Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  For comparison, consider that three of the prisoners didn’t make it out of the room. I ate them, throat-ripping and flesh-tearing ate them, right there on the spot.

  I don’t want to go into it. Suffice to say I don’t generally look too deeply into the glowing center of a person. Normally I pass by and, at most, note the person is angry or happy or preoccupied or whatever. It’s kind of like noticing someone’s facial expression; you almost can’t help it. Under normal circumstances, you don’t stare at their face, into their eyes, trying to see what they’re thinking. But when I take the time to look deep inside someone, peer beyond the outer shell of their current mood, I see the fundamental nature of the individual. I see not merely what they think and feel, or even their own self-image. I see Who They Are, from the outside looking in.

  When I see the depth of evil, the depravity and cruelty of the human race, distilled down and dripping from the heart of—forgive me, but I feel I’m qualified to make this judgment—Bad People, the only thing I can think of is making them go back to the Bureau of Reincarnation for reassignment as fungus. Maybe maggots. Body lice might be appropriate.

  After all the hours of questioning and eyestrain, I called it quits. The backlog of the tribunals’ guilty verdicts was finished—most of whom were, in fact, guilty, so there’s that. Firebrand, Bronze, and I went off to enjoy some simple bloodshed before the sun came up.

  We took the granary, sort of. It was too far inside enemy territory to push our perimeter so far so quickly. We did manage to convince people about direct opposition being a bad idea. I encouraged the wounded to seek help by surrendering. Firebrand enjoyed itself by setting opposing wizards on fire. To quote a wise and extremely ancient sage, “A wizard should know better!” All in all, we demonstrated the rebels didn’t have the firepower to effectively resist a straight-up attack. Well, individual units didn’t. I’m sure they had something prepared and held in reserve, but I never hung around long enough for them to bring out the big, vampire-specific guns. Seldar had the CIC keep an eye on rebel movements in my area and warned me before anyone sent in my direction could reach me. You can’t kill what you can’t catch.

  I was amused to see Tallin sitting on Daddy’s lap and making faces at me in the mirror. He was an early riser, that one. I didn’t see any harm in Seldar’s bring-your-kid-to-work day. Thomen or Kammen I might have questioned—they were in the field, killing people who tried to kill them.

  Hopefully, whoever was in charge of the insurrection fiasco was having serious doubts. I know his forces were. We had a sizable uptick in surrenders.

  Tallin and the rapid surrendering cheered me up a little. I needed some cheering up after my hours of soul-searching other people. I don’t like being introspective; why would I enjoy being extrospective? I have enough problems with my own inner evils. Bathing in others’ inner evils doesn’t help.

  Monday, March 1st

  After my morning transformation, I had breakfast with most of the local clergy, as well as Rendal—Commander of the Guards in Karvalen and Mochara—and Nothar, since the Baron still wasn’t available. Nothar regretfully informs me being besieged is exhausting at his age.

  Someday, I really do need to meet the man. It’ll probably happen at the big meeting in Carrillon; I gave Nothar the invitation myself. Since it doesn’t provide for any delegates—it’s a command to appear, not really an invitation—I expect to see him there, along with the Mayor of Mochara.

  While we had our morning meal, we discussed the idea of incorporating priests, ministers, clerics, whatever, into the structure of the secular systems. They were all on board for the idea, but we have a long way to go in defining what their duties and authority encompass. Rendal doesn’t like having people tell him how to do his job. The clergy don’t like being asked to help and otherwise ignored; they want authority to command, as well. Then there’s the question of who everyone reports to—do they all go through the city guard chain of command, or do they report to the local nobles? And for the courts, do we still need to gather evidence and present it to a judge, or do the priests take over that function entirely and effectively control who is guilty or innocent of secular crimes?

  I thought it was such a great idea, at first. Now I’m stuck at a table with a bunch of politicians who want to take advantage of the sudden opportunity. They’re like toddlers arguing over who gets the candy, but with a better vocabulary and less whacking each other with toys. It made me almost want to whack them with my toys.

  Oddly enough, the only people not giving me trouble about it are Tianna and Beltar. Tianna is happy to make a small gain for her goddess—possibly disregarding direct deific instructions—and wait for another opportunity for another small gain later. Beltar sticks with the basic idea of what I want, he’ll do, along with the whole Temple of Shadow. I could order the temples of every deity in the kingdom to be torn down and Beltar would go get a block and tackle.

  Show a little faith in someone when they need it. It’s amazing how it comes back around to you.

  Tearing down the temples is tempting, in a remote, fantasy sort of way. It would probably break the kingdom, though, in the ensuing holy wars. I’d much rather incorporate everybody. If everyone feels they have a place, feels they have a voice, feels they’re heard at least as much as everyone else, then maybe this will go better. I’ve seen the results of an absolutist monarchy and absolutist religion. Trying the middle ground might be worthwhile. I hope it is, because that’s where we’re headed.

  If we can get people to accept equality instead of dominance, that is. It seems to be an alien concept, and not only on this side of a magical gateway.

  For now, though, I’ve got a room full of clergy, an annoyed police chief, and a representative of the local Baron trying to hash out a way to incorporate the powers of the gods into the criminal justice system. I told them to carry on while I took care of something; I left them arguing and made good my escape.

  Beltar caught my eye as I left. He nodded, slightly.

  He knows you’re abandoning ship, Boss.

  Thank him for being a sport about it.

  He says you’re welcome. So does the hot one.

  While I understand what you mean when you refer to her temperature, I advised, please do not refer to my granddaughter as “the hot one” ever again.

  Firebrand’s chuckled.

  While they argued, I slipped down to the Temple of Shadow. I’ve never been inside. It seems odd to be worshiped as a deity, complete with temples and clergy and ceremonies. It’s almost as odd to have never seen it. And it’s downright odd to know it’s there, it’s happening, and they’re going to do it no matter what I have to say about it.

  I didn’t like the idea of going in there, but what were my choices? I could have the energy-state being borrow my body for communication, but preferably only after I’m truly dead. It could borrow a priest’s body, but I got the impression it wasn’t good for the priest, so that wasn’t a good choice, either. Or I could arrange something that wouldn’t require using anybody’s body. Any body. Anybody. Wouldn’t require using a person.

  Would my descendants do any better at being the focus of the energy-state being’s attention? Could I be the father of shadow-children, much like Sparky is supposedly the mother of fire-witches?

  Oh, my. Amber and Tianna are descended from two deific avatars. Could Tianna channel the essence of the Lord of Shadow the same way she channels the Mother of Flame? Is that why Sparky was so interested in having me put a child into Tamara? No, surely not. No one could have predicted the formation of a new energy-state being.

  I think I’ll just let the thought wander off and die somewhere, alone and unregarded.

  Bronze took me through the tunnels of the undercity and out through one of the main gates of the mountain. I wasn’t in a hurry; she kept her pace down to something close to a trot. Strangely, neither the undercity nor the overcity seemed too different. If you didn’t know there was a section of Karvalen bottl
ed up, you wouldn’t be able to tell. People went about their business. They didn’t walk with their heads down, hurrying along. They didn’t stay home, hiding. They went on with their lives as though there was nothing wrong. And, to be fair, there wasn’t anything wrong—at least, not around here, miles away from the fighting.

  Is that a quality of humanity? If I can’t see the problem, it isn’t my problem? Or is it a cultural thing, trusting to those in authority to either know what they’re doing or to fix whatever goes wrong?

  Oh, hell. They might be putting their trust in me to make it all right.

  Such was my frame of mind when we pulled up outside the temple. My temple.

  I feel dirty thinking that.

  The entryway faced north and was similar to the one in Mochara: big, bronze, double doors, set well back in what appeared to be a small building. They probably set it up that way for the shade. These doors were embossed with a fiery sword design on the left, a rearing horse on the right. Nice work. Somewhat distant from this cubist entryway, a partially-buried sphere was the actual temple. The spherical structure had no obvious doors or windows. To get in, you entered the cubic structure and took the tunnel.

  I went in. Bronze followed. I could have ridden in, if I was careful about my head. I was surprised Bronze wanted to come along. She didn’t really want to see the inside of the place, but she knew I didn’t want to go. She was only did it to keep me company.

  Beyond the doors, the floor sloped down, ran straight, and sloped up again. Definitely done for the light-blocking properties; it would take at least four mirrors or twenty pounds of explosives to get sunlight inside the place.

  The temple was more than just the aboveground shell. It had underground hallways and rooms to serve other purposes. My concern was with the main altar, though, and finding a way to let my energy-state alter ego communicate without borrowing someone’s lips.

  Okay, fine. Without invading my brain or borrowing my body.

  The main area was mostly seating. Rings of seats surrounded the central altar, stair-stepping upward to the midpoint of the sphere. The upper half was a dome. Dozens of candles, apparently placed at random, flickered and danced, giving enough light to make everything visible, but deeply shadowed.

  Figures.

  It struck me how the layout was very similar to the great temple in Zirafel. Was that a coincidence, or just good geometry? It was a lousy way to address a crowd, but ideal for packing them in. Or did the arrangement serve another purpose? I thought it might, but it was only a feeling.

  There were some differences, of course. In Zirafel, the main statue was in the center of the platform. Here, they put it in a gap in the seating, on the far side from the entryway. It was still a big statue. It was standing with an heroic pose, too. It was all noble and handsome and darn impressive. It was embarrassing. In one hand it held a scroll; the other hand held the hilt of a sword, point resting on the floor. The wall behind it had a carving, a relief, of a horse’s head hovering over the statue’s shoulder.

  I did like the way the seating ran right up next to the statue. People could sit beside it, if they wanted. Heck, some of the seats were close enough for a members of the congregation to reach out and touch the statue. I also liked the way it was placed, as though part of the congregation, watching the central platform—and anyone giving a sermon. I don’t know if they intended it that way, but if I were on the platform in the middle of the room, I’d feel as though it was watching me. Come to think of it, the statue might not have been watching me, but I felt… something. A presence.

  It could be a very good thing for a priest to keep in mind while he’s spouting off, presuming to speak on behalf of his god: His god was watching.

  Bronze and I headed for the platform in the middle, almost silently. As we walked, Bronze’s hooves, although silent, sparked with blue-green flickers. Was the floor charged, somehow, and arcing between hoof and stone? I didn’t see any magical effect, as such, and my own feet didn’t crackle and spark.

  Bronze didn’t know either, but also didn’t mind it. If she didn’t mind, I didn’t mind. She waited at the base of the platform while I went up the three steps to the top.

  A junior cleric turned from his scrubbing to face me and tell me services weren’t until later. He recognized me about halfway into his sentence and promptly tried to swallow his own face. I pointed him back to the bucket and brush he used on the sacred stones. He gulped and started scrubbing like a housewife who recently discovered the joy of amphetamines.

  This is one reason I’ve always been reluctant to visit.

  I looked over the paraphernalia on the platform. There wasn’t a lot to work with. They don’t do full-scale burnt offerings in here. Maybe they can’t afford too much smoke. I’m not sure how the ventilation works. I didn’t spot anything like an exhaust vent, which only means I didn’t spot it, not that it wasn’t there. From the look of the blood-grooves and the selection of consecrated cutlery, they did a fair amount of ritual sacrifice, though. The only thing which seemed likely to be useful for my purpose was a heavy stone brazier with an inner diameter of about two feet. It wasn’t big enough to burn whole sacrifices, but it was plenty large enough for incense and the odd slice of bloody meat. The coals were dying, but they’d completed a ceremony an hour or two ago. They always fill it with charcoal and some aromatic woods before sprinkling crumbled incense into it. After the sacrifice—or the joyous leavetaking of the departing soul—they flicked sprinkles of blood in it, thinking it a pleasing aroma. On the nights of the new moon, the priests would cut their hands or fingers and drip a few drops on the coals to affirm their faith. Every year, on Coronation Day, all the faithful pray for the prosperity and health of the kingdom before filing past in a sort of reverse communion. They each gave a drop of blood into a sacred chalice. Some of the chalice’s contents would be sprinkled into the brazier. The priests would then mix the rest with a distilled something—brandy or the like—and pour out a measure for each person to drink, to partake of the power of the King and to take into themselves the blessing…

  Stop it! I shouted, mentally.

  Stop what? came the reply.

  I don’t want to know all the details of how the damned ceremonies go! Or the ceremonies of the damned! Or whatever!

  Blesséd. Not damned, he corrected. And I’m sorry about the ritual crap. It’s not like I told them to do any of it. They were doing most of it already when I… well, “woke up” is the best way I can describe it. Anyway, I’m not supposed to actually talk to anybody unless they specifically call to me, and they don’t. They came up with ways to express their devotion all by themselves. It’s kind of a defining characteristic of this world, I think. Or humanity in general.

  I mean, I don’t want this knowledge dumped into my head.

  Oh. Sorry; I misunderstood. My guess is you’re picking up stuff on a sideband. You do have a psychic signature a lot like mine, or vice-versa, and the signal strength in here is about as intense as it gets. I suspect the spherical temple structure acts as a sort of concentrator—

  Just. Make. It. Stop.

  I’m not sure I can, he said, sounding uncertain. I’m new to this avatar thing. Hang on. Maybe I can dial it down some.

  I felt a bubble of quiet spread out from me, enclosing the platform. It wasn’t really silence, but I stopped randomly knowing things about my worship. His worship. Ceremonial worship. I still felt me, or him, or it looking in my direction, but no divine revelations.

  Better? he asked.

  Yes. Very much. Thank you.

  Happy to help. Sorry. I didn’t see it coming or I’d have warned you.

  I appreciate that. Now, if you’ll excuse me?

  Hmm? Oh, of course. I’ll just wait over here.

  I got right to work so I wouldn’t have to stay any longer than I had to. First, attune the brazier to the appropriate forces. Magically, it was the equivalent of using a magnet to magnetize an iron bar. With my impression embedded in
the brazier, some actual enchantment was next. Heat from the coals could provide energy, so put an absorbing spell on the inside surface of the brazier… and there’s usually something recently-dead if they’re dialing up god. Add an absorption panel of another sort on the outside of the brazier to suck up some of the suddenly-free-roaming energy from the formerly-living thing…

  Ah, yes. Burning things give off smoke, so let’s use it. Tune the controls as an automorphism, making the whole thing a dedicated object, set to send and receive only on my/our personal psychic frequency. Now, let’s form a face in the smoke… add some air-vibration for sound—let’s go all-out and use the really complicated version for the high-fidelity sound. We want the Voice of God to be impressive, right? Tricky work, since we’re absorbing power from a sacrifice and burning coals, and forming a smoke-face, and generating air vibrations for sound… very tricky work, indeed. Now, can we tie it all together? Yes, I think so. If I isolate the effect of one to the interior of the brazier, one to the exterior, and then have the rest project upward… good… yes, I think this will work.

  Still there? I asked.

  Is the world still flat?

  Okay, I’ve got the prototype built. Want to poke it and tell me where it breaks?

  I felt the movement of power, a shifting of perspectives, a strange bending of space. The whole world moved around me. It lasted only a moment, then everything was as it was before.

  I was standing in a different spot, about a quarter-turn clockwise around the rim of the brazier.

  It looks good, I was told. I think it’ll work.

  Did you just move me? I demanded.

  Um. Yes?

  You took over my body.

  Yes. I’m sorry, but you did say to poke the thing. I took an up-close look at it through you to—

  I DIDN’T MEAN— I started, then shut myself up. Me, not the other one. I put my hands on the rim of the brazier and leaned on it. The heat from the sanctified coals in the consecrated brazier didn’t burn my hands. I let go of the brazier hurriedly and pretended it didn’t happen.