“I choose the truth! I choose to protect my own people rather than enslave them. I choose to raise them up rather than murder them under the pretense of a new god. A false god!” Hafgan yelled, once again lost in idealism within this place.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd, followed by a sick silence.
Leyr slung his spear over his back, smiling wide.
“You think the Flawless God to be false? You think to renounce the new religion of your former people? Let me show you just how false the god is.”
Leyr stepped into the center of the God’s Eye, mere paces from where Hafgan and the budredda waited in formation, bristling with spears like a hedgehog. He whispered something, chanting words unfamiliar to Hafgan before holding Torri Carreg straight above his head, pointing it directly at the sliver of white Gwyna.
For a moment, nothing happened. Hafgan, though he knew in his heart otherwise, hoped that nothing would come of it. Also, briefly, he considered piercing Leyr’s unguarded heart with his spear. It would spell his death, of course, but it might free his people.
Then, a dim red light began to filter through the Eye, subtle and almost inviting. It grew in intensity until it was a bright, slender beam, fully engulfing Leyr and bathing the man in crimson. His white grin became bloodstained. Like a cancer, the red slowly emanated from Leyr, first encompassing Rinx and Wiscon, and then touching Hafgan himself.
It was a warm light, filling him with both strength and pleasure. Hafgan suddenly wanted to reach for his spear and twirl it, showing off his strength to the world. He wanted to find Rian, and kiss her and make love to her on Oletta’s alter. He wanted to go back five years and take up the mantle of leadership, showing the Wasmer what they should truly be, and how they should truly live.
But then the feelings began to twist. He should silence the voices of any who dared to challenge his ideals. He should rip out the hearts of the warriors who would pose a threat. He should murder the boys who showed too much potential and could one day challenge him. His sudden pride was becoming paranoid, toxic.
Leyr continued to smile his bloody smile.
Behind him, he heard Paston sobbing quietly. Enric was shouting something at the Eye, his voice ferocious with rage. Jenyn was vomiting up the contents of his stomach, having fallen to his knees and crawled to Hafgan’s side. Alwyn was bashing his spear against the ground again and again, like a miner picking away at the stone.
His men were going mad.
Hafgan fought through the impossible pride and conceit he felt as if it were a stone wall, reaching for his hedwicchen. It was a thousand miles away, over mountains and across oceans, but still he struggled. Still, he reached for the emptiness, releasing his defenses until he could feel an omicron of solitude, a piece of emptiness. Through some force of will, or perhaps through intense practice, he managed to achieve his centered state.
He found he was already clutching his spear, realizing dispassionately that there was no chance to leave this place intact. Leyr was unmoved, but Rinx and Wiscon had both obviously achieved their hedwicchen, as well, and were bathed in red but otherwise unaffected. They watched, outwardly disengaged, as the budredda went insane with grief and fear, pride and anger.
Hafgan stabbed at Rinx with a perfect lunge, his spear straight and true as it pierced the man’s thigh. Though he was in his hedwicchen, or perhaps because he was in it, he had deemed a emotion-maddened Hafgan as something less than a threat. And, because Hafgan knew he would react to a center mass lunge, he went for a disabling attack. It was effective, and the ever-scowling Wasmer fell to the ground, gripping his bleeding leg hard and letting out a piercing scream. Long unchallenged, he had forgotten his lessons in bearing pain.
Wiscon, though, was now alerted, and he brought his great axe around at Hafgan’s head. He dodged low, feeling the breeze as the crescent swept by inches away. Hafgan dashed forward to land a kick, but Wiscon was ready and punched outward. Hafgan pivoted, pushing off the man’s fist and balancing easily, landing several steps away.
Hedwicchen battles were always so much like a dance, had the Wasmer practiced such a frivolity.
Hafgan knew he was fated to win this battle. He knew Wiscon’s deficiencies; his weak left knee from a fall during a climb in his youth. His tendency, even when in the hedwicchen, to let his eyes dart to his intended area of attack. And the fact that Wiscon was at the bottom of the Haern Doethas class, having being beaten by each of the other nine students. That was, if he and Wiscon were to dance alone.
“Hafgan Iwan! Enough of this!” Leyr, free of his revelry, pointed Torri Carreg at him. The red light still shone down from the Eye, and the spear seemed stained by it. The emerald shone as a ruby.
Leyr sprinted forward. There was none of the control that Hafgan had seen Leyr demonstrate thousands of times in the past. There was none of his calm, cold calculation or his devilish precision. A pure rage, a hatred evident in every motion, fueled Leyr’s muscles. His face was twisted back, and he looked like nothing more than a rabid animal, his lips bared and revealing a mouth hungering for blood.
He struck Hafgan with a two-handed blow that left his hands stinging after his parry. Leyr didn’t pause, but rather attacked again and again, faster than he had ever been. Stronger than he had ever been. And he had already always been faster and stronger than Hafgan. Hafgan could not dodge a single attack; he was forced to parry in a near desperate state. That desperation didn’t reach him in the hedwicchen, however; what he experienced was only a realization that he was likely to fall. Nonetheless, he dug deeper into the hedwicchen, searching for weaknesses, seeking to slow the world around him in order to read Leyr’s movements. But there was no way to read a madness.
Wiscon struck from his left and Hafgan managed to duck the blow, allowing the axe to whistle past. Leyr followed up with a powerful overhand swing that Hafgan blocked, his spear held out before him in a two-handed grip as he pounced to his feet. Nearly blocked, anyhow, as the blade of Torri Carreg split the wood of his spear. Hafgan’s weapon was nothing special; he’d picked it up at a market in Rostane, and it was a seemingly sturdy and well-made weapon. He’d had it for five years, and it had survived axes, swords, and bludgeons. But, it could not survive Leyr’s maddening might, nor his perhaps magical spear.
Hafgan stumbled backwards, wielding a broken piece of wood in each hand. Leyr paused, frowning as if he’d expected more. There was little more to give, though. Wiscon, though the least of the Haearn Doethas, was one of the best fighters in Hackeneth. And, the only man to have ever bested Leyr was Hafgan himself. With a broken weapon, the battle was over.
Leyr knew it, too.
“Hafgan Iwan!” His voice projected to every corner of the Cylch. The audience seemed utterly stunned by the events in the ring, by the insanity born of the Red Eye. “You have betrayed your people. You have lost your way. You have led these proud men astray in your dalliances with humans. You bring lies to the very heart of Hackeneth. As I teach, none of us is without flaw, save the Flawless God. But you, Hafgan, are a cancer. You are only flaw. You are the bruise on the potato, the rot in the meat. Our Lord is forgiving, but only to a point.”
Leyr looked oddly despondent to Hafgan’s eyes as he brought around the butt of his spear, connecting with Hafgan’s temple. Hafgan made no move to resist, but instead shifted slightly to minimize the damage. It still felt as if his head had been kicked by a rearing horse. But, unlike Rinx, he remembered his lessons in pain.
He was on the ground, dazedly staring up into the Red Eye. The crimson dazzled, as if it were born of a star that had strayed far too close to the earth. He let his hedwicchen fade, but felt only a calmness take him. None of the rampant pride from before… just a resignation, perhaps. An acceptance. Even a welcoming of what was to come. It was appropriate that his blood be shed here, in the place where his life had been upended.
“Imprison the budredda with the human. We shall see if they can be rehabilitated, for, even diminished, a Wasmer i
s a Wasmer.” Leyr’s voice was sad, playing to the crowd. “And Hafgan Iwan, for your many betrayals, you are condemned….” It was time. “To ten years in the Pwoll, to consider and repent. Perhaps, then, you will come to know your own insufficiencies. Perhaps you will come to accept the Flawless God.”
A panic took Hafgan, and it was a fear like he had never known. Not the Pwoll…. Not again—a week in the place had nearly broken him when he’d been younger. Death would be preferable. By Traisen, he would invite death with open arms; fling himself on the blade willingly! His breath came in panicked gasps and he felt his body shaking uncontrollably. The low moan that he’d thought had come from his maddened men actually creaked from his own throat.
He took one last look up into the Red Eye and, though maddened with fear and pain, thought he could see a silhouette in the distance, someone standing on the surface and looking down upon him. There was a sense of presence to that figure, a heaviness that pushed down upon his throbbing head. But also a sense of the divine. It was too much. It was all too much.
Hafgan closed his eyes and began to weep.
Chapter 27
Trins Grand Chapel was one of the wonders of the world.
While much of Jecusta was crumbling with age and exposure, the chapel stood strong against time and the elements. Flying buttresses, each painstakingly carved into the likenesses of suffering sinners or noble martyrs, jutted from the main structure, supporting the great internal vaults. Stained glass windows peppered the walls in a gleaming spectrum of color that reminded Emma acutely of the scenes at Brockmore Manor, showing the life and time of Yetra. An unnecessary number of sharp minarets topped the chapel like a thousand daggers tearing through the flesh of the sky.
The great structure was a writhing mass of holiness and pretense. And, right now, it was beset on all sides by a horde of shouting, furious soldiers. Emma’s own soldiers—maybe half of her forces.
The market square in front of the chapel had been destroyed, wooden pergolas pulled to the ground and carts toppled, their food trampled and ground into a pasty mess. The tide of soldiers struggled to reach the top of the broad thirty steps leading to the main entrance of the church. A wall of white-armored Glories exhaustedly strained against the Brockmore soldiers, each bearing tower shields adorned with the Yetra’s Ascension symbol in a crimson red. Occasionally, when the Ardians pushed particularly hard, a club, spear butt, or even an aspergillum—typically used to spread Yetra’s Tears about, but a passable bludgeon—would lash out at the offenders. A few men at the fringes of the mob nursed bruises, broken bones, or cracked skulls.
Luckily, steel had not yet been drawn—even in the midst of whatever madness was taking her men, there was an unspoken understanding that blades would spell disaster for all of them.
Along with Unael, Rential, Ervis, and an armed escort that included one pasnes alna, Emma pushed through a wavering line of uncertain black cloaks, cordoning off the mob from the rest of the city. They had taken little action to control the Ardians yet, though the mob had apparently been building for a few hours. The city watch captain likely had no idea what to do in this situation. Attacking and subduing the Ardians could be seen as an act of war, but doing nothing could also cause great damage to the city.
Emma spotted Captain Quentin milling about with some Apple Knights who periodically pulled a raucous man or two from the crowd, penning them in with armored bodies. It seemed like a half-assed effort, to be honest. Here and there, she could see other officers attempting the same thing, some with more fervor than others. Ferl, surrounded by his greenies and a line of his cutthroats, leisurely sat atop an upturned cart, watching the events unfold with a carefree smile. Either he had some part in this or he simply found amusement in chaos.
Emma couldn’t help but feel a fierce rage at the sight of this disaster. She had been close… so fucking close.
She outdistanced her escort, aside from Havert, and approached Quentin, noticing that his thinning hair was dusted white with flecks of snow. She hadn’t even noticed the lazy flecks that had begun drifting from the clouds.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Emma snapped. Not exactly ladylike, but her rage needed a vent.
“My lady, the Yetranians… it’s Ignatius.” Quentin gestured helplessly at the top of the stairs.
Since the funeral, weeks ago, Ignatius had been a ‘guest’ of the Yetranian Church. Obviously, his stunt—calling for war against the wishes of his superior in the great vaults of Trins Grand Cathedral—was not appreciated. Though Emma had had little insight into the morale of her men, lately, it had been impossible for her to ignore the grumbling about their missing chaplain. He was well-loved among the men, his sermons giving them a carrot to amble after, and his simple manner and clothing giving him the appearance of a common man.
Emma’s eyes had been drawn to the shield line of Glories, but now she could see, over their shoulders, Ignatius kneeling in the light snow atop the stairs. He was stripped naked, his body red from the cold, with his pudge providing a bit of modesty. From this distance, she could not see his face, though it seemed as if he held his head proudly and with some defiance. Ropes tied to his wrists and pulled taut by a couple of Glories forced his arms out to the side in a “t.”
Behind him stood a towering Glory, a bulky man who must have been close to seven feet tall. He wore a white, dual-pointed hood, his wavy brown hair, speckled with gray, running down from the disguise. A poor disguise it was, though, as a man that size wasn’t exactly easy to obscure. Behind the huge Glory stood the Grand Taneo Endo Pious himself, his head apparently bowed in prayer.
A gleeful bell rang from somewhere atop the chapel, sounding the hour across the city. As Emma watched, the giant twisted, his arm whipping across his body to bring a lash down across Ignatius’ shoulders. The chaplain howled, the echo of his pain audible over the din and acting as a stick being jammed in an ant hole. The Ardians found renewed courage and once again struggled against the wall of Glories.
“What is this?” Emma asked in a hushed voice, her fury at her men dissipating. Though Ignatius was not on her list of friends, he did not deserve to be tortured like this, his life made a spectacle for the masses.
“The Trials,” said Quentin, his eyes fixed on the chapel’s landing. “The Trials of Yetra.”
Another Taneo stepped in behind Ignatius with a slow, measured stride. He was mouthing a prayer as he swung his aspergillum, flinging some substance onto Ignatius’ wounds. And judging from the bound man’s sudden straining, this was more than just the blessed water, Yetra’s Tears.
“The Trials?”
Quentin looked at her, not quite aghast at her lack of knowledge, but with his face betraying a slight frown. He was fiercely Yetranian, and expected the same of his men. He must expect the same of his liege lady and employer, as well, she guessed.
“Yetra went through much during her mortal life, trials of pain and suffering. Her first trial was the loss of her family to the fires of—”
“I don’t need that much detail.” Quentin narrowed his eyes at her. “Tell me enough to understand what is happening here.”
“Yetra is commonly believed to have faced fourteen trials spread across her mortal life, before Ascending to Harmony. The Trials of Yetra are a… punishment for those who are excommunicated for treason against the Church. Every thirty minutes for seven hours, an excommunicant is inflicted with some sort of torture, in Yetra’s image. You have witnessed a simple lash, which is one of the lesser Trials, almost a respite. They spread lemon and salt on the wounds as a method of purification.” The aspergillum. “Other Trials are more damaging and permanent.”
“What did Ignatius do, aside from call for war during the funeral?” A pair of Apple Knights were dragging an unconscious or dead soldier just a few feet from Emma. Blood gushed from a crack in his forehead—somehow, the crimson wash highlighted the soldier’s youth. Emma felt a warmth burning in her chest as her rage began to build anew.
&nbs
p; “They say he betrayed the Yetranian faith, that he condoned a heathen army to vent destruction against the people he was supposed to serve. He allowed—encouraged, even—the use of magic to kill men, and laughed during the deaths of hundreds. That he broke his vows of chastity while on the march. That he is, himself, a heathen, an agent of Pandemonium.” Quentin’s voice had become more and more distressed as he’d spoken, and a hand unconsciously gripped his sword hilt, fingers white with the effort.
Quentin knew these denunciations to be lies, and it was rending his faith to pieces. Should he believe the upper echelons of the church, the church to which he had given his whole life? Or, should he believe his eyes—believe that a man whom he respected and had followed—was doing the right thing by fighting these Rostanian armies, including the Feral? Maybe this was why Quentin was doing a half-assed job at controlling the mob. He thought his furious, rioting men were right.
And so did Emma.
“What happens after the Trials?” she asked through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible above the crowd.
“Typically, once a heathen is excommunicated, he is never allowed in a church or chapel again, and is loathed by worshipers of Yetra. He is marked by the Trial, his scars as much as beacons to any of the faithful. His soul is consigned to Pandemonium, of course. But… but… Ignatius has been sentenced to experience the Trials five times. No one has ever survived more than three.” Quentin examined his gloved hands, expression blank.
Unael was nearby, furiously conversing with his own captains, trying to make sense of this mess. Ervis and Rential both stood off to the side with their own guards, the magnates no doubt eager to witness any missteps that Unael might make with the escalating situation. Lords and ladies were always like that, in Emma’s broad experience, gleefully waiting for a mistake just so much as buzzards awaited the death of a starving man in the desert.
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