The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

by Michael Mood

  Her hand brushed over a section of the wooden wall that felt as if it had a small gap behind it. She put her fingers in the gap and pulled with considerable force. The wall grated open slowly, revealing an incredibly dark space behind it.

  The floor had a slight downward slope to it as she ventured inside, looking for the torch that Potter had said he would leave there.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice echoing oddly.

  She pulled her hood back, her heart pounding wildly.

  She felt a sudden, blinding pain in the side of her head and then she was stumbling sideways, hitting the other side of her head against the wall. She screamed, dropped to the ground, and passed out.

  -2-

  Domma opened her eyes and saw nothing. Only darkness greeted her. Her head ached terribly. The air around her was cold and dry. She tried to move her arms but couldn't. They were chained above her, and her ankles were chained too.

  “Potter?” she said into the darkness.

  “Who is that?” answered a female voice, startlingly close.

  “Forstina?” Domma asked. The woman was another Sunburst cleric.

  “Domma?” another voice asked.

  “Metta?! What's going on?”

  “I don't know,” Metta sobbed. “Oh, God, Domma, we've been played.”

  “Played by who? What's happened to us?” Her thoughts weren't quite forming right, her ears still rang from her concussion.

  She knew that somehow things had gone very, very wrong for her.

  “My Tristo did this to me,” Metta wailed.

  Somewhere else in the dark room another woman coughed and started to mumble.

  How many of us are down here? Domma thought in a panic.

  “All who are down here respond to me,” she commanded.

  “Aye, Sunburst,” said Metta.

  “Aye, Sunburst,” said Forstina.

  “Aye,” said another voice that Domma recognized as another Devotee named Disanai. “I saw them take Ursula, too.”

  “Five of us?” Domma said. Her heart sank. That's the entirety of us. Every single mage of the Sunburst Temple.

  “What do they want from us?” Metta asked.

  “I don't know,” Domma said, “but Potter will put a stop to-”

  “Wake up, Domma!” Metta yelled. “Potter's gotta be in on this whole thing!”

  Domma was silent, feeling her wrists and ankles pulse with blood. Her faith came to her in a flood. She had sinned, and now she was paying for it. “No,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut as tears leaked from them. “I'm sorry, Lord. If you free us, we will never stray again.” She tried expending some energy to Communicate, but God was silent, probably watching and judging.

  “Til'men,” Forstina said.

  As for me, Domma prayed silently, I am old enough to be wiser than this. If you save me, I will do your bidding for an eternity, your most loyal servant from now until I die.

  The room began to lighten then, the source of it coming from above Domma's head. She looked up into the blinding light and noticed it was coming from her own arm. Her sleeve had fallen away and there on her skin was a glowing blue and yellow symbol of the sun in the sky. She could only look quizzically, her mind unable to puzzle out what was happening.

  She looked around the room with the help of the new illumination. Metta, Forstina, Disanai, and indeed Ursula – the fifth Devotee – were chained to the wall in a semi-circle.

  “Oh, Domma,” breathed Metta. “What is that?” Her face was etched in the shadows of the strange new light.

  “Fantastic,” Potter said as he entered the room. He laughed. “Oh, I couldn't have hoped for anything better! Domma, that mark is your salvation. However, I'm afraid for the rest of you it spells death.”

  -3-

  Potter came into view with four other men.

  “Tristo!” Metta begged. “Tristo, please!”

  A tall man came towards Metta. He brandished a knife. “It would be best to be quiet, Metta.” He didn't say it violently, but with maddening serenity.

  “But I don't understand what's going on,” the girl wept.

  “Metta, pull yourself together,” Forstina said. “Let us go,” she said to the men.

  One of the other men walked up to Forstina and cuffed her hard. Her head snapped back and she was silent.

  Tristo then walked very close to Metta. The girl was struggling at her bonds, her face a pitiful wreck of emotion. Tristo grabbed the front of her robe and began to drag his knife down it, cutting through the cloth without a care in the world.

  “Don't, please,” Metta sobbed. Her robe lay around her ankles and Tristo began to play at her chest wrappings with the tip of his knife.

  Domma began to feel around at her shackles, bending her wrist down to try and find some latch she could pull. There was nothing on either side. She glanced back at the situation. Forstina and Ursula were passed out, heads hanging down, long hair draped over their bodies. Disanai had said not a word, fear overtaking her. She was conscious, but not lucid. Metta's eyes leaked tears. She stood petrified as Tristo tickled at her with the knife.

  “Potter, please,” Domma begged. “Whatever you desire from us, don't let this be part of it. This can't be what you captured us for.”

  “She's right, Tristo,” Potter said, holding up his hand. “You're wasting our time here. And, quite honestly, you're sickening me.”

  “Please don't touch me anymore,” Metta whispered. She dry heaved once. “Oh, God.”

  Tristo sighed, stepping back from his victim. “You all could have had her,” he said to the other men. “After me, I mean.”

  “That's disgusting,” Potter said. “Domma would like us to get on with it. She is the one who is marked, so I guess we'd better listen to her for now.”

  Domma didn't like the tone in Potter's voice. Buying time now seemed like an incredibly appealing idea, no matter what the price.

  Potter pulled something out of his pocket, holding it carefully in his hand. It was very hard to see the object in the dim room. The shadows from Domma's glowing forearm mixed with those of the single torch the men had brought. It made the thing that Potter held look alive.

  The thing in Potter's hand is alive.

  FOGLIN, Ormon Stipson's mind had said. Foglin, Domma's mind told her.

  She recoiled as Potter stepped towards Metta with the squirming insectoid. “Sometimes the little ones need help getting inside,” he said.

  Metta's face had gone terribly white. Her eyes were wide open and focused directly on the tiny Foglin in Potter's hand. She was shuddering.

  Potter!” Domma shouted. But it didn't stop his slow advance on Metta. “Potter! Leave her be! Can't you see she's just a girl?”

  Metta was trying valiantly to close her legs, but her metal bonds wouldn't let her.

  “Oh, they don't like to go in that way,” Tristo said. “Don't worry, Metta. I'm something of a sawbones in my free time. For what will always be ours, my love.” Then he grabbed Metta's neck, jammed his knife into her eye socket, and began twisting as Domma gagged and had to turn away.

  Metta let out a strangled scream that filled the room. Domma heard the girl pounding her head against the wall in sharp, hard knocks that eventually became more sickening than her screams.

  Suddenly the sounds stopped and Domma forced herself to look back. Metta was dead, or at least Domma hoped that she was. Blood ran down from her left eye socket, down her shoulder, breast, and thigh in a red river.

  “What in the seven hells have you done?” Domma asked weakly.

  “We've been experimenting with new vessels,” Potter said, rather conversationally. “Magical ones.”

  “You lied to me,” said Domma. “I thought you loved me.”

  “I do love you, Domma.”

  “Can you at least cover her up?”

  Potter nodded and picked up Metta's robe, putting it back on her as best he could. “I really do apologize for that. Tristo can be most unpleasant at times, b
ut I'm afraid you can't always choose your associates.”

  Tristo smirked.

  “Well,” Potter said. “Better do the other three.”

  Domma drew quick rapid breaths, steadying herself for the inevitable.

  -4-

  “Our organization is rather roughshod, I'm afraid,” Potter said.

  Domma was still chained to the wall, but she and Potter were now the only living things in the room. Except perhaps the four incubating Foglins.

  “Organization,” Domma scoffed. “Ormon was killed by a Foglin, wasn't he?”

  “He was. It was an accident on my part. I thought I had control of certain experiments and I didn't. You found incredibly good information which I quickly had to distract you from.”

  “Oh, you're so clever, Potter. You must have been surprised when I discovered the truth.” Keep him talking. That's my only option.

  “Nothing brings people together like a tragedy, Domma. When you discovered what had truly happened it was . . . a minor setback. Had to check with the authority to see what to do about you.”

  “Were you keeping tabs on all the Devotees?” she asked.

  “Yah,” Potter said. "The ones in the Temple at least. There are more out there. Faith Rebels and the like. Something you may not know much about. I tell you, Domma. Magic is confusing as hell these days." He sat down on the ground, a pool of Metta's blood just fingers away.

  “Are we just going to stay here and talk?” Domma asked. “It's pleasant and all, but I really feel quite sick and my ankles and wrists hurt.” Her body and mind were mostly numb, but Domma had to know as much about what Potter had done as she could. Partially she wanted an explanation for herself, and partially she wanted to be able to take him down if she ever got out of this. “The Ein river branches doesn't it?”

  “I have no idea,” Potter said. “I don't know a thing about southern geography, Domma. All I did was try to insert elements of confusion into what you discovered. Buying time. Always buying it. Never selling it. You really are beautiful, you know. If I didn't have my own ideals I honestly could have been very happy with you.”

  “These aren't the ideals of God,” Domma said looking around. “He doesn't reward murderers and members of insane cults. You're aiding the Foglins! Are you trying to rain destruction on us all?”

  Potter slowly shook his head. “You make one terribly false assumption, but most people make the same one. This precious land that we live in isn't God's world. Tell me, Domma. How goes your communication with the so-called divine being?”

  “It's fine.”

  “It's not,” Potter countered. “And I know it. Devotees like to say they can communicate with God, but they can't. It's a waste of power. Does he spout nonsense, this God of yours? Have you ever gotten anything useful from him? I suppose you believe your magic is derived from him. How curious.”

  Domma was silent because Potter was right.

  “We are on Gustus's world, Domma. And we have been all along.”

  Domma breathed slowly, trying to calm herself against this blasphemy. But could she really prove Potter wrong? Her faith said it wasn't true . . . but the situation she was in right now – being bound in a room along with four dead sisters – seemed almost too macabre to exist in a truly just world. “You won't waver my faith,” she said.

  “I know that,” said Potter, leaning back on his hands, for all the world looking casual in the bloodbath he had helped create. “The glowing symbol you have is what my superiors are looking for. Why, I don't know. My task was merely to find the one who had it and keep her safe.”

  Well, I'll be alive at least.

  “Didn't know the symbol would be brought out when we captured you all, but our orders were to move quickly and hope for the best. We'd been informed that the time-line had been accelerated, and the glowing symbol was secondary to some of our other plans.”

  “And what would those be?” Domma asked.

  Potter clucked his tongue. “No, no, no. Can't know it all, Domma. Hell, I don't even know it all.”

  “Can you bind me on the floor?”

  “What an odd request.”

  “I can't be held like this, Potter. My arms are losing circulation.”

  Potter's face took on a thoughtful look. “Wouldn't be good if your arms fell off. I will arrange to have your position shifted. I owe you that at least.”

  He stood up and turned to go, but Domma called after him. “Are you trying to ruin the world, Potter?”

  “Me?” Potter said, his back still to Domma. He laughed slightly. “I'm not going to ruin the world. The world's already ruined. We rape and pillage. We murder. We fight wars that end in disaster. You must remember the last one; it destroyed the Tree. That was really the last straw for me.”

  “Are you a Protector, Potter?”

  The man said nothing, but Domma suddenly knew it was true.

  Finally Potter turned around and talked. “I often forget how perceptive you are. I was a Protector,” he said carefully. “But that title has meant little to me for many, many years. I don't even use my powers anymore. They sicken me. The thing about our magics, Domma, is that once you get them and once you build up a reservoir of power . . . you can use it however you choose. For what the world considers good, or what the world considers ill.”

  “I see you don't share the popular beliefs of what that means.”

  “Good and evil are so closely related as to not even exist,” Potter spat. “Evil can come from good, good from evil. The dance is maddening, Domma. The righteous sit on one side of it, and the rest of us sit on the other, growing angry at the whole situation. Like most people in the world – whether they'll admit it or not – I'm simply looking for power.”

  “But the Foglins are evil!” Domma yelled. “We send brave men to fight them and keep them away from us! And here you are bringing them into the city and . . . and nursing them!”

  “The Foglins are only creatures, Domma. They can be controlled by the right people. In the right hands they are not monsters, but tools. I know you won't understand this, but I'm trying to make this Godless world as pleasant as possible. I'm going to be honest with you and say that I don't understand the full scope of our plans. I owe you that at least.”

  “Stop saying that,” Domma said. “You don't owe me anything. You're a coward and a liar Potter, and God will judge you!” Her final words rang out in the large room.

  “He won't,” Potter said quietly. “But I appreciate the deluded sentiment.” And with that he turned, took his torch from the sconce, and left.

  Domma hung in the silent room, the only light emanating from her forearm. She heard the tiny living sounds of the four creatures that were moving within the skulls of her former sisters and she wept until she had no more tears.

  “Please, God,” she said through a dry throat. “Don't let it end like this.”

  Chapter 24 – To Save a Life

  -1-

  Krothair's face itched from the scraggly beard that was growing there.

  The past few weeks had seen him living in his little abandoned attic, resorting to stealing food and fighting for territory among the scum of Haroma. He knew he couldn’t live like this forever, but for now it felt right. It wasn't honest and it wasn't respectable but he didn't care.

  Krothair lived how he could, the wounds from his training with Ti'Shed slowly closing. His pinky bone never fully knit, and he retained a few scars on his arms and legs, but for the most part he was whole again.

  Today had been a particularly rainy and depressing day, the busy streets of Haroma turning from hard-packed dirt to disgusting brown slush churned up by the constant feet and hooves of the massive population. Krothair trudged through it, his boots layered with mud, his hair plastered to his forehead, his clothing heavy with the rain.

  Night had just finished falling on the busiest city in Hardeen Kingdom and Krothair was out for a walk to clear his head. He was still deciding what to do with himself. He knew he had li
fe left in him, even at this dead end, but he couldn't summon enough energy to do anything about it. A carriage wheel splashed him with water. He didn't flinch.

  He still wore his rusty training sword at his waist. The weapon elevated him slightly above the average street ruffians, most of whom used daggers for the close-combat options they gave. Krothair's sword was garbage and he knew it, but it was his only possession. He wouldn't give it up easily. And woe to the urchin who tried to take it from him.

  He heard laughter coming from inside a few of the taverns and he gazed inside, not longingly, but with interest. There's people living, he thought. He saw well-dressed men and women laughing and talking to each other, cavorting and dancing, warm and alive.

  “The Duchess's Dog,” Krothair said to himself. “That the best they could come up with?”

  Krothair continued his walk, uncaring and cold in the rainy night.

  He came to a part of town where the traffic was much lighter and soon he was rather alone. He came out of his stupor and looked around, itching at his face. To his right stood another tavern, this one much smaller than The Duchess's Dog, and he peered through the warped glass window.

  It wasn't bright inside, but there was a fire going. It had a very homy look to it with large stones instead of bricks for a chimney, and only a few tables instead of hundreds. It was called The Meeting Place.

  And then Krothair saw him. Ti'Shed sat at a table in the far corner, chin resting on his hands with his eyes closed. The boy's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't seen his master since he had left the house. Here he is just sitting around as if nothing has happened!

  Krothair knew he had to do something. Walking away simply wasn't an option. Do I have anything left to say to him? Do I need some kind of confrontation? He wasn't sure, but either way he opened the heavy door of The Meeting Place and silently shuffled over to a table in the opposite corner from Ti'Shed. He needed time to think before he acted.