by Chris Moss
The Silver Prioress laughed, but Arbalis’s expression promised Kestel dire punishment later.
“Quite the opposite, I assure you.” The Prioress stretched out her hand. The gesture suffused the old woman’s robes with a silvery light, and the noises of the city rolling over the balcony faded into silence. Kestel froze, transfixed by the sight.
“All the clerics of the Citadel are trained in the Aeris, the power bestowed by Aedron’s Authority. It is the power to perceive the world that lies unseen around us. Above all, it is to be used as a gift of healing and inner peace.” The Prioress reached up to touch the burn mark left by the hydra’s blood.
Kestel’s olive skin erupted in pain. He gasped and scrambled into a corner, holding a hand over his mouth to stop his heaving stomach from expelling its contents.
“Don’t touch me.” Kestel flinched his throbbing head away from a crouching figure.
A calloused hand touched his forehead. Such roughness couldn’t belong to the Prioress. He allowed Arbalis, the old soldier, to tilt his face up to inspect him. Kestel searched for something to say, but the moment passed and the concern in Arbalis’s eyes returned to a more familiar glare.
“Up you get, boy,” he said, even his gruff tone returning. “The Prioress is speaking to you.”
“I apologize,” said the Silver Prioress, waiting for Kestel take his seat. “A lifetime of Maal’s Bloodwyne is causing you terrible withdrawal. But if you let us, we can help you through it.”
“What has this got to do with angels?” said Kestel, keeping his eyes down and rubbing his forehead.
The Prioress’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “The Angel,” she said with emphasis, “did not just slay Musmahu, but has kept watch over humanity. At every stage in the continent’s history, the Angel has reappeared to choose a Herald who would use his or her Authority to shape the destiny of the next age. Thus, did the fortunes of this Citadel, and eventually the entire Empire, go from strength to strength.”
“Until Maal.”
“Yes.” The Prioress sighed. “Until Lychra Maal.” The spark of energy which had sustained her through the re-telling of the Old Empire’s golden times seemed to fade away. Kestel once again faced a tired, old woman.
“One hundred years ago, the Empire was on the brink of complete rebellion,” said the Prioress. “It was terrible. Then, when we were at our weakest, Maal struck, attacking the Old Capital atop Musmahu the Immortal. The beast laid waste to the armies of the Empire and scattered its people. Those that survived took refuge on these islands, becoming known as the Exsilium. However, after a century, the Caelbor landowners have united under Lord Rowan as the League of Nobles and seek to exile us once more.”
The old woman’s sigh sounded even more tired.
“To be fair to our Caelbor hosts, we were never meant to stay this long, but every army we sent to retake our homeland was slaughtered by Musmahu.”
The Prioress watched Kestel, her silence stretching so long, he realized she expected something of him.
“Yes?”
The old woman raised a dark, feathery eyebrow. “This is the part where you ask where the hydra came from.”
“Why?” Kestel tilted his head and regarded the robed figure. “It’s just always been there, like Maal herself. You might as well ask why it rains, or why the sun comes up. All we know is that Maal is in charge of the creature and that its blood is poured out every day and mixed into Bloodwyne.”
“You never thought to ask why she had control of such a monstrous creature?”
Kestel gave a small shrug. “She was the Goddess.”
The Prioress sighed, and despite Kestel’s mistrust of the old woman, her disappointed reaction stung.
“How is any of this my problem?” he said.
“It is everyone’s problem,” she said. “We are at a turning point, and war is upon us.”
“You mean to attack the Sacred Realm.”
“But we cannot, until the hydra is slain.”
The idea sounded so impossible, Kestel couldn’t do more than a slow nod.
The Prioress’s old eyes glittered. “And you, my dear boy, will do this.”
Kestel and Arbalis gasped.
The old soldier sputtered. “What—”
“Slay Musmahu?” Kestel didn’t bother to hide his incredulous tone. “I didn’t exactly strike fear into the beast’s heart at the Amphitheater!”
“He’s just one man, my lady, please,” said Arbalis, but was silenced with a flick of the robed figure’s hand.
“It will be you,” said the Prioress with serene assurance. “And you will defeat this beast.”
“So you can re-establish your Empire?” said Kestel.
“No. So you can summon the Angel.” The robed figure remained unmoved by the shocked looks of everyone there.
“What do you mean?” said Arbalis, wringing his hands.
The Prioress’s voice grew deeper. “Our people—all people––need more than just an end to Maal’s insanity. Even without Maal, the Caelbor and Exsilium stand on the brink of civil war. The people under Maal’s rule are starving, the culture of their ancestors lost to barbarity. We need guidance.”
“But what have I got to do with all this?” The thought of facing the beast again made Kestel’s stomach cramp again. He clenched against the pain.
“Everything,” said the old woman. “Almost a month ago, I was alone in my gardens when I was suddenly struck down.”
Despite the strength of the Prioress’s voice, her wrinkled hands shook. “I had a vision, like walking into someone else’s dream. I suddenly found myself in the Old Capital during their centenary celebration, standing atop a pyramid of stone with the hydra rearing above me. A mark of death was upon my brow, yet I knew I was innocent. And suddenly, a great fire shone from my heart, lighting up all the great cities of the Old Empire and showing me how far they had fallen. Reaching up to the heavens, the light within me tore apart the dark clouds and brought forth the Angel, a winged figure of burning flames. As I watched, the two beings fought, and soon all the horizons were drenched in their blood. But I stood tall, and eventually the Angel smote the beast and sent it crashing down to earth.”
The Prioress closed her eyes, her body trembling.
“It was this dream, Kestel, which guided me to find you. It was this dream that made me send Arbalis to rescue you from execution. Your destiny is clear, young man, and the revenge you seek is at hand. You are to be the Herald, the prophet of this age.”
“You’re sending me back? Why bother saving me at all?”
The tone of the Prioress’s voice turned hard as steel. “You cannot escape your destiny. Your training will begin immediately, and in the years to come, you will emerge as a champion worthy of the mantle of Herald.”
Arbalis remained silent, his brow wrinkling.
Stunned, Kestel did not follow the rest of the conversation, his mind’s eye focused on the pain and humiliation of the hydra and the blood crusting its flesh. Finally led away, he had only one certainty.
I’m not their puppet. I don’t need a ridiculous prophecy or some mysterious angel to kill Maal. I’ll do this on my own.
4
Relations in the outer baronies between the Exsilium and the Caelbor continue to be prickly, at best. Several of the nobles are acting together to force an end to the war, inspired more by the possibility of regaining their ancestral lands than any real faith to the Citadel. We suspect Lord Rowan is behind the attack on the Praetorian Guard that was publicly blamed on Heldar the Brown—“bandits” would not be so bold, nor so well equipped.
~from a secret report to Spymaster Harpalus,
dated 98th year of the Exile~
In the dark of night, Kestel slipped out of bed, treading barefoot past the slumbering forms of Calla and Mollis, out beyond the ranks of sleeping soldiers. An anonymous shape snorted and turned over. Kestel froze. The soldier began to snore. Still, he waited until certain the restless sleeper dr
eamed. Kestel picked his way through the barracks and slipped out the door, shivering a little in the sudden cold. Squinting to make out the shapes of the garrison buildings around him, he oriented himself with the help of the New Citadel’s looming dome. Taking off toward the garrison gatehouse, he hared up the ramparts and skidded over the wall. A moment of weightlessness ended with a sharp pain in his legs on the landing. He rolled forward and dragged himself up, surveying the fresh, clean city stretched out before him. A cold smile crept across his lips.
Catch me now, you bastards. He picked the nearest alley and ran. He had barely travelled ten feet before a large shape stepped out of the shadows and punched him in the gut, dropping Kestel onto the cobbles.
“Oh Goddess.” He gasped, trying to crawl toward the shadows. His head swam, watching two figures with torches round the corner. A rough hand hauled him up by the back of his neck.
“Pay up, Mol,” said Calla, holding the torch and elbowing her partner in the ribs.
The large soldier frowned and jerked out a money pouch, fishing for the coin. Arbalis tightened his grip on Kestel.
“Get your hands off me!” Kestel twisted around until he slipped out of the old soldier’s grasp.
“Would you prefer I had left you for the hydra, boy?” said Arbalis.
“Your Prioress is going to throw me back to it anyway!”
“You have been chosen, Kestel. You can’t escape by running.”
“Watch me. It’s my life, not yours.”
“Oh, don’t give me that bull crap!” The old man’s anger seemed to make him grow in the flickering firelight. “Do you think I’m free? Do you think we fight Maal because we enjoy it? Because it’s some sort of game? We all have responsibilities, and it’s time you grew up and understood that. We do what we have to do, no complaints.”
Kestel glared at Arbalis and opened his mouth to reply, but one look at Arbalis’s face and he knew he would be wasting his breath.
The old soldier turned to Mollis and Calla. “Go get the boy some food and a drink—maybe it’ll quiet him down some.”
“Sir,” said Mollis. Calla simply nodded and took Kestel by the shoulder.
“Don’t disappoint me again,” Arbalis whispered, walking past Kestel and into the darkness.
“Arsehole.” The muttered word earned Kestel a sharp poke in the ribs from Mollis.
“Don’t you judge him,” he said with a sigh. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
An hour later, Kestel looked down at the mug of warm beer in his hands and listened with half an ear to Mollis’s happy description of the history of the cramped inn. Despite the tavern’s bread lining his belly, a hollow pain from the Bloodwyne withdrawal persisted. Calla remained silent, but Kestel saw the scarred woman’s thoughts every time their eyes met.
Go ahead, try an escape, said the soldier’s sneer. Give me a reason.
“The only older pub on Caelbor is the Golden Crown. I remember Cal and I once tracked a thief there—”
A scream floating over the general hubbub interrupted Mollis’s words.
“Over there,” said Calla, rising from her seat.
Mollis followed Calla’s gaze to a group of men in the corner and grimaced, a dark expression creasing his benign face.
“What’s going on?” said Kestel, watching Mollis walk across the room.
“Caelbor soldiers,” said Calla.
“Aren’t they your people, then? Why are you worried?”
“It’s complicated.” The scarred woman grimaced. “Now shut up, stay close and get ready.”
Unlike the olive skin and shining armor of the Praetoria, the pale figures slouched across the wooden tables sported red and blue tabards over boiled leathers. One guard held a struggling Exsilium maid on his lap. The other men leered at her. The girl’s long, curly locks bounced free from under a white scarf in her struggle to get away, but the sandy-haired soldier kept a secure hold across her waist. One of the fellows reached over and put his hands on the girl’s skirts. Mollis stepped forward, clearing his throat in a meaningful way that couldn't be misunderstood.
The blue and red guardsman turned, his angry glare stopping at the sight of the olive giant eclipsing the light of their oil lamps.
“Perhaps you should put her down, friend,” said Mollis, in a quiet tone.
“What business is it of yours, ya kuksuger?” said the guardsman holding the young woman.
“I am making it my business.” Mollis raised a fist.
Turning to the other red and blue clad men, the sandy-haired soldier raised his voice so all could hear him. “Even when they’ve overstayed their welcome, the leather-skins still think they can order us around. Time to teach them a small lesson in manners, boys.”
The other guardsmen picked themselves up off the tables, hands reaching for their weapons. The tense change of atmosphere lasted but a moment before several blue and red guards sprang forward with a shout.
Calla jumped into the fray but Kestel eyed the door. Around him, Exsilium and Caelbor erupted into a brawl. Hit from behind, Kestel snarled and threw himself back into his attacker.
Calla’s short, savage strokes knocked the wind out of anyone who came too close. Kestel fought like a whirlwind, his long-banked anger spilling out in a rage of wild strikes that bruised him as much as the men he attacked. His red and blue opponents backed away, but Kestel only saw his torturers with blood-stained hands. He cursed and spat, smashing into them with every ounce of strength he had, paying them back for all the pain and humiliation they had caused.
More red and blue clad soldiers emerged from the watching crowd to attack Mollis, Calla, and Kestel. The brawl threatened to overwhelm the trio, until a commanding voice yelled, “What in the names of all the angels is going on here?”
The voice worked like magic. Red and blue soldiers scurried back to the corners of the room. Mollis and Calla turned. Kestel noted the relief in the scarred woman’s eyes at the sight of the newcomer.
The armored figure shouldered his way through the bar, moving like a hunter closing in on his prey. His muscular frame, charcoal colored skin, and flowing black hair made him appear larger than life. Kestel could see why every man in the room feared to make eye contact with him as he passed. His neat beard was notched from an old sword-stroke, and he wore steel armor, trimmed with silver. A sculpted albatross head adorned his shoulder plate like a hunting trophy. The newcomer was flanked by several knights, all wearing the same bird’s head embossed in gold on their breastplates.
“I repeat, what is going on here?” The man’s face held an expression of death for any who dared cross him.
One of the soldiers attempted to speak, his face gray. “Lord Marcus, I—”
“I am Lord Marcus only to my liegemen. Is this how you address a superior officer, churl?” The man squared his shoulders. The bird head, set into his shoulder, seemed to strain forward, hungry for confrontation, too.
“I—that is, ah...General Dio, this is merely a small misunderstanding between common soldiers. It is nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“Don’t give me your excuses, peon! If you cannot control your men, then your entire squad will spend the night in irons while I discuss your conduct with the League of Nobles. Now take your wounded and go!”
The pale soldier flashed the General a murderous look, but motioned to his guardsmen to collect their comatose comrades. They scurried from the plaza like a pack of whipped dogs.
General Dio turned to Mollis. “I will not have brawling in this city, do you understand?”
Mollis’s face fell and even Calla winced at his words.
Leaning in closer to Mollis, the silver clad figure lowered his voice. “Next time, assess the situation more carefully, Caducum. You were lucky we had business with the innkeeper.” An unspoken acknowledgment flashed between the two men before the dark figure made an abrupt turn on his heel and left—silver and gold knights trailing in his wake.
Calla let out a breath
. “Vae! That was close.”
“Who was that?” said Kestel
“That was Marcus Aetius Dio, General of both the Exsilium and Caelbor forces,” she said.
Kestel had no idea what that meant, so he could only stare back.
“It means...he’s in charge of all the armies.” Mollis finished dispersing the crowd, then turned back to Kestel. “What happened to you back there?”
Calla nodded. “It’s like you went a bit crazy, boy. I’ve seen battle rage before, but nothing like this.”
Kestel, uncomfortable with their scrutiny, shrugged. “Everything just...came back.”
“What everything?” Calla put her fists on her hips.
“Everything, everything—the dungeon, the beatings...” The ache in Kestel’s gut grew in intensity, making his hands shake. He tried to control it, but the two experienced soldiers shared a look with each other.
Mollis shook his head. “You can’t go into a battle on pure anger, Kestel. You need to learn how to control yourself.”
“I can!” His reply sounded childish, even to his ears.
Calla snorted in disgust, but Mollis would not be put off.
“Try harder. We cannot afford for you to lose your head in battle.” The big man grinned, the smile creeping across his face. “Either figuratively or physically.”
“What does figuratively mean?”
Mollis sighed and shook his head. “Come on, the eighth bell has sounded and we have an early start tomorrow.”
Nodding his head in acceptance, Kestel followed the two soldiers out into the night, anger still squirming within him, waiting for another chance to break free.
5
Spymistress Julia,
Much of the meeting was taken up with the dispute between Lords Graelwuld and Packington regarding Lord Rowan’s rising influence. The conversation then turned to the likelihood of the Citadel spying on their operations. Both agreed such a measure was impossible.
~Notes from a meeting of the League of Nobles by Agent Martin,
