“First of all, you can worry about dusting yourself off later. Second, you can try staying awake. These are troubled times, and the last thing people need when coming to the church for sanctuary is to see one of its supposed servants sleeping on duty.”
The priest’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then his eyebrows drew down as he made an attempt at affronted dignity. “Sir, you must be mistaken, for I would never—”
“Enough,” Larin growled. “I’ve got little enough time as it is, son, and certainly no time to listen to your useless excuses. I want to speak to Father Gustav. Now.”
The priest frowned. “Sir, I can appreciate you are under some sort of time constraint, but in the house of Amedan I will not tolerate—”
Larin was not known for his patience, and what little he possessed had been stretched thin by recent events. He grabbed the front of the priest’s robes and—as he had wanted to since finding the man asleep—gave him a shake. It wasn’t much of a shake, really, but Larin was a large man, and the priest smaller than average, and the robed man’s teeth rattled in his mouth. “Hear me, boy. I have no time to be lectured by the likes of you, and don’t you talk to me about your Church. Me and other, better men, built the damned thing, do you understand? Now, go and get me Father Gustav or, if you’re too incompetent to manage that, your superior.”
The young priest yelped, backing away, his eyes terrified. Then, slowly, anger began to suffuse his gaze. “Very well, sir,” he said testily, as if a priest who slept on watch had any right to be offended. “I will ask my superior if he has time for a meeting, but I can make no promises.” He started backing down the aisle between the pews in the opposite direction of Larin. “He is a busy man, after all. Also, I would advise you to not act so foolishly to the Bishop, for even his patie—” The priest’s scolding cut off into a whimper as Larin took a step forward, and the man turned and hurried away.
“Get him, you damned whelp!” Larin roared. “And tell him Chosen Larin is here to see him!”
The priest turned to look back at him at that, his face as pale as a sheet of parchment. “D-do you mean…you’re Ch—”
“I’m the man who’s going to ruin your day, boy, if you waste anymore of my time.”
With a strangled sound, the priest fled toward a door at the back of the sanctuary. Larin watched him go with a scowl, thinking that, perhaps, a life in the desert hadn’t been so terrible after all. In his experience, fools didn’t last long in that sand-swept, unforgiving wilderness.
***
Bishop Orren sat at the desk in his study within Peralest’s greatest church. He was tired—exhausted, really—but he knew it would still be hours before he slept. There was too much to do, too many orders to give, too many letters to write. What was worse, the events taking place in Entarna over the last weeks had left him little time to rest. It was no surprise, really, that his eyes felt grainy and scratchy, as if someone had taken them out and dumped them in a bucket of sand before putting them back into their sockets.
There was work to be done, but he couldn’t help picking up the letter he’d received and perusing its contents once more. A letter directly from the Chosen Tesharna herself, or so it claimed, and the seal—which had been intact when delivered—belonged to the Chosen. He scanned its contents for what might have been the dozenth time, and despite his exhaustion, an excitement built in him. This was what he had been waiting for, his moment. The moment when he was given the credit he was due, the moment when his worth was recognized, and he was pulled from this backwater cesspool of a city and brought to the fore.
As always when he was tired or agitated, the scar on his neck began to itch, and he rubbed at it absently. An old scar, taken many years ago, yet not a day passed in which it did not pain him. Many would have claimed it was luck that had seen him survive a knife to the throat so long ago when he had been a much younger man, but Brother Orren knew better. Luck had not saved his life—his goddess had. She had recognized in him something she might use, had noted his quality, and so she had chosen to preserve his life when she had let the others die to that damned light merchant and his wife.
In truth, he should have already been much higher in the Church, particularly that hidden part of the Church which worshipped the true deity, Shira. Yet, instead he was little more than a laughingstock, the remnant of a failure in which he had been only a pawn, had only done as commanded. It was unfair, for it had not been his plan which had failed, and he had lived to tell the tale, sharing with his superiors information they would need, information which they, in turn, had shared with their dark allies, ensuring the merchant and his troublesome wife’s death as well as that of their son. Or so he had believed. Now, from the reports he’d received, many were claiming the son had not only lived, but was now Chosen by Amedan in truth, wreaking havoc on Shira’s forces.
Orren was not sure he believed that. He thought it likely those reports were the exaggerated products of weak, terrified minds. Still, it was troubling and—This damned scar, he thought, rubbing at it furiously. He was about to set the correspondence down and begin the list of letters to his own agents when there was a knock on the door. The bishop fought down the urge to shout at the intrusion on his privacy, taking a moment to compose himself. He could not let his own feelings, his own inner thoughts, ever leak through to the surface. The strength of shadows was that they hid where the unwary least expected, waiting until the perfect moment to strike. He had to be careful, always aware of what others might see when they looked at him. “Yes?” he asked politely.
The door creaked open and Brother Fairn peeked his head through. His hair was disheveled, and there was an excited redness to his cheeks. Orren also noted a line of stale drool on the man’s chin, and forced himself to hide his disgust. Clearly, the man had been sleeping again. A fool, that one, and too young to know it. Still, he was a true servant, one of those who had come into the fold to worship the goddess, and so Orren decided he would let the lapse pass. After all, he had more immediate concerns. “Yes, Brother Fairn? It appears something has you quite worked up.”
“S-sir,” the young priest stammered, out of breath, “there’s a man out front. In the sanctuary. He’s come asking after Brother Gustav.”
Now, Orren did frown. “Brother Gustav is no longer with us, Fairn, as I’m sure you well know. Need I really be bothered for such a trivial thing?”
The young priest winced, avoiding his eyes, for the true priests within the Church knew of Orren’s patience, or lack thereof, and were Fairn to disappear in the night as punishment for his incompetence, he would not be the first. “Forgive me, Bishop, but…well, there’s something else.”
Orren waited, staring at the man. “Well?” he finally snapped. “Spit it out, Fairn, before a fly finds its way into that gaping mouth of yours.”
“T-the man, Bishop,” Fairn said, “he said his name was Larin.”
Orren tensed at that, and leaned forward to look into the hallway past the priest, as if Chosen Larin—or the man claiming to be him—might be standing there even now, ready to wreak a terrible vengeance upon Orren for his betrayal of Amedan. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he saw the hallway was empty. “Did he say what he was doing here?” he asked, not liking the breathless sound of his own voice.
“N-no, Bishop. Only that he wanted to speak to Gustav or, failing that, my superior. He was…he was angry, Bishop.”
Orren’s heart thumped in his chest at that, but he forced his features to remain calm, composed. His thoughts raced frantically, and once again he glanced down at the letter and at the names listed there, Chosen Larin among them. The Chosen had finally come out of hiding, after all. Still, he knew Chosen Larin was famous for his ease to anger, and if he had realized the truth of Orren’s allegiances, he would have charged into the study without bothering to wait.
The thought sent a shiver of fear down Orren’s spine, but he took a slow, steadying breath, staring at the priest once more. “Very well, Brother
Fairn,” he said. “Send him in.”
The young priest was shaking his head before Orren had finished. “Forgive me, sir, but somebody else would be better suited to—”
“I did not ask your opinion, Brother Fairn,” Orren snapped. “I gave you an order, and I expect it to be followed. Now, go and bring him to me.”
Still the priest hesitated, his fear of Orren clearly outmatched by his terror at the Chosen’s presence. Orren felt his own fear rising. But along with that fear was anger, anger that the priest might dare to question his orders, might do so even to his face. Finally, Brother Fairn nodded, bowing his head, and left, but Orren promised himself he would make the man suffer for his disobedience. He was young and a fool, but even a fool might be taught to obey, given time enough. And pain enough.
That, however, would have to be seen to later. Orren said a quiet prayer to Shira, schooling his features to hide any traces of the fear he felt, for though he had begrudged his time spent in Peralest, so far away from the machinations of the Dark, surrounded by worshippers of Amedan, it had not been entirely useless. If nothing else, Bishop Orren had learned to be quite good at pretending.
***
Larin followed the young priest through the doorway at the back of the sanctuary, coldly amused by the fact that the man looked like nothing so much as a rabbit ready to flee at the slightest provocation. He told himself it was just an exhausting couple of days that made him want to jump at the man, maybe give him a good shout just to see if he would run headfirst into the wall, but he didn’t quite believe it. After all, Larin had never been good with people. Brent had once told him, jokingly, that he made a terrible hero but a passable villain. He’d meant nothing by it, had been only trying to make light of Larin’s latest outburst, but the words had stuck with him, and he thought that, joke or not, Brent had been closer to the truth than he realized.
The urge to scare the young priest, to jump at him and see what would occur, only grew with each passing step. Still, he managed to rein in the impulse, and finally they arrived at a closed door. The priest glanced back at him warily then gave a hurried knock.
“Please, come in,” came a voice from inside, and Larin thought there was a strange rasp to it. The sound was explained quickly enough as he walked inside and observed the man seated behind the desk, noting the white, puckered scar on his throat. A bad day that had been, he suspected.
“Ah, thank you, Brother Fairn,” the man said, sliding an open desk drawer closed and rising with a smile. “You may go now.”
The young priest seemed all too eager to obey, turning and hurrying out the door and swinging it closed behind him. Larin watched him go then turned back to the priest. “Jumpy bastard, that one.”
The man smiled, bowing his head. “I’m afraid so. Still, these are troubled times in which even the best of us might have moments of weakness, do you not agree?”
Larin grunted. “Young too.”
The man sighed, rubbing idly at the scar on his throat before seeming to realize what he was doing and running the hand through his hair instead. “Yes,” he said apologetically, “I’m afraid so. You see, with the recent troubles, the Church’s numbers have shrunken dangerously as some of the less…devout priests have given in to their fear, abandoning their posts. We have been forced to…shall we say, expedite the training process in order to best serve Amedan and his children.”
“I’ve got little patience for cowards or fools,” Larin growled. “Now, who are you and where’s Gustav?”
The priest winced. “Ah, forgive me, sir. I should have introduced myself sooner. I must confess my manners have left me at my surprise—and honor, to be sure—to have one of your renown and acclaim visit our humble church. My name is Bishop Orren. And you, so Fairn tells me, are none other than Chosen Larin, known to many as the Builder, is that right?”
Larin grunted. “Never much cared for the name, but I’m Larin anyway. Now, are you going to answer my question or not? Where’s Gustav?”
“Please, Chosen Larin, would you like to sit?” the man asked, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. Larin frowned, but decided the fastest way to get the information he wanted would just be to humor the man, so he did.
The bishop sat a moment later, letting out a regretful sigh. “Forgive me, Chosen, but I fear I must tell you Brother Gustav died nearly a decade ago.”
Larin frowned. “Died? How?”
“I do not know all the particulars, only that he succumbed to some flux passing through the city at the time. I myself was sent here to take his place weeks after, so never had the pleasure of meeting the man personally. Though,” he went on, “by all I have heard, Gustav was a great man and a worthy follower of our lord, Amedan.”
“Brother Gustav is how you will call him. If ever there was a man who deserved the label of priest, it was him, and the world is a darker place for his passing.” He rose, starting for the door. He’d known, of course, that there had always been a chance Gustav might have died. After all, time passed and people died—no one, holy or not, escaped their fate. Still, he was surprised by how much the thought of the other man’s passing pained him. Gustav had been a close friend, and Larin had never had many. Hank old and decrepit, Gustav dead, along with Brent. And what of you? he asked himself. Here you are, lingering. “Thanks for your time,” he said, reaching for the door handle.
“Forgive me, Chosen,” the man said, rising.
Sighing, Larin turned and glanced back at the man. “Not Chosen, not anymore. Now, I’m just an old man, Bishop. Old and tired. Now, good day.”
“But, sir,” the man persisted, “I do not know what has brought you here, to this church, but if I may in some way help you, I would be pleased to do so in Gusta—Brother Gustav’s stead.”
Larin studied the man with a frown. The bishop seemed nervous, but that in itself wasn’t cause for suspicion. After all, Larin knew his size and abrupt manner tended to evoke such a reaction. Still, there was something about the man he didn’t like, something he couldn’t define. There was the wicked scar on his throat, of course—even now, the bishop was rubbing idly at it in an unconscious way.
Oh, now that’s not being fair and you know it, he told himself. After all, he had his own scars, his body a map of them, each telling its own story of pain and heartache, of battles fought and friends lost. Who was he to judge a man for the marks the world left on him? And if he did leave, what of Alesh and the others? Larin had thought to find Gustav, to ask him to give sanctuary to the two young girls so Alesh and the others would not have to worry over their safety along with everything else. Had thought that, were they lucky, Gustav might even be able to help them gather troops to fight against the Darkness. True, much of the old ways of the Torchbearers had been forgotten, but such ways, such beliefs were never fully lost, were often passed from father to son, from mother to daughter, and in this way, they endured.
If he left now, without trying, then he would be dooming Alesh and the others to venturing toward whatever fate awaited them on their own. He would help them, if he could, but he was an old man, far past his prime, and what help could he alone offer when Brent Olliman, the greatest of them, had fallen? The Bishop had taken over Gustav’s role and so might be privy to the same information Gustav would have been. Larin was not a man who trusted often, but he saw little choice. “Fine,” he said finally, closing the half-open door. “I am in need of a bit of help, if you’re able. But know this, Bishop,” he said, locking the man with his gaze, “I’m well aware the Church has had some recent…allegiance issues lately. If by my asking, I or any of those I seek to protect come to harm, I will come back here, and I will kill you.”
The man swallowed, and Larin thought that his fear, at least, was not feigned. “Of course, Chosen. I would never seek to do harm to you and yours. I wish only to help, as Amedan wills it.”
Larin watched the man for several more seconds in silence, trying to decide if he detected any sign of deceit. He had never been good
at reading people, unable to understand their motivations, their wants and their needs as Alashia had. Nor had he been good at planning for all the contingencies, for creating a strategy and looking at each encounter as a single move in some grand campaign, as Tesharna had been. And of course, he had none of Brent’s wisdom. But Brent was gone, and no one had seen or heard from Alashia in weeks. And the rumors—if they were true—suggested that Tesharna had gone over to the Darkness. Larin had known her well, as the Six had all been close, forced to be so due to events and being Chosen by Amedan, and he believed it possible. Tesharna had always been, first and foremost, concerned with herself.
And if one of the Chosen had fallen to the shadow, how more likely would it be that a bishop such as this Brother Orren, of whom he had never heard, might also succumb to the temptations of the Darkness? He was prepared to give it all up then, had actually gone so far as to reach for the door handle once more when a memory, one he hadn’t thought of in years, came to him. It was the memory of a battle—as nearly all his memories were.
He was standing on the top of a hill, staring down at the field below. Brent stood beside him, gazing out at the line of Torchbearers, their troops, men and women they knew as friends. The nightlings came on in the hundreds, the thousands, flurries of teeth and talons, and though the Torchbearers fought well and bravely, the creatures continued to come in seemingly endless waves. He watched the line buckle, saw the bright incandescent flares of Evertorches as the company commanders tried desperately to buy themselves a few precious moments to reorganize and reinforce the weak sections. But it seemed to have little effect, and he thought that the creatures would breach the line at any moment, and it would all be over.
He said as much to Brent who stood silently behind him. “They’re not comin’,” he growled. “They abandoned us.”
Chosen Olliman, leader of the Six, looked to the forest surrounding the field on the left and right as if he could see beyond the undergrowth and cover of trees. “They will come, Larin.”
The Warriors of the Gods Page 8
