by Tim Mathias
“I can’t breathe,” he said, and his head slumped to the side.
“Tascell!” Zayd whispered.
“I’ve got one of you,” Talazz said. He was approaching, following the blood just as Zayd had. Zayd was not sure how close the giant was; every step sounded like it would land on top of him. His mind screamed at him to run, and it screamed in Symm’s voice. But his body would not obey. Tascell wasn’t dead. He could not be. There was still a chance he could be saved.
The bow felt alien in Zayd’s hands, like an instrument he had forgotten how to play. Symm’s voice was louder than the footsteps, yet he could tell that Talazz was nearly looming over him.
He stood up straight and saw the giant, saw the rage and determination in his face, and he saw the face change as it looked back at him, looking at the taught bow and the arrow that was levelled at him.
Zayd’s scarred hand trembled and he nearly lost his grip on the end of the arrow. He exhaled, and the arrow was gone. Confusion was frozen on Talazz’s face. He stopped walking, dropped the greatsword, and reached up to his face where the arrow protruded from his right eye socket. His hands were still raised as he fell to his knees, then onto his side.
He stood amid the breathless bodies in the indifferent forest. How could it look upon this carnage and remain that way? Zayd returned to his slain countryman. Gently, he moved Tascell, laying him flat on the ground in a peaceful repose, placed the bow on his chest, and then he sat by him.
“I hope you make it home,” he said. “I hope we make it.”
He sat there until he heard a horse coming down the path from the direction of the gorge. “Follow me home,” Zayd said as he got to his feet and began to run. He went north, into the forest, as fast as he could. Fast enough to outrun the memories of the dead.
Behind him, Barrett Stern saw the slain giant and watched, through narrowing eyes, as Zayd disappeared through the trees
Chapter 25
Cleric Andrican felt the satisfaction one feels when long labour yields an admirable harvest. It had been a long day in a week of long days, but all of them were smaller stepping stones to this: he was going to succeed Vicar Eldon.
It wouldn’t happen for some time yet, but Andrican did not mind. He was a patient man and understood that things within the church took time. Some priests and some clerics did not understand this. They let their egos prevent them from a deeper understanding, and because of it they made themselves into ships sailing into the wind. It would only take time for them to either correct their course or find themselves choking down sea-water as they sank.
He was the most senior of the clerics and, in a way, he had expected to be raised up to vicar, but in the past weeks he had proven that none were more deserving. Because of his scrutiny they had rid themselves not only of an unworthy priest, but a man who was more dangerous than they had realized. Vicar Eldon was unconvinced that Osmun was responsible for Nestor’s death, but because of Andrican’s recommendation, Eldon had ordered the Ardent after him. It amazed Andrican that the vicar needed convincing to begin with – but once he told him of Osmun’s sudden obsession with that imaginary ghost, Eldon’s mind was made up.
And though they had not yet captured the mad priest, which Andrican knew was certain to happen, they had found where he had been hiding, and the body of the Ivesian shaman who had attacked them in a most ungodly way the week before. It surprised him to learn that Osmun would turn to the wicked teaching of a shaman so readily, but that only spoke to the depths of the man’s duplicity and removed any doubts, if any at all remained, that he was an enemy of the faith. Andrican wondered how they had all been fooled for so long to begin with. Perhaps that was how he managed to kill the two Ardent outside that warehouse. The thought of it still soured his other accomplishments, but knowing that those men died in service to the church – fulfilling the pledge they had made with their lives when they had taken on the task – consoled him. There was no death more noble.
Andrican allowed himself a smile despite the small setbacks. Osmun would be captured as surely as Xidius was great. He only prayed it was soon.
The cleric, alone in his study in the Great Cathedral, poured himself a cup of wine, set it on his desk, and walked through the Cathedral halls to the library where he looked through the various tomes of devotionals and inspired poetry. Typically he was not a great appreciator of the poets – he found the odes and the acclamations to be bordering on vain –– but tonight he was feeling inspired, so it seemed appropriate.
The stone halls were warm that night. The Autumn sun would bathe its last warmth of the day on nearly the entire cathedral, and to Andrican it felt like a warm embrace. A message from Xidius Himself… his thanks.
He returned to his room and settled in at his table and took a sip of wine. “Perfect,” he said, just as he noticed a book and a roll of parchment paper before him. They had not been there when he had left…
“It is good wine.”
Andrican nearly fell from his chair. He dropped the cup, spilling out the wine on himself and the floor. He shot to his feet, ready to erupt in anger at whatever idiotic jester thought that surprising him could be tolerated. But when he saw the face, he couldn’t find any words to serve him. Save one.
“Osmun?”
The priest was thinner with a scruffy beard and dark circles under his eyes, the kind won by many sleepless nights. Despite his ragged appearance, he seemed as though he was untouched by any hardship. He had been standing next to the door to the study, and he walked slowly towards Andrican, his hands pressed awkwardly at his sides.
“Cleric,” Osmun said. “You’ve spilled your wine.”
“What do you hope to gain by coming here?”
Osmun stepped forward again, his eyes widened as he grinned a maniacal grin. “Everything. Gain everything, cleric.”
“You know you won’t make it out of here, not even to the front door!”
“I don’t want to leave.” Osmun looked around the room, smiling still. “I’m staying. You are going.”
Andrican laughed. “You’ve lost your mind, Osmun.”
The mad priest shook his head and motioned to the desk. “Do you know what those are? The book is the tome stolen from the Compendium.”
“You… you are the one who did that?”
“In a way. The letter on the desk will say otherwise.”
Andrican picked up the scroll and unrolled it, keeping Osmun in his sight while he did so. The words were somehow written in his hand and, underneath, signed with his signature. He started to feel dizzy.
“How… I didn’t write this! How did you do this?”
“I looked at one of your journals while you were gone. Not hard to assume your writing and your language. It is… pitifully simple.”
Andrican looked at it again, hoping that he had seen it all wrong the first time. But it was all there – the confession, his confession, at stealing the tome, being in league with the shaman, and blaming everything on Osmun to focus attention away from him.
It is with great humility that I hope this last act will convince you of my sorrow and my regret for what I have done.
“You are mad if you think this will change anything,” Andrican said. His world was spinning. “What… what last act? Tell me!”
“You should sit down,” Osmun said just as Andrican’s leg failed him. The cleric looked up at him, fear in his eyes, and Osmun knelt beside him. “Black thornleaf has no taste. Your friend Egus gave me some. I think he’ll be glad to see Osmun, though. Together we’ll mourn the man we thought we knew.”
Andrican tried to scream but he was struggling even to fill his lungs with air. The last thing he saw was Osmun smiling that hideous smile before the creeping darkness pulled him from this world to the next.
Satisfied, Velskotahn stood. He looked into the cleric’s open eyes. “The same fate for all of you,” he said. The words came out in the hideous tongue of men, but this body, for all its power, was ill equipped to speak
the language of the ancients.
It had taken him much longer to break the priest than he thought. But he was patient. What did time matter to him? There was one time where he felt a moment of passing concern, when the priest and that woman had created the opening. Velskotahn felt, just barely, the priest’s influence. He was powerful indeed. Even more powerful than he had first thought, which was why his spirit had to be broken utterly. The man had brought himself to the point of death, and that was when Velskotahn finally won.
He inhaled deeply, relishing the sensations that were constantly washing over him but displeased with the corporeal fragility of the vessel he now possessed. It was necessary, though, to come back to this place. With this body and its power, he would make right the things of the past. They would find the gateway. They would unite the keys.
To finish what he began.
Dear reader,
Once again I’d like to express my sincere thanks to you for reading this. I hope you enjoyed it enough to leave a review of it on the online retailer of your choice. You can also click here to subscribe to my mailing list.
- Tim.
Tim Mathias lives in an old house in New Hamburg, Ontario, with his wife.
He enjoys scotch and Dungeons and Dragons, preferably at the same time, if possible.
When he isn’t writing, he’s practicing at being a better misanthrope.
