The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet

by Richard A. Knaak

  Hands formed into fists, the statue battered at the invisible barrier. Yet, as the first blows struck, the giant was repelled. Cracks materialized in the giant body and chips broke off as if something unseen had fought against the effigy with the same violence with which the latter had attacked Romus’s band.

  Mendeln allowed himself the ghost of a satisfied smile. Undeterred by the damage to it, Mefis renewed its assault. Yet, each hit caused more and more damage. Driven by whatever dark force had animated it, the giant would not cease. It did not understand that the magic Mendeln somehow knew was making it the instrument of its own destruction.

  Romus, on the other hand, evidently understood. He gestured for those with him to remain calm and wait out the situation. The statue of Mefis was strong and that tremendous strength—turned on itself—quickly reduced the giant to a precarious state. At last, great portions of the statue already piled around its feet, Mefis collapsed.

  That left only Bala…or, it would have, if the third of the great statues had not suddenly frozen. The robed figure—in the act of leaning down to swat three Torajians with the tablets—teetered, then tipped over. But Bala did not fall in the direction his balance would have demanded. Rather than plunge forward—toward his would-be victims—the effigy went against common sense and dropped backward.

  Only as it smashed to pieces on the floor did the reason for its sudden and peculiar destruction become obvious. Uldyssian, his aspect even more grim than Mendeln’s, stepped through the immense pile of shattered stone, the path ever clearing ahead of him.

  Mendeln did not like what he read in his older brother’s eyes. He had not made it clear to Serenthia that Uldyssian faced not merely a pair of demons, but Lilith herself. Had she known that, the merchant’s daughter would have attempted to plunge in ahead of even the demoness’s former lover. After all, Lilith was as guilty, if not more so, in the death of Achilios than Lucion—who had merely been the physical cause. Lilith it had been who had drawn all of them into this.

  Lilith, whose memory would no doubt tear at Uldyssian’s heart until he was dead.

  Mendeln’s brother glared at the losses caused by the statues. “Damn her…”

  Fortunately, Serenthia had turned to help one of the injured. That gave the siblings a moment to confer.

  “Nothing was resolved…” Mendeln offered.

  “Nothing…” Uldyssian continued to survey the dead. “Too many…”

  The younger brother refrained from making any comment. He understood that his own recent opinions concerning death did not always sit well with Uldyssian.

  What sounded like a great rumble of thunder shook the temple. Uldyssian glanced up, his expression hardening yet further.

  “The fires and other damage have taken their own toll. The temple’s about to collapse.” He stepped past Mendeln. “Leave now!” he shouted to the rest. “Our task is done here!”

  It was a measure of the utter command Uldyssian had that no one even hesitated. The dead were left where they were. It was not that they were so readily forgotten, just that the survivors knew that their leader would not have ordered them out without good reason. Some helped in carrying the wounded away, whom Uldyssian would surely attempt to heal later.

  Mendeln turned his gaze back to his brother…and his studious gaze noted a sudden strain in the other’s expression.

  “Uldyssian—”

  “I said that we all need to leave now.” Uldyssian’s voice remained even, but the vein in his neck had begun throbbing.

  There was a second rumble, but much more muted. Mendeln noted an increase in the throbbing.

  “As you say,” he finally replied as calmly as possible. “But the doors are sealed—”

  “No, not anymore.”

  Mendeln took his brother’s reply as truth and, sure enough, he turned just in time to see the formerly sealed doors fling themselves open just as the first of Uldyssian’s followers reached them. None of the others questioned this; they had the utmost faith that he would see them through anything.

  “They need to move faster…” Uldyssian growled under his breath.

  Nodding, Mendeln increased his pace. “Do not lag,” he called to the rest. “Be wary but swift.”

  From farther on, Serenthia caught his eye. Her own gaze informed Mendeln that she understood the truth concerning the situation. Like Uldyssian’s sibling, she did her utmost to quietly usher out the others.

  Another rumble briefly shook the temple. Cracks appeared in the walls and ceiling, but otherwise the edifice remained fairly intact. The only fragments on the floor were the result of the earlier conflicts.

  Mendeln felt the warm night air rush at him as he neared the outside. Aware of what they faced, he counted each step as if they were as important as the beats of his heart. It would have been simple to tell the others to run, to flee from the area before it was too late, but that would have only caused more calamity.

  Flames illuminated the outdoors. In their awful light, Mendeln glimpsed some other parts of Toraja. The tree-lined streets were most obvious, their foliage the home of the serka—small simians revered by the populace. There were also the tall, rounded buildings with their columns carved to resemble one powerful beast standing atop another. The work was so intricate that some of the animals almost seemed to be gazing in concern at the conflaguration surrounding them. In truth, there would be no stopping the fire from consuming the immediate district, not that Ulydssian would have cared. The serka had long fled the area and everything else here bore the mark of the Triune.

  The mix of Parthans and Torajians spilled out beyond the temple grounds. Mendeln finally took a glance back at the giant structure.

  Only to his eye was the constant quivering evident in the dark. Flames now covered most of the roof. Crevasses ran over the face of the building and no doubt lined every other part of it as well. Some columns farther on had cracked in half and fallen down. A major fault ran across the base on the western side.

  It should have collapsed by now, he decided. It should have collapsed on our heads…

  But it had not and the taut-faced figure coming up next to him was the sole reason why. Sweat poured over Uldyssian and his breathing came in rapid gasps. His gaze darted left and right, as if he sought to take account of everyone.

  “No one remains behind,” Mendeln assured him. “No one living, that is. Even the last of the brethren have fled.”

  “Into the…jungle…if they know what’s good for…them,” Uldyssian managed to grate. He stood there, obviously weighing his decision.

  “It is safe to let go,” his brother softly assured.

  Nodding, Uldyssian exhaled.

  With a terrible roar and a wrenching of stone from stone, the Torajian temple caved in on itself. Massive blocks of marble tumbled into the courtyard. Bursts of flame shot up into the night as the open air fed their fury. Gasps arose from several of Uldyssian’s followers. Romus let out an oath.

  Huge chunks of marble continued to spill over the area, yet none of them came close to where the band stood. Even now, some part of Mendeln’s brother kept the devastation in check.

  Finally, it began to settle down to a mere catastrophe. The fires continued to burn, but the ruins now surrounded them in such a manner that they would not spread much farther. Again, Mendeln knew that this could be no coincidence.

  Uldyssian looked past Mendeln, who at the same time sensed what lay behind him. As he turned, the rest became aware of the mass of figures filling the streets. The bulk of Toraja’s remaining citizenry stood before Uldyssian and his flock and in that crowd Mendeln noted a variety of emotions.

  A grand figure in flowing red and golden robes separated from the crowd. He wore a scarf over his long, bound, silver-colored hair and an intricate gold ring in one nostril. The sunburst design of the ring indicated his high status. The man was lanky and appeared old enough to be the brothers’ father. In his left hand he clutched a tall staff with markings etched in silver running
along its length.

  “I seek the stranger from the high lands, the Ascenian called Uldyssian.” “Ascenian” was, Mendeln’s party had discovered early on, the term the jungle folk used for the pale inhabitants of such regions as Seram and Partha. The actual meaning was lost even to the locals, but it had come to mean anyone with skin and looks akin to the sons of Diomedes.

  Uldyssian did not hesitate to reveal himself, although a few of his converts gave verbal protest at this. Their fear for him was not unwarranted; in addition to the leather-padded soldiers Mendeln noted among the newcomers, there were certainly representatives of the mage clans in the vicinity. They were keeping discreet, though, for although Mendeln knew that they were there, not once did he see anyone who resembled one of the powerful spellcasters. They had their own, internal matters with which they sought to deal; Uldyssian was not yet a problem to the jaded masters in Kehjan.

  But after tonight, Mendeln suspected that they would be reaccessing their stand.

  “Uldyssian, son of Diomedes, stands before you with empty hands,” Mendeln’s sibling replied, with the same respectful formality.

  The elder nodded. “I am Raoneth, Councilor Senior of Toraja. Speaker for the people—” He paused, obviously noting the many darker faces among those following Uldyssian. “—but not for all, it seems. There are many known to me among those who stand with you, Ascenian, a fact that is a marvel and a concern. I was told that only the lower castes found your word of interest and that you promised them the riches of those whose stations are well above…”

  “I promise the same thing to everyone,” Uldyssian interjected, his tone only slightly hinting of the anger Mendeln knew he held against those who had spread such rumors to the Councilor Senior. “The chance to achieve what we were meant to be, regardless of our birth! I offer something more than even kings can attain, Lord Raoneth, if one will just listen! I offer what the Triune—and the Cathedral—would never desire for their flocks…independence from their utter mastery!”

  Raoneth nodded again. His thin lips pursed and it was evident that he did not entirely like or dislike what he had heard. “The Triune has these past nights been accused of dire crimes, the least of which are too horrendous for me to declare openly here, Ascenian! I have proof from sources as well that you are a danger to the lives of those over whom I watch—”

  “You want more damning proof of the Triune’s crimes, Councilor Senior? It lies within those ruins, preserved despite the collapse.”

  For the first time, Lord Raoneth looked uncertain. Mendeln, too, was impressed. If he understood his brother as the other did, then even though Uldyssian had let the temple finally fall, he had still shielded the inner chambers from the tons of tumbling stone. An astonishing feat and one done for good reason, it now seemed.

  “Perhaps that may be the case,” Raoneth finally went on. “But that does not in itself excuse the case against you, Uldyssian, son of Diomedes.”

  “Uldyssian’s no villain!” came a voice that sounded much like Romus’s.

  Something flew out of the dark, aiming right for Lord Raoenth’s unprotected forehead. The Councilor Senior had only time to gape as the projectile reached him—

  And halted just before it would have shattered his skull.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Uldyssian muttered, sounding incredibly exhausted. The makeshift missile—a sharp, apple-sized fragment from some corner of the temple—crumbled. A pile of soft ash formed at Raoneth’s sandaled feet.

  “By the—” the elder man began, then clamped his mouth. Mendeln suspected that, like many Torajians, he had likely been about to call upon the Three…Mefis, Bala, and Dialon. It had been pure reflex, though, Lord Raoneth not radiating any of the darkness that true converts of the Triune would have. He had been an innocent dupe like the rest…

  “I’m sorry,” Uldyssian repeated. He turned toward his followers. Although his eyes swept over the entire throng, his brother had no doubt that the one who had used his power to hurtle the missile now felt as if Uldyssian’s entire focus was upon him. “Let that never happen again. This isn’t the point of the gift we have. To fight for the truth, yes, to fight for our right to be what we are destined to be, yes, but not for mayhem and murder…then we’re no better than the Triune.”

  He returned his gaze to the Councilor Senior, who only now looked up from the ash. To his credit, Lord Raoneth’s momentary gaping when he had seen his death approaching had given way again to determination to protect his city and his people.

  Uldyssian spoke before the other man could. “We’re leaving Toraja, my lord. For the rest of the night, we’ll camp beyond the walls. Tomorrow, we’ll be gone. I came here to try to do some good, but that good’s now mixed with something you and I both find distasteful. That’s not what I want…that’s not what I ever want.”

  The Councilor Senior bowed his head slightly. “You are beyond my power, Ascenian. For you to leave Toraja in no more devastation than what has been wrought this night…I can only thank the stars. No soldier shall raise a weapon to you or those who choose to follow you out, not if they do not wish to answer to me. I will brook no more bloodshed.”

  “One thing only, Lord Raoneth.”

  The man looked wary.

  “The Triune is no more here. If it grows in Toraja again—like a weed can—I’ll return.”

  Once more, Raoneth pursed his lips. “If the evil is as you said, that weed I will personally pluck clean from my city’s soil.”

  That appeared to satisfy Mendeln’s brother. Uldyssian did not look at his followers. He merely started toward Lord Raoneth and they, in turn, flowed behind him. The larger mass that had accompanied the Councilor Senior quickly gave way, hundreds of eyes watching with as many emotions as the converts—several of them once friends, neighbors, and family—passed through. The Torajians among Uldyssian’s flock eyed their fellow locals with equal intensity, although in their case they radiated the determination of the newly converted. No one was going to tell them that they might have chosen wrong.

  The Councilor Senior bowed his head again as Uldyssian reached him. The latter nodded in turn. Neither spoke, words now past use. Mendeln surreptitiously eyed the Torajian leader. Raoneth was an interesting figure himself; ghosts flocked around the man, but whether family or foes, there was not time enough to determine. That so many did was all that mattered; it bespoke of Raoneth’s strong presence. Had the man chosen to follow so many of his citizens in accepting the gift within, Mendeln suspected that Raoneth would have quickly become one of Uldyssian’s most promising candidates so far.

  And perhaps that is good reason to be glad he did not join, the younger brother considered. Raoneth had been a leader; he might chafe at having to follow.

  The crowd continued to give way. Even among the soldiers, there was a mix of expressions. Some looked full of distrust, others full of curiosity.

  We will grow in numbers, it occurred to Mendeln. Likely, Uldyssian knew this as well. We will grow in numbers even before we leave this throng behind. There would be others, too, who would sneak out during the night to join the camp beyond the walls. Mendeln calculated that not only would all the lives lost tonight be gained back, but that ten times that quantity would be added yet.

  “So many,” he murmured.

  “Yes. So many,” Uldyssian replied. At that moment, whatever their own personal changes, the brothers understood one another absolutely. They both acknowledged the growth of what Uldyssian had started, acknowledged that each day would bring more and more into the fold.

  And both knew, as well, that all those added souls might yet not be enough…that everyone here and everyone to come might simply end up dead.

  Four

  There was no flaw to the Prophet, not that any could see. He looked so young to his followers, yet his words were wiser than those of any ancient sage. His voice was pure music. He had not the trace of stubble on his young countenance, one barely seeming out of childhood. Those who had the privilege
of seeing him close always came away with the impression of handsome, almost beautiful features, yet, their descriptions would have varied based on their own preferences. All would have agreed, though, that his hair, which fell well past his shoulders, was the gold of the sun and that his eyes were a luminescent mix of blue and silver.

  He was slim and athletic in the manner of an acrobat or dancer. When the Prophet moved, it was with such grace as even a sleek cat could not match. He was clad in the silver-white robes of the Cathedral of Light, his feet sandaled.

  At the moment, the Prophet stood in his glory, having just completed a sermon to more than three thousand eager pilgrims. Behind him, a choir of some two hundred—all of them as perfect in face and form as humans could be—sang the closing praises. The audience remained enraptured, as always. Although the sect had other locations elsewhere, the prime cathedral just north of the capital had a constant flow of newcomers mixing with the local worshippers. After all, here was where the Prophet himself lived. Here was where one could hear his personal words.

  I must change that, he thought as he accepted the homage of his followers. All should know my words personally. Perhaps through a sphere held high by the priests of each location during sermons…

  He locked away the notion for another time, his own interest on a matter far removed from his present circumstances.

  The mortal Uldyssian ul-Diomed and his ragtag followers were on the move again.

  Long, golden horns blared as he finally turned from the dais. The choir shifted their singing to mark his departure, never once missing a single note. The members were from all castes, all races, but in their joyous harmony one would have had great trouble telling any of them apart.

  He was met by two of his senior priests, Gamuel and Oris. Oris had her hair bound back and although she looked old enough to be his grandmother, her expression could not hide her attraction and love for him. The Prophet could see still how the oval face had once rivaled any of the young ones in the choir, but as with the singers, he had had little interest in the female priest then or now. He was also certainly not inclined toward any male aspect, such as broad-jawed Gamuel’s. No, only one being—one female—had ever stirred his passions so…and she was now anathema to him.