by Jak Koke
And yet, only a tiny fraction of pilgrims survived the journey past the border of the Plaguewrought Land where the spellplague thrived. The vast majority of them simply vanished, consumed by the blue fire, and were never heard from again. A tiny few survived exposure, and of those many grew sick or were hideously transformed. These ended up under Kaylinn’s care, and quite a few found final rest in the funeral pyre.
“I need to tend to the dying,” Kaylinn said, then made her way toward the healing tents.
Glancing back at the fire pit, Slanya no longer felt the allure of the flames. Ah well, there were worse places she could be. Here, she could work to better the lives of others and ensure the justice of their passage into the realms beyond the veil of death.
Some people would consider working with the dead and dying to be taxing and heinous duty, but Slanya liked it. People on the edge of death were more real, more immediately themselves as they saw the horizon of their life so close. Many were full of regret; some were consumed by guilt and wanted nothing more than to confess. Few were ready to meet Kelemvor. Slanya liked helping them make peace with their lives and prepare for their journey.
Slanya slipped into the quiet of the monastery. She moved quickly and silently past the central courtyard where a group of monk brothers and sisters sat in a meditation circle. Mind and body are one. That was the first lesson a monk learned, but it was one that needed to be learned and relearned, for it had many levels.
The daily construction work had stopped, and the sun had dipped-nearly time for the evening meal. Slanya loved this time. She liked the quiet, the peace, and above all the precise timing and regularity. Order meant knowing exactly what to expect. Adherence to law was one of the founding principles that defined a monk’s being and allowed her to realize unity of mind and body and derive power from it.
Next to the disorder of the city of Ormpetarr and a stone’s throw from the untamed wildness of the Plaguewrought Land, the temple complex of Kelemvor was a sanctuary. The structure and arrangement of the monastery-the peace- made this her home.
The bright afternoon gave way to shadows and darkness in the hallway between the small chapel and Gregor’s study. The silent corridor was punctuated only by the muffled sounds of voices. People were talking in urgent tones, and if Slanya concentrated, she could just make out what they were saying.
“I do not want a repeat failure,” a woman’s voice said, possibly the Vraith woman from the Order of Blue Fire whom Kaylinn had spoken of.
“Of course not, Vraith.” That deep voice belonged to Gregor-Kaylinn’s right hand and the man who had intervened when Slanya was just a child. Intervened and saved her.
Slanya approached the door, acutely aware of the empty hall. She lingered for a moment, silent and listening. All her life she’d had the ability to be quiet and unobserved. As a child, before … before the accident with her aunt that had left her an orphan, she’d honed the skill to be present without being noticed. Drawing attention often led to pain.
From the other side of the heavy wooden door, Gregor spoke again. “I am committed to the well-being of all pilgrims to the Plaguewrought Land who seek exposure to spellplague.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said the other. “We also have our ideals-similar to yours, in fact. Do you think you can help?”
“Perhaps if you gave me more details about the ritual-” Gregor began.
“The ritual is vast and complex,” Vraith said. “And I am not about to reveal the secrets of it. However, I can tell you that the key component involves weaving the life threads of sentient creatures together and igniting this new pattern with spellplague from the border veil.
“The pilgrims I use are volunteers, of course, and selected based on their health and vigor. The ritual magic weaves the threads of their souls into a combined entity-a tapestry that matches the mesh of the border veil. So far, none of the volunteers have survived long enough to finish the weave.
“Brother Gregor, our plan requires that these volunteers survive this ordeal. I’ve heard rumors that you are passing out a potion to pilgrims seeking exposure to the blue fire. These rumors say the potion guarantees their survival.”
“Well, the elixir doesn’t guarantee anyone will survive.” Slanya could hear the excitement in Gregor’s voice. “But pilgrims do survive exposure longer. I can show you my charts if you’d like. The results of my latest trials have been phenomenal.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll trust you.” Vraith’s voice grew smooth. “So how can we obtain some of this magic elixir?”
“This ritual of yours,” Gregor asked, “it doesn’t kill the pilgrims, does it?”
“No, no. Although during the ritual, the volunteers’ exposure to the blue fire is prolonged. If they can survive that, they can survive the ritual.”
“And,” Gregor continued, “the purpose of this ritual is …?”
“Imagine being able to create barriers to the plaguelands,” Vraith said. “Imagine if we could replicate something like the border veil anywhere we wanted. We could contain the storms and the outbreaks …” Her voice trailed off, and there was a scuffling of feet from the room beyond.
Slanya’s eyes had adjusted, and the corridor was much brighter now. She felt more conspicuous, more vulnerable in the open hallway. If somebody were to come in …
Calm down, she told herself. Breathe. She took a moment to center herself, anchor her body and mind together.
“You make a powerful argument,” Gregor said.
“Excellent! If this next ritual proves successful,” Vraith said, “we will need thousands more doses. The festival is a few days away. Can you provide that many?”
The festival? Slanya considered for a moment. Vraith must be referring to the Festival of Blue Fire. Thousands of pilgrims were gathering in and around Ormpetarr that tenday to participate. It was one of the reasons the numbers of sick and dead had increased.
Gregor said, “I will need more reagents to produce that much. But I’m already working on getting more.”
“How long will it take?” Vraith’s benevolent tone gave way to one of commanding urgency. “If the next test works, I’ll want the elixir ready to distribute.”
“Several days at least,” Gregor said. “One of the ingredients is very difficult to acquire.”
“Get started right away. This is critical.” The sharpness in Vraith’s voice made Slanya wince.
When Gregor spoke again, there was a warning in his tone. “Let me do my job and you do yours. I am provisionally committed, because this ritual of yours seems to be the key to containing spellplague. That is a worthy goal, and one which can make a profound change in the world. But do not take that tone again with me. I do not take orders from you.”
“Can you create more elixir or not?”
Gregor paused. “Yes, I don’t expect it to be a problem.”
Vraith’s tone was back to sweet and peaceful, “Perfect. I’ll let you get to it then.”
Abruptly there were footsteps and the sounds of movement. They were headed this way, toward the door where Slanya was standing. Getting closer.
Slanya’s heart shot into her throat, and in her panic she missed the next part of the conversation. She was about to be discovered, and the punishment would no doubt be the switch across her back. Memories threatened to overwhelm her.
Stop it, she told herself. There were no punishments like that in the monastery. That fear came from a long-ago life she hardly remembered. That was in a past that could never hurt her again.
And with that thought, some of the adrenaline fog lifted. She focused and relaxed her breathing, calmed her heart. And she knew what to do.
She knocked on the door. After all, she had been summoned. She was supposed to be on the way.
The door opened almost immediately, revealing Gregor with his silver-dusted black hair and neatly trimmed beard. A patch over his left ear where, his spellscar had bleached his hair and skull to the pale, milky blue color of
moonstone lay bare.
Gregor gave Slanya a warm smile, “Ah, Sister Slanya, prompt as usual. Thank you for coming.”
Slanya’s heart warmed slightly at the sight of Gregor’s pleasure with her, and then she became aware of how irrational her response to Gregor was. She wanted to please him; she had held a special affinity for him ever since he’d saved her; he’d judged her and found her worthy. She knew that her reaction was less than objective, but it didn’t hurt anyone but herself.
“I am just escorting our guests here, including Commander Accordant Vraith of the Order of Blue Fire, to the gates.”
Gregor indicated a diminutive elf woman holding a wooden box, who radiated power and confidence. “Just ‘Vraith’ is fine,” she said with a slight nod.
Gregor continued, “Our business has concluded. Please walk with us.”
Slanya stood to the side as Gregor and Vraith stepped into the hallway, followed by four others who apparently did not merit introduction. Vraith wore sky-blue wizard’s robes, which shimmered in the dim light, the embroidered Order symbol of a flaming blue iris glittering on her heart. Her blonde hair was cropped short in back and straight across her brow in front, giving her an angular look.
Two of the four others, well-muscled human men in plate armor displaying the Order symbol on their chests, flanked Vraith and walked just slightly behind her. Trailing in the rear was a dwarf woman with curly red hair and glowering eyes under bushy red brows. She sported pale blue clerical robes, a faded copy of those worn by Vraith, bound at the waist by a white rope.
Next to the dwarf walked a genasi woman, wearing the bright robes of a wizard, which served to accentuate the aquamarine color of her skin. The genasi looked to be a mage to Slanya’s eyes, and considering the hydra-shaped spellscar that seemed to drip like a liquid crystal stain over her left ear, she was bound to be quite a dangerous one.
Slanya brought up the rear, grateful that her anxiety hadn’t been noticed. She would wait until she was called upon. Following Gregor and Vraith out into the late afternoon heat of the monastery courtyard, Slanya listened as their conversation shifted from business to superficiality.
“Your orders have accomplished a great deal in the short time you’ve been here,” Vraith said. “You’ve built the bulk of your temple in such a short time. It’s most impressive.”
Gregor smiled and nodded, apparently appreciative of her compliments. After a few more moments, they were at last out through the main entrance and standing in the shadow of the billowing black cloud rising from the funeral pyre off to the right.
“Brother Gregor,” Vraith said, handing the wooden box to the dwarf cleric, “thank you again for undertaking such important work.”
Gregor nodded.
“I look forward to your attendance at our ritual tonight, and I am hopeful that with your elixir we shall be successful.” “I wouldn’t miss it,” Gregor said.
Vraith smiled. “Perfect.” Then with a slight bow, she said, “May the Blue Fire burn inside you.”
The elf priestess turned and picked a path through the vast disarray of pilgrims’ tents, which filled the fields between the monastery and Ormpetarr’s main gates.
Standing next to Gregor, Slanya looked over the broad plain. The camp outside the monastery sprawled like an infection, and all attempts at establishing organization among the tents had been futile. So many new pilgrims arrived every day.
Slanya glanced across the distance at the wild city into which she rarely set foot. Unlike its ancient namesake, modern Ormpetarr was a frontier city-ruled not by a hierarchical leadership or a figurehead but governed instead by a loose alignment of power brokers.
A blue-brown haze cut a swath through the city. This was the veil-the Plaguewrought Land border that the pilgrims came here to cross, if only briefly. There was a steep drop-off just through the hazy veil, and rumor said that the terrain inside the changelands was as inconstant and volatile as a storm-wracked ocean.
The once-mighty city told of a rough history, of a glorious past now worn down by the ravages of time and the Spellplague. Ormpetarr may have once been a monument to order and to the rule of law, but the monument had shattered, and the only order or law that had arisen from the wreckage was survival of the cunning and the strong. “We are here to help establish order on the edge of chaos,” Kaylinn had told her, “where it is most needed.”
But Slanya, who preferred the quiet and ordered life in the monastery, found it hard to avoid openly gagging from the smells drifting across the fields-the aroma of food cooking mingled with the charred smell of the roasted dead from the funeral pyre. And beneath it all was the summer stench of the Plaguewrought Land itself, like rotting flesh crammed with sour oranges.
The vast encampment was no more than a disorganized jumble of tents and makeshift shelters that served as a refuge for the grotesque plaguechanged who had come for hospice care. It was also a last stop for pilgrims without the means to afford lodging in Ormpetarr.
Pilgrims! To purposefully expose the sanctity and wholeness of their bodies and minds to the destructive chaos of the Plaguewrought Land-it was insanity.
Slanya shook her head, chiding herself for the derision she felt for the pilgrims. These people came from all over the world in search of improvement, and most of them met with death or illness. She should admire their courage.
Still, as much as she tried, the most she could summon for them was pity. The lucky ones walked away alive, with some unforeseen and unearned magical power to counterbalance some physical or emotional deformity. And, she thought, the very lucky ones die quickly and in little pain. They go to Kelemvor.
Gregor sighed. “So very many souls come here looking to better themselves,” he said. “It is part of our mission now to help them accomplish that goal.”
Slanya nodded.
“And in that light, I have an important task for you,” Gregor said. He wasted no time getting to the point. “This task will require you to face chaos beyond anything you’ve ever experienced.”
Slanya felt a chill despite the afternoon sun. Over the years, Gregor had changed from the nurturing father figure who’d rescued her off the streets when she was a girl. He was no longer the man who had brought her into the fold, who had mentored her, who had treated her like his own daughter for so many years. Was that man still there behind the obsession and the fervor?
She believed he was, for she saw the old Gregor come out sometimes. His frequent acts of kindness and his thought-fulness for her well-being were evidence, were they not?
Still, he had been altered somehow, and Slanya could pinpoint the exact time it had happened. A little over a year earlier, Gregor had reported that spellplague had manifested in his chambers. They had lived far north of the Vilhon Wilds in Impiltur. Gregor claimed that spellplague had appeared and given him a vision. Then it had marked him with the spellscar he now manifested on his head.
He’d fallen ill for a month. And when he’d recovered, Gregor had told her that the spellplague manifestation had given him a new mission.
Gregor then proceeded to convince Kaylinn, and together they uprooted the temple’s clerics and monks and led them south to the Vilhon Wilds and Ormpetarr, to rebuild their monastery and offer aid to those who sought the Plaguewrought Land and those who died in its borders.
In light of his recent conversation with the leaders of the Order of Blue Fire, Slanya worried that Gregor’s new mission had become a dangerous obsession-one that was about to involve her. She looked over at him. “What must I do?”
“You must leave the temple complex and travel past the border and into the Plaguewrought Land.”
CHAPTER TWO
Reflexes borne of a thousand escapes brought Duvan into hyperawareness. The humid air clung like a heavy blanket on his skin, and his breath quickened as he crouched in the shadows of the leaning citadel tower. Duvan watched as the manticore ripped away more brick from around the widening window. The beast grinned, exposing needle teeth.
It was almost upon them.
The creature stretched its membranous wings and took brief flight, only to crash back down against the tower. Abruptly, the floor under Duvan’s feet shifted as the tower beneath him groaned under the manticore’s impact. Its wings sent gusts of wind through the ever-widening window arch, causing dirt and dust to swirl up in the room around Duvan.
“Run down!” he called to the sorcerer who had remained invisible.
A quick glance at the treasure cache told him that besides the tome that he’d come for, there were also a large number of valuables worth taking, many more than he had time to get. Without hesitation, he scooped up an armload and dumped it into his backpack, paying no heed to what it contained.
That would have to do. Now to get out of-
The window frame’s masonry exploded, showering Duvan with rubble. The creature burst through the wall, landing in a crouch in the center of the room and deafening Duvan with a load roar. Throwing his backpack over his shoulders, Duvan darted for the door and the stairs that would take him down and out.
The manticore brought its tail around and flicked it, sending a sharp spike hurtling toward Duvan. The thing might not kill him, but it would hurt, and it would certainly slow him down enough that the creature could catch him and eat him.
Duvan’s awareness grew clear as he watched the spike. He dodged to the side and the spike whizzed past him.
A low grunt came from behind him. Turning, Duvan saw the sorcerer reappear. Surprise showed on the man’s face, and it drained of color as Duvan started toward him. The manticore tail spike protruded from the sorcerer’s chest. He slumped to the floor as a dark stain of blood spread over his robes.
The man would die.
“I’m sorry, friend,” he said, “but I can’t tarry.”
The sorcerer merely lay there losing life by the moment.
