by Chris Moss
The Traitor's Reliquary
The Rising Herlad Saga
Chris Moss
NewLink Publishing
Henderson, NV 89002
[email protected]
The Traitors Reliquary
Chris Moss
This book is a work of pure fiction composed from the author’s imagination. It is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Contact the publisher at [email protected]
Line/Content Editor: Janelle Evans
Interior Design: Richaed Draude Janelle Evans
Cover: Janelle Evans
p. cm. — Chris Moss (Fantasy Fiction)
Copyright © 2019 / Chris Moss
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-1-948266-68-0/Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-948266-69-7/E-Book
1.Fiction/ Science Fiction/ Adventure
2.Fiction/ Science Fiction/ General
3.Fiction/ Science Fiction/ Space Opera
NewLink Publishing
Henderson, NV 89002
[email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Dedication
To my wife, for her honesty and insight.
Thank you, my love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
This book began as a strange dream I had while working in a mining camp out in the Australian bush, and it has been a long, hard road to get it into print. There’s a lot of people who have supported me along the way that I couldn’t have done this without. First and foremost, my wife Jacqueline and my extended family. Mum, Dad, Yancey, Shea and TA - I love you all. Stefen’s Books in Perth has become my unofficial writing coach over the years, and Stefen has gone out of his way to support local authors. Finally, Jo, Donna and especially Janelle from Mystic Publishers. Thank you all for taking a chance on a newcomer from the other side of the world!
The Traitor's Reliquary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
1
The reappearance of the ancient hydra, Musmahu—identified in the ancient texts as the Black God of Immortality—caught the already weakened Empire by surprise. The conflict that followed could barely be called a battle. It would be more appropriate to call it a massacre.
~from “The Hydra Awakens” by Scriptor Tactimon,
dated 87th year of the Exile~
Manacled to the stones, Kestel stood upon the open dais and watched the hydra circle above him. From his vantage point on top of the flat-topped pyramid, he scowled at the crowds who had swarmed into the Capital’s Amphitheater to watch him sacrificed. The dark morning held brooding clouds of gray with a promise of fresh rain. A cold wind whipped up the elaborate robes of those who stood close by.
“Nice view, isn’t it, boy? Lots of people here to see your glorious communion with the beast.”
Wishing for all the world that he had a weapon, Kestel stared into the handsome and self-satisfied face of the soldier guarding him. “Piss off, Demetros. You know I didn’t murder him.”
“Such language,” said Demetros, feigning surprise. “Very impious, Kestel, especially from one who is about to undergo such a holy ritual.”
He spat, his bruised lips twisting into a sneer. “I was betrayed, you bastard. And we both know there’s nothing holy about being fed to a damn—”
“Silence!” Demetros slapped his gauntleted hand across Kestel’s face, adding a new bruise to his olive skin. “One more word, and I’ll cut your blasphemous tongue from your mouth!”
Kestel moaned, the constant beatings of the last few days having sapped what little strength he had left. The crowd, seated around the crumbling Amphitheater or perched in the tattered remains of the roof, roared their approval—some lobbed stones and rubbish in the central pyramid’s direction. Flopping to the ground, Kestel could do nothing to stop Demetros’s continued abuse. Demetros leaned down and yanked at his dark, curly hair.
“Of course you were betrayed, you arrogant, little fool,” Demetros whispered in his ear. “You were too good, too quick, and you would have taken what was meant for me. Who do you think stuck the blade in that old man, Philotus? Now get on your feet so you can put on a good show for the mob.”
Kestel staggered to his feet, swaying a little in the cold morning air. Though covered in cuts and bruises, his mind remained focused on the pain centered above his left brow where a complex sigil had been tattooed into his flesh. Even without a mirror, he knew what it was. The Proditora—reserved only for oath-breakers and traitors. The mark angered Kestel more than the fact he was about to die.
The crowd’s cheering grew wilder. They parted for an entourage who mounted the steep pyramid. Led by a pale woman wrapped in furs against the morning cold, her calm demeanor showed no emotion to the adulation around her. Tall, elegant, and impossibly beautiful, the woman moved with a dancer’s grace to stand in front of Demetros. Her red and gold clad attendants huffed from the long walk and adjusted their robes.
A lackey, unsuccessful in arranging his cloak to hide a corpulent waist, raised his hands to the applauding crowd and waved for quiet. Striking an oratorical pose, his deep voice boomed out across the arena. “Fellow citizens of the Sacred Realm, today we give witness to the awe-inspiring power of our nation’s keeper and the gentle mercy of she who is one with it! Today this man here, this murderous traitor, will purge himself of his despicable crimes by the grace of our Goddess, Lychra Maal!”
Many in the crowd burst into a frenzy, laughing and jeering at Kestel chained to the dais, raising their hands and shrieking thanks to their leader. The lackey paused, waiting for the cacophony to abate before continuing.
“The soldier known as Kestel, O followers of the true path, was a member of our Goddess’s Divine Guard, and one who may have been elevated to the holy status of an Immortal. Instead, he stands before you in disgrace for murdering his commanding officer, Philotus. Caught in the act by his fellow soldier, Demetros, Kestel has been examined and found guilty!”
“I’m innocent—” Kestel faltered, cuffed in the back by Demetros. He fell to his knees.
“This man, this traitor,” the lackey said, “will beg the forgiveness of our Golden Queen—unburdening himself of his crime before ascending into communion with the holy beast!” The lackey’s overelaborate headpiece fell askew from all his dramatic motions. Adjusting the headpiece, he continued. “Our journey begins, O brothers and sisters, a century ago this very d
ay, when our lands were ruled by the repressive fist of the Old Empire.”
On cue, the crowd booed at the mention of the nation’s former rulers.
The lackey gave a grave nod. “The cruel regime had separated itself from the people, interested only in pomp and meaningless ceremony. But a noble young woman, pure of heart, listened to the spirits of the world and wandered into the wilderness, looking for a cure to the nation’s malady.”
Like a sea of marionettes, the crowds circling the platform sprang up and cried out their praise once again to the motionless woman.
“After conversing with ancient and wise spirits, this virtuous woman opened herself to the powers of the earth itself, emerging from her trials with the blessing of immortality. So, rightly then, we took her as our Goddess!”
The crowd’s paroxysms of praise left some overcome with religious hysteria. The more enterprising spectators relieved them of their purses.
“But the spirits did not send her back to the corrupt Empire alone, my brothers and sisters.” The lackey’s voice dropped in reverence. “No, she was given a sacred guardian to speed her and her followers along the path promised to all. Thus it was, Musmahu—the holy beast—was sent from the heavens to protect us. Throwing down the tyrannical Citadel, he defeated the Empire’s armies in a single day. Our Queen—our Goddess—has set us on our holy journey!”
Building to a frenzy, the spectators rose from their seats and rushed the wooden barricades where rows of soldiers lined the arena floor.
The lackey’s obese body trembled with the power he wielded over them. He waved his hands in wide sweeps across his audience. “The beast has protected us since. Just as it nourishes us with blood from its holy body, so too, do we offer up our bodies in return. While the world gives the hydra to us, so too, we give ourselves.”
“Oh, get on with it,” said Demetros watching the crowd spin out of control.
Still silent, the pale woman focused her attention on the dark winged shape gliding in lazy circles high above the arena.
“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” said the lackey, trying to pull himself into an imperious stance.
“Don’t you dare threaten me, little man.” Demetros rested a hand on the pommel of his blade.
The lackey glared at the guardsman, ready to bite off a suitable reply, but the lady in furs raised her hand. Never taking his eyes off Demetros, the lackey bowed low and shuffled back to the relative safety of the entourage.
The woman moved to the center of the platform. She shook off her heavy cloak with a sinuous twist of the shoulders. Underneath, her green silk robe, trimmed with gold, was split along her legs for ease of movement. Unburdened from the fur hood, her golden hair waved in the wind, almost hiding the thin, silver circlet adorning her snowy brow.
The wild crowd stilled, a deep sigh drifting out into the cold air. The ruler bent toward Kestel, still chained and kneeling. Her action gave him a surge of hope. Here stood the Goddess, the embodiment of all that was pure and holy, the living promise of eternal life.
I’m saved.
“Well Kestel,” said Maal, the woman’s voice an intimate purr against his olive cheek. “Are you prepared to face the crimes proven against you?”
“My Goddess.” Kestel gasped, grabbing at his last straw of survival. “I was betrayed. Please, I’m innocent—you have to believe me.”
The Goddess’s eyebrow rose, causing a lock of hair to fall over a sea-blue eye. “Really? What happened?”
“I was betrayed, Goddess. I was drugged and awoke to find my commander’s body in the next room.” Kestel raised his head, his eyes flashing. “It was Demetros. He planned it. He murdered Philotus. He knew I was going to be promoted to the Immortals ahead of him.”
Her clear blue eyes widened. “Well, Demetros? Is this true?”
A savage grin spread across Kestel’s bruised face. The bastard is dead. No-one would dare lie to the Goddess.
Demetros shrugged, his ill-fitting armor creaking. “More or less.”
Lychra Maal smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “You sly rogue, I didn’t think you had the stones.”
Kestel gasped.
The Goddess straightened, shielding her eyes against the sun rising over the broken rim of the arena. “Well, we’ve got the mob, we’ve got the beast, and we’ve got the annual sacrifice—seems a shame to waste them.” She nodded to Demetros, who smiled back. “Carry on, Commander.”
Kestel stuttered in confusion, his body going limp.
Lychra Maal, who had turned back to the crowd, raised an arm to the masses. “Fellow travelers on the sacred journey, today this man has freely confessed his guilt, and goes now with a pure heart to meet his destiny.” Her voice boomed around the arena like thunder. “Cheer him, who is about to ascend to a higher plane of existence!”
Kneeling in front of Demetros, Kestel listened to the crowd roar. Most of the enthusiasm was directed at the Goddess, who had raised her arms to the heavens. Kestel’s brief hope twisted into sudden anger. His body wanted to fight, to strike out, especially at those around him, but so exhausted, he only managed to stand without trembling.
She betrayed me. The realization made other thoughts tumble out of him. My Goddess, my love, it was all a lie. The anger clawed its way inside his bruised and battered chest.
He turned to the beautiful figure. “Damn you!” he said, his voice almost lost in the screaming crowd.
Maal turned her head, showing her faultless profile.
“One day I’m going to kill you, you bloody fraud.” Kestel tried not to wince at the sound of his cracking voice. “Nothing else matters, do you understand?”
If the Goddess heard him, she gave no sign. She turned away and left the dais without a word.
“I should probably kill you for that, boy.” Demetros jabbed Kestel in the back. “But I think I’ll just watch.” Backing away, Demetros joined the other soldiers and flunkeys descending the pyramid.
Safe inside a tight circle of armed men, Lychra Maal held her ground before the crowd breaking through the barriers. They poured around the pyramid like a dirty tide, leaving Kestel nowhere left to run.
The giant shape swooped down, casting the arena in shadow. Musmahu, the divine beast of the Sacred Realm, landed with an impact that shook the stones of the Amphitheater. Kestel had considered clambering up the sides of the creature to escape, but could only stand in awe at the power of his executioner.
On his wanderings through the Capital, Kestel’s eye had often traced the worn statues of dragons perched on the walls of collapsing temples, the reptiles’ disapproving frowns facing the city below. The hydra before him was far more graceful. Its sinuous body settled across one face of the pyramid while its wings encircled the platform. Sparkling silver scales traced the outside of the creature’s snake-like body, paling to a creamy white at silvery claws that protruded from the top of each wing—claws that clutched the ground at the base of the platform behind Kestel.
Looking up, his gaze followed the silver scales that thickened near the hydra’s spine and shoulders, forming a set of white, spiky hackles that, at the moment, lay flat against the body. Seven great, writhing necks ducked and bobbed above Kestel, with lighter, more delicate scales tracing each curve. The scales rose to a crest atop each head, each colored a deep gold. Musmahu’s pointed and narrowed heads looked strangely avian, with bird-like beaked mouths. Along each brow ridge, long golden feathers quivered.
Alone, with nowhere left to run, the prisoner stood his ground, casting a defiant glare at the stunning sight above him.
The creature’s heads danced to and fro, as if gauging the distance for the fatal strike. Seven silver beaks split to reveal serrated, ivory teeth, but Kestel’s fear died away. He had been tortured and betrayed by his companions and the Goddess. Worst of all, he had been shamed, stripped of his dignity and the position for which he worked so hard. Throwing his arms wide, Kestel screamed—a defiant wordless curse at the unfairness of it all. Musmahu rele
ased a bellow of its own, lowering its heads to the platform.
Face to face, the two roared. Kestel leaned forward, as if ready to walk into one of the hydra’s mouths. The beast seemed to explode in white and gold, the feathers on its shoulders quivering and erect. As their lungs gave out, the pair stopped.
Kestel’s vision cleared, staring into the constellation of Musmahu’s golden eyes. His gaze dropped to the coils of the beast’s underside—deep wounds spider-webbed across the silvery flesh. The scales had long since been stripped from the puckered skin, and golden blood had hardened into orange-amber, congealed across the creature’s scars.
Kestel looked up into the golden eyes and understood. The source of eternal life—bled daily like a wine cask.
His anger faded and he reached forward, as if touch alone could free the hydra from its own shame and imprisonment. A sudden thunder for blood from the crowd broke the silence. The Goddess had raised a hand, pointing at the sacrifice.
Madness returned to Musmahu’s eyes, and one of the feathered heads snaked down to finish the job, but jerked to a stop. The avian visage snapped back, the beast desperately scratching at the head. Kestel staggered back at the sight of a burning crossbow bolt protruding from one of the beast’s eyes, tiny as a thorn in a giant golden plate.
The convulsing beast flapped its wings and whipped its heads, trying to extricate the offending piece of metal. Great gobs of amber blood splattered the arena with each shake of the wounded head, the sunburst feathers around the cheek and brow stained with darker flecks.
A single drop, no larger than a pearl, hit Kestel in the forehead. He fell flat, twitching in pain from the sizzling blood burning into his flesh. His convulsions mirrored that of the hydra.
