“You think your delicate back can handle that, Magic Boy?” said Ob.
Tanch gave up and said nothing else.
Soon the stream of cloaked figures that approached the temple subsided, but they waited some minutes more.
“Enough lurking,” said Theta. He strode from the alley, cloak pulled close about him, hood up. The others scrambled after him. Theta displayed the coin as he approached the guardsmen, but did not pause or slow his stride as he went past. The guards looked at the coin, but made no move to stop or question him. Beyond the door was a small antechamber. Decrepit hallways of rotted wood, musty air, and peeling paint led in three directions, and a stair led down. The stair was new and wide, of thick, rough-hewn, unfinished timbers. Theta peered about for a moment, and then proceeded down, the others following.
The stair emptied into a large room with marble tiled floors and paneled mahogany walls inset with hundreds of wooden pegs upon which hung cloaks and outerwear of all descriptions. The room's perimeter was lined with many large trunks and wooden crates, most empty, but a few contained blood-red, hooded robes.
At the far end of the room stood two ornately carved wooden doors banded in copper. From beyond those, many voices could be heard.
Ob and Dolan rummaged through the crates, examining the robes. They tossed one that looked like it might fit to each of the others, and they all put them on.
A tall, lanky man garbed in leather and girded with steel dashed down the stairs with such speed that he slid several feet across the marble floor. His suit and sword were of a style common to sea captains and naval officers.
“Did the service start yet? Did I miss anything good?” he said as he grabbed a robe from the nearest crate. He pulled it over his head and put up the hood though it was a size or two too small. “I hate to be late. I'm not the last, am I?” he asked Theta.
Theta didn't respond.
“Name’s Fizdar; Fizdar Firstbar the Corsair, first mate of The Black Falcon,” he said standing tall and sticking out his chest.
Theta stared at him expressionless.
“Surely you have heard of The Black Falcon? Dylan Slaayde's ship? Scourge of the seas? The ship that did Minoc run in four days flat?”
Theta, still expressionless.
Fizdar shrugged. “What's your name?” he said.
With no expression on his face, Theta spoke in a slow, measured, and cold voice. “Mister Fancy Pants.”
Fizdar looked down at Theta's legs, but his long red robe covered whatever pants he might be wearing. “I'll take your word for it. And what do you do?”
“He kills people what ask too many questions,” said Ob.
Theta smiled.
“Smashing,” said Fizdar smiling back. “I always wanted to be an assassin. You probably work for The Hand, right? Darned tough bastards you men are, or so I hear.” Fizdar looked Theta up and down and seemed properly convinced of Theta's toughness. “Glad to meet you,” he said extending a hand that Theta ignored.
“Maybe we should get inside before the whole thing is over with,” said Ob as he pushed Fizdar along toward the doors.
The moment Fizdar pulled one door ajar, the jabber of hundreds of talkers filled their ears. The open door revealed a cavernous chamber, far larger than they ever would have imagined, crammed with wooden pews and red robed cultists. Some few thousands filled the chamber's seats over which hung a heady cloud of pipe smoke and incense. Scores more cultists stood or milled about along the sides of the auditorium, having found no suitable seats up close. A throng it was—a gathering of all the cultists of Lomion City, it must have been.
The ceiling was almost lost in smoke and darkness some thirty feet above. The walls were paneled in rich woods and the floors tiled in polished marble. At the far end of the place was a raised stage upon which sat a dozen or so richly clad figures. Their robes were of intricate design, each different and ornate as a noble's coat-of-arms. At the stage's center, a basalt altar, plain in features but imposing in stature. Guards with red tabards stood in groups about the chamber's perimeter.
“Dead gods, so many,” said Tanch quietly, though Fizdar heard him.
“Our numbers grow every day,” said Fizdar. “The good news spreads and attracts the masses. We've merchants and judges, wizards and knights, lords and ladies, and even Councilmen swelling our ranks now. Now we will see real change in Lomion. We will take our country back.”
The group made their way to a pew near the back, not far from the door.
IX
THE OTHER PATH
A stately man in ornate red and black priestly robes gripped a golden staff topped with a polished gemstone as he walked across the stage to a lectern beside the altar. At the sight of him, a hush came over the crowd. This man wore no hood or cowl. He was middle-aged, handsome, with receding gray and black close-cropped hair, deep booming voice, and the wild, shifty eyes of the fanatic.
“Silence,” he boomed, though the place had already gone quiet. When he spoke, the large red stone atop his staff pulsed and glowed with a dim, eerie light.
His voice was robust and distinct and held a strange melodic tenor that was captivating and hypnotic. “As with each gathering, today we welcome many new friends to our family,” he said. “The duty falls to each of us to make them feel at home and at ease amongst us, so that they may experience the love and joy that is our family and our faith. To be one with us and one with the Lord our god.”
“I greet you tonight, my brothers and sisters, one and all. For the newcomers—know that I am Ginalli, High Priest of Azathoth, the one true god. I have the honor of shepherding this growing flock.”
“You all know that we are in challenging times. Many forces align against us. Darkness and evil seeks to undo us from all sides. Of late, troubling rumors have spread through our family. Rumors of gods walking Midgaard. Rumors of impending doom. Rumors of an ancient evil risen from the ashes of time to threaten us and all we hold dear. I have called this special gathering of all our flock to put an end to these rumors and to your fears, and to fill you with the everlasting and pure truth of the one true god. For through truth, faith, and unswerving adherence to duty do we become closer to the Lord.”
“Let us begin our holy service with the prayer of the faithful.” Ginalli lifted his staff and soundly thumped its end on the stage, the booming echo of the impact reflecting off the chamber's ceiling and walls. At the same time, the unnatural, crimson glow that emanated from the stone at the staff's apex brightened.
“First and always, know that Azathoth, and we that follow him are family, your family—the only family you will ever truly need.”
“The faithful are our family,” chanted the cultists in practiced fashion—more than a few reading from booklets that they held in their hands. “And Azathoth is our father.”
“Blessed be the Lord,” chanted the cultists.
“Cast off your earthly ties and be beholden to none, save Azathoth your lord, and his family, his faithful.”
“It is right to cast off our earthly ties,” they chanted.
“Azathoth, father to us all, teaches us that each man is of equal value to all others and entitled to the same benefits, and happiness, and respect.”
“We are all equal and deserving,” chanted the multitude in near unison.
“But equality eludes us, not through our faults, but through the faults of others—those of the disbelievers, the sinners, the hypocrites, and the hoarders of wealth. I say to you, why should some loathsome nobleman or disbelieving, fatted merchant be permitted to lounge in a grand manor house while you starve in a hovel or sleep in a ruin on the cold hard ground? Should he not share his home and table with you and yours, as would your brother or your father?”
“His home and table are rightly ours,” chanted the faithful, many beginning to sway from side to side as they spoke, listened, and stared.
“What of his horses, his land, his fine clothes? Are you any less worthy than him to partake in th
ese pleasures?”
“We are worthy and deserving of all,” they chanted, now in almost monotone fashion.
“Is he better than you? More deserving than you? Azathoth teaches us, he is no better.”
“No one is better than I,” they chanted, Dolan now joining in, just a bit out of sync with the others, as he knew not the refrain.
“Why should your neighbor have a beautiful, buxom wife kept only to himself while you are alone and miserable? Why should you not be free to enjoy her favors as well?”
“Let her favors be freely given to us,” chanted the faithful.
“He must share what he has with us, and if he does not—if he dares refuse to obey the divine laws, the very will of the one true god, then he is no believer.”
“A heretic we will mark him,” they chanted. “A traitor we will name him.”
“From him, we must take all,” said Ginalli. “Such is Azathoth's will.”
“Such is Azathoth's command,” spoke the enthralled. Ob now mumbled along, glassy eyed and expressionless.
Theta shook his head and clenched his jaw.
“In this way, the greedy, the hoarders of wealth and ill-gotten gain will come to know poverty and loss and loneliness and despair.”
“Let them know despair,” they chanted.
Tanch's eyelids became droopy, his expression dazed. His chin rested on his chest.
“Those who repent among them will come to see the wisdom of the one god's ways—the wisdom of his justice and equality and shared prosperity for all.”
“The repentant will come to know the Lord.”
“And if the disbeliever resists, we must take all that he has and all that he ever will have, for the good of all.”
“Even unto his life,” they chanted, shaking their fists in the air—Dolan, Ob, and Tanch among them. Claradon felt sleepy; he fought to keep his eyes open.
“Even unto his very soul,” said Ginalli. “Deliver his black, wicked soul to Azathoth who will cleanse and purify it, mercifully gifting the disbeliever with another chance to find a place among the faithful when he is reborn anew on Midgaard, his sins washed away. Such is Azathoth's boundless goodness and mercy.
“Some things never change,” said Theta under his breath as he recalled a far-off day when he stood beside Azathoth, and when he was known not as the Lord Angle Theta, but as The Lord's Arkon, Thetan.
“How long will it take them to reach Pergillum?” said Gabriel, alight in polished, silvered armor.
“Three days,” said Azathoth, a glowing figure in white—at once beautiful, but indistinct.
“A hard journey on foot carrying such a burden,” said Thetan as he sat atop a boulder to Azathoth's right, clad in armor similar to Gabriel's, though golden in hue.
“The stones of my law are heavy, 'tis true, and its vessel is the heavier, but my faithful must bear it, though they will strain and stumble.”
A long line of pilgrims and soldiers stretched out in the valley far below and before them. At the vanguard of the host was a large, rectangular chest of golden hue, supported by poles needled through golden rungs bolted to the chest's sides. Atop the chest, a golden tapestry and two golden statues honoring the Lord's greatest servants, his Arkons. Twelve large men bore the poles on their shoulders, six to a side. Ornate tapestries hung between the men's shoulders and the chest, preventing direct contact between the men and holy vessel. As they passed over the rocky ground, a man on the right stumbled and went down; the bearer behind tripped over him and fell headlong to the rocky soil.
The chest overbalanced and pitched forward. All the bearers on the right side fell, their pole spearing into the ground. As the chest tipped, threatening to crash to the rocky ground, a large soldier lunged in and steadied it. When his bare hands touched the side of the chest, Azathoth stood, anger flashed on his face, his glow turned from white to blood red. With the soldier's momentary aid, the bearers regained control of the chest and brought it gently and safely down. The soldier dropped to his knees and broke into a prayer imploring Azathoth's forgiveness for daring to touch the holy vessel. He knew well the terrible penalty for such irreverence.
Azathoth raised his hand to the heavens—
“Please, my lord,” said Gabriel. “The man sought only to safeguard your holy word.”
Azathoth pointed the index finger of his right hand, first at the heavens, and then at the soldier. A bolt of lightning fired down from on high and pierced the soldier's chest, leaving a massive, blackened wound behind. His corpse collapsed to the ground. Those around him wailed in horror, cringed in terror, and beseeched the Lord's forgiveness and mercy.
“He broke the holy law,” boomed Azathoth. He turned toward Gabriel with wild eyes that still glowed red, “and for that he had to die.”
Gabriel's eyes grew wide at Azathoth's reaction, and his face went white; the hairs stood up on his neck.
“A harsh penalty,” said Thetan, concern and confusion filling his face, “for one who sought only to do good.”
Azathoth turned toward Thetan. “Harsh, indeed,” he said, his aspect now returned to normal. “But necessary, and all part of my grand design for the world of man. Had that man lived, the tapestry of mankind would have taken turns toward darkness, turns toward chaos that I cannot allow. Never fear, all you need know of this and more will be revealed to you, my henchmen, in due time. Such is my will.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Gabriel.
“As you say, my lord,” said Thetan as he stared at the ground.
“Glory to the merciful lord,” chanted the cultists.
“This, the one true god teaches us. This is the way; this is his command and by following it, we will help to bring about an age of peace, an age of shared prosperity, of equal outcome, and happiness for all. A world where there is no poverty, no homelessness, no hunger, and no war. The world owes us no less.”
Claradon's vision narrowed until all he could see was the red glowing stone of Ginalli's staff; all he could hear was the sound of Ginalli's voice.
“The world owes us no less,” they chanted. Claradon mumbled along, his will no longer his own, as if in a trance.
“The kingdom owes us this—and it must provide or we will bring it down in Azathoth's holy name.”
“In Azathoth's holy name,” shouted the faithful.
“Down with Tenzivel,” said Ginalli. “Death to Lomion.”
“Death to Lomion!” chanted the enthralled, fists pumping in the air.
“This is the path to Azathoth. This is our path—the path that we have no choice but to follow. The one truth path.”
“We will follow Azathoth's holy path,” chanted the gathered faithful. “This we vow. This we vow.”
Claradon snapped from his trance when Theta cuffed the back of his neck and stamped on his foot. They gave Ob, Dolan, and Tanch the same treatment to free them from their daze.
Ginalli grinned from ear to ear as he scanned the mesmerized audience, his staff now quieted.
“I am proud to stand before you tonight my brothers and sisters. But despite the solemn vows that we have spoken tonight and many times afore, we, Azathoth's faithful, have oft strayed from the holy path. We have strayed from the will of our lord and master. Too long have we tolerated the evil rich, the hoarders of wealth; too long have we tolerated a corrupt government whose secular laws inhibit our freedoms. Too long have we tolerated the hypocritical Churchmen who call themselves good but do only evil. Too long have we tolerated the wicked among us. But Azathoth has not forgotten us, he sees our plight, he knows our hearts and our minds. To us, his faithful, his earthly family, Azathoth has sent two of his greatest servants, his most loyal followers and lieutenants to show us the way to salvation, to put us back on the path to righteousness and to lead us into battle against the unbelievers. To us, the Lord has sent Lord Mortach the Merciful and Lord Gallis Korrgonn the Just—the glorious son of our lord, Azathoth, himself.”
From beyond the doors at the rear of the stage
emerged a giant, skull-faced monstrosity of articulated black armor and massive white sword alight with otherworldly fire. Beside him, a striking-looking tall man of golden eyes. The Nifleheim Lords strode to the black thrones behind the altar and sat.
Gasps and murmurs raced through the crowd.
“It's true,” shouted one of the faithful. “The Arkons of the Lord are here.”
“They walk amongst us,” called out another.
Several people fainted. Many others fell to their knees and covered their heads. Some began to pray.
“It's judgment day,” yelled one cultist.
“Judgment day,” screamed another. That man pulled out a long dagger, and held it before his chest in both hands. “Dear lord, take my soul,” he yelled, and plunged the dagger deep into his own breast. He collapsed in a wellspring of blood. Those around him gasped in shock and backed away.
Ginalli's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open at the sight of this.
“Judgment day,” yelled the enthralled.
Several others in the crowd pulled out daggers and stabbed themselves, or those standing next to them. Screams erupted throughout the crowd. People backed away in fear from the dagger-wielders. The crowd began to panic.
Ginalli waved his hands, slammed the butt of his staff on the stage, and raised his voice to catch the crowd. The staff's head glowed much brighter than before and pulsed, seeming to cry out.
“Hear me my brothers and sisters,” shouted Ginalli. “Hear me!” The crowd quieted down—Ginalli's intervention staying the hands of several other would-be martyrs and murderers. “The sacrifices of our brethren,” pointing to those expiring on the now crimson floor, “will bring great favor on us by the lord, but he has other tasks for the rest of us. He wants us to live and spread his word to the unbelievers, so stay your daggers and put them away.”
“These holy messengers,” pointing now to Mortach and Korrgonn, “these Arkons from the lord are here to aid us in the coming struggles, to help us to bring about Azathoth's will. We will serve them and obey them as we would our lord himself.”
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