Two hallways branched away from the entry, one led to the offices of the Luciferian appointee who oversaw the diminutive temple. The other was stocked with the moneyboxes and idol booths for Luciferian worship and supplication. The smell of incense and unwashed bodies wafted from that section, but that was not where his interest laid; he went the other direction.
Moving silently, he passed the head office. Briefly peering inside, Rashnir spotted a wicker basket filled with fruit. It had been placed in a shaft of light.
It doesn’t surprise me, he thought. The leader here must be like every other Luciferian priest I’ve met. He shook his head at the sight: a basket of ephay fruit. The crooked clergymen who operated here were probably selling the addictive fruit to the local addicts on the side.
Rashnir found a place to hide next to a support pillar and slinked into the shadows. He felt certain of two things: that he could find answers how Ly’Orra had procured the vial of ‘ãbêdâh, and that she wouldn’t be looking for him in the Luciferian cathedral.
He waited in obscurity, praying that the ranking cleric would return to his office soon. The sound of footsteps and private chatter echoed in the hallway. It increased in volume and tone as a pair of speakers drew nearer.
Seconds later Rashnir could understand what they were saying. It was small talk, mostly, something about the local crop production. The footsteps stopped and one voice, the temple master most likely, told the other person, probably a parishioner, that his office was a mess and he would need a private moment to tidy up. Rashnir heard the unmistakable sounds of wicker being drug across stone tile, and then the rector invited the voice in to chat with his ephay fruit hidden.
Rashnir waited patiently for the parishioner to depart. He wanted to question the temple master. It would be important for him to gauge their watchfulness in case they’d prepared an attack on a Christian group. The warrior wouldn’t have thought it likely before, but the presence of ‘ãbêdâh meant he shouldn’t discount the possibility.
His mind began to wander away from its primary focus. It snapped to attention as crisp and purposeful steps clapped against the tiled floor. There were several boots, and their steps sounded urgent in their pace.
They grew almost loud as they approached and the priest’s conversation ceased. He, too, had likely heard the arrival.
The footsteps stopped outside his door and Rashnir heard her speak. “Pheema,” Ly’Orra demanded. “I need to speak with you, immediately.”
Rashnir’s heart jumped at her voice. She could conceivably initiate the massacre of his people if they had the alchemical means to rise up against them and catch them unprepared.
Pheema, the priest, excused his friend so that they could have a private conversation. His nondescript footsteps drifted away as they carried the parishioner beyond the main hallway.
“Yes, my dear,” Pheema inquired. “How can I serve you?”
“I require more of the potion that you carry,” she demanded.
“What? Why? Are there krist-chins here?”
The priest had sounded worried—fearful even. He had no idea that the group was nearby and that meant that they were safe, for the moment. Rashnir breathed a sigh of relief from behind the structural support where he rested and prayed that his enemy wouldn’t feel compelled to hurt his friends in order to get to him.
Ly’Orra paused. “No,” she lied. “But I require more of the serum, immediately. There is a foreign krist-chin that I must kill. I will hunt him to the ends of the earth for slighting my honor.”
Rashnir smiled, comfortable with that sentence. It was only him that she sought, and only to preserve her odd sense of honor; she did not hate all krist-chins, just him.
Pheema pried, “Where is the bottle I just sold to you?”
“I lost it in the ephay grove and the creep swallowed it.”
“Well,” he smacked his lips and gave her an implicative laugh. “Had I known you were prone to dabbling with such pleasures I would have made you a good deal on a sack of ephay fruit.” His tone dripped with innuendo, “Then you wouldn’t have had to risk your pretty little self in the deadly woods.”
Rashnir could hear him drag the basket of ephay fruit out of hiding.
“Enough, you slimy little man. I don’t need your rotten fruit. Where can I find the ‘ãbêdâh?”
Pheema sighed. “A runner from the monastery near Grinden is dropping off cases of at all the temples within his reach. I have some left, but it will cost you, of course. It will cost you double since you need it so badly. After all, I do have limited supply. Of course,” his voice took on a lascivious tone again, “I’m always willing to negotiate a deal—maybe you’d want to trade for the pleasure of your company?”
Voices stopped and Rashnir only heard sounds of a man choking. Rashnir grinned, assumed that Ly’Orra was strangling the suggestive priest. Too bad she’s trying to kill me—I kind of like this woman, he thought.
“I will pay your double fee,” she spat, “and you will give me a double dose.”
A gagging noise: it sounded like an affirmative.
The man cursed and gasped for breath. “Why do you want to kill him so badly?”
“You understand nothing about honor. You prey on the weak.”
“Hey! Everyone’s got to make a living,” Pheema wheezed.
“Not everyone gets to live,” retorted an unfamiliar voice, under her breath.
“It is not your place to speak, Shi’Nala.” Ly’Orra’s voice carried a venomous taint.
“Oh, please,” she said in a catty voice. “Your role is to burn out in a blaze of glory so your sister can rise from your ashes and retain the throne. I hardly think it fair to her if you kill this man. He would be far better suited as kingly breeding stock judging by his prowess and actions.”
“Your opinion has been previously noted,” Ly’Orra growled. “But it is my own Pawar—and only I will endure it. You can tell my sister I died in the flames of glory: that is your place. You will be a servant forever. My place is to transcend,” she snapped.
Silence reigned for a moment. The doomed warrior princess’ point had obviously been taken.
The clinking of glass against glass tinkled in the room. “Your ‘ãbêdâh,” said Pheema with a raspy voice. The thunking sound of a coin purse dropping on the desk signaled the departure of Ly’Orra, Shi’Nala, and Ri’Aqua. They left in the same manner as they had come.
***
“Father,” said Jibbin who remained in character, “why must we sacrifice this lamb?”
The little boy held a lead rope tied around a small sheep. He addressed Yavim who played the part of his father in the second act. They were already into the drama and the audience had seen the story of a father and son that traveled to the city of Jerusalem so that they could give a sacrifice to the God of their forefathers, the God of Abraham.
Jibbin hugged the lamb. “But I love him. I don’t want to kill him.”
“I know, child, but sacrifice is never easy. Our sacrifices, though, prove our love and loyalty to our God, and He will watch over us and take care of us—even in sorrow. The traditional sacrifice of the lamb only foreshadows what will one day take place for all people, a final sacrifice made for everyone. It will be so powerful that we will never need to shed more blood to appease God.”
A few men in the audience stroked their chins thoughtfully at the premise.
“Now, keep a hold of that animal. We are coming into town and we don’t want to lose him before we make it to the altar.”
“Yes, father.”
They walked to the other side of the stage where the other actors clustered together to make a crowd that argued with itself. Yavim pulled one of them aside.
“What is happening here?,” he inquired.
“The temple leaders have captured him.”
Yavim stood on his tiptoes to peer over the crowd. “Him? But he's a prophet and a teacher. He has only help
ed others and never profited by it.”
“Exactly. He makes the temple rulers look bad in comparison.”
“So they would just kill him outright?”
“I guess so,” the actor replied, and then he turned back to the clamor of the crowd.
An armored man pushed a half-stripped actor across the stage. The man stumbled and fell to the soil. Dramatically, the warrior took a prop whip and began to hit the man; the fake whip, made of cloth and soaked with watered-down animal blood, streaked the actor’s skin with bloody residue. Finartion, the actor playing the part of Jesus, screamed as each stroke lashed him.
The group of actors followed the warrior with who flogged the prophet and surrounded him. Only one woman hung back. She fell to her knees in tears, reaching out to Finartion, as if longing for him.
Above the heads of the rancorous crowd, the whip rose and fell. Yavim grabbed Jibbin and turned his head away. The woman, played by Yarrow, wailed and cried out, “My son! My, son…”
Overseeing the drama from the edge of the stage, Zeh-Ahbe’ noticed a spindly looking man at the back of the crowd. Something seemed distinctly wrong with him and warning stirred in Zeh-Ahbe’s spirit. He quietly slipped away to investigate.
Yavim hugged Jibbin. “Quickly, go over there,” he pointed stage left. “I will find you shortly.” The little boy obeyed, lamb in tow.
A black-cloaked actor snuck onto the stage. He wore a fair porcelain mask under his hood. The figure joined in the mocking and incited any of the relatively quiet ones to yell louder. As he compelled them they barked suggestions like, “Hit him again!” and “Nail him to a tree!”
At that last shout, the crowd dispersed enough for Finartion to be visible. The warrior shoved him the ground and onto a beam that had been laid there earlier by stagehands. Finartion’s hands were tied to the beam and spikes hammered into the wood with the illusion of being nailed through his hands and feet.
They dropped the base of the vertical beam into a post-hole they’d dug earlier. When they raised the wood so that it seated in the hole and stood erect the cross was clearly visible, and with Finartion hanging upon it. Yarrow cried, now prostrate.
With the cross made clearly visible, the man whom Zeh-Ahbe’ shuddered and twitched violently. He fell to the ground and screamed obscenities, tearing his clothes as he shrieked.
Zeh-Ahbe’ grabbed the man and shook him. A hollow ached stewed at the pit of his gut and his spirit knew what was wrong with the man. “Come out of him, demon.”
“Not the rood!” The man shrieked, “The power of the High One is here…”
“I belong to a power greater than yours. Leave this man alone!”
Only visible to Zeh-Ahbe’, the under-demon leapt out of the man like a shadow separating from its owner. It snatched Zeh-Ahbe’ by the throat, trying to strangle him—only corporeal enough to harm its enemies.
Giving a wide enough berth, the crowd watched with raised eyebrows as he wrestled with the spirit being. They could not see the invisible monster, their eyes were not opened to that realm and the demon refused to reveal himself. Only the Christians and the demon’s victim could see the emaciated, sore-covered figure that fought with Zeh-Ahbe’.
“In the name of Jesus,” he yelled as he kicked the demon out of its grasp. It fell to the dirt and scampered away like a wounded animal, screeching.
The monster’s piercing wail echoed through the streets. Its piercing, vile voice reached the audience’s ears with painful intensity.
Zeh-Ahbe’s voice rose above the shrill sound, “By the power of the Son of the Living God I bind you to silence!” The noise immediately ceased and an uncanny stillness fell over the crowd.
The once-possessed man looked up at Zeh-Ahbe’ who extended a hand. He took it and the Christian pulled the spindly man to his feet.
“You are free from its control, now. Watch, and rest,” he pointed to the stage area. The actors had not lost their places. “This play shows the source of a power that lets humans resist and usurp even the demons.” The audience turned as one with rapt interest.
Onstage, Jesus hung on the cross. The crowd gave him distance; the warrior guarded him against interference, warning others to stay back until the messiah had suffered and died. Seemingly invisible, the black-clad figure passed by the guard and personally taunted the Christ.
“If you are the Messiah, the Son of the one true God, then use your power to come down from there. Save yourself,” he taunted.
“I will not. The love I have for my people holds me here.”
“Prove your power. Rescue yourself and rule over this world with your power, if you truly can. Release yourself from your pain and bonds and I will give it all to you.”
Christ looked down at him. “You fool, demon.”
The black-clad figure hissed. He ripped away his fair mask and pulled back his hood. Underneath the facade was another mask, a hideous and twisted visage.
“I and my Father, Yahweh, are one. I choose to make this sacrifice for my beloved children. I understand the true power of sacrifice and my blood will eternally redeem and empower my followers.
“Depart from me, foul hay-lale’, wicked Lucifer. You will only deceive my children for a while longer. Your days are numbered.”
“Yours are numbered, Holy God.” The demon exited the scene.
Jesus looked skyward. “It is finished,” he proclaimed. Then, he hung his head in death for a few moments.
The actors solemnly came and lowered the cross, unbinding Finartion and draping a cloth over him. They carried him off-stage.
Jibbin came running back on stage holding only a simple length of rope. “Father! Father! I am so sorry. I lost the lamb.”
“Don’t worry, my son. Another sacrifice has been provided for us. And look, there is the lamb now.” Yavim pointed as Finartion walked back on stage, wearing a royal robe.
The actors who had previously beaten him approached and bowed down at his feet. “Death cannot hold me. My power is even greater than the grave.”
Zeh-Ahbe’ stood in front of the crowd. He'd never given such a petition to friends or strangers. He submitted to his fear only enough that he closed his eyes as he spoke, explaining the important message behind the drama they had just witnessed. “This is the truth,” he said. “You have witnessed the story of Christ and also seen an unplanned display of his power.
“We are Christians, the enemies of the demons and the Luciferian Order, hated because who choose to return the love that God has shown us. If we are unwelcome here, we will move on and not bring His message of hope to your village. But, if you desire to hear how you too can become one of us, then we will gladly share His holy Word of redemption with you.”
Zeh-Ahbe’ finished his appeal and opened his eyes. A crowd of about one hundred people had pressed in around him and the stage crew.
***
Rondhale, the blacksmith, walked east. His brethren surrounded him as he followed an intricately sketched map provided by Dri’Bu. Raz-aphf, one of the Say-awr’, accompanied him, keeping in close proximity at all times. The converted werewolves each took their roles as protectors very seriously.
Several of Zeh-Ahbe’s tribemates were sent along with the one-time metal worker for protection; Kevin had his angelic escorts to watch over the other nearby group. Gleend had suddenly become a dangerous place that seemed to teeter on the brink of civil war with racial tensions stretched to breaking. Only a few of the Say-awr’ remained with Kevin because of that brewing disquiet.
The Christians had left Kevin and the rest of their friends after helping them set up an encampment in Sprazik. Rondhale followed Havara’s advice and stayed well below the capital city; Xorst had fallen into complete disarray and there would be little that the Christians could do there until Havara had reclaimed political power on behalf of his family. Staying south of the city, they traveled east towards Vigna, after that they intended to go further towards the town
of Dant. Kevin and Havara planned to tackle Xorst after they finished their work in Sprazik. The long-term safety of Rondhale’s team relied on Kevin and Havara’s success in Xorst.
“In the clan, everyone is a brother or sister,” Raz-aphf said as they rode. The lanyard around his neck swayed with the movement of his mount. A tooled piece of obsidian hung from the straps.
Rondhale grinned. “That must be nice—to have so many siblings.”
They rode in silence for a few moments longer. “One of my brothers carved this for me,” Raz-aphf said, taking the totem from around his neck. “He was one of those we lost at the Grinden quarry.”
The blacksmith nodded his head solemnly as his friend’s horse moved closer. Raz-aphf held out his hand and thrust the necklace upon Rondhale.
“Now we are brothers,” Raz-aphf said with a half-grin.
Rondhale returned the half-smile and nodded his appreciation. He knew better than to refuse such a gift.
Raz-aphf and Rondhale spoke about many things on the road and Rondhale’s respect for the werewolf only grew. He and his kin had already shown insurmountable loyalty to whatever cause their people committed themselves to. Raz-aphf had clearly committed to his new friend’s well-being. Rondhale appreciated that; life had seemingly grown very dark in the days since his twin brother’s death. He glanced at his companion and touched the item hanging around his neck. Raz-aphf was family.
The trail meandered southward as the craggy Drindak canyons split the horizon and the two shared stories from their previous life before Kevin had convinced them of Truth. Light-hearted, humorous stories helped pass the time along the roads. Not much traffic crossed the caravan's path and any that did made sure to keep heads down and avoid direct eye contact. With racial tensions brewing country-wide, travelers minded their own business.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 70
