by Tod Langley
3
The Chura Council’s Edicts
Ferral welcomed each of the advisors into his upper sanctuary with open arms and strong embraces, treating them like brothers. The invited priests, magistrates, and officers milled about the room, doubt and concern etched clearly in many of their faces. Some looked around themselves, fearfully, while a few fanatical priests seemed ready to fall prostrate before the newest Prophet of Belatarn.
The usually musty room was clean, but Ferral was sure those that had been summoned did not think it inviting. Servants had neatly stacked the paraphernalia normally strewn across the floor into makeshift altars that flanked the gathered members. The advisors could not turn their heads away from Ferral without seeing the grizzly reminders of the world he would create.
One altar consisted of an ornate wooden stand and tray. A red cloth covered the tray, and an ancient bone dagger and cup lay atop the cloth. The advisors had heard the stories of how Ferral had killed his father and raised the demon. They knew about General Derout. The wiser, more cautious advisors were now warned. He would allow them no more mistakes.
On the other side of Ferral rested a stack of books and a scroll. The parchment looked old but well preserved. Ferral had intentionally placed the articles throughout the room so the advisors might wonder at his source of power.
None dared break the silence to ask Ferral that question.
The advisors looked above the books and scroll at the dead man Ferral had nailed to the five-pointed frame and knew they were here to listen, not to speak. Barbed spikes anchored the dead man’s wrists and ankles to the wooden beams. The creature tried without success to reach those below it. The dead man could not shout or scream; it could not show any emotion—neither could it ignore its new purpose, to kill the living. The creature would not stop trying until it was destroyed.
Ferral looked up at the dead man. The sorcerer-king motioned toward the creature and its struggles ceased. Ferral smiled at it and then looked at those he had summoned.
Ferral motioned for the advisors to sit on pillows spread about an ornate red and gold rug and then had the dead servant girl, Julia, pour each of them a strong cup of tea. Ferral sat last, taking a cup for himself from the tray. He smiled, motioning for Julia to leave. The advisors sat there, sipping their tea without speaking, except Derout, the dead general that now served Ferral as a member of the Deathmarch Army. The creature stood there ominously at the other end of the rug from Ferral, waiting.
Few men would have challenged General Derout to a fight even two weeks ago. Now, Derout’s armor sagged on his rotting body. In life, the general’s muscular frame and armor made him look more intimidating, but now, the black armor had lost its shine. Derout’s skin was a hard, cold gray color. The body had already bloated and now thinned, most of the fluids gone. The skin beneath had begun to shrink, growing tighter. Large purple bruises covered the once massive arms. Derout’s eyes were dull and lifeless. They retreated into the skull as if the general could not bear to look at the advisors or its new master, Ferral. It was hard for even the priests to look upon the general without shuddering.
The wide cut across his throat was now closed. Thick thread stitched the gap together and prevented further tearing. All around the wound, the effects of decay were evident. The stench coming from the creature was repulsive, almost causing the man who had replaced Derout, General Leone, to vomit; he swallowed hard and tried to look at Ferral.
Leone was not a devout follower of Belatarn; most of the hardened soldiers of the kingdom were not. The officers obeyed Ferral because he demonstrated more power and cunning than any other man in the city. The sorcerer-king talked of the greater Erandian oppression Belarnians had felt for centuries. Ferral spoke of the uncaring Duellrians and their tight purse strings. He told them that, because of the arrogant and brutal repression of those allied kingdoms, Belarnian prosperity had withered and died. Ferral promised new hope, and that after they had defeated their enemies, the kingdom would have more riches than ever before.
Ferral promised recognition, money, and women to all of his soldiers. He promised them eternal salvation and personal heavens where each of them would be treated as kings themselves—if they did his bidding, the bidding of Belatarn.
And the poor and uneducated will believe my promises because they’ve never known anything better than what they have right now, Ferral realized.
Leone knows better, though, Ferral thought. He knows he must do as I command or end up like Derout. I hope Leone plays the game better than the others. Derout didn’t know how to play at all … his pride cost him everything.
Ferral looked at one of his priests. Orolien was his name. He wore robes of the new priesthood to Belatarn and a thick, golden ring with a large ruby on his right hand. Ferral noticed Leone’s snicker as he also stared at Orolien. Is the general jealous?
Ferral enjoyed pitting them against each other. The sorcerer-king could not wait to see which one of the advisors would attack the others first.
The High Priest of Belatarn, the spiritual advisor to Ferral, had never received recognition or reward before. Orolien had held his secretive meetings in cellars and long abandoned temple ruins. Orolien’s followers had never numbered more than a thousand, among a city that numbered twenty five thousand. Ferral remembered Derout and Leone used to make fun of the deranged priest and his quest to rebuild the ancient cult.
The generals grew cautious when they noticed Ferral taking note of the cult’s activities, its history—its use of dark magic. Derout became fearful of the sect once Ferral openly admitted that he followed the god, devoutly. Leone distanced himself from Derout as the general continued to scoff at the religion.
Leone was not as fierce a warrior or leader as Derout, but he was more cunning, more subtle. Derout failed because of his own ambition and pride.
Ferral put his cup down, sat up on his knees, and then closed his eyes. The advisor’s murmuring ceased as they tried to figure out what was happening. Then Ferral started to chant, his words barely escaping his lips. The gathered advisors leaned forward, paying close attention.
Ferral opened his eyes and looked at each one of the gathered men.
“May Belatarn bless us and grant us wise council,” Ferral said before crossing his arms over his chest. He waited until each of the others made the same gesture, taking note of who was the first to move and who was the last. Orolien was the first, of course.
The man’s a sniveling idiot, but he is a useful tool. Ferral had worked with and through Orolien for ten years, learning about Belatarn and the secretive link to magic. The priest could tell him little; Orolien was a fool leading other fools. The priest’s followers were insignificant. The zealots followed the priest because they did not have the intellect to do anything without someone telling them what to do. Ferral used Orolien only as a first step toward a partnership with Belatarn. The sorcerer-king believed in the god, but Ferral also believed in the power of man—man’s power to subjugate others through the use of magic.
When Ferral had learned as much as he could from Orolien, he sought out others that could help him understand even more. Then Ferral found Rebenna, the beautiful, seductive witch that dabbled in magic and the ancient religions. The fiery temptress had taught Ferral many things, prophesying Ferral’s rise to power and guiding him further down the path toward Belatarn’s Will. Ferral used Rebenna until he had no further need of her. Then he killed her.
Ferral remembered the taste of Rebenna’s blood as it gushed out from the gaping slit he had cut across her neck. He remembered feeling as though he were taking Rebenna’s life force from her, sucking away her soul. It was the purest, simplest act of control Ferral had ever felt. The feeling gave him greater strength and control over the magic and established a greater bond between Ferral and his god, Belatarn.
The sorcerer-king smiled and bowed again.
“May Belatarn help us to see his wisdom and give us the power to destroy those that oppo
se his will,” Ferral said. The advisors bowed quicker this time, but Ferral continued to keep mental notes of those that he suspected most of treachery.
After several more prayers, Ferral sat back and grabbed his cup of tea again. He smiled at them and then took a sip.
“I have consulted the High Priest to Belatarn,” Ferral said. Orolien prostrated himself again claiming Ferral as the earthly representative of their god. Ferral nodded at Orolien, smiling, and then continued, “and I have decided to reinstitute more of the old ways. Belatarn showed us the way to survive the harsh treatment of our subjugators. He showed us how to communicate with him, and through our god, we guided the people along a more righteous path.” The assembled men looked at him in confusion.
“I am calling the first Chura Council of the new Belatarnian Age,” Ferral announced. “You gathered men each represent a different aspect of Belarnian life. Together, your advice will help me determine the best course of action to take to better rule our country … and our new lands.”
The advisors bowed in understanding.
“General Leone,” Ferral called out, his tone pleasant and inviting. The officer seemed somewhat surprised to hear his name spoken out loud. “Please give us a brief update on the status of our armies and their conquests.”
Leone cleared his throat and took in a deep breath. His words came out slow, as if the general was unsure of how much information to give. “My Lord, the dead, I mean the Deathmarch Army, continue to grow and wait outside the walls. A large number arrived last week. They wore Duellrian uniforms and many still carried weapons. My men estimate the Deathmarch Army’s number is close to twenty thousand, but the dead no longer attempt to destroy the ruined gate. The creatures will attack anyone that is caught out in the open, but they await your orders for anything else.
The expeditionary forces we sent to Erand attacked a border fort and destroyed the small garrison defending it in a very short amount of time. Our scouts have moved into central Erand and are forcing people out of smaller villages. Our men in Erand have met some resistance, but it has not slowed the advance of the main force.” Ferral disliked the way Leone had already grown so accustomed to his new authority. He gave him a stern look. “With more men I could take all of Erand, and we can start determining the best way to conquer Duellr … with your consent, of course, My Lord.”
“And what about the two Erandians seen running into the forests just after the battle? What about the skirmish with the Spirit Folk?” Ferral already knew the answers but wanted to remind Leone just how delicate his new station in life really was. Leone was much easier to read than Derout.
He’s a sniveling, conniving idiot, but he should be able to handle the simple task I plan to give him, Ferral thought.
“There has been no additional word, my Lord,” Leone said carefully. Ferral frowned at the continued failures of his elite guards. “We suspect one of the survivors is King Kristian. My men believe Kristian is running away from Erand, rather than toward it, because of our constant patrols and attacks in the southern part of his country.”
“Or perhaps, because Kristian is trying to raise a new army by uniting the kingdoms to our west,” Ferral said forcefully, reminding him of the threats the sorcerer-king still faced.
“Y-yes, Lord,” Leone stammered.
“What do you know of those kingdoms that might oppose us, Leone?” Ferral asked. “What are the Black Guards and the remainder of our forces prepared to do to prevent them from attacking us while we focus on the Erandians and Duellrians?”
Ferral smiled inwardly at Leone’s sudden panic, “No one in Erinia knows as much about the Spirit Folk and Holtsmen as I do. We left the people to the west alone and forgot about them out of fear. The east forgot about the west, hoping the Spirit Folk and Holtsmen would never leave the sanctuary of their woods and mountains.”
The council stirred, unsure of what to make of this news.
“Will they pose a threat to your plans, Great Prophet?” Orolien dared ask.
“Most certainly,” Ferral immediately responded. “Their numbers are dwindling, their societies have weakened, but they are still powerful. The Spirit Folk and Holtsmen would be even more powerful if they decided to unite against me, but that is unlikely. That is one of the reasons I have called this Chura. I need to decide what to do about them.”
“Give me command of all of our forces, My Lord, and I will crush whatever enemy you desire,” Leone said.
“You can hardly maintain control here and push into Erand at the same time, Leone. How can I expect you to defeat the Atlunam when you can’t even get into the woods with a scouting party?” The general’s countenance fell.
“Before I make a decision I must also understand how our people are doing,” Ferral told them. “It is, after all, for my people that I am forcing the world to take note of us. I want every person to know the power and benevolence of our god … even those in our newly conquered lands. What is the status of the people in the lower districts? What are they saying about all of this?”
Jaquolin Denali, the minister of health, spoke first, “They were awed by the power you wielded against those that tried to attack us, King Ferral. They’ve never heard or seen anything like that before and now realize you must have been sent by your god to exact revenge for all the centuries we suffered.”
“But do they really believe in Belatarn? What must we do to win them over?” Orolien asked.
“I don’t care about kindly persuasion, Orolien,” Ferral said. “The people of Belarna will obey our new laws or they will suffer. They will learn that there is only one god and only one way to worship him. The people of this kingdom will become devout followers or they will join the Deathmarch Army.”
“I know they fear the king and his demon,” Denali reported. “They know what will happen if they defy him. Many are stepping forward to join the ranks of your new priestly orders.”
“Yes,” Ferral nodded, “the Birds of Paradise and the Order of Belatarn’s Cubs were excellent ideas. I’ve heard stories of young children coming to our new temples. They want to know how they can learn magic, also. We are already training the next generation of Belatarn’s warriors and priests.”
“What would you have us do to please you, King Ferral?” Orolien asked.
“I want you to develop new laws for our city and for all the lands under my control,” Ferral said. “These edicts should be based on the religion of Belatarn … and they should be strict. After all, this kingdom was one of the greatest in the world when it followed Belatarn. We were better off when we followed his commandments explicitly.”
“The old days shall return, Orolien,” Ferral promised.
“These are my first commandments. You will enforce them among all the people. First, they must acknowledge that Belatarn is the supreme god and fall prostrate before me, his prophet.” The men nodded, assuring him they would carry out the command.
“Second, everyone must worship Belatarn at least once per day in the new temples. Anyone caught not attending is to be hanged.” Leone barely hid his frown but bowed with the rest of the council members.
“Third, men and women should be segregated, except in their homes. Women are secondary to men in all things and shall obey their husbands and fathers. Men will be responsible for their women and should punish them whenever they are disobedient.” Some of the advisors, including Denali, began to look at each other. They were unsure of how far Ferral intended to go with the revival of his religion.
“As a reward for any selfless act that is done to uphold the values of Belatarn or to secure our lands, men shall be given additional wives. These second wives shall be awarded by Orolien and his priests.” Ferral said, looking over at the High Priest. “Orolien has the authority to appoint who the wives will be. Women can be wed after they have reached the age of thirteen, and no man will deny my priests, unless he first comes to me.
“I want you to start bringing back women a
nd children from the lands you conquer, Leone,” Ferral commanded. The general nodded immediately. “They will be integrated into our culture and become secondary wives and house slaves. Orolien shall have the power to make other edicts as we meet and determine what further should be done.
“Finally, anyone caught disobeying any law shall be executed immediately. In life or death, these people will serve me,” Ferral said with a tone of finality in his voice.
Orolien was beaming with pride and excitement. Ferral had never given him this much power; new laws, that would ensure the people prayed to Belatarn, raced through his mind.
The High Priest fell forward on the carpet. “Great Prophet, you are wise and caring. Through you, our god’s will shall be done.” The others felt it was better to join the priest than to be seen as a skeptic.
Leone was the second man to prostrate himself before his king.
Ferral was glad for this meeting. It brought several things together at once. Before, the religious aspects of his plans had only provided justification for his continued attacks. Now, the Chura Council was giving him the conduit through which he could change the daily lives of everyone he controlled.
Ferral would succeed because he had surrounded himself with advisors that were easy to control—zealots and fools, the corrupt, wicked, and cruel. They would herd those too poor or uneducated to understand.
That’s all that’s needed, anyway, Ferral assured himself. I just need to empower those that have never had anything and push them toward my enemies. They’ll exact their own justice with little encouragement.
“Excellent,” Ferral motioned for the council members to sit up, pleased with their current level of obedience. “We must turn our attention back to the campaign plans. Where should we focus our efforts? Against Erand and Duellr, or the woods folk and the mountain men?”
“Only the Atlunam have the knowledge and skill to defeat you, Ferral,” the demon answered from behind the king.
“I thought you had chosen not come to this council, demon,” Ferral snapped without looking at her.
“I am more knowledgeable and powerful than all of your pitiful men combined, and yet, you continue to ignore my warnings,” the demon said walking onto the carpet and standing directly in front of Ferral.
“Perhaps that is because I am not always certain where your loyalties are,” Ferral shot back.
“I serve both you and our dark master. You know that,” she said, her anger growing.
“And yet, the Deathmarch Army is more obedient than you are. They do what I command them to, and they do not hesitate,” Ferral reminded her.
“The dead creatures commit atrocities because you make the hard decisions for them,” the demon said. “When you re-animated the dead, you took control of their bodies but let their will and souls go. You move them where you want them, you tell them when to stand and wait, and you tell them who to kill.”
Ferral followed the pacing demon with his eyes, a smile appearing on his face. The sorcerer-king used to fear and loathe the demon, but now, he saw her for what she was. The demon was just another tool. A special tool from Belatarn, perhaps, but just a tool.
“Look around at this Chura council, demon,” Ferral challenged. “These men are not dead. Well, all of them except Derout, of course.”
“Your cronies? The incompetent fools that nearly lost the battle a few weeks ago? The men that nearly let the city burn to the ground? The men that can’t find Kristian for you?” The demon smiled as she added that last taunt.
Now Ferral became angry. “You’ve had plenty of chances yourself! Why does my most powerful asset also appear to be one of my most reluctant? What are you afraid of, woman?” Ferral demanded.
The beautiful demon lost control, no longer able to contain the monster within. The woman’s skin started to bubble, marring her pale, perfect complexion. Her eyes turned yellow, the pupil’s becoming narrow slits. She screamed at Ferral, but her scream quickly changed from a high shrill voice to a deeper, more powerful howl. The demon’s finely sculptured body became rigid with massive, corded muscles. Wings pushed their way out of her spine, tearing her skin. It screamed again in pain and hatred.
Ferral simply smiled at the monster now standing before him.
The demon snarled at him before turning toward his men, her shredded cloak falling to the carpet. If she could not kill the sorcerer, then she would make an example of one of his underlings. Each of the advisors shrank from the demon, skidding backwards along the floor toward the opposite sides of the room.
The monster started toward Denali, laughing, eager to tear him apart before Ferral’s eyes.
“No!” Ferral commanded. The demon only shrugged, taking another step toward Denali. Then she stopped, the demon could get no closer to the man. Despite all her monstrous strength, a stronger force held her back. Her throat tightened, as if a noose was choking her, pulling her away from the cowering man.
The demon looked back at Ferral. He was holding his hand out toward her. “No,” Ferral said, smiling.
Then the demon knew she could never defeat Ferral. He had learned much from the scroll since she had arrived. Belatarn truly protected the sorcerer-king.
The demon growled again but turned away from Denali. It saw the dead man nailed to the cross and immediately leaped at it. The dead creature could not escape. The demon reached out with its massive clawed hands and ripped the dead man down. In one swift, effortless motion, the monster pulled it apart. The demon howled at Ferral again in defiance, slamming the two parts down onto the carpet, again and again.
“Are you finished?” Ferral asked calmly.
The demon crouched, sending Ferral such a hateful look, that all the other men in the room panicked. Ferral did not move.
I have won, Ferral knew. The demon would have to obey him or face even greater pain in Hell than she had endured before. Belatarn wanted Ferral to succeed, and the god would not allow his demon to interfere.
“You will lead part of my Deathmarch Army, demon,” Ferral ordered. “You will ensure that it grows in numbers until they can no longer be counted. You will move west and destroy everything in your path … leave no one alive. Make them a part of my army. Find the Holtsmen and destroy them.”
The demon raised its head and cringed. It let out another growl, this one of pain, as the woman’s face began to take shape again. “But what about the Atlunam? I want to destroy them!”
“I will use my powers to control General Derout; he will lead a smaller group of the dead into the woods,” Ferral announced, standing taller. “I still want to kill Kristian and his friends, but I don’t trust you to do it.”
The demon-woman could not control her anger and began to shift back into the monster. Ferral added, “When the time comes, I shall let you be the one to destroy the Atlunam.”
“Once I have Kristian,” he promised.
The demon froze for a moment as it thought about the plan. It forced itself to calm down, taking deep breaths and bowing its head.
Golden hair returned to the bald, gray-green scalp. The bumps and horns faded back into the skin. The claws retracted and the woman’s alabaster color returned.
She crouched naked before them, heaving from the transformation for a few moments. Then the demon stood straight, raising her chin and giving Ferral a thin smile. Casually stepping past the smashed, but still animated body parts, she went to stand only a few inches away from Ferral.
“I hear you and obey, O Mighty King of Belarn,” the demon said with a sneer.
Ferral nodded in approval then dismissed her.
