Cries and pleas for help surrounded her. The air smelled of smoke, burnt flesh, and the stormy air. Irital suppressed a wave of nausea, forcing herself not to think about the people burning alive. She had to find Gregor.
She stood up and tried to move around, guiding herself by touch—all she could see were two bright splotches. Her ears rang, her legs wobbled, and the smoke was burning her lungs. Again, the bile rose in her throat, as she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast.
“Please, not him,” she whispered, gasping in fear. “Just not Gregor…”
Frantic people rushed toward the door with such force that they tore it off their hinges. Irital was surprised at how many guests had turned up to the ceremony, as the stream of them pouring by just didn’t let up. She didn’t have the strength to push through them. Off to the side, she noticed Artanna. The Vagran had nearly been trampled, though the giant from her brigade had reached her in time to pull her out of the way and over to some benches.
Irital froze uncertainly at the edge of her hiding place.
“There you are, my lady,” said a familiar whisper in your ear. “Finally, I found you.”
“Brother Aristid!” Barely making out the monk’s face, Irital sighed in relief. “I’m fine, but I can’t find His Grace. He’s there, he… The explosion…”
“He’ll survive. Master Dararius gave his life for your husband. Easy, my lady, easy. It’s almost all over.”
“What was that?”
“Ball lightning. An incredibly rare natural phenomenon.”
“A divine sign?”
“Possibly,” the monk replied, shrugging. The Latanian noticed that he was surprisingly calm, the more so given the blood, pain, and fear all around. “Sit down, my lady. Right here. Oh, your face was burned—let me take a look at it.”
“I can barely see anything. My hearing is bad, too. Gregor…how is he?”
“Like I said, he’ll make it.”
“You already checked him out?”
“His Grace has a great future ahead of him, my lady,” the monk said right into Irital’s ear. “His name will go down in history, towns and firstborns named in his honor far outside the bounds of Highligland. This much I know.”
Irital was taken aback.
“What are you talking about, holy brother?”
“Gregor Voldhard was fated to change the world, my lady,” Aristid explained patiently, almost as if she was a schoolgirl. “The world will never be the same once Gregor Voldhard recognizes what he is capable of. However, there’s just one problem. You, my lady, stand in his path to greatness.”
His last phrase was breathed so close that she could smell the gurus leaves he liked to chew.
“What—”
Irital gasped when the sharpest, most unbearable, and strongest pain she’d ever felt seared through her. It was like something both icy and immeasurably hot buried itself in her between her chest and her stomach, right where the nerves intertwined. She couldn’t breathe. The pain burst into thousands of fiery sparks before exploding in yet stronger waves when Aristid let go of the dagger with its hilt carved in the Ennian style.
“The duke already rejected the throne for you, and that was a mistake. The Keeper has other plans for him. Gregor Voldhard has a mission awaiting him that is too critical for him to brook a weakness like his beloved wife, while a thirst for revenge will do wonders for him.”
Irital was barely listening to the monk, too preoccupied with the pain. The life bled out of her, onto the floor, onto the beautiful dress made of silver brocade, onto the hands that futilely attempted to close the wound and reach toward her killer. She grew weaker with each passing second.
“Sleep forever, my lady,” Aristid rustled softly, coaxingly. “You will always be remembered as the woman for whose sake His Grace became the man he was fated to be.”
And that was the last thing Irital Voldhard heard before she gave up the ghost.
Epilogue
Artanna shoveled away. The rocky soil wasn’t giving easily, but the Hundred leader stubbornly kept at it. Hard work distracted her from difficult thoughts, and weariness supplanted grief. But she wasn’t the only one with a heavy heart; all of Ellisdor was in mourning.
Irital had been found dead with a knife in her chest. It was a precise blow, well aimed—the girl had barely suffered. Jert immediately drew attention to the hilt of the dagger that had killed her, noting the Ennian design. It certainly looked as though Rex Gerifas had earned their hefty payday.
It had been six days, and Gregor still hadn’t regained consciousness. When he’d been found after the explosion, everyone thought he was dead, though Brother Aristid whispered something, jerked him around, pressed down on his chest, and somehow managed to get his heart beating again. The only problem was that Voldhard was only breathing, still yet to come to. Artanna didn’t know if he ever would. And even if he did, she wasn’t sure how he would take the news of Irital’s death. She also wasn’t at all positive that Gregor would make a complete recovery.
The scared and despondent citizenry went about their daily work mechanically, also helping clear away the debris covering the Shrine. They didn’t even shoot Artanna sideways glances anymore—there was too much going on for that. Everyone was busy digging holes to bury the ashes of the dead, rebuilding the city after the terrible hurricane, and learning how to continue living. Aldor took the reins of power and tried to restore some semblance of order. To give him credit, he did a good job, and life slowed but did not stop.
“Ready.” Artanna finished work on yet another hole and nodded to the boys, letting them know it was time to bring over the urn and call the master. “Ten more today.”
“Maybe time for a break?” a dirty, redheaded boy with piercing eyes and a split lip asked. “It’s lunchtime, and they’re handing out soup by the temple… I can bring you some.”
“No. I can’t. But you should go eat.”
Artanna wiped her sweaty brow, grabbed the shovel, and hobbled over to the next tree. In Highligland, the ashes of the dead were always buried among the roots of a tree. Some people even planted family trees next to their houses so they could be closer to their ancestors.
She exchanged a glance with Shrain. The giant held up his unlit pipe and raised an eyebrow inquisitively, Artanna pausing for a second before agreeing. They went over to a sprawling oak and sat down on the gnarled roots.
“How are the boys?”
“Same as everyone else. Never seen anything like that, scared. But they’re tough. A few liters of firewater, and they’ll be as good as new.”
“We’ll finish with the burials and roll out some barrels. I already talked to Grauer about it—there’s going to be a big funeral feast in the city. Are the wounded okay?”
“Of course,” Baby replied with a wave. “Like I said, they’re tough.”
“Good.”
They sat silently for quite a while. Artanna managed to light her pipe, breathing out the bluish smoke. The Ennian tobacco had almost run out, and they had to mix it with cheaper stuff. The taste was mediocre at best.
“Commander?”
“Yes?”
“What’s next?”
“For now, we’re staying in Ellisdor. We have to figure out what’s going on with the duke. After all, we have a contract, so we can’t just leave.”
“And if he doesn’t regain consciousness?”
“I don’t even want to think about that.”
“But still…”
“We’d have to send a message to Rhinhilda,” the Hundred leader replied with a shrug. “She’d be the last of Rolf’s children, the only person who could rule. Gregor doesn’t have a wife or kids…”
“And we’d be here the whole time?”
“Yep.”
“Shit,” Shrain boomed.
“Exactly, Baby. Shit. But we don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I’ll ask around the city. Maybe we can hire some of the boys out for convoy duty.”
“Wait on that. Let’s see what happens with the duke first. Quite a few soldiers died in the collapse that night, and our guys might take their places. Plus, there’s plenty of work here,” the Hundred leader said, pointing in the direction of the city.
“Up to you, Commander.”
Artanna’s head drooped into her hands, a tear falling for the first time since that night.
“Curses, Shrain, I could have saved her. His girl. I didn’t follow orders.”
“You just about got killed yourself. What are you talking about?”
“Gregor asked me to stay next to Irital, protect her. I hid her well,” the Vagran replied gruffly. “And when that ball flew into the temple, and I realized that it was going to smack into Gregor… I left my post. I ran over trying to save him. I don’t know, maybe knock that thing away, do something else… But I wasn’t in time. In the end, I didn’t save Gregor or his girl.”
Shrain shook his head and knocked his pipe empty.
“I can’t blame you. You love him like a son, always did love him.”
“But he’s a widower now thanks to me.”
“He’ll survive. Sooner or later, he’ll come to grips with it. I’m more worried about what will happen to Highligland if he dies. I don’t even want to think about that,” the giant said darkly. “If the Runds find out he didn’t make it, there’ll be another war. They won’t pass up an opportunity like that.”
“Yep.” Artanna put her pipe away when she saw one of the chancellor’s people coming over dressed in the castle livery. There was a dapper hat crested by a feather on his head.
“Hi, Hans,” she said, getting up to meet Aldor’s aide.
“The archchancellor asked for you,” the servant said, skipping a greeting. “His Grace is awake and would like to see Lady Artanna.”
“Merciful Keeper,” Shrain exclaimed.
“Just in case anything happens, you were a good friend, and I’m glad I had the chance to fight side by side with you over these past few years,” Artanna whispered as she stuck her shovel into the ground and headed after Hans.
***
Stepping into Gregor’s chambers, Artanna froze, stunned by how the duke looked. If people thought Vagrans and their gray locks, sharp bones, and almost transparent eyes terrifying, compared to Gregor, Vezzam was stunningly handsome.
The person she saw, the one whose forehead Brother Aristid was mopping, and above whom he whispered prayers, was no longer Gregor Voldhard.
The duke had aged and worn in those few short days. His muscles were soft and deflated; his bones stuck out. Wrinkles and deep shadows creased his gaunt face. White, near-transparent skin stretched across his skull, with the blue veins in his cheeks visible even from a few steps away. His hair was white, more so even than Artanna’s, and it stuck out in every direction. The duke laid in the bed, corpse-like, without a sound or a rustle. The Hundred leader couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. Brother Aristid continued bathing the duke’s forehead with a rag dipped in some kind of brew, while Aldor paced back and forth, unable to even look at his friend. The archchancellor nodded to Artanna when she walked in and then looked away again.
Gregor opened her eyes, and Artanna gasped. They were piercingly blue and burning with an icy flame.
“Come here,” the duke said, and the Hundred leader was shocked at the change in his voice.
“Gregor, my god…”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes,” Artanna replied dully.
“I asked you. I didn’t order you; I asked you. Why?”
“I left her to save you.”
“And you did neither.”
Artanna just nodded silently. What was there to say? She felt terrible? She was in deep mourning? What would the point have been?
“Your man… Jert… He said Irital was killed with an Ennian dagger.”
“Yes,” the Hundred leader replied.
“Rex Gerifas. They finally got her.”
“That’s the only answer,” Brother Aristid said softly. “They always do what they’re paid to do, no matter how many tries it takes.”
“Demos. Eclusum. They’re not going to stop. But I’m not going to stop now, either.” Gregor tried to stand up, though the monk jumped in to protest.
“You’re too weak, Your Grace! We don’t know how bad your health is…”
“Aldor!” Gregor barked so loudly that Artanna recoiled. “Give me your arm and help me stand up.”
The archchancellor nodded, leaned over the bed, and helped Gregor place his weakened arms around his neck.
“Now let me be,” the duke ordered. “I have to do this myself.”
Artanna was going to leap over to help when Gregor nearly fell, but Aldor shook his head.
“Here, Your Grace,” Brother Aristid said, holding out for Gregor the staff he almost always had with him. Voldhard leaned his weight on it in relief and took a few steps toward the window.
The duke was naked, though nobody risked handing him clothes. Artanna was horrified to see how his body had changed. It was dry, skinny, flabby. The body of an old man. It was as if the ball of lightning had sapped the life right out of him.
“Missolen and Eclusum made their choice,” the duke grated. “The court, excommunicating us, and sentencing us to death in absentia wasn’t enough for them. They went further, even knowing that I was prepared to renounce my claim on the throne. Protectors of the faith, sure. I won’t forgive this.”
“Gregor, listen,” Artanna started, though the duke slammed the staff against the floor with all the strength he could muster.
“Silence! Especially you, after all you did.”
Aldor gestured for the Vagran not to argue, though she was so stunned by what she was looking at that she wasn’t going to, regardless.
“With all my heart, I wish for justice, and I’m prepared to devote my life to purifying the faith. I want the empire to once again remember the true rules of the Way,” Voldhard said, turning to Brother Aristid. “I’ve made many mistakes, but the biggest was not listening to your warning. You said they wouldn’t rest. You said they’d reach up from under the ground. I was careless, but I won’t make that mistake again. Now I’m going to get revenge. Will you bless my Holy Crusade?”
Artanna froze, unsure what to say.
“There will be blood,” the monk said softly.
“And fire. I will overthrow anyone who tries to keep me from restoring the true way of life. Eclusum must fall.”
The monk turned to the duke and met his gaze. Artanna saw a sensual grimace contort his face—his eyes burned, and his mouth opened in a voracious and triumphant smile. The monk’s hands shook, the metal beads of his rosary clattering together.
“Then, it must be so. Begin with your dominion, spreading righteousness in these lands. And then, when order reigns in Highligland, take Eclusum, drag the great master out of his gold mansions, and lead him in rags to the executioner’s block.” Brother Aristid made the sign of god over the duke. “I bless you. May it come to pass.”
Gregor nodded with difficulty and gripped the staff tighter.
“I’ll give you as many scribes as you need,” he said. “By the end of the fall, the Holy Book must be translated into our language and sent out into all the corners of Highligland.”
“May it be the Keeper’s will,” Brother Aristid replied as he walked out.
“And you,” Gregor continued, a finger pointing in Artanna’s direction, “will be the weapon I use to wreak vengeance. Finally, I know how you will pay back what you owe.”
To be continued…
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