Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  “Now these,” He handed the parchments back to Atiya and took from her a letter, “are letters written by a Witchhammer in Daymore Dolor by the name of Yavic ibn Geral.”

  “Oh, gods, no!” Sir Quinlan expostulated.

  “Who is that?” Keiran asked him with a frown.

  “An embarrassment,”’ He stated firmly while Ceyrabeth nodded grim affirmation, “And an embodiment of everything wrong in our order.”

  “In these letters,” Sul continued, “Sir Yavic outlies his plan for ‘The Virago Solution’ in which he proposes that every mage in Daymore submit to being confined physically to churches and towers dedicated to Imperius. From archmages, to children barely old enough to walk. Torn from their homes, their families, and made prisoners. Buried in a dungeon as an embarrassment to be forgotten.”

  Silence descended upon the crowd like a pall, each and every one too horrified to speak.

  “He asserts that ‘Internment and forced concentration of undesirable elements is neither morally wrong nor sinful in the eyes of the Imperius. That throughout the Book of Imperius, submission was the unifying theme: that the ancient goddess Mother War submitted to the will of Imperius when he conquered her and took her power. That Her followers submitted to His will in turn’. He goes on to say here that, ‘Submission, obedience, and the desire to follow is intrinsic to faith, to sanctity, and to the very nature of mankind and that by enacting internment of every mage or mage-potential, the church would be acting only as Imperius would, to ensure peace and order throughout the realm’.”

  “Ceyrabeth…that’s true?” Matthias posed the question, quietly, painfully. She nodded, her demeanor icy, then gestured for him to wait. Sul carefully handed the papers back to Atiya,

  “Thank you, Atiya,” He turned back to the crowd, “Now it is worth mentioning that Lord Marshal Vijav Forianus rejected the plan as did the current Hierophant privately, of course. But it is also worth noting that upon that rejection, Sir Yavic was promoted by Lord Marshal Vijav Forianus to the rank of Commander for his ‘dedication to the ideals of the church and unfailing loyalty.’ A promotion that increased the number of mages and younger knights under his purview tenfold. A promotion that the Hierophant neither censured nor revoked.”

  Ceyrabeth almost laughed; Yavic had been promoted to the position she had once been groomed for. The rank bastard.

  “Those bastards!” A voice screamed out from within the crowd. Others quickly joined and the crowd rapidly approached a mob that looked ready to storm the capital and burn it to the ground.

  “Is he trying to start a riot?” Corellan hissed.

  Sul held up a hand and the crowd quieted, “Well I am afraid that I must disagree with Sir Yavic’s views, and with Lord Marshal Vijav Forianus and His Holiness the Hierophant of Daymore who apparently shares those views, however tacitly and instead say that the nature of faith, of sanctity, and of mankind is not in fact submission but instead something far more dangerous: liberty.”

  Sul cast a look around the crowd, “I say that liberty and, more than liberty… freedom… is the nature of what it is means to be faithful, to be sacred, to be alive. Liberty, not blind submission. And as proof, I offer the actions of those who have been deprived their freedom, deprived of their liberty,” He shook his fist as he spoke, “They will rise against their captors, they will make war against their oppressors, they will fight and bleed and die, rather than surrender,” He paused for effect, “They will even follow…a woman, an escaped slave with nothing more than a name and claims that she is in fact a goddess, the Mother of War. against the mightiest empire the world had ever known, sacrificing all she held dear in the process so that the races of men and dwarves could be free of elven enslavement of ancient times.”

  Ceyrabeth let him have his moment, as cheers and accolades rolled in from all sides. She let him stand there and soak it in, while the rage turned hard as diamond in her gut and twice as sharp. She bent down to pick up the stones at her feet.

  "Beth, no...!" Quinlan made a grab at her but was too late- she was already as close to Sul as Atiya and Reaper Maul would allow and as the crowd quieted, she deliberately dropped the stones one by one. Blasphemy…heresy….treason.

  “You. Know. Nothing.” Sir Ceyrabeth hissed, her voice quiet. She was not speaking for the masses, had almost forgotten they were there. She spoke straight to Sul. “Nothing of me, nothing of them,” She swept her arm out to indicate her Brothers, “And certainly nothing of the gods. I find it funny, that for all your talk about liberty and supposed disdain for brutality, how you had absolutely no trouble viciously robbing me of a choice I made because it didn’t conform to your ideal. My story was not yours to tell and yet, here you are telling it. Will I be fitted for my leash and collar after my hair is shorn, Captain? Will it be struck off when I embrace your ‘freedom and liberty’?”

  “Your story,” Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, “You’re from Daymore Dolor, correct?” Ceyrabeth’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing, “Is that your story? You’re an elf from Dolor? Is that the summation of Ceyrabeth? No, you’re a young girl who grew up trapped who sacrificed everything she was to be included in an order whose saw fit to cast aside the ancient teachings of kings and dragons passed down by Mother War and work instead to subjugate and discriminate against all followers of other faiths-especially those who are not human. Those who would grind your culture beneath their collective boot. How did that make you feel, Ceyrabeth? Knowing what they did to your people and swearing your allegiance to them. How did your family feel when you told them?”

  A spasm of pain shot across Ceyrabeth’s features before she could suppress it.

  “I see,” Sul said softly, “Your family was taken from you. Who slew them? Bandits? Nobles seeking a bit of sport?” He frowned and shook his head, “No….” He pondered aloud, “A young girl does not cut off her own ears simply for acceptance nor security…but for revenge.”

  “No!” Ceyrabeth couldn’t stop herself from crying out.

  “A demon,” Sul said softly, “Your family, your community, was ravaged by a demon.”

  Again, Ceyrabeth was struck with a strange sense of familiarity. The way he spoke, almost to himself, working a puzzle out in his mind while his subject stood dumb, unable to stop the forward motion that would leave their secrets bare. The words, the cadence of foreign lands becoming more prominent as they continued, she had heard them before.

  "The last time I saw you, Sir Ceyrabeth, you were being dragged out by two of your brothers, you were wounded, and you were screaming for justice for a man you loathed to the woman you cared for more than faith, in front of the Hierophant's Tribunal, knowing it would bring you reprimand or worse. Whoever you believe I am is secondary to what I know you to be...which is so much more than you've become." Sul's face softened with sympathy, "I can't imagine how that must have felt, when her weapon pierced your shoulder and broke your heart."

  "My shoulder and the state of my heart are none of your concern, you..."

  "I thought it was an old injury, Beth." Keiran asked. "From when you were

  a child."

  "It was."

  "Until the Lioness of Daymore reopened it and tossed her to the wolves," Quinlan commented darkly.

  Ceyrabeth whirled on him, "Quinlan!"

  "The Lady High Marshal? But what does....?" And Keiran understood. "You were sleeping with the High Marshal?!"

  "Which is none of your damn business!" Ceyrabeth retorted. "As for her..."

  Sul smiled slightly as the last piece fell into place, ”’Her’. There is only one Hammer that has the conviction, and the hatred of all things demonic and infernal, to lead her company to the aid of elves in Dolor. Carmilla the Lioness of the East. You were the squire of Carmilla Le Fanu Lady High Marshal of the Witchtower of Daymore Dolor.” He reached down to pick up a stone. "Sir Vallorin...catch.”

  He tossed the stone high and above the elf’s right shoulder. Her hand automatically shot up to catch it but then dre
w short and gasped as pain lanced through her arm. The stone fell to the ground.

  “You’re right handed,” Sul spoke calmly, “But you draw your weapon with your left, your shield on the right.” Sul rubbed a finger across his upper lip in contemplation, “How old were you when you first broke your arm? Old enough for it to heal poorly, young enough to be taught how to use your other arm.”

  “You have no right...!”

  “Did the demons that slaughtered your kinsmen do that to your arm?”

  “I was lucky it was just a broken arm,” Ceyrabeth spat. “After what they did to my mother and siblings…my father…” Her voice cracked, but she plowed on. “My hiding place was good, but I was scared…gave myself away. They tried to drag me out, but I held on. The virago had summoned demons and one of them brought a damned chair down on my arm. I fought the rest of the night with it cracked. After Carmilla and Quinlan came and took care of the bastards, they decided to take me with them. We reached headquarters, the healer tried to fix it, but it never really set right--”

  “You have something to add, Sir Quinlan?” Sul interrupted. He had somehow caught the man’s expression of discomfort.

  For a blind man, Ceyrabeth thought wryly, he sees a lot.

  “We didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” Sir Quinlan informed them.

  “Quinlan!” Ceyrabeth tried to intercept him, but it was too late. Sul motioned for him to continue.

  “The High Marshal…she was just a knight then…and I responded to the rumor of mad mages loose in the Spinner’s End of the city.” Quinlan stood at parade rest as though reporting to a superior officer, Ceyrabeth noted through the embarrassment creeping through her. He was about to tell her damn life’s story again, but to this man and his whole army, so why wasn’t she stopping him? “When we got there…” The older man’s jaw clenched involuntarily, mirroring the fury on Ceyrabeth’s face. “Utter carnage. I’ve never seen anything like it. There was one person left standing though, fighting like a fiend with an old kitchen knife,” She shut her eyes, face flushing as Quinlan continued, vomiting words as though he had held them in too long and couldn’t keep them in a second longer. “She couldn’t have been more than ten…”

  “Eleven,” Ceyrabeth murmured.

  “But it took four of the undead to subdue her. Not for long…Carmilla saw and cut them down. And when the dust had settled, this little girl asks us, ‘What are you?’ Not who, what. So we told her, we’re Witchhammers. She said, ‘I want to be a Witchhammer’. I told her, kindly, only humans are Witchhammers. I joked with her, told her…that ‘her ears would give her away’--”

  “Quinlan, stop!” Ceyrabeth begged. He met her eyes, and did stop.

  “I see.” Sul replied. “I’m sure Carmilla used knowledge of your old injury to full advantage when she ultimately betrayed you, yes?”

  “Yes,” Ceyrabeth dropped her gaze.

  "And when you found yourself alone and betrayed, I'm sure there were compassionate healers present to make sure you were not crippled or worse?" The expression on Ceyrabeth's face said it all. "I see."

  "I was not alone." Ceyrabeth raised her eyes to Quinlan, stood taller. A smile flickered on the old soldier's weathered face.

  Sul nodded, then gestured to Pellinore. “Lieutenant step forward please, if you would.” The elf complied unhesitatingly as Sul placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “This man is escapee from the slums in Daymore Merenia after conditions became intolerable. He attempted to liberate his fellow kinsmen from slavery only to have them cut down by members of the nobility. He is the only survivor, having made it all the way to Central Daymore with an arrow lodged in his leg. He is an elf and fellow rebel, we can all see that. But can we see that which is equally true; that he is, in fact, the bravest person assembled here? If he were human and a worshipper of Imperius and his captors were virago or elves or orcs or dwarves, he wouldn’t be standing here now dubbed a ‘traitor’ and an ‘insurgent’. He would not in fact be able to stand at all, he would be so heavily laden with accolades and honors from the Imperium. They’d write songs about him and sing them as hymns in the greatest cathedrals of the Empire. The most esteemed scribes of our age would fill their books with his tale to be told to our children and our children’s children and so on down the ages because we would insist upon it. His name would be as familiar as King Rodham, Emperor Sei-Jung, or Anastasia the First.”

  Sul approached the roaring green bonfire his eyeless gaze fixed on Ceyrabeth, “Yet, if the Imperium is right, if Yavic ibn Geral and The Hierophant and High Marshal Carmilla are right, what are we to do with that most famous of rebels: Mother War and those men and women she inspired to break the golden chains of bondage the elves of old had placed upon them?”

  He held up the amulet for all to see, the symbol of Mother War glowing a faint green in the light of the alchemical fire, “What of their conceits in defying an empire? Her malcontent in giving Questor and the other elves who surrendered a home of their own instead of the headsman’s axe? It was she who said: ‘Let war rise and fall like the tide and when it has fallen, let peace amongst men prevail. Glory in battle, contentment in peace and in all things honor,’” he quoted before raising his voice once more, “What in Heaven’s name shall we do this embarrassing truth?” He examined the amulet carefully, running his fingers across the visage of the warrior goddess, “I see only one solution.”

  He tossed the amulet into the fire where it burst into flame and was consumed. The only sound that could be heard was the crackle of ivory and leather burning and from somewhere the soft sound of weeping.

  He continued speaking to the crowd, “The other night, I was speaking to my friend, Reaper Maul, and we were discussing Orcish traditions he learned from them during his time amongst their tribes. He explained to me that the orcs practice a form of ancestor worship. They believe that the most exemplary of their kind once they die become war spirits, ancestral figures from the past that watch over them. These ‘spirits’ serve as ideals to be aspired to and in doing so they never really leave their people.”

  He took another drink and cleared his throat coughing slightly and rubbing his chest, “It made me curious as to who the ‘spirits’ associate with Mother War and her army of faithful were: Talon bin Sahay: the engineer whose mighty creations brought them victory time and time again against overwhelming odds. Mischa Mulah: the swordswoman who could slay a dozen men in a single duel. Velios of the Thunder Hand: the elven mage who defected to the human army and became one of their most trusted and valued leaders. Too long have we denied their wisdom, their insight, their example. Perhaps it is fear that the devotion that we cling to so very dearly would be seen as flawed in their eyes. Perhaps in our fervor we fear that those ancient eyes would look upon our actions in their name and be ashamed. “

  His expression softened, “There is a truth that I have aspired to, an ideal and it is simply this: We owe our devotion and our allegiance to the future and not the past. That which came before, no matter how sacredly it may be held, is not a guide to the future. Clinging to the past will not make us stronger; learning from it will, and when we have learned all we can from it, then it is to be put aside in a place of remembrance and not reverence,” He turned his expression skyward, “I call upon those ancient spirits to hear us, those great and glorious rebels. We desperately need your gentle wisdom and your counsel. Help us overcome our fears, our frailties, ourselves, so that we may finally grow as a people and learn to embrace the future and not the past. And if in doing so we anger the church or the nobility or the Witchhammers and war ensues, then let it come. And may it be finally the last crusade for the freedom of humanity.”

  Silence reigned in the camp as Sul turned away from the crowd and Atiya slowly led him back to the tent. "He's not long for the world. You know that." Mathias stated to Keiran.

  "He looked fairly hale to me," Tregan sauntered over, going to stand next to Corellan when he saw the glare Ceyrabeth was favoring him with.<
br />
  "Don't be an idiot, Tre. He's tainted. It's spreading fast." Mat turned back to Keiran, "You're really going to pledge yourself to someone who's going to shuffle off into the Void?"

  "We all die sometime." Ceyrabeth answered, her voice far away.

  "Beth..." Quinlan said cautiously. "What are you thinking?"

  "He knew. He knew me, knew who I was and he has from the start." She replied as she watched the crowd disperse. "And I promise you this, he may be courting Death, but he will not shuffle anywhere until I know how he knows. This I swear."

  Long after those gathered had dispersed, only Ceyrabeth remained standing ramrod straight and staring at the last of the green fire as it sputtered and went out and all became serene and dark once more.

  Chapter 6

  Reunions and Recollections

  ‘A man will fight and die for a variety of things: his home, his loved ones, his ideals. Create a home for him within your ranks, foster a love for his fellow soldiers and command guided by ideals that speak to him and he will fight and die for you.’ – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius

  Another damn recruitment request. Word apparently traveled quickly in this camp, as Keiran also received several from various battalions within the Legion. The first one for her, delivered by Atiya, had been from the Crimson Vanguard; Maul’s berserkers, the second from the Sentinels consisting exclusively of Chalicemen. As though she would ever even consider throwing her lot in with a bunch of savages or inbred Palebloods, even if she was joining Sul’s Carnival of Horrors, which she absolutely wasn’t. And now this one from the ‘Black Shepherds’, whatever the Void they were. At least their commander could spell. Ceyrabeth wrapped the missive around a nearby rock and hurled it into the nearby river. She turned her back on it with a huff and found herself watching her now-reunited brothers interact.