by Remi Michaud
“Thank you, Seneschal,” Jurel responded. “Please rise.”
With a grunt, Jon levered himself to his feet, favoring the injury to his left leg.
“I shall not occupy your time long, Lord. I wish simply to know how you would like me to deploy my forces to keep an eye on the surviving enemy.”
Jon pointed a delicate thumb over his shoulder toward the gaping maw that had been the main gate of the Abbey. Beyond, the combined armies rested at their ease around cook fires. There was some tension between the Salosians and the Soldiers of God but after the white caped officers had been segregated from their men, the tensions had eased so that the armies treated each other with cautious courtesy as two strange wolves who meet in neutral territory might.
A memory tugged at Jurel, a time when he had visited his place only in his dreams. A time when he did not know his true nature and two faceless armies squared off across a verdant, virgin field. Ultimately, those two armies joined into one, and, in so doing, joined Jurel into one.
“Deploy them any way you see fit, Seneschal. You need not worry about setting guards. They are one army now, my army. They will await my commands.”
“And the officers?”
Jurel grunted a sour chuckle. After being segregated, a few of the senior officers had been very vocal in their assertions that the prelacy would not let this blasphemy continue.
“Those that swear fealty to me will be given positions within the army, under commanders I deem trustworthy. Those that do not will be hanged.”
Jon nodded gravely. “Of course, My Lord.”
“Will that be all?”
Jon hesitated, then shrugged as though he had made a decision. “There is one more thing. I have something you might be interested in.” He smiled, his eyes lighting up like a child who had just received a present. “Very much.”
Intrigued, Jurel motioned him to continue. Jon snapped his fingers, and barked a harsh order over his shoulder.
A phalanx of soldiers wearing Grayson tabards marched into the courtyard, their pikes bristling overhead, the points gleaming dully in the gray afternoon light. Halting five paces ahead of Jurel, the men stood at attention. In the center, there was movement, a scuffle, a sound like a slap. A cry of pain, and then silence.
“My lord Jureya,” Jon intoned as though presiding over a state ceremony, “I present to you, as a gesture of goodwill by the duke of Grayson, the heretic prelate, Thalor Stock and his aide, Major Reowynn Vash.” The wiry little man gave a wry smile. “I apologize I could not present you with the Grand Prelate himself. He seems to have disappeared at some point during the night.”
Eyebrows creeping up his forehead, Jurel watched as the soldiers parted, revealing a prim old man. His garb was of fine quality silk and velvet though much the worse for wear, his iron gray hair was disheveled as though he had just risen from his bed, and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. He hunched, bent over, no doubt, by the weight of the heavy iron shackles that bound his hands and his feet. But for all that, he possessed an air of confidence and severity that Jurel could not help but respect.
Beside him, a man that Jurel remembered—though he had never known his name—was glaring hard at him. Stripped of his armor and his white cape, Major Reowynn Vash seemed smaller than the Soldier Jurel remembered had stood up to him for a moment on the temple steps in Threimes.
He heard a growl beside him. Kurin shook. Were it not for the ever-present hood, Jurel was certain he would see the kindly face twisted ugly with rage and hate. If it were not for Mikal's restraining hand on his shoulder, Jurel was certain Kurin would throttle this old man right here and now. He understood: he felt his own rage at these two. But it surprised him to see Kurin so. He had never seen his erstwhile mentor enraged, never known Kurin to succumb to urges of primal murder.
The two men stumbled as they were thrust forward, Thalor loosing an indignant shout, Reowynn keeping silent.
All amusement gone from his eyes, Jon growled, “Kneel, dogs.”
When the two were not quick enough to comply, two soldiers stepped forward, each one striking the backs of the prisoners's knees with the haft of their pikes. They dropped to the dust.
Thalor met Kurin's eyes with a malicious grin.
“It seems the tables are turned, old fool,” Thalor rasped, his words slurring as though he had had more wine than was good for him.
With a palpable effort, Kurin calmed himself. He forced his breathing deep and even, he clenched and unclenched his fists. His shoulders hunched, bunched beneath his robes.
“Well?” Thalor taunted. “Aren't you going to say anything?”
Behind Jurel, past the rank of guards and across the courtyard, gibbets stood ready to receive their first passengers. The thick rope loops swayed lightly, a grisly portent.
Finally recovering himself, Kurin said, in a voice freighted with pain, “Why?”
His vicious smile never wavering, Thalor responded, “Because you are all dirty heathens. You are an infection on the land, a blight in the eyes of almighty Gaorla.
“That fat fool Calen let you and your repugnant little pet escape, and I vowed that you would not be so fortunate the second time.”
“But I was, wasn't I?”
Now Thalor's face twisted in fury. “No thanks to the incompetent fools upon which I was forced to rely.”
Reowynn shot him a startled look. He appeared about to say something, but held his tongue, turning away with a hard look.
“And so you burned villages to the ground, slaughtered hundreds of innocent people and even sent some thirty thousand of your own men and women to their deaths to satisfy a grudge?”
“I did what needed to be done.” Thalor shrieked as though he were caught in some sort of religious fervor. “I did what no one else had the stones to do.” Spittle flew from his lips. “This was to be my last trial before being named as Maten's successor.”
“Ah.” Jurel rumbled. “The truth emerges.”
Thalor glared at him scathingly but he addressed his words to Kurin. “Keep your whelp quiet. It does not deserve the honor of my presence. I shall not be required to suffer listening to it mewl.”
Gripping the hilt of his sword, Jurel rose from his chair took a step forward. He let some of his power leak from his eyes.
Thalor shrank back from the lightning gaze but he held his head proudly upright. “Go on, you animal,” he sneered. “Cut me down. Murder me in cold blood. Show us all how high and mighty you are.”
Deep in his mind, he heard a voice, a grating voice filled with loss and blackness. Jurel smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
“Oh no,” he purred. “I will not kill you. I'm the god of war. I only kill in battle.” His smile widened, showing his teeth. “There is, however, someone I would like you to meet.”
He glanced to his left where a cloud of black appeared, oozing like ink in water. It sped up until it churned and spun as though caught in a wind that no one else could feel. A wail echoed eerily from the depths of the cloud, followed by more, the cries of the damned.
Two sparks appeared, glowing like windows into the hells. The cloud began to coalesce, at first thickening and pulling in on itself, then taking shape as a tall man wearing a black cloak. The gray light of day darkened, casting a gloomy, terrible pallor upon them all.
But, of course, this was no mere man.
Those in the courtyard shrank back, crying out fearfully. Many fell to their knees weeping uncontrollably. Some few Salosian priests farther back, and dressed in similar black cowls, bowed reverentially and began praying in earnest, for they knew their god.
The being glided forward silently, stopping briefly before Jurel. It gave him a slow nod.
“Hello, brother,” Jurel said.
But Thalor, caught as he was in some sort of fanatical madness, glared with fevered eyes at Shomra. “What form of trickery is this,” he sneered.”I will not be gulled by antics not fit for a child.”
Shomra turned slowly and rega
rded Thalor. For a long time, the being stood motionless. At first, Thalor simply sneered derisively. But soon his smile began to fade. He trembled, his eyes growing wide, the blood draining from his face until he was the color of wet ashes. Or death.
Shomra extended an arm. When the sleeve fell away from the hand, even Jurel recoiled. Decayed flesh sloughed from wetly glistening bone, and maggots crawled freely. The hand reached implacably forward; Thalor's trembling became spasmodic. His mouth worked soundlessly, repeating the same silent syllable over and over again, “nononono...”
Everyone in the courtyard stood still as stone, knowing they were being given the privilege of viewing a sacred rite performed not by any mere priest but by a god.
When Shomra's finger touched Thalor's forehead, Thalor threw back his head and shrieked, his voice cracking like red hot stones. The hollowness of his cheeks became more pronounced, sinking ever deeper. His hair went from iron gray to the pure white of sun-bleached bone. The fat seemed to burn from him so that his already lean form became emaciated, cadaverous.
“Please noooo!” His screech bounded from the walls of the Abbey and pierced painfully into the ears of each observer.
And as suddenly as it began, it ended. The lifeless husk of desiccated flesh fell like a half empty sack to the ground. Now that Thalor's screaming had stopped, the sound of quiet weeping was audible at various points in the crowd.
Reowynn stared in terror at the broken form of his master, sweat dripping from his forehead. Shomra's hand began its implacable journey once again. Unlike Thalor, Reowynn faced his fate stoically. He was pale, his eyes were wide, his throat worked as he swallowed, but he did not flinch away.
After seeing Thalor's obviously unpleasant demise, Jurel was rather impressed. This time, as the hand reached the halfway mark, Jurel stopped him.
“Wait. Not him. He was just a fool following orders.”
Shomra's hand halted. The decayed finger pointed as if in accusation. The cowl turned slightly in his direction.
“He has committed many crimes.”
Jurel nodded. “Yes, he has. And he will pay for them. But I think he is just a man who blindly offered his devotions and loyalties to the wrong cause. I would give him a chance to redeem himself.”
Jurel turned his look on Reowynn. The man's brow was furrowed as if confused by something.
“Well, Reowynn? Would you be willing to pay the price for your blind devotion?”
Reowynn hesitated, frozen to the spot for a long moment.
“Why would you do this?” he finally asked.
“You are a soldier. You followed orders. They were bad orders and you should have questioned them, but you did your duty as you were commanded. The unswerving dedication is commendable and, at least in my eyes, mitigates some of the blame.
“You probably even thought you were acting for the good of all—certainly Thalor would have had you believe so. But I think at the end, you saw your master for what he really was. Maybe you can now see yourself for what you were too.”
Reowynn thought about this for a time in silence. Jurel saw the change, when it happened, in his eyes, the resolve that grew as he made his choice. He finally nodded once.
Shomra's hand retracted. “As you wish.”
Shomra's form became incorporeal, returned back to the black cloud whence he had arrived. As the cloud dissipated into the afternoon, the shrieks and moans returned.
This time, Jurel would have wagered a great deal that he recognized one of the voices that screamed in eternal torment.
* * *
For the remainder of the beaten day, and well into the night, Jurel presided over the proceedings. Someone (more than one) had carted out a huge chair—a throne, really—that seemed made from solid gold and set it upon a makeshift dais. The cushioning was plush, mitigating some of the discomfort in his arms from the intricate, and in some cases sharp, designs carved in the arms of the chair.
Arrayed behind him were the Salosians—all save Kurin who had stormed off after Thalor had been sent to the hells.
Dizzy with exhaustion, Jurel barely heard the words of each supplicant as they knelt at his feet. There were so many of them that they blurred, became one long litany of “I swear upon my soul,” and “everlasting servitude.”
There were some surprises that brought him out of his trance-like state of mind. Seeing Captain Salma—Major Salma, now—again, as she knelt before him and swore her oath, her eyes twinkling, caused a small smile to appear on his face. His one-time captor winked as she kissed his fingers. He nodded his understanding, smiling slightly in return. She would be a senior officer in his army. He would see to it.
Lieutenant—Captain; they day was full of surprises—Higgens was there too but without any of the gruff anger that Jurel remembered. Instead, he seemed an empty shell of a man, a man who had had his life wrenched out from beneath his feet. Though he had not been kind to Jurel during his time as jailer, Jurel still felt pity.
After the Soldiers had passed, the priests of Gaorla—the few left alive who had not had their minds flayed from them by arcanum—bowed to him as well. He allowed that they did not swear an oath of fealty to him; they were Gaorla's children, after all, not his, and though they had fought him bitterly, they had only done so out of the same misguided belief as the Soldiers. But he required that they recognized him and accepted him as the god of war.
In the end, only three dozen of the twenty odd thousand survivors, stripped of armor and rank, were led to the gibbets where, even as they were strung up, even when the stools were kicked out from under their feet, they cried their imprecations, glaring insanely at Jurel the whole time.
He watched each one hang impassively.
Some time near dawn, it was over. Deep in his mind, he heard yet another familiar voice. This one he knew the best for he had spoken to his Father on many occasions. After listening for a time, he understood what he had to do.
The god of war rose from his throne, and the quiet murmuring of the crowd stilled as they awaited their lord's words.
“We are now one,” he called. “The prelacy as it stands in Threimes is finished, and so is the Salosian Order.” Gasps resounded throughout the yard—no one had quite expected this, especially the last bit. “In its stead, we will form a new order, one in which the two obsolete ones are merged, wedded forever.
“Each man, woman and child will, from this day forth, be permitted without reprisal, to worship whomever of my family they choose.
“The pantheon of the gods is united as one and we would see our followers united as well.
“This is my will, and the will of my brothers and sister. This is my Father's will.
“The gods have spoken.”
Without any further ado, the god of war stepped from his dais, and passed through the crowds of kneeling worshipers.
Inside the Abbey, the god of war debated with himself for a moment. Then He decided that food could wait—he wasn't particularly hungry anyway. First and foremost, He needed to sleep.
Chapter 58
Grand Prelate Maten threw his empty crystal decanter against the wall. It shattered into a sparkling blaze of bits, one of which etched his cheek as it streaked past. Not caring about the trickle of blood, he downed the brandy in his goblet in two greedy swallows, cherished the searing heat that burned his throat.
He searched his sidetable, found another decanter. Unstoppering it, he began to pour into his goblet before hesitating. Hurling his goblet at another wall, he swigged directly from the crystal mouth. Then he began searching for more things to break.
Lurching toward his mantle, he lashed out at a small sculpture that had so far been spared his wrath. It fell to the floor, but unsatisfyingly, no more than a chip appeared on the bird's head as it bounced away.
Again, he reached for his source but it slipped away before he could take proper hold, and he raged all the more. Somewhere deep inside, in a part that was not drowned in alcohol, he was glad his arcanum was du
lled and distant; his drunkenness made concentrating on his source impossible. That small part of him knew the destruction he could have caused.
And it was all that fool's fault. Bloody, blasted Thalor Stock. Damned idiot had ruined everything, and in such a spectacular fashion, too. Not only had he not managed to win a battle against a foe a tenth his size, he had inadvertently managed to reveal to the world the truth of the existence of the other gods.
If the rumors were true, two gods had shown themselves.
Truths that Grand Prelates have been suppressing ever since indisputable proof had come to light, nearly a thousand years prior—said proof was now secreted in a hidden niche in the Grand Prelate's office and only ever saw the light of day when a new Grand Prelate was elected. It would not do to have the common folk knowing that the Salosians had been correct. It would have undermined the prelacy, would have rocked the very kingdom to its core. As it was about to.
And it was all that god be damned Thalor's fault.
Stumbling, tears coursing down his creased cheeks, he toggled the hidden switch near his mantle. A stone slid silently from its spot, revealing a cavity. Reaching in, he felt the rough edges that he had only felt once previously in his lifetime, the day after he had ascended to the mantle.
There were two articles. The first was a small statue no more than a hand tall. It was exquisitely crafted, each detail rendered with a precision that would have been impossible for even the best earthly sculptors to achieve. The statue depicted a man wearing black armor. The armor had fanciful golden whorls that made his eyes water all the more while he stared at it. With gauntleted hands resting on the pommel of a long sword, the statue had an air of alertness, of violence barely restrained.
The other item was a scroll made of vellum. Though Maten had only read its contents once, the import of the words had seared them forever in his memory.
Last confession of Grand Prelate Tosis.
Grand Prelate Tosis was dead these past thousand years. His long reign as Grand Prelate had begun auspiciously enough. He had made sweeping changes to the prelacy which stood to this day. He had been the one to create the Soldiers of God. But by about halfway through his governance, he had begun to act erratically, almost capriciously. The histories detailed his actions as bewildering at best, terrifying at worst. He was said to have developed a volatile temper; his priests had begun to fear him.
