by Vox Day
“I am here …” it rumbled in a low voice that reeked of evil.
“Have a go at the gentleman in that circle there, will you? There’s a good fellow.”
Bessarias shot an angry look at Galamiras, but the Grandmaster only smiled and pointed to the circle of flames that sprang up around Herwaldus each time the bull-headed demon attempted to strike at him. Gilthalon was playing fair. The malignant spirit roared in anguish, then turned on its summoner, only to be driven back by a whip of silver fire that suddenly appeared in the Magistras’ hand.
“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out of that circle there,” the demon master told the monk as he lashed the howling spirit.” “Our friend is more than a little agitated, I’m afraid.”
“Begone, by the blood of the Lamb,” Herwaldus ignored the demonlord. “Begone, in the name of my Lord Immanuel I command you!”
Vast silence filled the hall as the angry spirit disappeared with a furious scream. Gilthalon dropped his whip, which lay crackling and hissing as his feet as consternation filled his face.
“You didn’t even know his name!”
“I don’t need it. My Lord is the Alpha and the Omega.”
Herwaldus bowed politely, but not before Bessarias saw his lips twitch with a small smile of satisfaction. Gilthalon saw it too, and it fanned the flames of his ire. His cheeks reddened, and the gold of his eyes darkened to a furious bronze as he began a third summoning.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” the Magistras Morte commented, as Gilthalon’s chanting continued for an ominously long time. “Think the shield will hold?”
“Nothing can break it,” Bessarias heard Galamiras answer confidently.
“I do hope you’re right.”
Bessarias hoped so too, as upon the cessation of the demonlord’s chant, a noxious golden fog began to coalesce and swirl inside the magic shield only ten feet in front of him. As it solidified, it became quickly apparent that there was something very large writhing and thrashing about inside of it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that some of the more cautious spectators in the back were beginning to slip quietly out of the Great Hall.
If Herwaldus was having second thoughts about this whole venture, Bessarias couldn’t blame him. Even from the safety of his position outside of the impenetrable shield, he felt as if his insides were turning to water. Next to him, he could feel Galamiras gathering his power. Swallowing hard, he did the same.
Gilthalon looked confident, though, and his expression was initially one of savage delight. But his composure was shaken, along with the Great Hall itself, when a vast thunderclap boomed and echoed repeatedly off the stone walls and he found himself on his knees before a terrible six-armed being, twice the height of an elf, all fire and metallic flesh, with a serrated sword in every hand except for the one pointing at the Magistras Daemonae. Its beautiful, androgynous face was distorted with affronted outrage.
“Who are you?” it demanded as four silver wings unfurled behind its back and almost touched the gilded timbers of the ceiling.
The diableriste pushed himself to his feet, and in anger found his courage as he stared up at the tall angelic creature. He gestured threateningly with the whip of arcane fire.
“What concern is that of yours? I have summoned you, and you will obey me!”
For a moment, Bessarias thought the great archdemon might test the power of Gilthalon’s circle, but something in Gilthalon’s determined face must have dissuaded it, for its wings abruptly descended and its blazing radiance dimmed a little. The Magistras nodded slowly.
“You fear to try me? Then you are wise. But if you would test yourself, you may try him. He claims that he can master you, that you shall flee at his command.”
As the demon turned around, it shot a last, withering glare at Gilthalon, but saved its most scornful sneer for Herwaldus, who was eyeing the great being with an unreadable expression.
“Then come out of the circle, if you think yourself equal to the task, human.”
Slowly, deliberately, the old monk scuffed the protective chalk with his left foot. His eyes locked on the demon’s, he took a single step forward, accompanied by a chorus of gasps from the watching magicians. Bessarias looked away, not wishing to witness the human’s violent end. He was surprised when he heard nothing but the old monk’s high-pitched voice.
“You have no power over me,” Herwaldus announced. He folded his arms and seemed to grow in stature, in authority. “Nor will you harm me. You know who I am, and you know the one I serve.”
The demon said nothing. It only growled low in its throat.
“What is your name?” the human demanded.
“Vashyash,” it answered in an imperious voice.
“Go then, Vashyash, leave here and return no more. In the name of my Lord Immanuel, who lives and reigns at the right hand of the Father, I command you!”
“I hear. I obey.”
Gilthalon shrieked in protest, but to no avail. Swifter than it had come, the demon dissolved into the golden cloud, which rapidly disintegrated, leaving only the bittersweet scent of myrrh behind. Then Herwaldus turned to face Bessarias, and with a sad smile, bowed respectfully.
“I trust the demonstration was satisfactory?”
Then he reached out, and to the great horror of every magician present, stuck his arm right through the magical shield. Its translucent shimmering immediately became opaque, then, with a blinding flash brighter than the noonday sun, exploded into a myriad of colors that rapidly faded into nothingness.
The little monk bowed his head humbly and made the sign of the cross on his chest. But because all eyes were fixed upon him, no one saw a grey flash leap onto the pavilion and spring at the man’s spindly legs while he was still giving thanks to his god.
“Glory to Your great name, Almighty Father …”
“I warned you, you idiots!” Bessarias started at the sound of his familiar’s voice.“Mmmph!”
Herwaldus shrieked and clutched at his leg, almost toppling over on top of his attacker. It was Mastema, and he had buried his sharp feline fangs into the soft muscle of the human’s calf.
“Bind him!” Gilthalon screamed furiously, taking advantage of the human’s distraction, and the Magistras Materiale was quick to obey. Herwaldus suddenly flew backward through the air, and smashed into the stone wall behind the dais. He hung there, stunned, suspended by invisible chains that the Magistras rapidly wove out of the air itself as Mastema smiled in bloody satisfaction.
“Pah!” he theatrically spat out a small chunk of withered manflesh. “I’d rather eat swamp goblin.”
“What are you doing?” Bessarias shouted at Gilthalon. “He has done no wrong!”
“No? You saw what he just did. We cannot permit him to live!”
“So what are you going to do, kill him now?” Bessarias appealed to the Grandmaster. “Look at him, Custodas. He’s helpless!”
“I hope so. If I thought he could escape those binds, I’d let Gilthalon kill him right now.” The Grandmaster’s eyes were dark with worry. “But we really must learn more about the source of his power. We must have it from him, one way or another.”
“What, you’re going to torture him?”
“If we must. Though I hope it won’t come to that.”
Gilthalon, however, was not interested in the source of the human’s power. Humiliated in front of his peers, the demon-master was intent on revenge. Even as the two magistres spoke, he was approaching Herwaldus with his golden eyes filled with hate. Twirling his fiery whip in his left hand, the diableriste smiled cruelly as he came to a halt in front of the monk.
“I can’t say that I was not impressed. But you should have let Vashyash kill you. He can be untidy, but at least he is quick. I, on the other hand, am not so inclined to mercy.”
He flicked his wrist, and the magical whip slashed across the human’s face. Herwaldus did not cry out, but his eyes bulged out and five blistering burns appeared instantly on his left cheek.
The watching crowd cheered and shouted insults at the suspended human. One enthusiastic young mage hurled a fireball high over the monk’s head, sending sparks raining down upon his white robe when it splattered on the stone wall.
“Galamiras, stop them,” Bessarias said grimly. “You’ll learn nothing from a dead man.”
“I imagine there are a few necromancers here who might disagree with you, my dear Magistras.”
“Silence, Mastema!”
Bessarias angrily kicked at his pet, but it easily avoided the blow.
“You came to tell us of your god?” Gilthalon was mocking the monk as he struck him a second time. “We, who are ourselves gods?”
Herwaldus lifted his head and started to respond, but the words never left his mouth. Bessarias, sickened by the barbaric spectacle, had had enough. He lifted his hand. A blast of soul-fire erupted from his open palm, burning through the monk’s heart and severing the mystic silver chain that linked every mortal soul to its body. There would be no necromancy here today.
Gilthalon whirled around, furious at being cheated of his victim, as a shocked silence descended upon the hall so fast one would have thought a mute spell had been cast. Galamiras, his face full of consternation, clutched at his sleeve, but Bessarias angrily pushed the Custodas away. Rage filled his heart, and it was all he could do to refrain from sending another blast or two at his erstwhile colleagues, not to mention Mastema. Lesser magicians scrambled to get out of his way as he stalked from the hall in search of Kilios.
• • •
“I thought you might come. Is he dead yet?”
“Yes,” Bessarias nodded. “I killed him.”
Kilios raised his eyebrows but did not rebuke him. He only frowned and looked off into the distance, before returning his gaze to Bessarias.
“You seem perturbed,” the former seer said.
“I am. He was a good man, but they were angry, and afraid. I did not want to see him suffer.”
“I know. Do you think they will seek to chastise you?”
Bessarias scoffed at the thought.
“Over a human? Even if they cared, they wouldn’t dare. No, I am not troubled by my actions, but by what I saw today. It is as if my eyes have suddenly been opened, and what I see of the world no longer fits my previous understanding.”
The former seer nodded, a faint smile playing across his lips.
“I understand.”
“Kilios, for my entire life, I have been seeking power, knowledge, wisdom. But to what end? Today, I saw the wisest, most powerful elves in all of Selenoth acting exactly like a barbarous gang of orcs! They saw something that they did not understand, they were forced to confront something they feared, and so they reacted in exactly the same manner as an illiterate, devil-worshipping, mud-rooting swamp goblin! But what is the point of all this painstakingly gathered knowledge if in the end we reap naught but a harvest of death?
“When I first began my studies, I sought nothing more than the truth behind all things. Today, I learned that I have found nothing of that truth here, nothing of beauty, nothing but ten thousand means of creating the utmost devastation and destruction!”
“I am sorry,” answered the seer. “What would you do?”
“If I cannot find the truth here, I must go elsewhere. I will follow in the footsteps of that orc of whom Herwaldus told us, and go to the brothers of the Tertullian Order. I don’t know if their truth is the one I seek, but I am certain that Herwaldus knew more of it than me.”
Kilios smiled, and he placed a hand on Bessarias’ shoulder.
“Then we shall travel together, my friend. And that your troubled heart may know some peace, let me tell you of the last vision I saw before my sight was taken from me. I saw a man with blood on his hands touch my eyes, and the dark cloud which surrounded me disappeared, replaced by a shining ray of brilliant light. I saw you striking down a white lamb with an iron dagger, then hurl the dagger from you, far beyond the horizon. And finally, I saw the two of us, standing side by side before the walls of a great city.”
“I will never give up my magic!” Bessarias growled at his friend. “If that is your interpretation, then your vision is a false one, and it comforts me not at all.”
“Who can say what the future will bring?” Kilios spread his hands. “But Herwaldus is dead, is he not, and by your hand. My friend, I do not tell you what you must do, I can only tell you what I have seen. For myself, I am glad to be freed of the prison of my visions.”
“I rejoice to hear it. But I will not give up my magic, I don’t care what you have seen.”
“The choice is always yours, Magistras. Shall we seek that great city together nevertheless?”
Bessarias nodded.
“We will do that, Kilios, and we will leave immediately. First we travel to Æmor, and if what we seek cannot be found there, we shall go to lands and cities yet unknown.”
“You would leave today?”
“At once,” answered Bessarias without hesitation. “I have wasted three centuries here. I would not squander another night!”
Kilios nodded sagaciously. “I expected as much, and so I have already arranged for supplies and clothing to be prepared for both of us, as well as four horses for the journey. Go and fetch whatever else you would bring, and I will await you at the front gate.”
Bessarias laughed aloud. He was amazed at how his frothing anger had suddenly been transformed somehow into something approaching joy. Herwaldus had spoken often of dying that others might live, and for the first time, Bessarias felt some inkling of understanding what the little human might have meant by that.
• • •
It took him little time to gather those possessions he felt he could not do without. Where he was headed, he would have very little need of anything. He packed up a few of his most precious belongings, among them an old manuscript enscribed in the hand of his master, the scryglass, and a small gold-and-silver working of the calengalad. He took it for remembrance’s sake; as for the calengalad itself, it was a conundrum that would have to await some other inquisitor. He had other, more important riddles to solve. He took one last look back at the well-appointed room in which he had spent so many decades, then softly closed the door and began to make his way down the countless stairs of the broadly twisting staircase.
He had just turned the corner of the tower’s final landing when he heard someone call his name.
“Bessarias!”
It was the Custodas, Galamiras. The Grandmaster was waiting in the shadows at the bottom of the dark granite steps.
“I heard that you were leaving. It’s true, then?”
“It is true,” Bessarias said, in a firm, but friendly manner. He held up a small bag of jewels, which held centuries-old Vingaaran rubies of such quality that they would do honor to the High King’s crown. “Kilios and I are going to Æmor. Do you think these will pay for a month’s worth of inns along the road?”
“Don’t use those. If those happen to be the stones I think they are, someone will burn down the inn around you in hopes of getting at them. Take the eastern route, and I’ll arrange for Mondrythen to provide you with a bag of Amorran coin before you reach the border. But the human city? Why there, and why so suddenly? Because of your guest? I do not understand. What is a human to the likes of you and me?”
Bessarias stared at Galamiras for a long moment. He wasn’t sure he could properly explain himself, not in a manner the other elf would comprehend.
“It has little to do with the human. He was only the catalyst. I think the reason I must leave is that I’m beginning to suspect that the truth I’m seeking is one which cannot be found here.”
Galamiras frowned, but finally, he nodded in sympathy if not understanding.
“I hope you find your truth, Bessarias. Will you return to the College?”
“Someday. I think so. But, Custodas, I must tell you, I do not think it will be the same Bessarias you see before you now.
The Grandmaster lau
ghed.
“I am not entirely sure I know the Bessarias who stands before me now. But you will always be numbered among us, old friend, whatever truth you find and however far you travel. Be safe, and be well.”
Bessarias bowed deeply and respectfully. He raised a hand in farewell and turned to leave. Then a thought occurred to him, and he lifted his head.
“Galamiras, will you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
Bessarias reached into his robes and drew out the intricate model of the calengalad. He studied the precious metal for a moment, almost wistfully, then sighed and handed it to Galamiras.
“I don’t need this anymore, but I suppose someone will someday. Give this to them, with my regards, will you? And my sympathies.”
“I will do that,” the Custodas Occulti agreed, but he had a suspicious look on his face. “You’ve given up on that particular line of inquiry, then?”
“Do you know, I think I might have.”
Galamiras smiled wryly.
“So the door to that particular abyss shall remain locked for a while longer. I imagine that’s something that I really should regret given my position, but somehow, I find that I cannot. Hark,is that the world I hear, breathing a deep sigh of relief? Fare you well, Bessarias.”
Bessarias only chuckled and raised his hand in benediction. He started to leave, thenpaused as he sensed someone watching him. He turned around and saw that Mastema was staring at him, unblinking, from the shadows underneath the circular stairwell. The cat’s yellow eyes seemed to radiate contempt, but there was a hint of distress in its harsh voice as it called out to him.
“You leave without so much as a word for me, Magistras?”
Bessarias tried to think of something, anything, to say to his longtime companion, who had served him so faithlessly and well, but he found himself at a loss for words. As he stared back at the cat, a question Herwaldus had asked him once before entered his mind, unbidden. It was a question, but it was also an answer.
