessly for a moment before she managed to stammer, “I—I don't know, Your Grace. The trackers are flustered. They had the track one moment and the next...” She shrugged her shoulders.
She really was quite comely. Perhaps Thalor should be more pleasant toward her. It had been quite a long while since he had enjoyed the attentions of a woman. It was not a proper way for a prelate to behave; it was not accepted for any member of the clergy but it was not unheard of. There were always rumors, though the keener members knew how to keep silent. If he played his cards right, then he might enjoy a tumble or two. If she played hers right, then she may find herself in a position of greater respect, greater power.
He let the silence stretch before drawing in his breath and letting it out in a long sigh.
He affected a grandfatherly smile and regarded her. “My dear, perhaps it is time we set up a general meeting with the head trackers and...yes, include March. We will need his contacts.”
She nodded. “Yes Your Grace. Is there anything else?”
Take your robe off. Let me see if you're worth the effort. He fought to suppress a chuckle. “No. Let me know when they are all assembled. I will speak to them here.”
She curtsied and hurried from his office.
Thalor returned to his chair and rubbed his eyes. If that bloody fool Calen had not bungled things, he would not be stuck with this task. Then again, he might have thanked Calen; it was due to Calen's utter failure that Thalor was now a prelate. Yes, in retrospect, he might almost have been inclined to thank Calen. If the fat fool had not had his head torn from his shoulders by the young man, Jurel. Thalor shivered.
He would not fail. He was so much more than Calen had ever been. He would see Kurin on a pyre, he would watch as the flames licked hungrily, would listen to the screams, would smell the flesh cooking. He would see Jurel put to the question and flayed. He would see that the Prelacy remained strong.
After all, he did not want his church to be weak when he rose to his rightful position. And as soon as he completed this task, Grand Prelate Maten would most certainly name him his successor.
Behind steepled fingers, he smiled.
* * *
Gixen passed through the monstrous doors set in featureless stone and into the pitch black chamber beyond—or he supposed it was a cavern; this place was carved from the bowels of a mountain. The chamber was warm, almost hot as though there was some great furnace that sent its fires invisibly into the great blackness. Gixen marveled at the heat. It was not often that he felt warm enough to sweat. Not so far north.
He walked with a confident stride, surrounded by the only illumination in the chamber-cave, a small circle of light with no apparent source, that showed only inches of the floor around him and did nothing to penetrate the ink beyond. Like shining a light through oil. His stride was confident but (and he would never admit this out loud) he was not. There were strange things here: he heard a slithering noise like there were a hundred snakes resting in a tangled pile trying to get comfortable; and worse, far away moans, cries, screams, like a dungeon was just a stairwell away. But of course he knew the stories. There was no dungeon. The sounds were here. In this chamber. And as hot as the chamber was, he shivered. His predecessor was among them.
Fool Xandru. We all knew you were too weak to lead us.
He walked until the circle stopped and he stopped with it. For some reason, he was very afraid (again, something he would never vocalize) of what would happen if he stepped from that circle of light into the darkness beyond.
“Ah, Gixen. So good of you to come,” his master said and his voice sounded like the pile of snakes he thought must be here somewhere, only louder. Not loud like an earth tremor, or like a roll of thunder. Nothing like that. If there had been no other sound in the chamber, Gixen would have had to strain to hear his master's words. But combined with the whispering slithers and the far away moans, the voice became easy to understand as though it was somehow fed by those other sounds, like it was a melody that became apparent only with the intertwining and counterbalancing of the harmonies. “I have a task for you.”
Bowing low—but not so far that he groveled; he hated grovelers and would not stoop to that level for anyone—he touched his hand to his forehead.
“My lord, I serve you,” he said simply, too loudly. His voice cut into the darkness like an ax and the far away song of the tormented seemed to hesitate, to go still for a moment. He winced. But, just like the circle of light, his words disappeared only inches from him, swallowed into the depths: the ax sinking into thick oil, touched it, was swallowed by it, but did not harm it.
“Of course you do,” his master said and he shuddered. Perhaps a little more care would be in order. “You will get me my prize. The prize that Xandru, my last pet, failed to get.”
There was almost a fondness when it spoke Xandru's name. Gixen could imagine that his master preened his predecessor like a spinster strokes a beloved cat in her lap. But he knew what had happened to Xandru.
“Where may I find this prize you seek, my lord? I will bring it to you.”
“Far to the south. Beyond our borders. Beyond...”
The rest of what his master said was washed a
way. In his mind, an image appeared, forced its way in like a violation, like a kind of mental rape that he could not fend off. He cried out but it did no good. When did it ever? He had taken part in his share of rapes. They always cried out, always screamed in terror, begged him to stop, please stop. Please no. It was what thrilled him. It was what made it special. He controlled, took what he wanted, and they feared and gave it to him. It was a connection deeper than love. Nothing was deeper, more satisfying, more all-encompassing than fear. And now he was the fearing one, he was the giver. He found it...arousing. Oh, he would enjoy this memory the next time!
The image expanded until it went to all corners of his vision, grew until it ate him, became him, or he became it. He recognized the mountain he stood in the center of but he did not see it from the center. He saw it from far above, from the eyes of a bird. A hawk maybe. A crow. He looked down and saw the town his people lived in, a haphazard collection of huts and tents strewn like scree at the bottom of the mountain about a mile north of the entrance to the chamber-cave. Beyond and to the south, he saw the great vista of his homeland, white and brown and blue. Fields blanketed by snow gave way to rocky tundra with only sporadic growths of mosses and lichens and the odd stunted tree, bent and ragged like old men who wore too little clothing and hunched for protection from the chill winds; and south, far away south, the barren wasteland gave way to a forest. A huge, great monster of a forest that sprouted too suddenly, and went on for miles and miles, leagues and leagues in every direction, and from his height, it seemed like a green quilt covered the land.
He passed over the great forest and it blurred under him, so fast was he flying. When the edge came into view and passed behind him, fields of green sprinkled with bursts of color rushed by. He saw a road like a ribbon, followed it, plotted its course from his vantage. He passed a great city that looked like a ragged mountain with its peaks and spires, that looked like an injury on the land.
