"This arrangement is unacceptable. We both know this. I mean, really, how do you expect my superiors to take anything that transpires between the two of us seriously?"
Antone leaned back in his own couch, casually crossed his legs and folded his hands around the top of his knee. "How you report to your superiors is not my concern. Frankly, we have reached a point in our dealings with you and those you represent where the returned value has diminished. Significantly. Have details surrounding our situation changed? Do you have something new to propose?"
Antone was grateful Thortizan did not possess the same means to detect ones emotions. Antone's assessment of the situation dictated the need to bluff early. He remained confident in the decision but his anxiety mounted as he gazed into Thortizan's calculating eyes, uncertain as to how his adversary would respond.
"Antone Lartisent, Alterian Enterprise's poster child and author of the 'Manifesto of the Oppressed Ecifrican'. Look at you," Thortizan said, pointing at Antone with open palms. "You actually believe in the facade Stalling has built around you. So sad. So pathetic. Tell me, is it better to have tasted the life of God's chosen, even if only for the briefest moment, or to remain ignorant to what can never be, much in how your countryman choose to live. I guess you will learn soon enough."
He's a cool one, I'll give him that. His primal respect keeps his knee jerk revulsion of me in check, preventing his self-centered existence from taking the bait. Let's see what happens when I let the line out a little.
"This must be hard for you," Antone replied, confident his smug smile would relay the truth of his words to follow. "I mean, it’s one thing to eat the shit sandwich A.E. has served up to you and your department over the years but knowing it was delivered by an Ecifrican, well, I don't know how you live with yourself. As we sit here in person, I will admit, the joy of kicking your ass for the past decade has provided more pleasure than I ever imagined."
Antone detected a subtle twitch in Thortizan's right eyebrow before the man deliberately turned his head to look back at the evergreen vista. "Did you know I am a direct descendant of the Knights Vorenian, Order of St. Vorenius of Drakarle? There are over five thousands of us: the purest bloodlines with authentic documentation tracing our family line for thousands of years, all the way back to the Order's formation."
"Indeed," he said as he turned back to face Antone, "my direct ancestor was none other than our founder and first Grand Master, Sir Bron Thorthauser, our beloved Apostle Drestan first born son."
Despite himself, the sound of the name sent a shiver down Antone's back.
"Yes," Thortizan said, clearly enjoying Antone's repulsed response at hearing the name, "you now see how your manifesto's demonic depiction of the great knight would conflict with my own. We, those of us who preserve all the Vorenian Order stood for, uphold Sir Bron 'The Wicked One' Thorthauser as the most holy of champions. The only blemish of his long list of achievements for the Church, in our humble opinions, was the failure in his campaign to extinguish every last Ecifrican from the face of the planet."
Antone's mouth had gone dry as blood pulsed hot along his ears and neck.
Thoroughly enjoying Antone's rush of anger, Thortizan drove salt into the exposed wound. "You see, my great ancestor recognized your great ancestor's recalcitrant resistance to Drakarle as nothing short of a plague. How could God's chosen rule the world when there were so many pagans openly opposed to our doctrine? And as you eloquently reminded everyone in your pathetic manifesto, none of the Church's leaders at the time disagreed."
"Ahhh, what glorious times it must have been," Thortizan said, leaning back into his original, relaxed position. His eyes turned up in his skull, half shut, as he imagined that gruesome age. "Think of it, commanding ten legions of the world's most advanced warriors of the day, with one objective: rid the world of the Evil One's spawn. Oh, how I look forward to our ritual meetings when we reenact the canonized butchery of the Ecifrican Crusades. An experience greatly enhanced thanks to your link visors and Auranet I might add," he said, breaking in his reverie to lift his hands above shoulders and wave them around the room.
Leaning forward again, looking left, then right, he spoke in a mock hushed voice, "Between you and me, it’s still not enough. As realistic as our setting today may be, we both know deep inside it’s not real. Sometimes, in order to know what it was like, you just have to experience the real thing.
"So every so often, I collect a few Ecifrican servants, you know, the ones relegated to the hazardous labor, the ones no one will miss. A child or two, infirmed but not so sick they can't give a good chase and a young maiden or two to make the whole 'rape and pillage' bit as authentic as possible." Thortizan absently wiped a dab of spittle with the back of his hand that had escaped out the side of his crooked sneer, before continuing with the crescendo of his morbid confession.
"A few of my fellow knights do the same and we put the lot together on some isolated island. We even build a few shacks, provide some food, some basic tools, all the trimmings to make it look like an Ecifrican settlement of yesteryear. After week or so, I gather the boys," without a skip in his cadence, the image of Thortizan's three adolescent sons appeared above the table, a glimmer of pride washing over his face, "my comrades do the same with their scion and we set our camp outside the makeshift settlement. Dressed in our replica armor, armed with our replica weapons—I've taken a preference to the flanged mace, renowned for its proficient violence—we commence with our God given right, nay duty, to rid the world of evil."
He leaned back, as if communing with close acquaintances at the country club. "You cannot imagine how therapeutic the exercise has been for all us. It's the only thing keeping us sane over the centuries as we patiently wait the Savior's second coming; when we can finally finish the job our ancestors started so long ago."
The rush of anger turned into a dull throb at the base of Antone’s throat by the time Thortizan finished describing his demented actions. Antone knew, if not for the virtual setting, he would have not had the perseverance to control the impulse to lock his hands around the man's throat and crush the life from his body. On the brink of going berserk on the man as he was, the imposed patience shed light on a much larger and insidious threat. A threat to the vision he swore to stay focused on before engaging this malevolent creature.
Thortizan knows as much as I that, despite the formality of signing our terms, we would keep a private record of this meeting. Their use of condemning sound bites, spoken by various cabinet members and high ranking Church officials—in what they perceived to be secure settings, either over the Auranet or once discerned sanctuaries—has been a key intangible used to turn public opinion of the growing sector of liberal Drakarleans in favor of A.E.’s eccentric leader and agendas. All of that incriminating intel combined is but a fraction of what the third highest-ranking cabinet member just confided.
Antone had maintained his cool composure throughout Thortizan's insane soliloquy but somehow the man across from him saw through the facade, as if he had acquired Antone's technological advantage. Janison, that sanctimonious son-of-bitch, completely turned the tables on us. This pious piece of shit no longer fears anything from us.
Worse, and the source of the knot gripping his stomach, unlike Stalling, he had little doubt that Thortizan would deliver the deathblow to his adversary once he had him down. Antone found a level of respect for Thortizan in that moment. When it came to matters of survival, they were kindred spirits.
Following his instincts, Antone glared at Thortizan and considered the subtle implications behind his words. History, written by the victors, described every ancient civilization, outside Ecifrica, 'freely' choosing assimilation into Drakarle's blue print for society. And why not? Drakarle offered to share their superior technology in agriculture, engineering and science along with the promise of an open, free trade, world market. The complete and devout worship of Drakarle's one and only, all knowing God and open acceptance of Drakarleans preordained stati
on as his chosen people, was a small price to pay for the descendants of those budding societies to enjoy a peaceful, middle class existence both on Antium today and in the afterlife yet to come.
Of course, that same history omits the occupation of the Church of Salvation's advanced military might in each province prior to any choice being "given". The thought sparked his own jaded prejudices, awakening his natural impulse to fight, to survive. It was time to turn this conversation around and buy them a few precious hours.
"I have often wondered how well the warriors of those other ancient societies fought against your Vorenian Knights," Antone finally replied. Thortizan looked that of a cat, tired of playing with its food, ready to get down to the business of eating. However, as Antone predicted, the slight raise of his brow in response to the odd statement had peaked his curiosity.
"Of the skirmishes that never got recorded by Drakarle's historian monks, but I am sure your order has detailed records of. The battles that invariably occurred before and after the leaders of each society accepted Drakarle's tainted partnership, the minority of each once proud society, who chose to die free over a life of bondage and servitude. Did they fight as hard as the Ecifricans?"
"After all, history does record some semblance of military advancement by other races before aligning with Drakarle; technology for the time that was as advanced in its own right as that of Drakarle's. For example, the Maltenoise swords sitting in museums for the past two thousand years are said to be sharp enough to cut a two-inch thick titanium rod. Surely the Maltenoise had warriors to match such exquisite craftsmanship."
Thortizan, still lounged in couch, moved his hand across his mouth and chin as he pondered Antone's words. Antone probed the cardinal for any signs of weakness. While Thortizan remained cool and confident, Antone detected genuine intrigue in the subject. But this was no revelation. There was very little about the man sitting across from him that Antone did not know about.
He was well aware of the Vorenian Order's not so clandestine meetings. He had viewed, with great attention to detail, the graphic online Ecifrican Crusade reenactments, though admittedly, he was unaware of and shocked by Thortizan's real life indulgences. Most importantly, he was very aware of Thortizan's pride in his violent heritage and consequential passion for ancient weaponry, being aware of the Cardinal possessing at least two Maltenoise swords for his personal collection.
With a barely perceptible nod, Thortizan permitted Antone to continue his thoughts. "But alas, I always come to the same realization whenever I ponder the subject, which is that no matter how skilled other races may have been in battle back in that volatile period in our history, the other vanquished all possessed the fabric of something we Ecifricans did not: fear."
"Not just the fear of facing a skilled opponent in battle but the fear of life without social structure. You see, Ecifricans did not fear the heart of their neighbors. Quite the contrary, they trusted the individual man to do what is instilled in all of us, to treat others as you would yourself."
"Unfortunately, my forefathers could not hold out against Drakarle's military machine long enough for that belief in man to materialize in their lifetime. But the spirit of it perseveres today in people like me. We still believe in an Antium where all men are treated equally. Alterian Enterprises embodies that vision. We both know there are many among you who share this view and desire true change. Stalling's endeavors have created more than a spark; there is no turning back the flames of reform. We welcome and desire a future that includes Drakarle's leadership but in order to do so, a paradigm shift from the top must occur."
"I implore you Cardinal Thortizan," Antone said with as much respect for the man as he could muster, "let us spend our remaining time mapping out a win-win partnership that we can both take action on in the near future."
Antone patted himself on the back, proud of how well he had tucked his emotions away under such strenuous circumstances. His elation did not last long as he searched Thortizan's aura to read his emotional response. Any shred of respect for Antone keeping his true feelings in check had completely dissipated. In its place was a storm of rage and hate that startled Antone with both its abruptness and strength.
Somehow, Thortizan's outward response remained calm and level. "Amazing," he whispered, probing Antone as if looking at an alien creature. "The scripture warns us of the Evil One's ability to deceive but you, I will confess, are something beyond my imagination. To think it would live and breathe amongst us in such open blasphemy yet hide its deceit to so many devout using butchered scripture of our one and only Savior. Truly amazing."
Antone detected enough awe in the words to know Thortizan believed what he said.
"Despite all I have to be grateful for in life, I have so often struggled to find my true purpose, God's ultimate intention for my soul. Meeting with you today, I now have clarity on that purpose, why I felt driven by a larger power to harden my heart in preparation for the final battle with the evil yet to come. Evil Incarnate has truly evolved into something only a select few of us in today's soft world are equipped to deal with. Thank you Antone, this exercise today has been most beneficial toward our final preparations." The genuine gratitude detected in his words sickened Antone.
"Trust me when I tell you this: You will know the fear of God the next time we meet." Antone swore he saw the devil wink at him from the depths of Thortizan's eye in that moment, right before the man vanished from the room.
Chapter 11
A cool breeze traveled down the valley and with it came a welcome reprieve from the muggy day. Steffor stood at the edge of an elevated fern grove, confident its bountiful fronds concealed his presence, and observed the conclave of Guardians swaying like saplings in the wind. He absently hummed along with their solemn mantra echoing off the steep valley walls and searched his heart for the courage to join his brethren.
The sun was setting. The ritual's climax was fast approaching. Courage remained aloof.
Throughout the day, Guardians arrived one by one and gathered around the west side of the Forging Tree. None spoke as they moved to their designated spot and joined the others in singing the ancient hymn. Over an hour had passed since the last Guardian arrived and the wide semi-circle of bodies was now three rows thick.
Centered between the semi-circle and Forging Tree were six Guardians, each seated around a uniformed pile of sela gourds. These six had arrived long before anyone else and it was these Guardians, the luminescent gourds clearly illuminating a deep trance on each face, that the rest focused their purpose. One would become the Provider's next Teuton Guardian before night's end. Assuming, Steffor thought with heavy heart, he chose to stay where he stood and not take his rightful place with the other chosen.
A thick paste of guilt clung to his insides, feeling like an apostate hiding in the shadows. Steffor had set many lofty goals to achieve in this lifetime and, prior to the recent turn of events, becoming the youngest Teuton in history was high on the list. Desperation mounted, gripping his mind with self-reproach. Disjunction with the whole, an apathetic attitude toward the four races, it all prevented him from joining in a ceremony he no longer believed in. Never had he imagined a life filled with so much doubt and confusion.
Steffor escaped deeper into the confines of his mind and reflected on Kilton's recent divination. Since parting, Steffor's lack of doubt in the Teuton's prophecy had grown. The concept of being destined to be the first Citizen to ascend was intoxicating, especially when applied to all the unanswered questions accumulated from both the past and present.
It does help explain why I am the way I am.
But as the day wore on, the implications behind the new reality sobered his excitement. The noetic walls of reason, maintained and fortified over countless lifetimes, protecting his ego were forever gone, never to be rebuilt. Intuitively, Steffor knew he must fall back on and rely on the same simple set of instincts that had led him to this very moment. Grappling to identify those instincts, it was the memory
of a time spent long ago with his father, reminding him of what mattered most, that helped forge his new foundation.
It was the last day he would identify himself as a harvest Shifter. It was the first day of many the Deeds would record his name.
*****
A strapping ten year old, already bigger and stronger than many young adults, Steffor's station in life remained undetermined.
The kuwani season was at its peak and yet another long day of harvesting the exotic fruit had ended. The fruit's sweet aroma mixed with pungent sweat, each steeped into weathered smocks and worn breeches, hung thick in the air, trapped by the canopy of colossal leaves overhead.
Steffor and his father wended a narrow branch as thoughts of a warm meal and peaceful sleep crept in, motivating weary bodies to forge toward home. Dozens of harvest Shifters—their family, neighbors and closest friends—each worn to the bone and exhausted from the day's labor, joined their commute along adjacent leafstalks; gratification with the day's work was displayed on every face and bent back.
By nightfall, the multitude of stalks had merged into one branch, herding them together to form a loose line, two to six abreast. The deep canopy thinned to reveal the sky full of early evening stars and the rise of Ginllats. The day's harvest hovered a few hundred feet above, packed into a large freight car suspended by thick haulage vines. The cylindrical satellite, its silhouette accentuated by the moon's bright green illumination, trudged along in silence, casting a long shadow over their trail.
Having left for home prior to the car, it had finally caught up with them and was slowly pulling ahead. The young Steffor watched the car pass by, making its way toward Razum City. He visualized the burly vine Shifters, their naked trunks glistening from the coordinated and strenuous movements, tirelessly shifting the elongated vines over miles of prairie bough. Hours of labor later, they would deliver the car filled with thousands of kuwani to market that would in turn disperse it around the world.
Known Afterlife (The Provider Trilogy, Volume One) Page 13
