by Jon Bender
The almost overwhelming emotions had caused his vision to blur for a moment. When it returned, he looked at Yeriel to see if the Pontiff had felt it as well. The man did not seem to notice what had just occurred, but the room was now eerily silent. Both the Pontiff and Lord Prasil were staring at Benkt with intensity. The young priest’s eyes had glazed over with his head tilted slightly back, an expression of awe fixed on his face. It was a look that Keller had seen only rarely when Or’Keer spoke directly to one of the brotherhood. Benkt’s state of euphoria lasted another few seconds when his head snapped forward, his eyes now focused and filled with determination as he stared at Yeriel. Without warning, Benkt began chanting a prayer. For one of the few times in his life since Or’Keer had come to him, Keller did not know what to do. It was apparent the Dark God had told Benkt to act, but the suddenness had taken him off guard. Yeriel looked unconcerned and a little smug that a priest of the fourth tier would dare attack him. As the Pontiff began his own prayer, that confidence was quickly replaced by panic when no magic came to his call. Jerking up from his chair, the heavy wood flew back to the stone floor with a clatter. He made it three steps in his dash for the door when a black tentacle formed. Its base was attached to the table before Keller, as the rest of its shadowy mass waved gently in the air. The conjured magic snapped out for the Pontiff, wrapping itself around the man’s shoulders once. Pulled by the tentacle, Yeriel was hurled back to the table where he landed on his back with thud. Dazed, the older priest turned his head to look at Benkt with fear.
Benkt broke his chant for only a moment to speak. “The great god Or’Keer has found you unworthy of him. You have failed in your duty and must be made an example of.”
The tentacle began coiling around the Pontiff’s frail body until his arms and legs were tightly bound. Reaching out, Benkt pulled the silver chain holding the amulet of Or’Keer over the man’s head and slipped it over his own. Slowly, the tentacle began to tighten and Keller heard the breath squeezed from Yeriel’s body in a wheeze. The older man’s face turned red then blue, and he was sure he would suffocate. The Pontiff was not that fortunate. Keller heard the first pop of a bone breaking and then another accompanied by his shoulder collapsing under the pressure. Soon it sounded as if someone was walking through the woods and stepping on fallen twigs with every step. Keller could see Yeriel wanted to scream but couldn’t, and he felt a sense of relief when the light finally faded from the former Pontiff’s eyes. He had no qualms with the Pontiff being brought to justice for his failures, but the way Benkt had chosen to carrying out the punishment caused him to flinch, the Pontiff’s pain reminding Keller of what he had done to the noble. Yes, enemies of the path needed to be removed for the betterment of the world, but when that noble had died after days of screaming, and his thirst for revenge had been quenched, Keller had been disgusted with what he had done, vowing never to be the cause of such pointless suffering again.
The tentacle remained for seconds longer, continuing to turn the dead man’s bones to kindling before Benkt finally ceased his prayer. “I do not know what that was about, but I can assume that Or’Keer was displeased with him,” Prasil said after several seconds of silence.
“Our Lord has long been disappointed with Yeriel’s incompetence. His blasphemy here only sealed his fate, and is why his prayer went unanswered,” Benkt said, lifting his new amulet closer to inspect it.
“So, what now?” Prasil asked.
Keller looked up at the lord to see the man did not seem disturbed by what had just happened. Unlike Benkt, who had been taught to ignore such gruesome displays as nothing more than a tool of conversion, it was strange that the noble showed no reaction to the scene that had just unfolded. Even if he had not liked Yeriel, watching someone die in such a manner would have upset all but the hardest of veterans. His indifference spoke volumes of the man’s fortitude, or his lack of caring for others.
“You will tell me all you know about suspected dissenters and what areas of the city I am likely to find more,” Keller said.
“What about this?” Prasil asked, indicating Yeriel’s corpse.
Lifting his hand, Keller drew in the shadows and cast, the whip grabbing the dead man around the ankle and dragging him to the floor without ceremony. The former Pontiff had failed his god and expressed no shame or repentance for doing so. His remains were not worthy of respect deserved by those who died in Or’Keer’s service.
“You can dispose of it later,” Keller told Prasil. “Now begin with where your captain and the priest have gone missing. Who they were pursuing and where they disappeared. Either we succeed where Yeriel did not, or share in his punishment.”
Chapter 2
Harlow could hear the dripping of water somewhere in the distance, the smell of dampness and mold masked only by the burning pitch of his torch. He had only been to this section of the undercity a handful of times before, but knew from the faded tiles covering the stone that it had once been a decorated hall, likely constructed as part of a noble’s house or some other building that would have housed the rulers of the city. The current estate where Lord Prasil enslaved the people in Or’Keer’s name was above, having been built over the old city and he couldn’t help but smirk at the sort of tradition that had come about over the centuries. Covering up the defeated city and building a new one atop it to hide the shame.
Harlow didn’t think there was anything to be ashamed of. Karadin had been the only place to cross into Feneris and the eastern kingdoms since time before history. It only stood to reason that the city would fall over and over as one people took it and then another. That was why he was here, to see the city fall once more. The rebellion knew that an alliance of free kingdoms was on its way to destroy the followers of Or’Keer, and they were prepared to do whatever was necessary to ensure that happened. It was the only way if Karadin’s people were ever to be free of the dark god and his forced worship. Even today, over twenty years after the city had been forced to convert, people continued to be snatched from their homes because some priest thought their faith to be lacking, or they were given up by their neighbors to gain favor with the temple. Some were taken simply because they had offended the wrong person. It was those, the ones who saw Or’Keer’s path as a way to advance themselves that he hated the most. They were traitors to their own people and deserved a worse fate than even the dark priests.
He had to take a deep breath to steady himself before frustration at their situation overtook him. It had gotten the better of him before, nearly leading to the discovery of his faction when he had killed the shadow priest without a proper plan, an act that had brought the city guard into the undercity in search of him. Because of Harlow, they had been given no choice but to slaughter the entire squad or risk being exposed before they were ready.
When his anger finally ebbed, he continued down the dark tunnel watching his step over the uneven floor as he went. It was impossible to tell what time it was, and they were supposed to meet their friend two hours after dark. Rumors out of the estate were already spreading across the city that a new priest had arrived and that he had killed the Pontiff. When a message had been slipped under his door after evening prayers setting up the meeting, he knew that there must be some truth to the rumors. A meeting had never before been set for the same day they received the secret messages. The informant from within the estate only ever asked for meetings with the faction leaders when there was important information to share, or a vulnerability that could be taken advantage of. Action taken only when there was limited chance of drawing attention to their existence.
Harlow chided himself for thinking of the man simply as an informant, when in fact, he was the one responsible for starting the movement. The person who led them in their struggle against the dark god. He didn’t know how this man, whose face he had never seen, had found him the first place. All he knew was that he had taught Harlow and the others how to form the first factions and what to do to begin their resistance. He provided them with infor
mation on when and where a priest would be open to assassination, or which supply wagons were intended for the army. He had showed them how to cover their tracks and make it look like bandits or random violence. Most important of all, he told them how to safely find others who would fight with them. Harlow and the other faction leaders had mused over his identity during their rare meetings. None of them, including Harlow, had any real idea who he was. The only thing they could agree on was that he was a trained fighter by the way he held himself. It was not an issue any of them had ever looked deeply into. If he worked in the estate, then he was putting himself at great risk by helping them. It was better they didn’t know who he was should any faction leader ever be captured.
Rounding a corner where part of the wall had collapsed to spill onto the floor, he caught sight of torch light just ahead. Drawing his short-sword, he held it slightly before him, just in case. There was no information suggesting that their resistance had been discovered, but that was no reason to walk into a potential trap unprepared. He heard the murmur of voices go silent at his approach. As the tunnel began to curve, the sound of steel sliding over leather found his ears. The sharp point of a blade pressed into his lower back.
“Hello, Harlow,” a familiar voice said behind him. The tip was withdrawn and he allowed himself to relax. “You are losing your edge.”
Harlow turned to find the soft, curving face of a woman just past her twenties, her brown hair cut short in line with the slope of her jaw.
“Fulvia. If you knew it was me, why all the theatrics?”
“Just trying to keep you alert and alive. The dark men are far better at blending into the shadows than I am,” she said with a smirk. “Come on, you are the last to arrive. Our friend seems agitated, but he wouldn’t tell us anything until we were all here.”
Harlow sheathed his sword as she walked passed him to join the others, but not before allowing her body to brush against his with a suggestive look in her eye. It was a game they played with meaningful looks and seemingly unintentional touches. He found her stunning, and her darker sense of humor appealed to him like no other woman he had ever known. Were things different, he may have pursued a relationship with her, but their contact had been very adamant about such fraternization. The faction leaders were never to interact outside of what was absolutely necessary. The risk was too great. If one leader knew the intimate details of another’s life, it would make it all that much easier for the shadow priests to find them as well. Still, he had toyed the idea of confronting her about their non-romance, asking if she shared his feelings, or if it was all just a game to her. Only the danger to both of them should one be discovered had stayed his voice. That, and the fear that she would laugh at his foolishness.
Following her, they moved into the torch light of the other four faction leaders. The room they occupied looked to be former servants’ quarters or possibly once used for storage by its size, but it was not the tight meeting place that he studied. His eyes were instantly drawn to their friend who stood several steps away from them. He kept himself apart from the others, the cloak he wore covering all but his boots. Its deep hood was drawn low so that his features were masked in darkness.
“Good of you to join us, Harlow,” their friend said, his voice low and indiscernible. It was how he always spoke to them. Without ever offering the faction leaders a name, they had taken to calling him Whispers because of it. “Where you successful in your journey outside the city?”
Harlow stiffened slightly at the question. He had only just returned that morning from a small farming town a day to the south. Once there, he had spoken with one of the scouts he had recruited to their cause. One of the many men and women who traveled the kingdoms gathering information. It was one of numerous tasks he had been assigned by Whispers and, like all other tasks, was kept secret from the other faction leaders unless they needed the information. The fact that their leader had slipped and asked about it in front of the others showed that something had rattled his normally calculating demeanor. Harlow could tell from the looks on Fulvia’s and the other’s faces that they were as surprised as he was.
“Well…” Harlow said slowly.
Whisper shifted and his hood moved slightly, as if he was looking at those present. “As I would have distributed the information to the others in any case, why don’t you just tell us what you learned? It may be sometime before I can arrange another meeting such as this.”
Harlow nodded, feeling very exposed now that the others knew something about what missions he was assigned. He knew that any reports he received had been given to the others as they would discuss the information in passing when they met. But none had known it came from him. Just as he did not know who supplied the weapons and armor to outfit his faction, or which one of them had bribed the guards allowing his men to enter storehouses to sabotage grain shipments intended for the army massing in the north.
“The rumors we have heard from the temples and Lord Prasil’s estate are true,” he began. “An alliance led by King Corin of Ale’adaria is in the process of helping the Ostegan Queen reclaim her kingdom. Also, faction leaders in Vil’Real have begun to weaken Or’Keer’s hold on towns in preparation for the alliance’s advance.”
When he mentioned the unrest in Vil’Real, a faction leader called Lajos, a gruff looking man who held himself straight and with pride, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Harlow thought that perhaps he had something to do what was happening in that kingdom, or perhaps he had just been standing in place for a long time.
“We are finally going to be free of that murderer who calls himself a god,” Fulvia almost purred, looking at him with a smile. Harlow returned the warmth with a smile of his own and fantasized about meeting the alluring woman out in the open. What would it be like to tell her his real name and to learn hers? What did she do when she wasn’t working to overthrow the Dark God? Did she have a family?
“Has there been any word of the death mage we have been hearing about?” Lajos asked.
The others perked up at the question. Even Whispers remained quiet waiting for an answer. They had all heard the rumors that the death mage school had been resurrected in the west, and that its leader had openly challenged Or’Keer. Not only had this man defied him, but he had been instrumental in defeating those who served the dark god time and time again. Everything they learned of the mage and his victories served to elevate him to a position of near worship in those that wished to be free of Or’Keer.
“Nothing reliable,” Harlow said. “Ostega is still in a state of turmoil, but it seems that the death mage had a hand in helping its queen to defeat the Rilnormans.”
The other faction leaders met this news with smiles and murmurs of victory. He understood their anticipation that this mage would soon come to Karadin and help to destroy their oppressors. Just the thought of future victories sent tingles over his skin.
“We must not allow hope to blur our judgment, there is still much to do,”
Whispers said, bringing Harlow back to the present. “Our activities have not gone as unnoticed as we originally thought. A visitor sent by Or’Keer arrived today, and while he was in conference with Lord Prasil, the Pontiff was killed.”
Harlow could feel the small hairs at his neck rise. When Or’Keer disposed of one of his priests, especially one such as the Pontiff, it meant the priest had failed in the eyes of the Dark God. In this case, his paranoia only allowed him to think that the Pontiff’s failure had been to find them.
“Another priest sent to replace him?” Harlow asked, needing to break the uncomfortable silence.
“No, one of Or’Keer’s chosen.” In the many years since this mysterious man had found him, Harlow had never seen or heard any sign of fear from him. Now he could not miss the slight quaver in Whisper’s soft voice.
“Do you know what he is doing here?” the other woman, known as Rinel, asked. She wore a slim, dark red dress that revealed much of her leg and chest. A silver pendant hung from
her neck and her auburn hair was done in bouncing curls. The only thing she wore appropriate for trekking through the undercity were sturdy black boots.
“You have heard the stories just as I have. The chosen are only sent to purge a city thought to be beyond the capabilities of the priesthood. He is here for us,” Whisper said.
“So, one of the chosen is here,” Fulvia said without concern. “He is just another mage. Lord Prasil has a few of those at his disposal already, as do we. How does it change anything?”
Even with her tone suggesting that she was not afraid, she had let slip there were mages amongst her faction. This was something that Harlow had not known, and wished he could claim as well. Just the mere mention of one of the chosen was already causing them to make mistakes.
“We have to remain calm. We all knew that this would happen eventually. With the alliance coming, we have a much better chance of succeeding,” he said, more to get a grasp on his own growing panic than theirs.
Their leader’s hood bobbed. “Harlow is right. And while this chosen of Or’Keer is only one mage, we must not underestimate him. Wherever they have gone, death of the unfaithful always numbered in the hundreds. For now, we must move up our plans to aid the alliance while remaining hidden. It will be much more difficult now that this mage is watching, but we don’t have another choice.”
“So, what should we do?” Harlow asked.
“Return to your factions and inform them of what you have learned. Wait for me to send word of our next opportunities to strike.” Whisper paused as he looked around the room before finally settling his eyes on Harlow from under the hood. “What we do will soon become increasingly dangerous. You must be prepared for the possibility that many of us will not survive.”