by Dan Gillis
“In absence of the One Seat, we proceed with the decree.”
He spoke firmly to the crowd. Stepping to the side, the guards who stood solemnly by the condemned moved to prop the tables further upward to the final viewing. As the crowd surveyed the condemned, their faces appeared blank and emotionless. They had appeared to be resigned to their fate, unlike many who had occupied these same positions, who fought and screamed fruitlessly to the last moment.
Speaking loudly, the High Chancellor addressed the five bound Ashori while facing the crowd, “you are found guilty of all the charges put against you and are sentenced to death. May Mother harbour your stained souls …” A lone robed figure advanced upon the platform grasping a large handled weapon with a hefty flowing head that gleamed in the light. The observing public tensed as they sensed the moment they had anticipated and came for. The Hand of Justice, or so the title of the executioner had so been named, was always efficient and accurate. As he prepared to let the stroke fall upon the first, the eyes of one accused flicked briefly to the two shrouded figures who watched silently in the crowd. It was unnoticed by all else, but hidden within the look was one of anguish. Then as the silent breeze the stroke came across clean and precise, the head tumbled from the body. The Hand of Justice moved methodically to the next table, just as the two figures slipped quietly from the subdued crowd.
The air was still and the pair silent as they passed through the streets toward the tall cadre tower that stood high above the other structures. When they came to the entrance, words were whispered as the hands of one moved in small, elaborate patterns. The door swung open slowly as the two robed visitors stepped through. It was after a moment that one broke the silence that prevailed.
“Blundering fools!” one hissed as he withdrew his hood from his face. Unveiled grey eyes burned with harsh intensity as his mouth twitched in feral spite. “To have brought this shame upon the Blade, to risk the exposure … they deserve a worse fate than this!” His hands were clenched as he vented his frustration.
“It could not have been of their doing, Stefyn. We know that they were making plans to take Ahtol’s chosen. All was nearly ready to set in motion when we left. Something happened to them that night, beyond their ability to contend with.” The second man withdrew his cloak and turned a calmer visage to his seething partner.
“Ridiculous! How could five of them be taken? Surely there is none in the city to oppose us, to dare defy us? They should not have failed, Dernhol, let alone been discovered and taken by the guard.” Stefyn glared at his counterpart, as they ascended the winding stair toward the upper chambers.
“Despite your confident praise, this cadre has many enemies … it is not inconceivable that there may have been unexpected difficulty. I am not suggesting that the prize caused their failure, and yet I feel somehow that it has a part to play in their capture. The evidence of their crime is strange indeed, bodies of the Watch hewn to pieces … that is strange indeed.”
Stefyn remained still as the logic of the statements rushed over him.
Moments of tense silence passed between them as their feet padded along the long winding stair.
The silence was broken as Dernhol spoke along a different thread of conversation. “Nuril will be able to shed light upon this mystery, for surely she has delved deeply into this blunder. Frankly, I imagine she would have been wroth and may yet remain so. It would be advisable to tread lightly pertaining to this incident. She will determine our next course of action, despite the setbacks we have incurred through what was likely foolish overconfidence.”
The two reached the topmost stair and gestured the weave of admittance toward the door. After a moment, the entrance was unsealed and slid open silently. The companions stepped through into the high room of the tower.
The chamber was much darker than usual, as a cold blackness chilled their skin. There was nothing natural about the damping of light and heat and it effectively created a state of night within the chamber despite the time of day. All was thrown in darkness, without even the slightest light escaping from the door they had passed through, which closed tightly, resealing itself. The two servants of Ahtol stepped forward a few paces and knelt low in anticipation of the call to arise.
“You may rise.”
The low tones echoed within the circular stone walls. Both faces of the men fell in shock, eyes widened; the voice they had anticipated was quite different than that which they heard. Slowly rising, their ears still registered the voice; their minds struggled to grasp the meaning of a man in the upper chamber. Searching to place an image to the voice in the blackness they scanned the room anxiously. Yet, the dark chill enfolded them and despite their efforts, they could see nothing within the room.
“You have been expected. Is the north ready to move?”
The voice was commanding, with a hint of a condescending tone. Despite the verbal lashings they had both received at the tongue of Nuril, this new tone was in its way more dangerous to their minds.
After a moment, Dernhol broke the silence.
“My lord. The north is set to move, the last holding is prepared. All that remains is to seize control,” Dernhol’s voice quavered slightly. In his mind, he sought desperately to solve the strange puzzle before him. ‘The capture of the five cadre men in Khyvla must have been devastating to Nuril’ he thought.
Then suddenly within his mind, a terrible truth unveiled itself. Nuril had failed to take the prize … and here was the new leader of the Blade. He desperately wanted answers, but he remained as still as the darkness about him, for he knew not the mind of this new leader, and a false step could spell death.
“You have done well, to help our sisters of the north secure their holdings.”
The room suddenly burst into light. Great flame braziers spaced along the perimeter blazed fiercely, scattering the shadows and darkness. Much of what had been in the chamber was gone, it having undergone a significant overhaul. While Nuril had catered to the finer things - delicate silks and tapestries - the whole area now seemed to resemble a headquarters for war. The walls were stripped bare. Tables were strewn with great maps and documents. Weapons were stored here and there in preparation of conflict that was to come. The only ornamentation was four stone statues of robed figures that stood at each of the navigational points.
The two servants of Ahtol took in their new master. He stood before them across the room near to one of the statues. He was dressed in war gear, his body encased in light chain and leather stained black and red. His hair was black and swept onto his shoulders while a trimmed beard cut along the hard ridges of his face. His eyes were dark as well, almost black in the fierce torch light. A gloved hand motioned for the two Ashori to take their place near the center of the room.
Stefyn’s eyes shot open as he took in the surroundings. The young Ashori moved swiftly toward two large black stone slabs at the center of the room.
“My Lord!” Stefyn whispered harshly. “How … what has happened? This is impossible.”
Dernhol felt the same jolt of shock within his frame upon the sight of the once whole altar, but held his tongue. Stefyn was younger and hotter-headed, prone to outbursts.
The dark clad leader lifted a gloved hand to his chin, even as he too moved near to the other side of the twin tablets.
The great mystic stone had been rent apart and slipped from the elevated dais that supported the altar.
“There are many things that happen that are beyond our control. It is how we deal with certain events that determine our character and fate.” The dark eyes rested heavily upon the younger Root-weaver, who realizing his mistake, stood upward stiffly.
The cadre Lord did not speak yet. His eyes burned into the young man.
Stefyn bowed himself low and turned himself to retreat back to the summoning aperture. The silence in the room was unnerving to Dernhol, for as he stood he could hear naught but the flames crackling as Stefyn slid bashfully back into his place. Dernhol stood silently and ap
art from his Lord who was viewing him with an air of scrutiny.
After a time, the head of the Blade of Ahtol spoke. “Since my arrival, I have yet to see a semblance of the composure you have shown this day from the others. Tell me, does not the sight of this broken altar shake your confidence to the core? What of this decree from King Toryn? Most say that our cause in which we have laboured for years has been undone. What say you?” The black eyes were upon him, but Dernhol kept his face and voice calm, albeit forcefully. He could feel Stefyn squirm next to him. The obvious indifference of the new One Seat toward the brash Ashori was a poignant and stinging rebuke. He chose his words carefully before speaking.
“My Lord, I do not believe that all we have prepared for is undone. I admit that the sight of this altar stirs fears and doubt, but I will not allow such emotion to dictate my actions. I do not fear the weak and toothless throne. Nor do I believe that all avenues are exhausted to achieve our goal.”
The Lord smiled a strange smile, which Dernhol could not interpret. It seemed a strange mix of curiosity and desire. Dernhol was not sure what to think of that, yet he assumed he was not trusted yet.
“Formidable words. I am Lord Amliel.” He turned himself to a table that was strewn with various papers. He took up a parchment from the table and studied it as he spoke. “I have taken control of the situation in Mehnin, so that we may correct the blundering of previous fools, and secure Ahtol’s hold in this region. There were some large miscalculations as I am sure you have noted upon your return to the city today. As a result of losing the initial offering and the blade of binding, we are left thus.” He indicated to the shorn obsidian blocks absently. After a brief glance at the parchment in hand, Amliel turned about the room. His large form cast flickering shadows upon the walls like strange apparitions.
Dernhol felt uncomfortable as he detected the strange feeling of being observed from more than the Lord. Yet, they seemed alone with the new leader of the Blade.
“Fortunately, fate has cast a die in our favour.”
Suddenly Amliel’s gaze fell harshly upon Stefyn. The young magi instinctively jerked his head up even as the hands of Amliel burned with black flames of great power. Great surging tongues of midnight exploded from the Cadre Lord’s outstretched hand and surged through the air completely overwhelming the hapless Defiler. He struggled in vain as they wrapped about his body and lashed his skin. Stefyn screamed out in pain, as Amliel snapped him forward sharply, using the energy as a whip. Defenceless, Stefyn tumbled through the air violently until he abruptly halted over the broken alter.
“My Lor …!” The young weaver’s screams were cut off even as strands of power snaked into the young man’s mouth, silencing his voice. His brow rose sharply and his eyes twitched, nearly popping from their sockets in reaction to the pain. His twitching body remained suspended even as Amliel turned toward an empty portion of the room.
He maintained the surging power effortlessly it seemed, flowing from his arm and twisting along the floor until it rose as a dark fiery fountain underneath its bound victim.
The Lord of the Blade of Ahtol spoke to the emptiness. “Are you prepared, Hyrlos?” his voice was calm and steady. From within the room it seemed to Dernhol, perhaps within the stone itself, a low voice rang out.
“Let what was unmade be made.”
Stefyn’s body began to tremble and shake visibly as the bands of power grasping him were joined by twisting pale green threads of power. His body convulsed even as the new bands began to seep into his skin. The original bands of dark fire maintained their lock upon the hapless suspended Ashori. It seemed to Dernhol that the green energy had grown mist-like and sought passage into his companion’s body through the skin as well as all the openings in the flesh. Thrashing helplessly, Stefyn’s eyes rolled back into his head as his body lowered toward the sheen surfaces of the obsidian stone. With a grunt of exertion, the greenish flows took hold of their victim, while the dark bands surged outward and surrounded the broken altar pieces.
All at once, the two massive blocks of stone shifted from their resting places and rose slowly toward their original location upon the dais. As the deep black slabs drew close, the green bands lowered the convulsing form just over their surface. The room grew brilliant in a bright green hue as the power intensified beyond anything Dernhol had ever witnessed.
His jaw was slack as he stood mesmerized at this display of power. The dark sheen of the obsidian flashed green under the mighty flows of power.
Lord Amliel stood rigidly to his spot, supporting the stone blocks and the body of Stefyn, each arm weaving power from completely different refractions of the Root. The feat was nearly impossible, or so it seemed to most who began the path to understanding the relationship between the planes of power. The body should not have the capacity to draw and direct from diverse power sources, and yet it was so. Dernhol found himself sweating profusely under his robes and hastily wiped his brow free of perspiration. He continued to watch speechlessly and completely bound to the display.
From the corner of his vision, a dark form stepped into the shimmering flashes of light. Dernhol started at the presence of the newcomer. The statue at the southern position was gone, and it became clear in his frantic mind; this was the source of the second voice he had heard earlier.
The dark form moved silently toward the altar stones and placed a hand lightly upon each portion. Stefyn’s body lowered to the altar, all encompassed in deathly green energy, even as the altar grew the darkest black and gave no reflection. There was a humming of power in Dernhol’s ears, as the conduits to so many different planes of the Root were opened at once. The air seemed to tremble, causing ripples along his skin which terrified the adeptus. One misstep, with one flow of power coming into contact with another, would be catastrophic. The whole tower, perhaps even the whole city, could be gone with the degree of the Root being localized into one small area. Then there was the matter of the blackness which entwined and swirled about the Root energy. He had no idea what effect a collision of these two sources could produce. Despite his fears, he continued to watch with increased fervour.
The combined energies and spirit were slowly dragged from Stefyn’s body and transferred to the stone, even as the great mass pulsed with dark earthly tones. Stefyn’s body began to settle as his life energy began to drain away. His skin was darkening, his face drawing sallow. Soon the skin was taut to the bone revealing the tissues beneath. The pulsing began to ebb and the air was less turbulent. The second figure removed his hands and remained still at the head of the altar.
The stone was whole, without any evidence of damage.
Stefyn’s lifeless, sapped frame was casually discarded to the side of the dais.
Amliel stepped backward heavily, slumping into a chair near the map-strewn table. He rested one arm upon the table and gazed absently upon his gauntleted hand where the black energies had poured from earlier. Dernhol was so overcome in the moment he found himself speaking suddenly, in a strange unexpected outburst.
“Forgive me, my Lord, but with the absence of the soul aligner and a viable offering, how should we proceed to accomplish the summoning?”
Amliel turned that cold gaze upon him. His heart shuddered within. There was something behind that gaze, which was as dark and deadly as Ahtol’s will. He regretted inquiring further, his only wish was to remove himself from the shadowy room. Yet to move without dismissal was equally dangerous.
His new Lord spoke after regarding Dernhol quietly.
“Fortunately, I have made certain arrangements that will enable us to proceed according to plan. With the absence of the dagger, I have taken steps to secure a replacement artifact.” He indicated toward a dark column adjacent to Dernhol’s position. He had not noticed the short but elegant pillar earlier, due to the sudden turn of events. The small column was flattened upon the top and a piece of dark cloth was draped over something beneath.
Dernhol felt a strange attraction toward the pedestal. In his
mind he felt a pulling or beckoning to his inner soul. Slowly he felt his feet shift beneath him, despite his very will. He began to move slowly toward it, even as he heard Amliel’s voice in his ears, as if whispering into them but a breath apart.
“Ahtol is a strange deity, and his choice for the adequate sacrifice is not always clear, as you must well know.” The words burned like fire as Dernhol moved next to the small pillar. His hand seemed to move against his better judgment, yet he yearned to know what lay beneath the cloth. Slowly, he grasped the dark cloth and slid it from the object beneath. A circular ring of darkest steel lay still upon the marble. Dernhol grasped the sides of the column as his mind reeled while gazing upon it.
Fading in his ears, the Lord’s words echoed hauntingly. “We shall soon see if you are compatible with Ahtol. Don't worry, he has not been as fickle recently.”
Dernhol’s fingers slipped silently around the brace.
“The enemy is reforming their ranks. Mark me, young ones! Now is not the time for foolish heroism. Death will come to all, but do not forsake your comrades. Should you die in vain, your walk upon the Path will be harrowing, if you have to trod it with them. Now prepare yourselves. Steady now. Here they come!”
Aragil - Alacritor: Master of the House, Life and Preservation