Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

  12: Priests of Ladis

  The city of Prommus was in an uproar. Not only was the fact that magic had been used in their midst again causing panic and widespread accusations of neighbors harboring witches or practicing the dark arts themselves, the temples were filled with people willing to put their lives on the line to declare that they were loyal to Ladis and the church of the empire.

  Granted, the high priest’s proposal that anyone who had not yet sworn loyalty to him and the Temple would see their sons as young as fifteen shipped off to war might have had something to do with it. People were doing anything within their power to keep their younger sons away from the front.

  But if the rumors of the strength of the initial push of Isol through Ladis were true, the front may not be far off from Prommus within a month.

  Jerius walked through the main Temple’s courts. The once empty and echoing halls of the faith were now filled with long lines of people, ready and willing to put their names down as faithful members in order to ensure they sent no more of their children to war. Jerius thought it was all foolishness.

  With just a word, the king could send anyone he wanted down to fight for the empire. Word was that he had already ordered that the soldiers fighting in the Disputed Lands march north in order to shore up the defenses of the main lands of the Theocracy. Giving up the Disputed Lands was no small gesture. They had fought for them for the last thirty years. Whether or not this war time strategy would pay off in the end was anyone’s guess.

  All Jerius was concerned about was that there was a city to go back to and reign as Priest when all of this settled down. If it ever did in his lifetime. Luca followed closely behind him as they cut through the crowds of people and made their way to the ruling chambers of the high priest.

  Lines of worshippers and offering givers wound through the main temple area. The benches that normally served as places of prayer or reflection were now being used to coordinate the moving of very long lines. Towering over the crowds were the eight main pillars of the church: the eight professions most worshiped by the people of Ladis.

  And at the very front stood Decolos: the hero and god of Ladism. His statue, as always, was of the crowned head of a short-haired man with a flowing cape. He held a sword in one hand and a shield lay at his feet.

  It was an impressive statue under which many gave away all the wealth their family could afford.

  High Priest Regis wasn’t seeing any of the faithful who had come to put their name down. Nor was he taking the time to count the coins that were being brought in by the bags. Many people added coins to their registration in order to show how faithful they really were. The more coins that were given with the name on the roster, the more favor the church would grant upon that house.

  Of course, some houses were far below the suggested donation line, which made those who were willing to give away a great portion of their wealth even more valuable. Jerius knew that the Temple relied on such donations for the equipping of its guards and financing of its other temples and projects.

  He also knew his own money for being a priest came from such funds. He felt a desire to cease the super wealthy giving from their surplus and the impoverished giving beyond their means.

  More food on his table was not a dire thing to him.

  Finding the door to Regis’ study, he nodded to the guards and was allowed in. As a Priest of Ladis, he was given such authority and station. It felt like what he deserved.

  Pushing open the door, Jerius stepped inside and closed it, muffling the sounds of the commotion going on out in the large temple complex. This stone hall was quieter by far, and much less occupied. Temple guards stood at the entrance to the few doors that lined the corridor.

  They didn’t react as Jerius walked by them. They stood stiff and at attention, eyes forward. These were the best trained of the Temple’s guards. They were the ones who watched over the hall that led to the study of the high priest.

  Jerius had learned that the study he had been gifted was in the hall with eight others similar to it. They varied in size only slightly. Each had a small personal touch from the priest that occupied it at the moment.

  But the study of the high priest was in a secluded area. The first door Jerius went through led to another hall. The second corridor went on for a long time and was filled with statues of the gods. It finally ended at a set of doors that were both ornate and stout.

  Four guards who stood by the entryway nodded at Jerius, but did not allow him passage. The high priest was aware of his coming, and he would exit the study only when he was ready to address him. Jerius had been told about this, but still it irritated him. His station had improved, this was for sure. But he was still not the highest authority.

  He turned his back on the door and folded his hands behind him. If he would have to wait, he would at least do so while applying his mind to think on more worthwhile topics.

  The high priest had mentioned that the rebellion couldn’t have happened at a better time for the Temple. He was trying to gain more power for the faith within the empire. Whatever the political game against the king was, Jerius was unsure. He had been summoned here in order to get instruction about appearing before the Voice of the people.

  He did not look forward to it.

  What he wanted to know was the history between the high priest and the king. What had driven them to hate each other? Was it truly just the difference within their institutions? Or was there something else at play?

  The door behind him creaked open and a servant peaked her head out.

  “The High Priest is ready to receive Jerius, Priest of Arranus."

  Jerius turned and nodded. The guards allowed him entrance and he stepped through the double doors.

  As he had expected, the study of the high priest was far more decorated and ornate than his own. Two stories of bookshelves lined the walls. Great tall windows between the shelves allowed light to come in. Darius looked out of them long enough just to see that the office was on a cliff. There would be no fear of intruders coming in through those windows. They remained unguarded.

  The high priest sat in a high backed wooden chair at a large stone table. Above him were two tapestries: one was of Decolos, founding god of their religion. The other was the symbol of their religion: silver skull on a black banner.

  Regis looked up from his parchment and quill and waved Jerius forward.

  He spoke no words, which irritated Jerius even more than the hand wave. He was still subordinate.

  He made a few more marks on the paper in front of him, before rolling it up and sealing it with wax. He handed this to Jerius and said in a low tone.

  “The rebels you brought to the city evaded my guards.”

  Jerius’ hand froze in the act of taking the rolled parchment. He met Regis’ eyes and saw that anger and rage filled them to the brim.

  “Where are they!?’ Jerius asked before he was able to stop himself.

  The high priest shoved the paper into Jerius’ hands and let out a deep sigh.

  “It’s my desire that they rot in the lowest prison I can dig for them,” he said through gritted teeth. “But, for now, they have evaded us.’

  He pounded his hand on the stone table he sat at and drew his tongue across his teeth. Jerius could tell that the high priest was troubled.

  “I fear they seek the same thing,’ he said under his breath.

  Jerius wanted badly to ask what the priest was pursuing. He wanted to know what the group he had brought from that island temple had to do with the man he served. The high priest shook himself, as if coming out a dream.

  “These are the things I want you to say to them,’ he said standing up and going to the closest window. He didn’t speak to Jerius. His words were directed at the view outside. “Speak with authority. You are a Priest of Ladis. Do not let them bully you or talk down to you. Read those notes to them. Convey to them my thoughts. You are also introducing yourself to them. I have included that in my notes for you
as well. Whatever you do, do not linger. The Voice can be a trying place. Return to me and tell me how it was received.’

  Jerius looked down at the paper in his hands. It took a good measure of self-control not to crumple it in his fist. Had he become a messenger?

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  He wasn’t sure what his new station of Priest should have guaranteed him. He had hated being pushed and bullied by Prince Farnus. This felt like the same treatment. The prince had been easily dealt with. Perhaps...

  “That will be all,” the high priest said. He didn’t take his gaze away from the window. He continued to stare out of it without any regard for Jerius at all.

  With pursed lips and fist clutching the notes he was to read to the Voice, Jerius turned on his heel and left the room.

  His new station was not what he had thought it would be.

  13: Ground Gained

  Tents lined the landscape as the army moved its way north. The men and women of Isol were hardy and had been preparing for a long campaign. Their supply ships were met with troops protecting their journey and the caravans and carts that made the trip from one castle to the next were well stocked and well-guarded.

  This was no unplanned vengeance or reckless revenge. This was a carefully orchestrated invasion that had one purpose: to take down the greatest human empire in the world.

  Isolian soldiers and Speakers readied their equipment for the next day’s marching. Five days marching, two days in the tents. That was how they traveled. It was this manner that had led them from Grellis to Ravus. Now that their work was done, it was time to move on again. Everyone would pack so that they could leave with the dawn. Supply carts would follow their progress across the plains as they slowly made their way north over plains and fields in between the northern mountains of Ladis.

  Small villages dotted the landscape, but most appeared empty. Even if their inhabitants were just lurking behind walls or windows, none dared to come out and show themselves to the invaders. They feared the spell casters.

  But not Octus.

  He craved nothing more than to stick the fork in his hand into the eye socket of his captors. One in particular.

  Ever since their invasion began, the soldiers of Isol used their magic and witchcraft to further enhance their hold of the territory that the Theocracy controlled. Though he had fought spell casters before, Octus had now seen the use of this heretical ability in its full force on two occasions. Once in Grellis, the city he had been recruited to defend. Another time he had watched helplessly as Ravus fell to the magical cannons and spells of the invading army.

  He hated that he had spent his life in the Disputed Lands thinking they could win this war with these heretics. His brothers in arms he had watched die and fight and sacrifice again and again, just thinking that, if they threw enough men at their foe, they might win. They may take down the awful Speakers.

  After watching Yada lead her troops mercilessly to destroy two cities, all hope of any sort of victory began to fade from Octus. At first, he’d thought that Grellis was the exception. He had been so wrong. Ravus had fallen with much greater speed, lacking the soldiers it needed to defend itself. If such a fortified city fell so easily, what hope had Prommus, not to mention the rest of Ladis?

  And what was worse, was that he was forced to serve the woman who was the mastermind behind the invasion. Why he was kept alive was beyond him. Perhaps it happened Yada had discovered that he had a reputation in the ongoing war down south. Someone might have told her that he was a hero of Ladis, or so some called him. What better way to insult the other side than to force one of their heroes to serve her meat at the table?

  He was given every opportunity to kill the woman. He was often left alone with her, even forced to stand watch over her while she slept.

  He knew it was all a ruse, though, a thinly veiled attempt to get him to attempt to end her life.

  The dreaded Speakers were everywhere. If he was to ever try something, he would either be blown to pieces by a hidden guard or tortured, more likely, by Yada herself.

  The only thing that kept him alive, and prevented him from throwing his life away in the vein hope of dealing her a mortal blow, was the thought of his niece.

  What happened to dear little Olma?

  What would his brother say if he knew she had been abandoned?

  Not abandoned, he reminded himself. He had sent her away to be protected. He had hoped they would be reunited. Or at least that she would be taken care of by another.

  The only thing he would give his life for would be to ensure that she had made it out of the city alive. Or that she at least lived still within, though which was the worst of the two outcomes, he didn’t know.

  The Isolian army had captured Grellis, killed almost every soldier within its walls, and began to repair the city almost at once. Surely the women and children would be spared? Perhaps they would be forced to help rebuild the wreckage and clean up, then serve the victors as they wished. But hopefully, they would be spared.

  Octus would find a way to escape. He would make his way back to Grellis. He would find Olma.

  Even if it killed him.

  “Take this in to serve Her Holiness,” a dark-skinned servant told him. Octus glared at him, but knew he had no choice but to obey. A Speaker garbed in blue stood nearby, fingering his ring of Rimstone. Octus sneered at the tray he was being offered, but took it all the same. He had been dressed like a slave: a blue shirt with black pants. No shoes.

  This was apparently how they differentiated servants from slaves. Those who are paid for their work were given the privilege of footwear. Those who were forced to work were like Octus. Shoeless.

  He took the plate of meat and assorted vegetables as well as the fork in his hand and strode the short distance from one tent that held the cooking and food preparation items, to Yada’s own special lodging.

  The army was on the move again. After successfully defeating another city, they were making their way north. Octus assumed they would eventually find themselves outside the capital of Ladis. He wondered how many cities would fall before they attempted to take on the great city of Prommus. Moreover, he wondered how it would feel to watch the empire he had fought for fall.

  Two guards exchanged looks and held aside the tent covering as Octus made his way through. If his resolve was any less, he would have used whatever means he could to smash their faces in. They both smirked at him as he walked by, knowing his story and understanding the humiliation he was suffering.

  “Don’t spill anything,” one of them said. Octus stopped and turned his head to look at him. The young man blinked, apparently not expecting a reply of any kind.

  Octus didn’t say anything, but he glared at the young man with as much intensity as he had within him. He had been that young when he earned fame for his deeds in battle. How young was this man?

  “Move along,” his partner said. “I wouldn’t mind trying to find a reason to delay you just enough to make Yada angry. I hear she likes to play with her food before she eats it.”

  Octus knew this was true, so he relented from his staring and walked as proudly as he could into the tent. What he wouldn’t give to teach those two young men what a real soldier could do.

  He walked quickly past the stone effigies of Yada and the paintings that depicted her in grand landscapes and made his way as quickly as he could to her quarters. The wooden walls and soft couch where Yada often reclined were so familiar to him that he didn’t take in its elaborate appearance anymore. He was determined not to be impressed with any of it.

  There once was a time in his life when he would have been impressed with the craftsmanship of the furniture, or admired the construction of the palanquin that could also serve as a dwelling place. His brother had been such a skilled craftsman that any such beauty would not be lost on most of their family.

  But now his heart was so full of rage that it took everything within him to set the plate down on the small table and say through g
ritted teeth the words he had been commanded to utter.

  “Her Holiness’ meal is ready.”

  Yada lifted herself up from the couch onto one elbow and smiled when she saw Octus.

  “Ha,” she said with the look of a predator about to pounce on its prey. “My favorite servant.”

  Octus knew he was not allowed to leave until he was dismissed. He also knew it was highly likely that several Speakers were positioned just outside the curtains, hands raised and spells ready in their minds.

  “Does Her Holiness require anything else?” Octus said, not meeting her gaze but looking straight ahead at the hanging of the banner of Isol. A white half star on a blue background. He hated it.

  Yada clicked her tongue.

  “Trying to leave already?” she asked with a sneer. “You won’t get away that easy. Serve me my drink.”

  Glad for the excuse to turn away from her face, Octus went to the cabinet where her bottles were stored. Everything in the palanquin was built into the walls or else attached to the floor. This cabinet was not different. He unwound a leather strap that kept the doors shut and reached in to grab the bottle Yada had requested many times before.

  Wishing that it was filled with all the best poisons in the world, he poured her a small glass of the dark red liquid she drank with her meals. He despised the smell of it and convinced himself that she asked for it just to torture him.

  Returning with the glass, he sat it down on the table and looked directly ahead.

  He hated playing this game with a woman who was so old and so frail. He knew that he could snap her in half like a twig, if only she wasn’t a powerful witch who could cook him in his own skin or separate him from his head with a snap of her fingers.

  “You’re upset,” she said.

  His eyes snapped to hers and he saw that, infuriatingly, she was looking at him with a very knowing smile. He did his very best not to sigh and looked up again at the dreadful banner.

  “Does Her Holiness require anything else of me?” he droned again, hoping against hope that she would let him go. This was worse than torture. He may try to strangle her just to get out of this prison.