Doomwalker

by Kathryn Zurmehly

  Doomwalker, he thought ruefully as he shaved. But he saw the fading bruise on his throat, the brutal of reality of the demon’s unholy mercy right on display, and his heart sank.

  The world went white.

  Valen threw himself down on his knees on reflex. It occurred to him to be grateful that he’d been done shaving.

  His Herald gazed down at him almost wild-eyed, though as utterly still as ever.

  “Swiftly,” she said without moving her lips, “The Temple must ride forth swiftly and soon. The binding fails on all levels.”

  Then the world came back. Valen gasped for breath and dragged himself to his feet.

  He dressed quickly. He hoped the message would spur action from the High Priestess. Heralds had been ignored before, at painful, though not necessarily fatal, cost. It was just as well that they were holding a council of war.

  On a whim—a very stupid whim-- he took a detour to the tavern Belarael, getting directions from confused street merchants. It was a far more luxurious place than he’d thought it would be, though it was still seedy enough that a Paladin’s entrance brought activity in the common room to a halt.

  He stood as passively as he could manage. “I’m looking for a…friend of mine.”

  The barkeep, a well-bred little man, unfroze. “A friend of yours here, Paladin?”

  “Yes.”

  “As he says,” Maryx said from the stairs, her face calm, her hood down around her shoulders. Seeing her was unstrung some tension in him he hadn't known he was feeling. She drew her hood up. “Lead the way, Paladin. Hopefully to better results this time.”

  9

  They cut swiftly through the crowds.

  “If I can get you into a council meeting, about the war, will your people use the information to…” Valen shook his head and tapped on the holy sunburst brooch absently. “Wipe out humanity?”

  He professionally put down demons and mad bits of dead gods and elven intentions of genocide were unbelievable. Maryx thought about it for a moment, weaving around a woman carrying many baskets. “No.”

  He looked at her grimly. Her brothers had done that. It was slightly less annoying from him. Slightly. “Why?”

  “They’re not capable of pulling it off.” Even with their current desperation.

  “Why in Lyrica’s light am I trusting her?” he asked, clearly to himself.

  “Because I much prefer a civilization with goose down beds to one that only has beds stuffed with pine needles as a matter of ascetic devotion.”

  “I should trust you because you’re a hedonist?”

  “I am not a hedonist. I enjoy having comfortable places to sleep.” She held his gaze and stopped. He halted with her, causing a minor hitch in traffic flow and winning some verbal abuse. “I swear on the graves of the seven gods that I will not tell anything from any potential council meetings that I see to the Hierarchs. Or any of their servants.” As if that wasn’t a contradictory mix of blasphemy and devotion.

  She bumped her wrist softly against her sword hilt. Her grandfather used to say, loudly and to anyone at all, that the present elven faith was a ruined mockery of the old one. She’d have to stick with that.

  Valen had saved her life. Valen was Immor. Maryx was a woman who honored debts and oaths. Simple, really.

  Valen nodded after moment, and they merged back into traffic, headed for the grand tower of the Councilhouse. Maryx, who would never have approached the building on her own, strove not gawk.

  Compared to the multicolored roofs of the Temple complex with its elaborate wall, the Councilhouse was incredibly plain, all done in white and gray and rose marble, but it made up for it in scale. Lacelike arches bounded each level’s outer walkway and the entire thing was capped by a huge pristine white marble dome. Within was not only the great meeting floor of the Lords’ Council but quarters for every council member and a reasonable amount of his household, as well as the kitchens, barracks, and bathhouses that would keep them comfortable and safe.

  The locals paid it little mind as they passed. Valen just glared at it. It was quieter outside the building than she would imagine it to be, considering its nature. That would make sense, as the Lords’ Council should not be in session, not til midsummer.

  A pair of Crownsguard men stood at the large wooden door, looking tense. Maryx made sure her hood was up. Here, they would not merely throw her out of the city, they would kill her.

  Valen walked up to the one who wore more golden bands on his sleeve. “We’re here to meet with High Priestess Sola.” Blank stare. “Of Lyrica.”

  “Ah.” The two exchanged a glance. “She’s not here, Paladin.”

  “I’m Paladin Valen. She sent for us."

  The ranking guard’s eyes lit up. “Yes, of course. I recognize you from her description now.” He opened a smaller door set into the main one. “Sorry about that, Paladin, this is, well, you know.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Maryx stuck close to Valen’s side, her cloak and sword getting a cautious stare. She eyed the large doors with the same caution; the fifty-four sigils of the Tribunal stared back out in gilded relief in a general circle, grouped together in arcs of eight each. It was the full ceremonial representation of all of them. She never liked seeing it. Not her gods, and elves weren’t their people, and everyone was vehement about both those facts.

  Inside, there were only enough lamps lit to keep the halls dimly lit. Maryx could see lighter spots of marble where banners had been hung every few feet on the inside wall, spots unmarked by the smoke of the torches, but now they were gone. There was a sage green sash draped a bit wildly at one point they walked by, with a golden image of Crownshold’s walls on it, the image of the Crownsguard.

  Valen paused as they saw four Crownsguard outside another set of large doors, marked with an inlaid wood version of the Tribunal image. They glared stubbornly, hands on swords. Valen returned their glare authoritatively and led her onward.

  “That’s the meeting floor,” he said, once they were out of earshot, “There is no other way in.”

  She thought about the contacts who had fed her information from the Lords’ Council. “None at all?”

  He gave her a knowing look as he moved to sit on some of the stairs along the outer wall. They’d passed many. “Your spy friends would have read the notes. One of the Lords acts as a scribe at every meeting. Unless someone invites you to the floor, there’s no way in.”

  “Yes, no one bribed the builders a thousand years ago. It was a simpler time, and no one sought to spy upon the powerful.” She tried to walk past him, but had to step over him on the narrow stairs. He twisted his head to avoid getting smacked with her scabbard and sighed loudly before following.

  She made her way up two more levels until she found it, a dusty straight seam in the wall. She traced it, frowning. It was a door, but it was one that hadn’t been opened in a long time.

  Valen watched with crossed arms. Her shoulder decided to start aching sharply. She sighed and leaned it against the cool stone, thinking.

  A cold sharp pain shot through the wound and a narrow block of marble simply vanished.

  Valen stared, paling slightly. Maryx swallowed. “Elves,” she said, “That’s…an elven trick.”

  “A trick?”

  “Spell, fine.” She turned so she could wedge herself into the passage, glancing over to see the shallow pattern carved into the marble she’d touched. A clerical spell. Long ago, after the humans had pushed the broken and bloodthirsty elves to Aeldamarc, after their Tribunal had ordered the creation of the Lords’ Council and parceled out the Holdings, as Crownshold and the Councilhouse were being built, a scout would have come here to make this. A scout who had been a priest, which was unthinkable now.

  She shook herself as she came out of the short passage. Her shoulder burned with a strange coldness on top of the other pain. She wasn’t sure Valen had followed, but there he was unfolding himself from what was really a crack in the smooth wall and looki
ng around.

  Not even the noblest of Paladins was immune to curiosity.

  They stood on a solid marble balcony that looked as it had been intentionally placed there, not called from stone by elven magic. The same heavy arches and pale marble formed the railing, though it wasn’t delicate and had no gaps to see through. No one was meant to see into the balcony

  Maryx peered over the rail and had perfect view of the debate floor, however.

  The huge round floor was all wooden inlay, but it wasn’t the Tribunal image again. It was a seven-pointed star.

  That old luck symbol again. She’d never seen it anywhere else outside Aeldamarc except above the Crownshold gate, and now here it was again in one of the most important human buildings.

  Valen leaned against the railing to look down. He was very quiet for a moment. “I didn’t expect that.” There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

  “I didn’t, either. Quiet.”

  Voices carried amazingly well from below. “—marching to Crownshold,” a red-haired man was saying. He had a green mantle draped gracefully over one shoulder and was pacing a slow circle. Twenty-one wooden chairs, like carved thrones, lined the outside of the room, but no one was sitting in them. There were brackets for banners above, but only torn rags hung there now, as if the banners had been violently ripped away.

  Instead, there were four other people standing on the floor, recognizably clergy. The older woman in gold, clearly Valen’s High Priestess of Lyrica, stepped forward shakily and leaned on her cane. “That is what your own scouts have reported, Commander Brandtalus.” Her voice was like the creaking of an ancient oak in the wind.

  The pacing man, who must be the Crownsguard Commander, stopped. “Days away.”

  “No.” They both turned to the black shrouded figure of the priest of Alberan, so wrapped in robes that he seemed to have no face. “They are moving faster than they should. A courier on a fast horse, alone, could perhaps match the pace of Beriskar’s armies. Of course, they’d have to move in a sensible line, which Beriskar does not seem to be doing. It makes little sense. They should have been here sooner, a fortnight ago at the least. My acolytes have been struggling to keep pace and do not understand how they are travelling. When they can find them.”

  A young priestess who wasn’t wearing much whirled on him like an angry cat. “Your acolytes are responsible for this!”

  “First, Meera, I do not personally assign acolytes on behalf of patrons and would have denied the request if it were my responsibility.” The Alberanite waved a heavily draped arm at the torn banners. “Second, the Lords’ Council is to blame. Attempting to blame each other is fruitless.”

  Meera crossed her arms and was silent. A large man in white laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and stepped forward. “Assigning any blame is fruitless.”

  The Lyrican priestess banged her cane on the floor. “Hear, hear.”

  “We have another problem that will arrive sooner than armies,” Meera continued.

  Brandtalus slumped, then gathered himself almost immediately. “Don’t keep us all in suspense.”

  “There is a column of refugees headed for our gates. Hundreds. Possibly more. Men and women of Orishal are traveling with them and tell me that more join every day.”

  Silence.

  “If we are to come under siege, as looks likely,” the old priestess said slowly, “more mouths to feed will be a difficulty.”

  The white clad man—the High Priest of Orishal, Maryx supposed—stiffened. “We cannot turn them away!”

  The Lyrican looked away.

  Lyrica and her holy orders, Maryx noted, were not known for being kind-hearted, Valen notwithstanding.

  Young Meera spoke up meekly. “Perhaps…Commander, what would it mean, to…to surrender Crownshold?”

  They all went very, very still, watching Brandtalus. “The city’s walls are too great a prize to give up, particularly as Mulvane is marching south.

  The High Priestess laughed aloud. “Yes, three thousand peasants armed with sharpened pitchforks concern the walls of Crownshold mightily.”

  Brandtalus ignored her. “I do not think Lord will burn the city down. I do believe that he will turn it into a fortress. It will not be the same Crownshold. No,” he stated grimly, “It won’t be Crownshold anymore. Fortress Beriskar or some other travesty.”

  “But we would live,” Meera told him, so quietly Maryx could barely hear.

  “I don’t trust Beriskar that far. He’s been hard on his Holding over the past few years.”

  “He has been burning down villages as he marches,” the Alberanite said, “For no reason that any can tell.”

  “The refugee problem is more immediate,” the Lyrican priestess said.

  The black shrouded priest huffed, sending the shroud over his face billowing out. “Presently.”

  “Presently is all we have. As I was saying, let us decide on the more immediate problem. Beriskar will come, but they will come sooner.”

  “We can’t turn them away,” the High Priest of Orishal said, “You cannot be considering that!”

  “We don’t have to throw open the gates, either,” Commander Brandt answered, “I ask for your counsel, voices of the Tribunal.”

  That got a dry laugh out of the Alberanite. “As the Commander requests. We might as well convene all fifty-four high priests, my brothers and sisters. Then we may be as much use as the Lords’ Council has been!” Never ask for the advice of a death priest.

  The man in white ran his hands across his face. “At least let them camp in Crownshold lands.”

  “They’ll cling to the walls like barnacles. Not that I can blame them.” The Crownsguard Commander began pacing again. “Water will not be a problem, not here, and food…food is going to be a problem with or without them.” He stopped again, facing the room’s great door. The Tribunal image stood on its inside, too, as if watching the proceedings within. “Unless I have my men chase them off our lands, they’ll stop anyway.”

  All the priests and priestesses considered, then nodded.

  “So that is settled. The refugees may not enter the city, but they may camp outside the walls. I humbly request, holy ones, that we meet again in two days hence to discuss what we will do once the army of the ever-so-noble Lord Beriskar arrives.”

  “Come now, Commander,” the Alberanite said, “It could be that delightsome visionary Mulvane!”

  The Lyrican priestess stabbed him in the foot with her cane. The entire group laughed, a release of tension more than humor, and descended into banter or theological debate.

  Both Valen and Maryx slid down to the floor of the balcony and stared at the wall in silence.

  Maryx tried to guess at the burden the refugees would be to Crownshold. The city and its lands were blessed. There was plenty of water in its great springs, and every harvest provided more than enough food. A complex sewer system, built around the same time as the Councilhouse and the walls, kept the city clean and fairly free of disease. Crownshold could probably hold more people.

  How much more, she did not know.

  “Crownshold will fall,” Valen said, almost muttering, “I thought you said I would cause the end of the world.”

  “Civilization. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” It did not come out nearly as lighthearted as she’d hoped. “Do you want to stay in the city?”

  “They’ll need every able-bodied man they can get.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” She shut her eyes for few heartbeats. “You know, that star on the floor down there is an elven symbol of good luck and protection. It doesn’t seem to work for humans.”

  “It’s a model of the Court of the Tribunal. The Lords’ Council is supposed to be a mortal match.”

  “As the Tribunal upholds the principles of existence, the Lords’ Council upholds the principles of civilization, or so the saying goes.”

  “Yes. Now the Council is no more. They tore their banners off the walls, even.”

  “I
thought that’s what those rags were. You’ve been here before?”

  “Accompanying High Priestess Sola as an honor guard when she visited a few times.” He stood, then turned to look at her. To her surprise, he offered her his hand. She took it and he helped her up. “I hope that works as repayment for your help.” He ignored her look. “If you want to leave the city, I won’t blame you.”

  “Religious obligations, Paladin.” She started to wedge herself into the passage, which was thankfully still open. “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

  ✽✽✽

  “Ah, young Paladin Valen,” High Priestess Sola said, smiling at him through the open doors of the meeting floor. She waved him in. “Come, meet Crownsguard Commander Laelius Brandtalus.”

  Commander Brandtalus, who Valen could now see wore a breastplate with the Crownshold symbol on it, nodded at him. He was tall, of a height with Maryx but still shorter than Valen. His green eyes sized Valen up like a dueling opponent. “The High Priestess speaks well of you, Paladin.”

  Valen bowed his head as he would to a priestess. “All glory is Lyrica’s, Commander.”

  “Indeed,” the High Priestess said, “Valen is particularly blessed, not just in skill but with visits from the goddess’ Herald as well.”

  “She came to me again this morning, High Priestess,” Valen said, interrupting. Commander Brandt looked sharply at him but the High Priestess paled. “The Temple must leave the city quickly.”

  The two exchanged a long look. “It is with a sorrowful heart,” the High Priestess said, “that I must refuse to heed the advice of Lyrica’s Herald.”

  Valen could only blink at her.

  She held up a hand as if he were protesting loudly. “If the Temple abandons Crownshold, the city will fall, and the suffering will be…considerable.”

  “However,” the Commander said, “Perhaps a plan should be put in place to do as Lyrica’s Herald says.”

  The High Priestess fixed him with an archly irritated look.

  Valen felt like he was in one of his visions of the Herald, frozen and mute.

  “The goddess is the protector of civilization. She wouldn’t give her devout servant warnings for no reason. I know you feel—”