***
General Bremen yanked his sword from the dead monk’s chest and looked up to survey the carnage. It might not have been as glorious as when he’d stood atop the last tower of Arteris and watched his soldiers repel an overwhelming Ebaran force, and it certainly wasn’t as awe-inspiring as witnessing twenty thousand soldiers fighting for control of the Karadar Fields.
But it was still a battlefield, and for the first time in far too long, he was standing side-by-side with his soldiers striking back against the enemies of the Republic. It was where he was meant to be.
Unfortunately, their opponents had barely even mustered a defense. A handful of disorganized, red-robed monks now lay dead at their feet, and they stood in front of a large set of double-doors where the rest had likely bunkered themselves in like feeble old women.
Under different circumstances, he might have left them alone. He didn’t really care about the Kirshane, after all, and Major Thorne’s unit should have been closing in on the Kirshal’s position. But Veltar seemed to think this ancient and dying order had something they could use, and it wasn’t worth passing up such an opportunity.
“Open the door,” he ordered, gesturing to the two Faceless that had accompanied his unit. They immediately moved to either side of the massive frame.
“Sir, you should stay back,” one of the Balorite soldiers said. “We don’t know—”
Bremen silenced the man with a glare and strode forward. He hoisted his shield in front of him and nodded to his other men to stand ready. The marksmen moved forward and dropped to a knee while the remainder of his infantry slid beside him. A pair of cultist magi stood ready to unravel any spell the monks might try to throw at them.
The Faceless grabbed at the door, and with a hollow, almost guttural roar, they tore the metal plates from their hinges. Standing inside, their eyes wide and faces aghast, were five more red-robed monks. They didn’t appear to have any weapons.
Only one managed to compose himself and step forward, an elderly man with a wild shock of white hair and deeply-set eyes. It was easy enough to guess his identity.
“Jonas Bale,” Bremen said, lifting up the visor to his helmet. “Surrender your forces and hand over the Kirshal, and I will spare the lives of your monks.”
The old man’s face immediately flickered with recognition. “Andar Bremen, the Butcher of Turesk,” he said softly. “History has a sense of humor after all.”
“I asked once. I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”
Bale snorted. “Surrender what, General? You’re men have already massacred everyone else. And the Kirshal you want so badly isn’t even here.”
Bremen glanced back to the row of men behind him. “Shoot the one on the far right.”
The terrified monk didn’t even have time to twitch before a volley of bolts cut him down. Bale immediately thrust out his hands in desperate protest.
“No! Stop!”
“I don’t appreciate being lied to, Master Bale,” Bremen said, letting his voice cool. “I can sense her within this monastery right now. Abalor himself has guided me to her.”
Bale glanced down to the bolt-ridden corpse, his hands shaking with impotent rage, before turning back to Bremen. “You can have her if you like, but I have no means to contact her and I’m not sure where she is right now. The rest of us won’t fight you.”
“Good.” He had expected more protest, but perhaps this man was simply a coward. It wouldn’t be that surprising—like many Edehans, he was probably far more willing to talk about his faith than to actually defend it. “I also want access to your vault.”
“We don’t have a vault,” Bale replied. “And there’s nothing here of value to a man like you.”
Bremen glanced back over his shoulder. “Shoot another one.”
Bolts fired again, but this time Bale was ready. The old man flicked his hand and a flash of energy consumed the bolts before they had a chance to hit anything. He scowled at Bremen.
“Take her,” the monk growled. “Take the Defiler as far from this temple as you like. But that is all you will get from us.”
For a moment, Bremen wished his visor were closed so he could conceal his face. It was not at all the response he had expected. Why would Bale be so willing to get rid of Edeh’s own prophet? Was it just some misguided, last ditch ruse to try and save her or his monks?
Either way, it was irrelevant. He could sense the Kirshal growing closer; Thorne’s unit must have already captured her. Perhaps it wasn’t even worth dealing with this Bale at all…
“General,” a voice called from behind. “One of the Kirshal’s henchmen surrendered and wants to speak with you.”
Bremen frowned and cocked an eyebrow. Two of his soldiers gingerly brought forward a thirty-something bearded man holding a knife to his own throat. Even without the description Bremen had been given, he knew instantly who he was looking at—and a smile stretched across his lips.
“The infamous Nathan Rook,” he said. From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement from Bale—the old man’s jaw had dropped open and his face had gone white.
“Call off your attack, general,” Rook told him. “I’m the one you want.”
Bremen eyed him carefully as he wiped his sword on his tabard and slid it back into its sheath. “Is that so?”
“The Kirshal isn’t here.”
Bremen glanced back to Bale; the man’s eyes were still frozen wide in horror. Something was definitely not right here…
“Really,” he murmured. “Then where is she?”
“She’s dead,” Rook said flatly. “You killed her.”
The general’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Five years ago when you attacked Turesk, your men killed her. The woman you’re chasing here isn’t the Kirshal and never was. She’s an imposter.”
Bremen slowly shook his head. “With your reputation, I expected more from you than this…nonsense.”
“It’s all true. Fortunately for you, you don’t need her anyway. You have me.”
A few of the soldiers actually laughed. Bremen settled on a cold glare. “And why in the name of the Five True Gods would I care about you?”
“Because you came here looking for the divine soul of Edeh,” Rook said softly. “And I’m the one who has it.”
The Last Goddess Page 59