by Domino Finn
No, this was only a spectator sport.
As the new order closed in, feet shuffled down the hall behind me. I'd been so focused I didn't notice them until they were upon me. I spun as they ran past.
"Hold your sword!" cried an elderly fellow in a robe. He was bald, stately, and trailed by two young assistants, a man and a woman. Since he came from the Inner Hall, I figured him to be important.
The room turned at his address. "Speaker Harroway," exclaimed Rygar. He braced a forearm across his chest and bowed his head. The two keepers remained idle while the knights of the Violet Order offered similar, though less hearty, salutes.
"What is this?" asked the old man sharply. "We here are now turning our blades on each other?"
"Speaker," intoned Hadrian, "it is but a squabble among brothers. The keepers are on hand to rebuff the hostilities so no one is harmed."
"This is Oakengard," chided the speaker. "We are not host to hostilities!" Harroway's sandals stepped forward softly, his voice turning contemplative. "I heard you invoke the bishop's name, Sir Rygar. You are wise to do so. The new order of priests have tarnished the good names of their brothers and sisters."
"The same thing is happening with the Violet Order," insisted the crusader.
"Tut tut. There's no evidence of that. I recently spoke with Hero Gent myself. Our wise sage, Philosopher Mara, sits beside him."
"The new leadership afears me."
"What leadership?" posited Harroway. He jabbed a finger at Hadrian. "This man is no king. He's your Protector. He champions all of us."
It was obvious Rygar disagreed, but he also greatly respected the old man's opinion. He worked his jaw. "I take my orders from the Trinity, or what's left of them."
The speaker hiked his shoulders. "Is it not them who request your presence now?" The old man moved in and rested a frail hand on the knight's shoulder. "Objections are natural, my friend. Change is scary. But we must keep the peace, here above all places. Walk with these men, speak plainly with Gent, but do not succumb to violence. Keep what little light we have. Remember, without light..."
Rygar clenched his jaw and finished the oath. "There is not darkness; there is nothing."
Harroway nodded and patted the black pauldron. "Good, my boy, good." The speaker stepped away and observed approvingly as all three knights sheathed their weapons. The keepers faded from bright red to dull violet and resumed their places by each amethyst banister. Hadrian gave a bow of thanks to the high sage. The man bowed back and headed down the hall Crux was in, entourage in tow.
Rygar sighed. "May the White King guide me." His boots plonked down the delicate steps. The knights followed closely, leaving us in the room with Hadrian.
All it would take was me to convince Crux to use the assassin needle.
But no, even if he had been determined to use the weapon, the thief was only level 6. Hadrian wasn't much higher, but his character sheet wasn't indicative of his power. I didn't think Crux had a chance.
"You two," ordered the Whisperer, "down there with him. This might get ugly."
Hadrian descended the winding stairs. The two golems spun around and followed. Unexpectedly, the entry to the Speculum was left unguarded. Crux and I wandered from our hiding spots in disbelief, met in the center of the room, and snuck down the steps.
1750 Mirror's Edge
The Speculum was Oakengard's control center. The entire cavern sat on a frozen lake, its surface both mirrorlike and transparent. Multicolored lights flashed in the depths below, the ice carrying the rainbows and projecting them shimmering through the amethyst walls. In sharp contrast to the dark halls of Oakengard, the Speculum was more alive than it had ever been.
Our subjects marched to the end of the room facing the throne. I considered remaining in our perch on the winding stairs, but there was a shadowed alcove on the left wall that suited our needs perfectly. With everyone's backs to us, Crux and I snuck to the hiding place undetected.
The floor was thrumming now. It surged with renewed energy. I wondered what Hadrian had done to enliven the place, and if it had something to do with the Trinity. I wondered where Hadrian had found the time because this was more than the last hour's work.
After we'd defeated the kraken, Hadrian was stripped of the Squid's Tooth, Shorehome's soulstone. He didn't steal Stronghold's until three days later. That left the fate of Oakengard's up in the air. Supposedly a player had stolen it long ago. That player must've been Hadrian.
A column of smoky glass stretched from the rocky ceiling to the floor of the lake below the surface we stood on. Three glass thrones protruded from the column just above surface level, visible one at a time as the column rotated. With Bishop Tannen ousted, the current throne facing us was empty, and with Hadrian wearing the trijewel, the crystals were no longer inset into the command column.
A woman's voice rang out. "Here to discuss the fruitlessness of your path?" The crystal pillar spun, sliding the empty throne out of the way and replacing it with the one filled by the head of the sage caste. Philosopher Mara was an old woman with a powerful visage. Today she appeared more frail than usual. Aged in a matter of days.
Rygar and the knights of the Violet Order bowed, though the original crusader's gesture was more pious. He fell to one knee.
Hadrian stood to the side with crossed arms. "I see you still choose to weigh philosophical quandaries over practical urgencies. Your insistence on debate is what's fruitless."
Mara's eyes sharpened. "It must be easy to abandon debate when one is on the wrong side of it."
The Protector of Oakengard smiled wryly. "We're not here for your lessons, Mara, or for you—a fact you should consider most fortunate. Pray my good will continues."
"At ease!" urged a stout voice.
The column rotated again, this time to the third throne occupied by Hero Gent. The head of the knightly order was a famously brawny man, middle-aged yet possessed of the fortitude of youth. Except, as with Mara, much of that luster was missing. He'd grown obviously weaker, with much of his fire gone.
"Hero!" exclaimed Rygar. The knight stood and crossed an arm over his chest.
"I know what you're here for, Protector." Gent's voice was powerful yet robotic. He sat still on the throne, not appearing especially comfortable, hands cradled in his lap. Even his eyes seemed to drag as he studied the subjects before him.
"You always were the most devoted to your duties," mocked the Whisperer. "I wish to see one of our greatest warriors honored. It's time for Rygar to join the Violet Order."
"Never!" spat the crusader. "These knights stand not for justice, my Hero."
The head of the knights watched with exhausted patience. "I am not the most flexible among us, great warrior, but even I understand there comes a time when fighting change is counter-productive."
Rygar stood firm. "Even when it betrays the core of our oaths?"
Gent's head dipped slightly, highlighting how statuesque he'd been until now. "Following orders is in service to your oaths. Rygar of the black circle, I hereby honor you."
The ruler lifted his arm, a jerky, awkward motion. The two keepers converged on Rygar and grabbed him. He tried to pull away, but purple energy surged into his body. He was a powerful warrior, standing resolute against the magic coursing through him. His resistance was short-lived. Rygar dropped to his knees as the black on his cloak color-shifted to violet. Hero Gent watched on, expressionless, as the new-and-improved Rygar rose to his feet.
The tall man's voice came scratchy and subdued. "I see your wisdom, good Hero."
One of the purple knights rapped him on the back. "Welcome to the Violet Order, friend."
My stomach turned, one part disgust and the other part anger. Hadrian was using his control over the Trinity to turn the populace. Hero Gent was a traitor to his people.
The Whisperer placed something in Gent's hand. "A token of thanks." Hadrian turned to his new warrior. "Round up your sergeants. Bring any that don't accept the power to the Specul
um within the hour."
The smoky crystal column rotated back to Philosopher Mara. "That is enough for the day. We are tired and must rest."
"We're done when I say we're done."
"You've taxed us too greatly these past days."
Mara had just confirmed what Saint Peter had suspected, that Hadrian had been scheming even while in prison. The network spikes...
Hadrian sneered. "I encourage those who need it because our enemies want us destroyed. If I don't raise the Violet Order to full strength, raiders will be looting these halls in a matter of days."
"That concerns me little," said Mara coldly.
Hadrian stared at her, face transforming from shock to frustration, and finally settling on vindication. "You'd welcome that, wouldn't you? The fall of Oakengard."
The sage's face was passive. "This city can't fall any lower than with you as its Protector."
"Enough!" the Whisperer spat. "You want to see my power? What I can do?"
"You wouldn't dare."
Hadrian barked an order and the two keepers advanced on the sage. Only two yards away, they stalled their approach. The Whisperer's cheek twitched as the keepers lost their violet glow. They turned on Hadrian and flared red. A cool smile crooked on Mara's face.
"You're in the Speculum, false Protector. This is the Trinity's seat of power, not yours."
Hadrian grunted and threw his arms apart, clenched fists shaking with effort. The two keepers converged at his sides, as they had with Rygar, except their rock bodies began to tremble. Stripes of red and violet played across their glassy bodies and they began to disassemble. Quartz ripped apart and moved over Hadrian's skin, his chest and arms and back, blanketing him like a carapace. It was as close to power armor as I'd seen in Haven.
"If you don't approve of the new Oakengard," he growled, "then you may claim your place in its past."
"No," pleaded Gent unseen. "What's left of the Trinity..."
"I am what's left."
Hadrian thrust a hand forward. The long piece of quartz over his forearm shot out like a missile and plunged into Mara's chest. The philosopher jerked in place, pinned to her throne. Her neck stretched before her head drooped to a bounce, still wearing the look of surprise.
Rygar snorted. "Thus is the will of the Violet Order." He turned toward the staircase with his new comrades and exited the room to collect his sergeants.
Hadrian stood in the Speculum, staring at his handiwork and breathing chaotically. A nervous laugh sputtered from his lips and grew, free and wild, boastful even.
"The power," he whispered to the dead ruler. "It was never yours."
Hadrian spun around so suddenly I thought he'd sensed us. His glowing eyes scanned the empty space, a perturbed look on his face. His eyes twitched in several directions. Then he stormed back toward the stairway. I held my breath till he was gone.
The Whisperer had truly gone crazy.
After ensuring we were alone, I solidified and addressed Crux. "Arm your dagger."
His eyebrows bunched up. "What for?"
"Taking down Hadrian is a tall order, but we can remove one of his weapons." I marched to the glass throne at the end of the room. Philosopher Mara's frail body was settled awkwardly, a Halloween skeleton propped on a chair in feigned life—an aberration of life. My face twisted. The NPC was dead. There was no reason why Gent, the real traitor, shouldn't join her.
"I won't do it," whispered Crux beside me.
"I understand your views on violence. I respect them. But you have to see what you can prevent here."
"The only thing I can guarantee preventing is more violence, and only if I choose not to partake."
"Come on!" I snapped, voice heated. "You saw what just happened. Gent's selling out his own people to live as long as he can."
Crux rapped the blade of the assassin needle on the crystal column. Veins of black ran through the smoky quartz. Lines of energy from a poisoned well. "The Trinity's not in power here. I can't punish them for what they're forced to do."
"Damn it, kid, do you want to save your sister or not!?!"
"At ease," came Gent's voice, softer than before. We recoiled as the column spun around. The weathered knight sat stiffly in position. His eyes were wet.
"Do it, Crux!" I urged. "Now, before he sounds the alarm."
"If that had been my will," remarked Gent, "it would already have been done." The ruler toyed with a small bottle in his hand. "It has been difficult... this feeling of contagion. Right and wrong have lost all meaning." A cough rattled through his chest and the smoky column momentarily sparked purple. "It eats at us. Preys upon our will. Only Philosopher Mara was able to overcome it. She was the strongest of us..."
The beaten man choked up and took a moment to recover. "I told myself it was for the best," he finally said. "I'm tired, Protector of Stronghold. I only wanted to save the lives of my knights."
"They're being assimilated," I said. "What kind of life is that?"
"As long as they live, there's hope." He sighed, perhaps unconvinced by his own words. "I thought a corrupted influence was better than a war among our people, better than a sure defeat. Mara's moral stand would've had deadly consequences." He attempted a frown but his face barely contorted. "I see now that fate is inevitable."
"Civil war," said Crux.
"Aye, young thief. Peaceful occupation breeds greater tragedies than death. What a paradox we find ourselves in. But then you're one with light fingers and heavy morality." This time the ruler's coughing came in a fit.
It was odd seeing him wracked with disease yet sitting so upright in his throne. When I peered closer I saw fingers of glass growing outward from the seat, growing into him. No wonder he was so stiff; Hero Gent was part of the throne now.
"This was meant for me," said the ruler, rolling a small vial between his fingers. "It helps stave off the rot, you see. It helps keep me alive." He closed his eyes and reopened them painfully. I realized I hadn't seen him blink the entire time. "I don't deserve life anymore, and this antidote is suited to a more worthy recipient. Find Colonel Grimwart. He was the first of us to see the danger. To act against it. He tried to warn us."
Crux grabbed the vial from Gent's hand.
"Pour the entire solution on him. It will restore stone to skin."
"Where is he?" I asked.
The ruler grimaced. "The Hall of Heroes." His eyes closed slowly. "The Hall of the Damned." What little light pulsed through the throne column slowed. Gent's breath came out in a throaty rasp, his head lowered, and he breathed no more.
"Wait!" cried Crux. "Is there more of this?" The thief frantically patted down Gent's hardened pouches.
I worked my jaw as I watched the futile scene. Crux was right. Gent had operated differently from Mara, but it wasn't out of maleficence. Hadrian was in control, forcing his will on the people, on the city itself. For all their inimitable heft, the Trinity had been powerless.
Now they were dead.
1760 Minesweeper
We hurried through the Inner Hall of Oakengard, our new goal palpable. With my shadow form and the thief's expertise at sneaking, we roamed the halls at will. The problem was the unmapped fortress had so many connections and corridors it was practically a maze. Thirty minutes of delving seemed just as valuable as three, and the impressive beauty of the grand architecture was lost to endless repetition.
We were in the middle of one such monotonous great hall when we heard the clip-clop of hooves. A large black stallion rounded the corner like something out of a Greek legend. He greeted us with a nicker.
"What's a horse doing in here?" asked Crux.
I cocked my head, a smile growing across my face. "Artax?" I went to scrub his neck but my shadowy hands went through his body. I laughed. "Right. It is you, though. Who's a good boy?"
The loyal steed had been killed by the kraken while defending Stronghold. It was good to see he respawned in his home. My face darkened when I realized he was without a master.
&n
bsp; "This is Grimwart's horse."
Artax snorted softly at the name. He kicked his head around and clopped down another hall some ways before stopping and turning to us. Crux and I exchanged a glance.
"He wants us to follow," I said.
We hurried after our animal ally, back toward the center of the fortress and down a grand flight of stairs. Despite the magnificent surroundings, the entire floor was ill lit, growing darker as we moved away from the overlooking balcony.
"It's deserted down here," I whispered.
"Good thing," said Crux. "I very much doubt the horse is proficient at hiding in shadows."
While Crux and I stepped softly, hooves echoed down the corridor. Our excitement helped us keep pace with the warhorse. After a few more turns through a once-great interior, Artax stopped at metal double doors, snorting and kicking the floor.
A plaque hung above the impressive doorway. "The Hall of Heroes," I read. I pushed inside to find an exquisite collection of life-sized statues, forty of them at least, many in poses of great pain.
"The Hall of the Damned," reflected Crux bitterly.
Artax rushed straight to a statue of a crusader and whinnied. "We found him," I said. "Quick, try the vial."
Crux stopped at my side. "What about Hex?"
I swallowed uncomfortably. "Shit. Try a drop on Grimwart. See what happens."
The thief unstoppered the antidote and poured a splash on the knight's helmet. A swirl of color infected the black statue. The mark softened and spread over his whole body. Artax nickered.
"More," I said.
Crux weighed the antidote and dutifully obeyed, keeping as stingy as he could with the application. Fortunately, the solution was having a noticeable impact. The stone exterior of the statue receded, a sponge absorbing moisture, a man absorbing life. The knight's head turned, loosed joints cracked, and he collapsed to his elbows. At my request, Crux pulled off my friend's helmet. With a sickly pallor, Grimwart gurgled drily as he tried to speak.
Crux pulled the vial away. "That's half the antidote. I can't use more without dooming Hex."
