Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  “Enough!” Ceyrabeth barked. They all stopped bickering, mostly from the novelty of having Ceyrabeth command them. She was usually quiet, never questioning orders, never drawing attention to herself. Capable in a fight, but never one to boast about it later. “This is exactly what Sul wants. He wants us to be scared and scattered and bickering amongst ourselves. Every shot we take at each other is a shot he doesn’t have to take, and it makes us weak. We are not weak! We are Witchhammers, and we will start acting like it!”

  Her speech had the desired effect. Ceyrabeth caught sight of Captain Sul’s Mithrac shadow watching them from across the way and Ceyrabeth lifted her chin defiantly.

  Then, the food began to arrive. Men and women in impeccable but basic black uniforms set up a long table and set dish after dish upon it. They even brought plates and utensils. With every new arrival, Ceyrabeth’s expression tightened.

  “What is….?” Mathias began. Quinlan glanced at Ceyrabeth. Everyone else in their little band had been out in the field for most of their career, but the pair of them had spent most of theirs in the heart of Daymore Dolor and all the politics it had to offer. She knew exactly what was happening, and so did he.

  “He's shaking his dick at us.” That surprised a laugh out of Ceyrabeth. It wasn't like Quin to be crude. She moved to the end of the table and took a plate.

  “Are you crazy?!” Tregan made the sign of protection over his chest. “He probably tainted it!”

  Corellan rolled his eyes, “Again with the Plague…!”

  Ceyrabeth interrupted before the argument could really get started, “After what we just saw, what we know about this camp, and our rough start to the day, are any of you truly hungry?” She received almost unanimous shakes of the head. “Nor am I. But we should be. It's been over twelve hours since we were brought here. He's testing us to see who the weakest link is."

  “I... don't follow,” Keiran said cautiously.

  “Which one of us is going to let his little display distract us from the fact that we need nourishment?” Quinlan clarified, “Because the one with the weakest stomach is also probably the one rattled enough to sing like a songbird when the interrogation really starts.”

  “Exactly.” Ceyrabeth speared a piece of some sort of fowl in a sweet-smelling sauce on the end of her fork, added a biscuit and a spoonful of mixed root vegetables. Quinlan did the same, then Keiran. With some hesitation, Mathias, Tregan, Toliver, and Corellan followed.

  "You know," Corellan stated conversationally through a mouthful of game hen, "As last meals go, this isn't bad. Their cook really knows his way around a spice rack."

  Quinlan laughed, "There's the ticket, lad."

  "I swear I've had this before," Tregan mused.

  "The last time we were captured by a lunatic and his pet demon?"

  He rolled his eyes at Ceyrabeth. "No, that's not it...something about these spices..."

  "It does taste familiar," Quinlan commented.

  "Expensive too," Keiran added, "Like nobles' food."

  "That's it!" Tregan crowed, "It's saffron! A High Marshal came to visit the Tower way back when and the kitchens made a whole mess of this in a stew. Turns out he couldn't stand the stuff so they gave it out to the rest of us. Gods, we ate well that night."

  “Saffron? In prisoners’ food?” Toliver rolled his eyes, “The man’s either showing off or we’re definitely all going to get eaten by demons.”

  “Just eat your food,” Ceyrabeth almost snarled. She could feel the tension coming off Keiran and Quinlan like a struck bell. Ceyrabeth was just mopping up the sauce on her plate with a piece of biscuit when Evric finally spoke up.

  “He's nice.”

  “Who's nice, kid?” Keiran asked kindly.

  “Lieutenant Pellinore. He teaches us to read when he's not with the Captain. He doesn't hit or yell when you get something wrong.” The knights nearest Evric exchanged puzzled glances- Where in the world had that little spout of information come from? But then Ceyrabeth happened to glance up, her hand stilling as she watched Pellinore halt on the edge of their makeshift mess area. His posture was ramrod straight, the epitome of a seasoned soldier.

  “Captain Sul wishes to speak with each of you individually." He told them, "Which of you is of the lowest rank?”

  Not one of them spoke. Keiran was their lowest ranking soldier, but to answer the Lieutenant would be throwing him to the wolves. Then Ceyrabeth, her eyes flat and cold, stated, “Ceyrabeth Vallorin. Tower of Imperius Militant. Year Three-Hundred Twenty-five Sundered.” It was what every captured soldier was supposed to say, the only information they were supposed to give the enemy; their name, the tower they were accepted into, and the year they entered training.

  “Javan Quinlan. Tower of Imperius Militant. Year Three Hundred Fourteen Sundered.”

  “Bran Mathias. Tower of Imperius Rex. Year Three Hundred Twenty-Three Sundered.”

  “Davis Corellan. Tower of Imperius Opulent. Year Three hundred twenty-seven Sundered.”

  “Alyn Tregan. Tower of Imperius Militant. Year Three Hundred and Thirty Sundered.”

  “I’m the lowest ranking soldier.”

  “Keiran!” Ceyrabeth hissed, “Have you lost your mind?!”

  “You don’t have to protect me." He stated, even gave them a half-grin before walking to meet Lieutenant Pellinore, following him toward the command tent without a hint of hesitation.

  "That curiosity of his will be the death of him," Corellan muttered. He looked around at the others. "Oh, don't tell me you haven't noticed. He's fascinated with that Captain of theirs, how odd he is."

  "Odd may be a bit of an understatement..." Ceyrabeth rolled her eyes. "He certainly sees a lot for a blind man."

  "Aye," Quinlan nodded, "And that accent of his is strange. I know I've heard it before..." They all looked at Tregan, who was the most well-traveled, but he only shrugged.

  "Beats me,” He gestured to the departing form of Pellinore, “I was more concerned about the damned Royal Elf taking his commands as though he liked it."

  "That's....odd?" Mathias asked.

  Tregan snorted derisively, "Royal elves don't do for others unless there's something heavy in it for them. And even then, they're just praying for you to die so they can spit on your grave. If we saw a Royal Elf within five miles of our scout line, we got the Void out. You do not want to be left alive in their hands. There was one time...."

  "There's a child present," Ceyrabeth reminded him, and he fell silent. She too had heard stories about Royal Elves as well as their sadistic, xenophobic ways and none of them were suited for Evric to hear.

  "Let's look lively," Quinlan interjected, picking up his empty plate and setting it on the edge of the food table. "We've got plenty of cleanup to do. Five tons of mud doesn't do good things to armor."

  "He's going to talk," Quinlan murmured to Ceyrabeth as they piled all their gear together.

  "He barely knows who Imperius is much less anything important about the Order." She whispered back. But she was worried. Keiran wasn't stupid, but he was trusting. And after seeing what this Captain Sul was able to deduce from the most innocuous of things, he could give away far more than he actually understood.

  Armor cleaning was well underway by the time Pellinore returned. "Alyn Tregan. Your presence is requested."

  Ceyrabeth closed her eyes, "Tregan!" She said as he stood, "Strength of Imperius Militant be yours." He nodded, his jaw set, and followed the Lieutenant.

  Soon it was Mathias, then Corellan, then Toliver. It became harder and harder to do anything as the time passed. None of the men had returned and Ceyrabeth was next in line. Quinlan had given up and was pacing a path through the dirt. Ceyrabeth examined her reflection in the spot on her breastplate that she had polished a hundred times, displeased to see how pale she was. She pinched some color into her cheeks.

  A scream of pain erupted from the direction of the command tent. Ceyrabeth jolted to her feet, breastplate landing forgotten on the ground. "You
don't think...?"

  "That he fed someone to that monster?" Quinlan finished grimly.

  They were both reaching for their swords when the command tent flap opened. They halted at the sight of Sir Toliver, face puffed up like he had been stung by a thousand bees, being supported between Lieutenant Pellinore and a middle-aged woman wearing a blue habit.

  "What in …"

  "Apologies for the state of your comrade," Pellinore stated calmly. "He shattered the peace bond we'd affixed to his blade and tried to draw his weapon on the Captain. That was...unwise."

  Ceyrabeth moved to intercept and was immediately struck by an unforgettable smell...a mix of crushed greenery and rotten fruit. "Is that...?"

  "Rashweed powder," The woman confirmed.

  "Toliver, you damned fool," Ceyrabeth cursed at him, slapping him none too gently on the shoulder. "Of course, your weapon was booby trapped! How you ever made it past training with your pea-sized brain..."

  "Mother Reiko will care for him," Pellinore interjected, "But the Captain requests your presence, Knight-Lieutenant Vallorin."

  "Not without me," Quinlan stated firmly. They were surprised to see the hint of a smile touch Pellinore's lips.

  "The Captain assumed you would feel that way, Knight-Lieutenant Quinlan,” He beckoned them forward and walked the short distance beside them. Graciously the Lieutenant held aside the tent flap for them.

  There was a hooded figure wrapped in chains, kneeling next to a huge black iron brazier containing a towering bonfire. The figure looked up and Ceyrabeth gasped.

  "It’s Parette!”

  “Steady on lass,” Quinlan advised quietly, placing a strong hand on her shoulder.

  “What-?”

  “That’s not Parette,” He gestured with his head. Ceyrabeth scrutinized the figure and realized he was correct. The flesh looked translucent around the face, the eyes were the color of spit. It resembled nothing more than a not-quite-finished person.

  “What sorcery is this?” Ceyrabeth demanded.

  “Old sorcery,” Sul commented calmly, rising to his feet. The movement to his left drew her eye to Chirak who had now returned to its place at its master’s side. She was relieved to see the other Hammers standing by as well, looking a little green around the edges, maybe rattled, but otherwise unharmed. “Older than you can imagine. And as much a thing of nature than sorcery.”

  “There is nothing natural about that abomination!”

  “Perhaps you should spend more time outside your carefully cultivated church gardens before you presume to understand nature,” Sul gestured at the creature wearing Parette’s face, “Chirak acts as a living catalog to all the forms of life it consumes. Not just flesh, bone and blood, but also thoughts and ideas…as well as memories.”

  “Then that…thing…”

  “Has all of your former commanding officers’ memories and can, therefore, give a very accurate accounting as to whether or not the rest of you were complicit in his crimes,” Sul confirmed calmly.

  “How can that be Parette and be part of that?” She pointed at Chirak who chittered, “It makes no sense. And how can anything it says be trusted?”

  “If I wished to execute you all, I would simply do so. I would not resort to false testimony. Currently, we all have a common goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “The truth,” Sul turned to address the creature wearing Parette’s face, “Parette, you stand accused of the exploitation of your wards and corruption of the innocent. Your guilt in these matters is beyond contestation. What knowledge, if any, did your comrades have of your illegal activities?”

  The Not-Parette’s head lolled on its neck as if the bones weren’t fully formed, “Knowledge?” A collective gasp ran through the other knights. It was Parette’s voice: his accent, his inflection, all of it, “Quinlan and Vallorin suspected, meddling fools, Quinlan especially. I had plenty on Vallorin though, and no way was Quinlan going to risk it. He'd slit his own throat to take the heat off his pet.” The creature gave a grin, the same sickly crocodile grin Parette always wore when he thought he was getting away with something. It made Ceyrabeth’s stomach clench, “Besides, I was very careful.”

  Sul turned his attention to the knights, “And do all of you swear by this?”

  The assembled knights gave their rapid assent.

  “A shame none of you had the courage of your convictions to act on your suspicions. I imagine a great deal of suffering could have been avoided. But this is not the same as collusion or willful aiding and abetting,” Sul reached down and removed a long metal bar, sharpened at one end, “Very well. I believe that concludes the necessity for any further discourse on the topic.”

  Without warning, he drove the sharpened bar through the creature's body. It opened its mouth and made a low wailing sound as it struggled against the chains. Displaying more strength than his slim frame would suggest, Sul dragged the impaled creature to the brazier and heaved it upon the flames. There was a loud whoosh and the creature went up. Its flesh started to writhe and shift, a sight mercifully obscured by the fire. Its low wail became a high-pitched screech that set everyone’s teeth on edge before it fell silent.

  "What did you impale it with?" Keiran asked. He alone looked more interested than disgusted.

  "Very hot metal," Sul replied with a touch of wry humor.

  “How awful,” Ceyrabeth commented.

  “Spare no pity for that entity,” Sul commented coldly, “It was no more an individual worthy of life than a pustulant growth upon a limb is,” He gestured towards Chirak huddled in the darkness, “Chirak has the form of a person but it is, in fact, a living disease. Even its name ‘Chirak’ means ‘plague’ in the old language. It has the power to absorb, consume, infect and duplicate itself. It creates a grotesque parody of life to sate it’s all-consuming appetite for the living.”

  “And what keeps such awful power in check?” Ceyrabeth demanded.

  Gripping the bar jutting out of the fire, Sul tore it free from the sizzling misshapen corpse, “I do,” He tossed the smoking piece of metal to the ground at the feet of the knights and resumed his seat.

  "And when you fail?" Ceyrabeth demanded, ignoring the warning looks from her brothers. She couldn't help herself; at that moment, the Captain reminded Ceyrabeth of…her. The woman whose name Ceyrabeth never said if she could help it: all cold, quiet arrogance and nauseating self-righteousness. "Does your pet consume the world with impunity?"

  "If I fail, there are multiple contingencies in place. I am no more a child playing with fire than you are a little girl playing with a sword. We each have our weapons. We have studied them, mastered them, and when they are used with care, respect, and restraint, they serve their purpose admirably. That is the difference between soldiers like us...and men like your former commander"

  Another burst of...not anger; that was too tame a word, flooded Ceyrabeth’s senses. She wanted to rip and tear and rend, to see his self-assured demeanor lay in tatters at her feet. She wanted to lay into his precious Phoenix Legion with all her strength and shred it as he had done to her Order. They were trapped, demoralized, terrified, and it was all his fault. She glared at Lieutenant Pellinore, who was penning something on a piece of parchment. She could overpower him, she decided. He was older, not as watchful as he should be.

  Ceyrabeth didn’t realize that her hand was closing over her sword until Reaper Maul’s raucous voice bellowed across the tent, “Oi girlie! You’re not planning on doing anything bloody stupid are you?”

  Ceyrabeth’s head swung to face him, startled out of her less-than-gentle thoughts. She flashed him a smile, one that was indistinguishable from a teasing grin unless you happened to look in her eyes. “Would I tell you if I was?” She asked sweetly. “Especially with the threat of being…what was it? ‘Skull fucked and beaten to death with my own arm’? Or…” She turned back to Sul. “Is it cleaner to just feed me to a demon? I’d hate to inconvenience you, Captain.”

  She should t
one down the sarcasm if Pellinore’s scowl of disapproval and Maul’s throaty growl were any indication. Even the cat on Sul’s lap raised its head and narrowed its one eye at her tone. But Sul himself didn’t seem to mind; he simply held up his hand and the room immediately fell silent again.

  "May I assume you will serve as the speaker for your men, Sir Ceyrabeth Vallorin?"

  "If that entails begging for my life..."

  "Begging will not be necessary. Your lives are yours, as I've stated already. Now we are simply negotiating the terms of your release."

  "Our release?"

  "Of course. I am not in the habit of executing prisoners to appease my own vanity or bloodlust. We will discuss terms and once we reach an accord, you and your men will be free to go."

  “Very well then, Sir.” She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Well, where his eyes would be anyway. “I claim a grievance, Captain.”

  “Do you indeed?” His tone was cordially amused and again she was reminded of certain, insufferable members of the nobility.

  “I do.” Ceyrabeth stated. “It is in regards to our former Knight-Lieutenant. A Witchhammer bows to no authority save the Church and declaring yourself to be a higher law does not make it so. Thus, I maintain that the right to judge him was not yours, but ours. You robbed us of that right, insulted our authority, and therefore I request recompense for his life.”

  She was practically calling him a thief. She heard Sir Corellan’s groan of dismay, Sir Quinlan’s whispered: “Divine Majesty, protect us…”

  But really, what did Ceyrabeth-or any of them for that matter- have to lose? She had already seen the horrors Captain Sul and his pets were capable of and since the combination of wyrmscale deprivation and abject terror was pumping an exorbitant amount of courage-building fury through her veins, she figured that she may as well use it to her advantage. At best, he would reward her for her conviction. At worst, she would be a meal for an…it. And if Captain Sul really was just toying with them and they all died anyway, at least she could stand proudly at the side of her gods in the knowledge that she had not faltered.