Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  If only those riders had returned. Rafael thought the affairs of Holy Dalia were a convoluted mess. Sebastien Tiron was a healer who tended to some of Rafael’s own in the war three years past. A skittish but skilled healer, utterly worthless in secrecy or deception. Yet someone in Dale sent satchels to him with all haste, and an Animus Stone.

  What is your play, Lutessa?

  Rafael recalled that Ser Jacob knew naught of this, and thought that the imperium was at fault.

  Forged tokens in the satchels, the Order of Light laying waste to the village, entrusting Sebastien Tiron with the very relic we seek. Perhaps Ashleigh was right all along: this no more than the priesthood’s ploy to put Ser Elin back upon the field. Is that why there has been no resistance along the way, letting their own people and trusted knights die, to demonstrate dire need?

  “Serenity is no more than a burnt-out husk,” Rafael declared, studying Daskin. The man never raised his eyes, and kept rubbing his hands together. “Where is the guide you sent with these knights?”

  “Did not return. Did not return.”

  “You would not lie to me, would you Daskin?”

  “Bugger off!” Magistrate Wilson shouted, rising to his feet. Yarin near knocked the fat man down, but Rafael let him speak. “You ask a question you know the answer to. The guide is dead, no doubt. You herd us like cattle to slaughter us, as you surely did to Serenity.”

  I am not him, not yet!

  Rafael stood and planted a dagger in the magistrate’s neck. The large man tried to speak; his hands vainly groping for the blade, falling fitfully to his side.

  “Whatever I may do, I did not do that to Serenity,” Rafael bristled. “Do you hear me, Magistrate? I did not bring ruin to that hamlet!”

  The magistrate did not reply. His fingers were no longer twitching.

  Rafael nodded, and the two other sentinels at the doors beheaded the cowering priestesses.

  “Daskin,” Rafael said. “My riders will return from Serenity shortly. If I should discover that you have lied to me, your own death will be the least of your concerns.”

  “W-will I b-be l-like them?”

  “No. Yarin, take the fool to any of the chambers here, and lock him up. We will have need of him.”

  The spindly fool gone, Rafael looked out the window at the people below. Many of the men were worn down by labour and fear, the women whispered furtively with hands on the shoulders of their children. There were babes still at breast, pink faced and squirming.

  Whatever god there may be, forgive us for what must be done.

  “All is set, Lord Commander,” Ashleigh said solemnly. “They await only your order.”

  “Then let us face it.”

  Rafael lead the sentinels down the steps and out of the town hall. None spoke. Standing on the green, he shielded his eyes, and saw the archers in studded leather atop the walls and buildings, arrows loosed and nocked, all directed towards the market square.

  Where every man, woman, and child was hemmed in.

  “To arms!” Rafael shouted, and he raised his right arm in the air.

  The men-at-arms turned their pikes towards the crowd, and the screams started. This is the will of the imperator, even if it is tainted by the dark, twisted counsellor.

  Rafael dropped his arm.

  A volley of arrows fell upon the people. Men lost their wits and charged at the pikes, only to be speared through the chest. Children tried to scamper away, only to find a mailed fist crushing their skulls. Women screamed their lungs out, until they gurgled blood, arrows piercing their throats.

  The archers did not wait for a command. Draw. Nock. Loose. Screams. Blood. Death. The dead fell on top of each other, those still clinging to life suffocating under a pile of corpses, blood puddling, stretching out.

  None escaped the circle as volley after volley came down.

  Rafael dropped to his knees, and felt bile build up in his throat. “Send word south, Ian. Tell the thrice accursed Voice that her realm will burn, lest she gives it to us. Tell her—”

  “Take him away,” he heard Ashleigh command. Rafael did not fight Lucas and Ian as they took him into the town hall.

  The cries of the dead and dying were deafening, even with hands pressed against his ears.

  He was a butcher.

  He was just like his old friend.

  Chapter Eight

  The Crystal Throne

  Johnathan approached the Cathedral of Light.

  He mounted the wide, marble steps. Looking up, the twin steeples towered defiantly—gilded and banded upon the peaks. Below it, the stained glass above the oaken doors scintillated in the pale glow of morning. The cathedral instilled hope and faith, but he only felt reservation.

  “Lord Protector,” Ser Reginald Corse of the Faith Templar hailed, off to the side of the cathedral’s tall oaken doors. The knight’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and his helm was in the crook of his elbow. “Your retinue awaits you within, ser.”

  “Did they arrive ‘ere long?”

  “No, Lord Protector. Mere moments ago.”

  “May Mother God bless your steel,” Johnathan said, clapping a hand to the knight’s shoulder.

  “And She your judgment, Lord Protector.”

  If only She knew of what I intend, Johnathan thought, passing through the oaken doors.

  Inside the fluted pillars reached to the immense ceiling; stained glass covered ceiling from end to end, depicting the prophet Gabriel spreading the word of Mother God on the streets of Trank, before the old king cast the faithful out. The pale light bathed priests in white robes, who turned and looked at him askance, their eyes judgmental and weary.

  Plate rang off the marble floor as his retinue approached. They were armoured from head to foot, with visors down, and mailed fists were against their hearts.

  “Come, sers, the Voice awaits,” Johnathan said solemnly.

  The cathedral was quiet in the early morning, and the sound of footfalls were a clamorous echo. The priests with disgruntled expressions continued to glare, but he did not heed them. He knew what his knights did for the city, for their Faith. That was the only solace he ever needed.

  In the distance, the pillars pushed inwards towards a long, ornate bridge—the sides a sheer fall to the foremost floor of the library. Further ahead was the Hall of Prayer: long and wide, hundreds of pews lined across the space, arching towards a flat dais, and a towering sculpture of Mother God. No priest held service at the lectern, and of petitioners there were few.

  I knelt there once, my mother beside me. That was long ago. I, a mere boy. He led his retinue around the pews to the left, and down a narrow path. Near the left side of the dais was a door, and a tall, bald steward crossed his arms, staring contemptuously.

  “This is a place of peace, not a battleground,” the man chastised. “Would it be so taxing to ask that your kind don formal wear, as befits the rest of Holy Dalia?”

  “See to your own affairs, and we shall see to ours,” Johnathan replied gruffly. “The Voice waits upon us.”

  “Hearken my words, sers,” the steward declared before standing aside. “It would be Mother God’s wish, as well as mine.”

  Whilst ascending the narrow stairs, he found it hard to contain his resentment. The imperium was on their doorstep, the Northlands burned, and still the priesthood looked towards him as they would bandits or vagrants. Fervent faith and prayers to Mother God did not protect them, the knights did. He did.

  He emerged into the Halls of Faith. Maids and the Faith Templar scurried about. Looking to the oaken doors at the northern end, the last of the priests entered the Chamber of Judgment.

  Along the walls were murals of every Voice and her deeds from the past three hundred years, all save for a partial caricature near the doors, he noted, reserved for young Lutessa, whose deeds were still to be writ.

  What will this child’s story be? The Voice who stood strong in the face of overwhelming odds, or gave in to hysteria whilst her countr
y burned?

  Johnathan wrested his eyes forward, and hailed Ser Harbert, commander of the Faith Templar.

  “Ser. I answer the summons of the Voice.”

  “Lord Protector,” Ser Harbert responded, but looked past him, quizzically inspecting the knights beyond. “Visors raised, sers, I would have your names.”

  To a man they obeyed, and Johnathan did all he could to look impatient.

  “Ser Tomas Marst.”

  “Ser Tomas, it is good to see you well. How fairs the campaign in the Northlands?”

  “Of that I cannot speak, Ser Harbert. Ser Johnathan must needs share those first with the Voice.”

  Good lad.

  “Of course he shall. This audience can have no other meaning.”

  The second knight spoke up. “Ser Gerod Frenton.”

  “Ser Gerod.” Ser Harbert grinned. “How long has it been? Too long, I think.”

  “I have only returned to the city, Ser Harbert. We should drink when we can.”

  “That we shall. The last of you.”

  Johnathan did not know what would come to pass. Ser Harbert trusted him, but trust and treason were too separate matters. We swore the same vows, but the Faith Templar owes their allegiance to the Voice.

  “Ser Aldan Trenan.”

  “Ser.” Harbert replied diligently, turning to the Faith Templar. “Admit them to the Voice’s presence.”

  Johnathan felt relief as he watched the doors creak open. He signaled his retinue forward, and Ser Harbert grabbed him in embrace, whispering faintly. “I am not so old that I do not recognize Ser Aldan as the hero of yore. I trust you know what I shall have to do if the Voice calls for aid.”

  Johnathan steeled himself, returning the knight’s embrace. “I do, ser, but I ask you for time and faith.”

  “I shall give you what I can, but I will send none of my knights to the gallows.”

  Johnathan wrenched free and walked into the chamber.

  He saw that the lower and upper tiers were near full. Stewards, scholars and priests were in attendance, all save the magisters, who rarely concerned themselves with affairs betwixt the orders.

  Lord Gareth Polin sat in his appointed place at the centre of the upper tier, whispering—conspiring—with his fellow stewards, Johnathan knew. Most of them were young, cocking their heads, pointing at him and his knights, jesting and gawking.

  I do not trust you. Every leer from your order only emboldens me against you.

  Johnathan turned to the scholars, who were seated to the right, and he espied the plump first scholar, Anastasia, who looked down friendly and jovial. Unlike the stewards, the scholars were near silent, masking their contempt.

  The priests sat upon the central tier, glaring and scowling, though none more than who the knights called the Blessed Three: Fathers Dominic, Augustus, and Buchannan. Johnathan knew them as aged men of like mind, conventional, though their religious fervor neared fanaticism.

  The oaken doors closed, and two of the Faith Templar placed a bar upon the ancient door. Johnathan’s retinue behind, he kneeled, eyes to the Crystal Throne of Mother God—a tall, but humble seat wrought of marble, and a clear window behind let in the pale glow of the morning sun, illuminating the young features of High Priestess Lutessa, Holy Dalia’s Voice. Tall and slim, her thick brown hair fell in waves. She was garbed in a draping white robe of the Faith, trimmed in gold. Strong and firm, she did not glare, but there was no pleasantness either.

  Not an ounce of formality unheeded.

  Beside her were lesser chairs. Upon the Voice’s right was Counsel of State Rachel Du’vron. She was skinny and wore a red dress with a green hem; her long blonde hair flowed down in waves. Johnathan knew them to be close as sisters.

  Upon the left was a wizened old man, hunched, his oaken cane leaning against his chair. Counsel of Faith El Lucourt leaned back, eyes half closed, as if dismally unaware. Johnathan knew better: a word never passed without his knowing it; and the weight of his words always held strong with the Voice

  “I come before the Voice of Mother God. She called, and here I kneel.”

  “Rise,” the Voice called from her seat. Johnathan obeyed, and put his hands behind his back, listening. “My will shall be heard, and we, all of us, shall take part in the decisions that must be made. The time for swift action and strong hearts draws near.”

  The Voice paused, staring down upon the knights, before turning to the tiers. Johnathan met the eyes of Counsel Rachel then, dark and intent. The counsel employed many little birds and whisperers, and from her glares, Johnathan feared she knew too much.

  “I would have the fate of Ser Jacob Merlen,” the Voice pronounced. “Is that he who stands in honour? I would have word of his deeds. The Northlands ails, and I would bring them into the embrace of Mother God once more.”

  Johnathan swallowed a lump in his throat, unsure of what was news. “He stands not with me. A knight under his guard attends. Ser Tomas Marst. Come,” the knight strode forward, bowing slightly. “He returned to us with news, no more than two weeks past. I thought to return him to Ser Jacob, but then I was stayed.”

  “Why?” Counsel Rachel stepped forward to speak. “What news have you withheld from this chamber, from the Voice?”

  “I have not withheld, Counsel,” Johnathan replied tacitly, leering towards the counsel of state. “I do not present myself before the Voice unless I am sure of a course. I am now. Show them, Ser Tomas.”

  The knight unlatched a burlap sack from his waist, withdrawing the tarred head of Ser Jacob Merlen. Counsel Rachel stepped back in horror.

  Naught all reaches your ears, it seems.

  Men and women in the tiers keeled over, retching, while others cried and wailed in disbelief. The Voice did not stir; she only narrowed her eyes. “To bring this before me, in this holy place, a knight so revered, and a faithful servant of Mother God. Would you explain yourself, Lord Protector?”

  Those who kept their poise looked on scornfully, judgmental and wroth. Johnathan did not fear them. “For three years we have stood in these hallowed halls bickering and fighting amongst each other. The overlord has a firm boot to our throat, and we cannot decide who broke faith, and who is to blame. And now, this very chamber has blood on its hands. The blood of Ser Jacob. Look at him. All of you. Look at what you have wrought.”

  “What has that to do with Ser Jacob’s severed head?” Counsel Rachel pressed, dismissing his plea. “We should be questioning Ser Tomas on which traitor betrayed your order, and send the wretch to the gallows.”

  “This chamber is so far lost, so engrossed in judgment,” Johnathan declared, shrugging his shoulders. “Yet I implore every steward, scholar and priest to look upon what the Isilians have done. I do not know what you seemed to think passed in the Northlands. What we know beyond a doubt is that the imperium has come, burning as they go.”

  The tiers erupted, the cries and shouts deafening. He stood there, hands behind his back. He could not help but think back to Ser Elin’s tribunal three years past; whence these robed men and women cast out the very knight who had staved off the Cleaver Prince.

  Soon you will know who stands here; who is the only man who can stop what is to come.

  The Voice held her right hand up, and the chamber fell silent. “I would hear first what you know.”

  Johnathan inclined his head slightly, meeting the soft eyes of the Voice. “Last we heard from Ser Jacob, the port town of Falen was being razed, and that he would send word once the foe was pushed back. That did not come.” Johnathan closed his eyes, pained from the fresh wound. “The tarred head sent to us is a declaration of war from a ruthless tyrant. A warlord who has stewed in discontent for three years. Imperator Argath Diomedes needed naught but a push to throw our realm unto the chaos of war.

  “We have heard—and discussed—the disturbing rumours of the disbanding of the Ruling Council in Isil, and that the imperator’s sole counsel is a cloaked stranger who dare not show his face. The Faceless Shadow th
ey called him. Indeed, his shadow has cast far. It is time that the chamber allows my knights to do more than investigate attacks of beasts and bandits. I would ride north with all our strength, and send Lord Commander Rafael Azail’s head to Imperator Argath Diomedes and this Faceless Shadow!”

  There was naught but the stirring of robes, and Counsel El Lucourt slowly rose from his seat. The Voice nodded, permitting the old man to speak. “You would cast doubt upon the imperator by hearsay alone, Ser Johnathan? An enemy of ours once, that is true, but he has been our friend these past three years. None here dare think he would hold true for all the years remaining to him, yet our enemy still looms large, and without each other, our countries would fall quickly.” The counsel shook his head. “I thought you seasoned, ser. Such conclusions I expect out of squires in the mess hall, lost in drink.”

  Johnathan knew Counsel El Lucourt as a cynic on all matters save faith. It took long for the Voice to grant permission to send Ser Jacob north; solely on account of the counsel’s demands.

  There is no more room for that dissenting voice. “Counsel, I am certain that the Isilians have come.”

  “Certainty means less now than it did before, I see. Are you so foolish to think the Trecht has been content with licking its wounds all these years? Their goodwill has been a feint. A port town was burned first, you said? It is far more likely to be a tactic of Prince Adreyu Marcanas. Their fleets, like the islanders, were left intact. The imperium nary has enough wood for ships to ferry across the sea. I would learn more before I hear any more of this vile speech.”

  I cannot wait on you any longer, old man. “While you waited to learn more, the blood of our sons and daughters would feed the earth. I would not sit idly by while our land is razed. I would meet the Isilians on the field of battle.”

  “If you—”

  “Whomever it may be,” the Voice declared while waving a hand at the counsel of faith, beseeching his silence. “I must agree with Ser Johnathan that it is one of our enemies, and we must answer them. The land belongs to Mother God. I will not have its sanctity threatened. You may march north to meet this foe, cast them back, whether east or west.”