Tiyarnon looked to his left and saw Nimaira gesturing and speaking ancient words that could only mean a spell was being cast. He immediately spun around, thinking he’d missed an unseen enemy or supernatural beast moving in to attack them. He whirled, head whipping back and forth, but failed to witness a threat of any kind approaching their location. He twirled back to face her again as the spell reached its climax, and he realized uncomfortably that she had locked eyes with him. Hearing a strange sound from above, he looked up in time to see what appeared to be stars raining down, threatening to crush him.
“Wha—“ cried the High Priest attempting to dismount from his steed but falling to the floor instead. He uttered an incantation to his God and discharged a ray of radiant light, ‘Sun’s Rays’ as the spell was called, directing multiple beams into the approaching objects. One by one, the rays of light hit and shattered the huge masses, causing them to break into smaller pieces as they fell to the soil. Tiyarnon breathed a sigh of relief as he regained his footing. He had expended tremendous power to counter that spell and, he realized, he was lucky to be alive. Then he saw that his horse was not as fortunate, as it lay lifeless beneath a huge, stone-like object.
“What manner of behavior is this?!” yelled the elderly priest at the half-elf woman, whose eyes seemed distant at best. Before he could receive an answer, or even pursue a second line of questioning, Tiyarnon felt a strange sensation of irritation flood into his being. How dare she strike at me, he fumed. I am the High Priest of the God of the Sun. The giver of all life. The Shimmering One grants me powers that she can only dream of, Tiyarnon thought. But, before he could act on this new and strange emotional wave, he saw Rolin Hardbeard approach her from the side. Nimaira was so intent and focused on Tiyarnon that she did not see the mighty dwarf. The next thing the High Priest witnessed was the dwarf’s powerful fist connecting with Nimaira’s jaw, all but knocking the woman unconscious.
Rolin stood over the half-elf, breathing heavily and banging a gauntleted fist on his plated breastplate.
“Not such the ‘little one’ now, eh?” Rolin mocked at the top of his lungs, and with such anger that it brought Tiyarnon back to his senses. He clearly felt a moment ago as if he needed to prove something to Nimaira for having attacked him—to make her understand that he was the superior spell-caster. And then he felt it. It was so subtle, but it was certainly there—the presence of the demon creeping ever so sneakily into his consciousness, for he had sensed this before.
Cyrza!
Tiyarnon was gripped by a very real and completely overwhelming fear. They had encountered the demon within the amulet many times. It had attempted to appeal to their pride on numerous occasions, ever endeavoring to attract each and every one of his closest friends into claiming the object for their own. Even when they were aware of its advances, it was difficult to stop them. This was why they had tried so often to warn Sadreth not to use its powers… not to tap into the evil that surely lurked within the artifact. Finally, Tiyarnon steadied himself and his fear was replaced with anger… anger at this demon for once more manipulating his friends—for manipulating him.
Rolin approached Tiyarnon with a determined step and withdrew his great battle-axe. It appeared almost too large in the dwarf’s hands. Surely he would not be able to swing this mighty weapon with ease? But Tiyarnon knew Rolin did not wield this axe with clumsiness. Tiyarnon had seen the dwarf in action for decades and Rolin was a fierce and deadly warrior, never to be underestimated. With this in mind, he gripped his staff firmly and shifted it about in his hands, uttering a prayer to The Shimmering One. Rolin calmly walked toward him, muttering something to himself. As the dwarf got close to within striking distance, Tiyarnon distinctly heard him speak.
“Steel beats magic! I been sayin’ it fer years,” he cried, just as Tiyarnon finished his spell.
A funny look crossed the dwarf’s face at that instant as puzzlement reflected within his gray eyes and he came to a dead stop, just before closing in on the High Priest.
“Thank The Shimmering One,” Tiyarnon intoned as Rolin fell victim to a spell known as ‘Shackled Mind’. It was a simple enchantment he’d learned years prior but hadn’t used in decades. It attacked the mind of the victim, convincing them that they were paralyzed when, in fact, the body was completely unharmed and untouched.
Tiyarnon once more fought the demanding will of Cyrza as the demon reached for his very soul, striving to appeal to the hubris within him; to make him believe that he was the superior combatant and that his was the most effective method of combat. He began another spell—one intended to put a hole through the dwarf’s chest—but he stopped mouthing the words just in time. He pushed Cyrza from his consciousness as he fell to his knees in agony. It was an acutely exposed connection that Cyrza had developed with the three of them and, for some reason, the demon seemed stronger. Either that or they were weaker, which Tiyarnon believed might well be the case, for the demon was immortal and they were not.
The High Priest of The Shimmering One was callously wrenched from his contemplation once more as Rolin smashed his chest violently with the haft of his axe, driving him to the ground with a two-handed shove. Tiyarnon’s head bounced off the hard ground and his vision dimmed, blurred and cleared again.
As his senses returned, he saw the dwarf standing over him with his axe raised high in both hands. Sweat beaded on his leathered face and brow beneath his helm, seeming to well up in his white beard. Tiyarnon sensed that deep down Rolin, too, was fighting the possession of the demon, though his eyes were glazed over. He held out his hand, but before he could utter another word, the axe came down.
Tiyarnon closed his eyes, accepting his fate.
Nothing happened.
A moment later however, he opened his eyes. The head of the axe was to the left of his head and Rolin Hardbeard stood over him still, bent on one knee now and breathing heavily, the sweat pouring down his face. He tossed his helm to the ground and his eyes met Tiyarnon’s, the familiar fire once more behind them.
“That durned demon ain’t gonna claim you or me or any of us this day,” Rolin declared matter-of-factly to his friend and companion. He looked around and saw Nimaira unconscious on the ground many paces away and also saw the crushed horse, the chestnut stallion that Tiyarnon had grown to love.
“What in all of Pandemonium be this?” Rolin asked, truly puzzled by the scene.
“You… don’t recall,” Tiyarnon stated rather than asked. “The demon clouds your mind and memory when he takes it over.”
‘I… did I—?” Rolin asked, pointing to the unmoving body of Nimaira and looking at Tiyarnon with eyes so wide they seemed akin to silver coins. Tiyarnon shook his head.
“She lives,” Tiyarnon replied with conviction. Rolin finally released the breath he’d involuntarily been holding and strapped the axe to his back again.
“I’m thinkin’ he be gone now,” Rolin said.
“Aye,” Tiyarnon agreed, nodding to the wise dwarf. “He must have been taken further away from us.”
“Then we better get movin’,” Rolin said, helping Tiyarnon slowly to his feet.
Tiyarnon shook his head. “We aren’t following the thing anymore this day.”
This drew a shocked stare of disbelief from the dwarf, who looked as though he had been kicked in the gut. His face began a series of strange expressions. His thick, white eyebrows raised and then lowered, his brow furrowed and wrinkled, making him seem as if he were physically injured.
“I ain’t one fer quittin’!” Rolin finally managed, as he watched Tiyarnon move over towards Nimaira and utter a prayer of healing over her.
“My supplications go unanswered as I have been spreading the word of The Shimmering One to those in need since the first light of dawn,” Tiyarnon admitted to the dwarf, when he had finished tending to Nimaira. “I am tired and beaten, and Cyrza is too dangerous for us—specifically us—to deal with. He knows us too well!”
Nimaira came to, hearing the voices throug
h her fuzzy senses, and focused just as her two companions were arguing. She attempted to speak, but the words never formed as she flinched and grabbed at her injury, uttering something unintelligible instead. Tiyarnon’s healing abilities helped ease the pain, but could not mend the jaw, for he was weak and tired both mentally and physically. Tiyarnon and Nimaira both feared that it was most likely broken from the impact of the mighty dwarf’s blow.
Rolin averted his eyes from her, distressed at what had happened and embarrassed as well. He purposefully distanced himself, moving to examine the dead and bloodied horse instead, for he was humiliated by his actions and what the demon had been able to make him do to his closest friends. Deep down, he knew that Cyrza was too powerful for them to handle. He’d faced that creature before and felt his tempting calls for many years as he and his friends watched it eat away at not only Sadreth’s mind, but his body as well. Little did the heroes know what exactly was lurking, what was hidden, deep within the amulet those many years ago—Cyrza.
Cyrza had become too familiar with them and knew their deepest, darkest desires. This alone made the demon extremely dangerous. Rolin fought against the sense of failure, but he knew in his heart of hearts that the three of them could not overcome this creature. However, he would never admit it aloud… he was too proud. This left a chaotic series of thoughts and emotions churning within him as he knelt and placed his white bearded chin in his hand in silent reflection, several hundred feet away from his closest friends.
Tiyarnon immediately began to seek for a solution as he gazed upon his demoralized companions, defeated and frustrated. Nimaira still lay on the cold ground, rubbing her jaw, with tears—not tears of pain, but tears of what might have been—welling in her beautiful eyes. Rolin Hardbeard, quite possibly the toughest and fiercest dwarf he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, knelt in silent disappointment.
Suddenly, Tiyarnon recalled that the Inquisition within Safehold was always an option. Then he remembered his former student—Garius Forge. He had not given that particular pupil any thought in a while, he lamented, considering he was his top acolyte and had quite possibly taught Tiyarnon a few things while studying at the temple. He was an extremely gifted devotee whose mind and spirituality were attuned with the Pantheon of Order. He showed a piety under The Shimmering One that few before him had shown.
The Inquisition was definitely a possibility, Tiyarnon decided. It had been put in place hundreds of years ago specifically for this kind of thing, after all. Demonic possession was a subject with which he was familiar and had studied, but he was far from an expert on the matter. And this demon—Cyrza—was a force to be reckoned with, especially considering the advantage the demon held over himself and the others.
Cyrza had easily manipulated them. Whether it was due to their familiarity to him, their age or something else entirely, he was unsure. What he did know for certain was that the three of them needed help and that alone they could not recover the phylactery.
Frustration and anger threatened to overwhelm Tiyarnon once more and he steeled his emotions, knowing that to go down that road would only invite more trouble. Moreover, he wanted to stay strong for the others, who were no doubt experiencing similar remorse over their recent failure. He helped Nimaira back to her feet, gently aiding her as best as his aged musculature would allow. As he did, he gazed into her eyes, knowing that she felt as he did that very moment.
“Cyrza,” she managed to say. He nodded an understanding and turned away from her to quickly redirect the subject matter to something else.
“We will go back to Oakhaven, but only after we make a brief stop in Amrel to visit with King Dorinthal and see what aid and information he might offer,” Tiyarnon pronounced, gesturing at her damaged jaw.
“We don’t nee—“, Nimaira began to utter through tight lips, trying not to induce pain.
“We do need to visit the elves, and not just to treat your wounded jaw, but for other reasons as well, my dear—I require the counsel of the elven king on several matters,” he added with a certain decisiveness, interrupting her dissuasive comment. He knew that she would not want to draw attention to her injury, especially as it would further deepen the guilt felt by the dwarf, but it was severe and could use some elven magic to speed the mending… or at least dull the pain.
Tiyarnon moved toward the dwarf, who was still kneeling in silence by the dead horse and inadvertently staining his armor with the stallion’s life blood. Specks of it intermingled with his white beard which otherwise seemed as pure as freshly fallen snow. Rolin was about to speak when Tiyarnon sensed his empathy about the steed. He placed one hand on his comrade’s shoulder and waved dismissively with the other, which still held his ornate staff.
“Speak not of my losses or troubles this day, my friend,” he stated, motioning at the horse. “He is in a better place than us all, I am sure,” he added, signaling for the dwarven warrior to follow. “Come, Rolin. The other two stallions galloped north, running most likely for miles toward the forest. Luckily, it is in the direction in which we travel,” he finished with a wry chuckle.
Darkness was beginning to loom now and he saw the steam from his breath more clearly against the fading sunlight. He involuntarily shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold alone.
Nimaira joined them but Rolin looked away and then down toward his boots as her wide, blue eyes settled on him. He continued to stare away, refusing to meet her gaze until he felt the gentle touch of Nimaira’s hand on his heavily bearded chin, forcing his head up to lock his eyes with her own.
“It is over and I yet live,” she managed, forcing a smile upon him, despite her obvious pain.
“I…,” he stammered. “Sorry,” was all that he could manage to say. She pulled him close and hugged him tightly. Tiyarnon, already many paces ahead, turned to witness the embrace, but then continued to put more distance between them as he advanced north toward the Amrel forest and eventually Oakhaven. He smiled, for, despite their obvious failings, not even a manipulative demon could destroy their heartfelt feelings for one another.
After a few moments, his friends caught up to him, since he walked at a snail’s pace, using his staff for more support than he wanted to admit. Shortly thereafter, the three of them stumbled upon the horses, who’d found a garden still full of fresh plants and beanstalks upon which to graze, no doubt the work of the nearby elves. They approached the animals quietly, allowing the pure tranquility of the scene to wash over them. Even the hardened dwarf allowed the moments to pass without uttering a single word.
“Ye can share me horse,” Rolin finally said to the High Priest, who laughed heartily at the enthusiastic offer of kindness from the dwarf, who, more often than not, was grumpy.
Rolin coaxed one of the horses to him eventually and began to clamber aboard. Tiyarnon suddenly pushed past to sit at the front of the saddle, ahead of him. Rolin began to protest but then simply muttered something under his breath instead.
“I’ll steer the thing if you don’t mind,” Tiyarnon said, eyes facing forward but knowing full well the dwarf had a smile behind him that went ear to ear.
Tiyarnon turned and watched the half-elf climb atop her horse with a grace and fluidity borne of the most gifted of riders. Nimaira was majestic and elegant in every task she performed, Tiyarnon admired.
As they trotted into the forest of Amrel, Cyrza’s recent dominance over them occupied the majority of the High Priest’s thoughts. In between, he once more gave consideration to his former acolyte, the current Inquisitor. The Faceless Knights of Order are a very real possibility, he mused as they were finally greeted by a handful of Amrellians, emerging from deep within the foliage to present themselves to their friendly guests.
But only as a last resort, he convinced himself. Only as a last resort….
Prologue to Covenant of the Faceless Knights
The heavy oak door to the council chamber creaked open, swinging wide as three batte
red and bruised forms entered. They each sat heavily on one of the many plush chairs surrounding a conference table in the center of the room.
"Me thinks that could have gone better," Rolin Hardbeard sighed, wiping a contrasting bit of dried blood from his full, white beard. Even for a dwarf who was obviously past his prime adventuring years, Rolin was a ruggedly built warrior. But this hour had him looking haggard and tired. His age was evident at this particular time, as was his broken spirit.
"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my dwarven friend," slurred a beautiful half-elven woman with hair the color of polished silver through what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Rolin managed a brief laugh as he removed his heavy, steel helmet and ran his fingers through his blood specked and thinning hair. His hard, gray eyes lightened somewhat to regard his emotionally distraught friend.
"Me dear Nimaira Silvershade, after all the years we spent takin’ down giants and ogres, countless trolls and undead, and ye are only now realizin’ I be a dwarf of many talents?" Rolin asked sarcastically.
Nimaira began to force a smile, but the pain in her jaw immediately distorted it instead into a grimace as tears slowly welled in her sapphire eyes. Rolin's light-hearted visage turned down sympathetically at his friend’s obvious pain.
The human priest, Tiyarnon, directed a weak smile at his two closest friends’ familiar banter as he tugged thoughtfully at his ever-graying beard. It was comforting for him to have his friends nearby at a time like this, having dealt with the pain and guilt for so many years himself. It also brought him a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia.
How long had it been since the three of us had time to spend together outside of official duties and chasing demons? Tiyarnon thought. By The Shimmering One, it has been too long! If they survived this nightmare, he silently pledged to ensure that they would create opportunities for camaraderie, amusement and reminiscing in the days to come.
Tiyarnon's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, standing within the shadows of the doorway.
"My lords, my lady,” he began with a reverent bow. “We did not know you had returned; forgive us for our incompetence." He spoke humbly, averting his gaze from beneath his drab, hooded robe and bowing repeatedly.
Rolin Hardbeard, never comfortable with being doted on, waved the groveling attendant's concerns away. “Stand up straight, ye durned fool! How many times must we be tellin’ ye that we be folk just the same as yerself? Just bring Nimaira some medicinal balms, for my beard’s sake!” he barked. “The priest here has exhausted his healin’ powers and we got nothin’ much left.”
The servant retreated backwards through the door, still insisting on bowing the entire time.
"And bring me some durned ale, too, while yer at it!" the dwarf shouted after him as the servant disappeared into the hallway and out of sight.
"What do we do now?" Nimaira asked, addressing the topic at hand.
Rolin shrugged, clearly resigned to the fact that they had given a superb effort in their task thus far, as he commented repeatedly on their journey home.
"Get some rest, and try again on the morrow. What else can we be doin’?" he responded confidently, his pride obviously still at the forefront of his façade. The dwarf, despite his age and markedly weathered frame, was not one to surrender. Stubbornness was evident amongst all dwarves, and in this one doubly so, thought Tiyarnon, as he shook his head in respect for the brave warrior. They had all witnessed that courage firsthand hundreds of times throughout their careers.
"I'm afraid it won't matter,” Nimaira admitted. “You were there Rolin! You know as well as I do that we do not have the resources or the resolve to succeed. Not in this! You know it as well as I!” She winced at both that realization and her smarting jaw.
The thought of failure was etched on the face of his friend, Tiyarnon knew. Their failure would weigh especially heavy in the dwarf's heart. Never being comfortable with losing a battle or even an argument, and always willing to fight to the very end for his beliefs, Rolin started to protest. But all of his objections died before passing his lips. The high priest recalled the scene in his head and recognized that any further attempts would ultimately end in failure. And Rolin knew that Nimaira was right. Neither of them knew the answer, and both of them looked to him just then.
Tiyarnon was wise and calculating beyond his years, despite his shorter lifespan compared to the others in the room. While not nearly as old in centuries as the dwarf or the half-elf, he was always looked to as their patriarch. Many others in Oakhaven shared this patriarchal notion of him. Tiyarnon had an intuitive way of scrutinizing a situation from multiple points of view, and making the proper decision based on what was best for everyone, even in times of grief. Because of that, his two closest friends were looking to him for a solution now, during what certainly was their darkest hour.
Tiyarnon sighed as he ran his hands across the gray thinning strands atop his head, all that remained of a once thick head of hair, and further reminding him of his age. As he spun his chair away from them for a moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the conference room window and saw the leathery skin and prominent gray beard encompassing his face. After a moment of silence, he sighed deeply and turned back to face his friends.
Looking his companions in the eyes, Tiyarnon said in a steady and serious tone, “We must appeal for help to the Inquisition. And not only the Inquisition, but the Chapter of Holy Warriors that exists within the sacred walls of Safehold.”
The half-elf woman’s eyes widened as a look of realization crept across her face. “Meaning?”
“We must call upon The Order of The Faceless Knights," Tiyarnon remarked, drawing nods from his two closest friends. “I shall send word immediately.”
Gary F. Vanucci
Gary Vanucci was born in Pennsylvania in 1968. He enjoys writing, reading, music, art, anything at all that promotes creativity and activities that push the mind beyond conventional thinking. He has spent time as an amateur singer/songwriter and has spent multiple decades creating role-playing scenarios and playing games amongst various genres. Years of reading graphic novels, comic books, fantasy/science fiction novels and the like has led him to discover his true passion—writing!
His education includes a Bachelor’s of Science in the field of Information Technology and an Associates of Arts in the field of Graphic Design.
"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." ~Aristotle.
Wothlondia Rising: The Anthology Page 8