Sapling: The Broken Halls

by Dan Gillis

  “Why don’t you ask him in person?” a deep voice called out. It originated beneath the cowl of one who had been silent. The group turned to see the hood removed and started in shock.

  “M … m’Lord …” the bandaged one began to stammer.

  “Not anymore,” Tey’ur grunted and took a drink from the water skin. The others in the circle said no more and sounds of stone and metal filled the uncomfortable silence. Finally, the former Lord looked to each of them and last of all the bearded soldier.

  “It is true, there is an infesting evil in Kenhar. Mother made that clear to me.”

  Perplexed shock crossed their faces at the declaration.

  Tey’ur nodded and continued his report. “Indeed, brothers. Though, look deep within yourselves and you may find the same sentiment exists. I have been called to another path, by Aerluin herself. To what end, I know not.” He took a moment to let them consider his words.

  “Forsaking the bond which I - and all of you - made upon entering the White Guard cannot be excused. I have broken my word and oath of fealty for which I will bear the shame and punishment. I suppose Corbin will take great pleasure in …”

  This time it was the bearded man who interjected.

  “Dead, my Lord.”

  Tey’ur lifted an eyebrow at the words. The soldier fixed his gaze to the old Lord’s eyes.

  “While your oath may be broken, your honour is not. You did fight for us on the low plains …”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we owe you more than the worth of any bond.”

  “I am owed nothing. I say, show me a man who is loyal to his word. That is true greatness and nobility of spirit. Do not dishonour the faithful fallen. This victory belongs to them and to you.” He looked to each man. They were filled with a hollow sort of hope. They longed for what could not be. Tey’ur took a moment to ponder. “Who assumed the defence of the Citadel when Corbin fell?” This time a soft-spoken man raised his hand to speak.

  “We were overwhelmed. When the south wall crumbled, we nearly broke. It was Menhol, and that young boy, Benel. They fought for the Citadel and inspired us to victory.”

  Tey’ur motioned to them all as he spoke. “Mark my words. Greed and ambition are the roots of tyranny. You should count yourself lucky that Corbin fell so that others could rise. You have leaders among you, those true and loyal.” Tey’ur placed a hand upon the shoulder of the quiet soldier as he finished.

  “I will stay until the morning. You have some time to send word amongst the others before the Great Assembly. Choose your leader. If the White Guard approves, I will lead the ceremony of Naming.”

  Without another word, Tey’ur replaced his hood and strode away from the group and they resumed the labour to which they were previously engaged. They watched him depart from view. The once bitter soldier shook his bandaged head and laughed.

  “Well, bless me. Y’heard th’ man, let's get t’ work.”

  * * *

  “Never will these Halls be breached again by the unworthy,” Tey’ur’s voice rang out through the courtyard, through the ordered ranks of the stalwart victors. His great frame was set against the red-orange hues of the departing sun. The former Lord stood above the heads of the White Guard valiant, upon the tiered stone steps to the unbroken entrance. The steps were still awash in the blood of battle. Benel was quite caught up in the impressive display with emotions stirring near the surface.

  “We honour our brothers and sisters past with this resolve. Let not their deaths be in vain.” The Warmaster’s voice was full of fire and life.

  “Glory to the White Guard fallen!” the White Guard shouted out, raising their bloodied weapons aloft.

  “Leaderless, we fall. The death of Corbin has created a void to be filled. As he was unable to appoint a successor, it is your charge to fill the void. Now, choose your leader.”

  In unison the Guard lowered themselves to the ground. Benel watched as the ritual of succession was enacted. Each member of the mighty assembly fell to one knee. They raised their weapons toward where Menhol stood subdued at the base of the stairs. Bow, sword and spear pronounced the mantle. As one they spoke in clear voice, heads bowed.

  “Our lives, our swords, our spears and fate we lay at the feet of Menhol. Long may he lead us, long may we serve!”

  Menhol appeared rigid upon the proclamation.

  “So is it spoken!” Tey’ur shouted out with all his might.

  “So it shall be done!” came the vigorous reply, as each head raised with firmness, gazes stretched along their extended weapons. Benel noted that Menhol ascended each step with significance. He tread upon the blood of his comrades, those who had departed at great cost.

  When Menhol reached the top stair, Tey’ur stepped down without any further ceremony. His weighty armour chattered as he descended to the level of the other men. Menhol took a moment to look into the faces surrounding him below. Benel could see those near to him and could only assume they mirrored the hearts of all assembled. Their whole bodies were alight in hope and gratitude. At length, after many moments of taking in the gaze of his charges, Menhol spoke with great feeling. His voice was full of emotion.

  “Today, we honour those who gave us victory.”

  He paused, then resumed. “Ever shall Tohm of Lenhir be a friend of the White Guard. Ever shall he find refuge within the Citadel! So it is spoken!”

  “So it shall be done!” came a surge of fervour from the kneeling warriors. Benel did not see to whom the new Lord of the Citadel referred to but the word had spread of this mysterious man’s great deeds at the first breach. The honour was bestowed nonetheless.

  “Benel, son of Johr.”

  The young man started at the mention of his name. As he caught the eyes of his Lord he hoped secretly that he would not be made a spectacle.

  “Take your post,” Menhol commanded. He indicated to a stand which bore the Standard of the White Guard, set atop the east-wall stairs, next to the first breach. Benel numbly climbed the stairwell leading to the Standard, almost tripping in nervousness more than once.

  In time, he was kneeling humbly next to the same Standard he had waved at the peak of battle. Menhol’s voice called out in deep swelling tones. “We honour you as Standard Bearer for the White Guard. From this day shall the Call to Arms remain thus: Courage! Strength! Honour! For vows and friends! Courage!

  “Rise, Standard of the White Guard, and may you never bow to another, for the White Guard banner must never fall, bend or diminish. Take up the colours.”

  Benel rose shakily to his feet and took up the spear that he had carried through the heat of war. The slender steel glimmered in the noon-day sun. With tear-filled eyes, he turned his face to the crowd. In the youth’s mind, a vision of Johr, his father, appeared kneeling nearest to him. He was looking upon his son proudly.

  “So it is spoken!” Menhol cried out with great fervor.

  “So it shall be done!” Johr echoed the multitude of voices in praise to the boy-turned-man before him.

  * * *

  “A remarkable strategy, if not foolhardy,” the monk spoke with a raised brow smeared with dirt and mud. “Quite what I would expect from you.” He raised a slender goblet of wood to his drinking partner. The sounds of revelry and raucous singing outside permeated into low murmurs within their secluded chamber.

  Tey’ur nodded to the man as they sat in the council chamber and raised his in turn. He sipped deeply from a glass of the sweetest wine. His eyes closed for a moment and he shifted the glass absently between his fingers.

  “Such a simple thing it is to savour this Drink to the Day, which I took for granted. I think how this moment has been stolen from my enemy so many times. This day is the most recent addition to the tally. Often have I cheated death.”

  “That you have,” Menhol remarked and placed the goblet down upon the table. His eyes were distant. Tey’ur could sense the monk had thoughts brewing within, for he knew the healer all too well.

  “
Why don’t you come out and say it? You feel unworthy of the mantle they gave you.”

  Menhol shifted his gaze to the previous Lord of the White Citadel. “It is not that I doubt myself; I simply have never sought this path. I had hoped to retire soon. Something else you stole, I might add.” The monk’s face was mirthful but his eyes betrayed his demeanour. They were as cold as ice.

  “When I explained to the Guard my purposes for stepping down, they accepted it without decry. All the same, it was foolishness to leave them without an explanation. I ask your forgiveness, my friend.” Menhol’s eyes eased somewhat. The new White Guard Lord leaned back and sipped from his cup with a curt nod. Tey’ur leaned forward and placed a hand firmly upon the monk’s arm which rested on the table.

  “These are good people, loyal and true. The men have found their leader, and so it seems that Mother has blessed the union. You must serve them, as you have served all your life. You yet give them life, my friend. You bring them hope and a pattern to follow. In that you have surpassed all I have ever done. My way was tactics, yours is to draw their very hearts to the brink. That is your gift to them … your calling, and only death will release you from it.”

  Tey’ur withdrew his hand and placed his empty glass down upon the table. Standing stiffly, he stretched himself and groaned with discomfort.

  “I still say you should have accepted the honour of the White Guard, for your deeds. But I suppose that was never your way … where will your roads take you now?” Menhol asked as the former Lord looked about the council chambers a last time.

  Tey’ur did not speak immediately. He pondered upon the words to say to his faithful comrade and friend.

  “I fear down long roads of no return. My fate is tied up with Tohm, the savage one you fought with. He’s a good soul beneath his wild demeanour. I can sense that. I want to help him. Menhol, don’t think ill of me, but I feel Mother is drawing me to the Womb.”

  The monk’s eyes shot wide at the words. He exhaled slowly.

  Tey’ur stared directly into his friend's eyes and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I need to know, has the Vigil failed, has the Womb been breached? Did that fool Corbin act on his suspicions?” Menhol replied solemnly with a simple nod of his head.

  Tey’ur nodded wearily and then looked out the window at the fading light. “There is nothing to be done but press on. Mother’s command was clear. Though, I admit I fear for what will come. You know what terror lies within the Womb. Menhol, I cannot guarantee Tohm’s safety.”

  “I do not envy your task,” Menhol sympathized.

  The Master of H’vail looked away into far off places of memory. “I can’t explain it but I feel strange … like all things in this world are holding their breath, waiting for …” He stopped and ran a hand across his stubbly face. His grey eyes clouded with the feelings of his heart. All was silent within the hall as Menhol considered what he had heard.

  Suddenly, the door at the far end of the hall burst open.

  “My Lord!”

  Menhol turned to the guardsman who approached swiftly, while Tey’ur suppressed the same movement. Menhol stood as the man drew alongside the table. “Forgive my intrusion, Lord. I was about the task of scouring the lower halls for any stragglers or thieves and came across the Hold. My Lord … the Hold was compromised, a hole shorn right through the rock!”

  Both Menhol and Tey’ur’s eyes flashed with understanding.

  “Hurry man! Go take stock of what is missing!”

  The guardsman saluted swiftly and strode from the hall in haste. Menhol turned to Tey’ur and clenched his lips as his mind worked furiously. “What could they possibly want …?”

  “The Brace … the Dark Brace from Racur,” Tey’ur spoke in a whisper.

  Menhol’s face lifted in shock. “No, that would mean … Mother’s mercy be with this land.” His voice trailed off. Neither spoke as both shared thoughts of a terrible fate that could await Menhin.

  The brace of possession was known to few - amongst them, the Defiler servants of Ahtol.

  “And so it falls to me to ignite the fallen and commit their souls to Mother Aerluin. We are privileged to carry on while they must diminish. There is a law of restitution, where all that we are will return to its source where it sprang. What part of them will you claim now as it escapes to the Earth, Void and Ether?”

  Alastor - Ignitor: Master of Enigma, Fire and Consumption

  Funeral Pyre of the Fallen - Following the Second War of the Order

  Decrees and Offerings

  KHYVLA BUSTLED WITH nervous energy. This day was much like any other that passed for its residents. The market thronged with vendors and patrons, vying and bartering for the best value of the goods in question. The guardsmen leaned upon their long spears as they surveyed the crowds. The standards of Mehnin, high over the city, were still even as the Darkwood sun careened across the sky at midday. Street urchins dodged to and fro, evading the hands of the adults who pursued the thieves among them. People still begged along the side routes, occasionally reaching the hearts of the tender and affluent. Indeed, all the activity seemed to outline the routine that had passed for decades in the south-eastern city. All but for one anticipated event, set to transpire.

  The crowds stared on in fear and awe at the five people who lay prostrated upon the Tables of Judgment. From deep amongst the people, two silent robed figures dressed in traveling gear surveyed the crowd that had gathered into the relatively small occupying space.

  The square lay near to the courts, where the fate of all criminals was determined. Those accused and condemned of the severest crimes found their way along the March, a short stretch of cobblestone that spanned from the courthouse to the Tables of Judgment.

  Typically, the citizens were free to mock, debase, and generally abuse the sentenced along their trek. They would line the road and rooftops within the crammed street and enthusiastically pelt the sentenced along their way. Many used the traditional methods of hurling the spoiled produce from their homes on such occasions.

  As with other sport in the land, the grisly activity of dispensing justice in Khyvla attracted people from many different walks, each with a taste for the barbaric. So it was, the crowd had turned out en masse to participate in the ritual of dispensing with the condemned. However, the five persons who lay before them upon bloodstained wooden-boarded tables appeared to have survived the trek untouched. Instead of a raucous crowd that would feed off self-perpetuating fury almost indefinitely, there was a hushed silence over the whole mass that packed into the small square. From within the silent throng, the two shrouded figures stood and watched.

  The tables were elevated slightly upon a constructed platform which was higher set at the rearmost supports, so that all could witness the spectacle. After a few moments, several officials appeared from the March, looking quite solemn and poised. The High Chancellor appeared next with a token guard about him. His face showed signs of perspiration, caused in part from the ceremonial robes of deep red and purple with black trims that he wore for the occasion. They were long and draped about his person, engraved and embroidered in silvery thread in intricate patterns. His collar rode high and frilled about his neck, touching under his chin which gleamed in the clear day sun. The procession made its way to the platform, where the guards that had conveyed and secured the accused waited. The usual request for silence was unneeded, for the crowd was as still as the grave. The two shrouded observers shifted slightly while waiting for the sentence to begin.

  “Good people of Khyvla and Mehnin, visitors to this fair city from abroad, all who are here - you have come today to witness the will of justice being exercised.” From within his robes he withdrew a scroll and held it aloft to the people. “I hold within my hands a royal decree signed by King Toryn. As of today, in the six hundred and fifty first year of rule, all Ashori and Ashori-tar will be arrested for any use of the Root. Transgression of this law will enable the strictest punishment to be meted out upon the offender. All
citizens are to report any sign of Root manipulation to authorities without fail. Any citizen harbouring an active Ashori or Ashori-tar will be considered guilty under the same penalty.”

  The crowd grew silent with the proclamation. Many were visibly stunned at the sudden turn of events. Ashori were relatively rare but most understood that the ruling cadres had many Ashori within their ranks. The voice of the High Chancellor rang clear amongst the high rough plastered walls of the surrounding buildings. All within his voice drew a short breath in anticipation of what was to come.

  “These men and woman have been tried and found guilty of murder of the worst kind. They have been accused and found guilty of manipulating the Root to desecrate and manipulate the bodies of deceased officials. These Ashori are accused of crimes which merit the harshest punishment that the law allows. We act within the bounds of decency so that we do not descend to the levels of these demons.”

  The High Chancellor’s voice quavered slightly, and some of his officials looked about nervously at his pronouncement of his words.

  “Let the warning stand that the organization responsible and all associated members will be brought to swift justice once sufficient proof is garnered to merit further action.”

  His voice had swelled with vigour at this last statement, yet many could detect some hidden emotion behind his voice.

  Many within the crowd knew well what had transpired and who was the cause of the crime. Yet their silent stares and glances about were synonymous with the clean robes worn by the condemned. None dare say what they felt or cause indignity for fear of horrific reprisal, but it was clear who was behind the attacks. Equally clear was the difficult position the governing authority was placed in this day. The dispensing of justice conflicted with the risk of stirring a silent hidden wrath. Written upon the sweaty lines of the High Chancellor’s face were the pains of resignation. His will to throw down the vile perpetrators was tempered with the fear for his life and those of the citizens in Khyvla. A secret filth had infested the city and spread into every home and business. There was no limit to their reach - to the extent of their power. The High Chancellor’s lip quivered as an emblem of the truly hopeless and powerless state of his government. His brow was suddenly set firmly in defiance and revealed to all gathered the tenor of justice that would be meted out.