The Fall of Ossard

by Colin Tabor

  Standing there, I realised this was a day she’d long feared would come, and now that it was here she was drawing upon all her reserves to push through.

  She smiled. “Juvela, you’re revealed now, yet I imagine you’ve much to learn. Please, just be careful.”

  She was right. The book had done little for me in the ways of using my power, yet I still felt confident I’d master it.

  My mother’s smile broadened, but it came tinged with sadness.

  Thinking that she was still burdened with her worry, I said, “I’ll be careful, I mean it. I won’t go anywhere without Sef.”

  She nodded and said, “You look so much like your grandmother.” I smiled, but she went on, “It’s almost like she’s back from the grave.”

  And laughter rang out from the celestial.

  12

  Rising Smoke

  The afternoon warmed, and with it came a slow but determined breeze. It arrived carrying Ossard’s usual stink, but today its blustering breath also delivered a new and bitter aroma; of burning.

  Half a dozen columns of smoke rose from the heart of the city, climbing to feed a growing haze. They seemed anchored around Market Square. Not long after some of the Flets living in the wider city began crossing the river to seek the safety of Newbank.

  Behind them came a chorus of distant cries and yells. The arrivals spoke of riots at the heart of the city, all saying the same thing; the Heletians were fighting amongst themselves.

  Some of the followers of the new saints had forced their way into the Cathedral taking armfuls of oleander and relics with which to build a shrine. They were challenged by Vassini’s priests and told to leave. They’d refused and argued, and then been forcibly expelled. Dragged from the Cathedral and hurled down its front steps, scuffles broke out as a mob gathered. Some died in the fighting that followed, failing to establish a shrine, but giving their fellow believers something as powerful; martyrs.

  Worse would come, I was sure of it.

  Sef and I left my parents’ home, passing through streets abuzz with news and rumours from across the river. We headed to my own household barely a few hundred paces from where I’d grown up. Both homes were in the good part of Newbank, a small elevated area without the chronic overcrowding that marked the rest of the low-lying district.

  I noticed, as we walked, that even here some people kept their distance or stared at me. The city might be divided three ways, but it seemed it could still breakup further. The realisation left me wary.

  If they thought I was forsaken, then they were most likely followers of the new saints or somehow aligned.

  Flet followers of the new saints?

  My pace quickened as I waved Sef up to my side.

  “Yes?”

  “I need you to be honest with me.”

  “Of course,” he said, but his tone was guarded.

  “You’ve been to Fletland and survived its battles.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve also seen its many faiths.”

  “Yes?” and his voice grew tight.

  “I need you to tell me about them.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “It’s the cults that I need to know more of.”

  He merely grumbled, “Hmmm?”

  I whispered my question, “The cults of the Horned God; I’ve heard that they come in many different forms, but all follow the same power?”

  Sounding relieved, he said, “Yes, but you need to understand that while they follow the same power, they’re aligned to different aspects. That’s what I’ve heard and on occasion even seen.” And his eyes clouded over to be darkened by grim memories.

  “So in my understanding, it’s not unusual to find followers of the same form or aspect that are knowingly worshipping the same god, but also using different names?”

  He nodded. “Yes, despite how confusing it sounds. Generally the larger cults have gained some uniformity in their rituals and terminology, but there are always splinter groups. For example, some may follow Rabisto the god of bandits, while another group may owe allegiance to Tabiro the god of thieves, and yet another to Ranndolf of the footpads. In the end they’re all following the same god and similar aspects despite their differences.”

  I asked, “And their dark lord doesn’t get angry about such a thing?”

  “About them getting his name wrong?” He smiled and shrugged. “Apparently not. In the end only one thing matters; their souls and his true name.”

  “His true name?”

  “His true name is the only name that holds any real power over him.”

  I smiled, realising my next question was unlikely to get an answer, but asked it anyway, “And that is?”

  He grinned, “A well guarded secret!”

  We both laughed, relieving some of the afternoon’s tension.

  When we’d settled down, I asked, “So, do you think it’s possible that these two new saints, Santana and Malsano, might just be different names for different faces of the Horned God?”

  “It’s possible. You know Santana is similar to the Southern Heletian word for blood.”

  I stopped and met his eyes. “What, Sanjo?”

  “No, the word from the southern cities, in Vangre and the like.”

  “What word?”

  “Sanjana.”

  “I suppose it is.” To have my theory supported sent a chill down my spine, but it wasn’t solid proof. “Alright, but what of Malsano?”

  “Malsano, well, I don’t know…”

  I shrugged. “Well, I guess that would have been too easy.”

  “Well, maybe it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Malsano is obviously a Heletian name, it rolls and is soft, coming with long and rich sounds.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you’re never going to find a Flet word that sounds the same. Our words are short and sharp, some might even say harsh.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a Flet word.”

  “I know, but there’s an aspect of the Horned God in Fletland known as Malssarcht.”

  “Malssarcht? I’ve not heard of him?”

  “A bringer of disease, one you might invite to visit your enemies.”

  Such a horrid thought had never occurred to me.

  He went on, “I’d have thought that you’d know him in Ossard; Malssarcht, the night angel?”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Maro fever.”

  “You mean the dark angel, Tykarcht.”

  “Yes, well, there you have it.”

  “This is only making me feel worse about things.”

  He laughed, but his face was grim. “So, Santana might be some kind of blood power and Malsano just another name for Tykarcht - perhaps.” He frowned. “You might be right, and the Inquisition must be aware of it too.”

  “I’m sure they’d know.”

  By now we stood only steps away from home.

  “Juvela, do you still want to go to the warehouse?”

  I nodded. “I have to. I need to look into anything that might give me an idea of where Pedro and Maria might be. I can’t stay home and wait.”

  He turned for the door as he pulled out his key. “I’ll see to Kurt and the coach. It won’t be safe for us to do this, but if we must, let’s do it now while we still have light. I don’t want to get caught on the other side of the river after dark, not tonight.”

  I didn’t have a good plan, I’m not even sure that you’d say I had a plan at all, but I knew I had to go and check the ruined warehouse. I reasoned, if a chapel was going to be built there, then perhaps my family was being kept nearby.

  In truth, my only real hope was that I’d be able to hear Maria’s mind voice. If I couldn’t, I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  We set out in the coach. Sef was watching me, but I ignored him as I lost myself in the rolling drum of the coach’s wheels. There was peace in that repetitive rumble. After a while I couldn’t help but notice someth
ing else, and it was wondrous, a subtle but almost overwhelming power. It radiated like heat from a failing bonfire as if made of a million glowing embers. Individually they could barely be sensed, but together they combined to give off something incredible: It was the gathered life force of the city-state’s people.

  A million souls from the city and surrounding valleys!

  It was a revelation.

  I shook my head to stop myself as I tried to settle my thoughts. I had to focus on Maria and Pedro, if I kept losing myself to these distracting discoveries I’d never find them.

  I forced my attention back to the window and the real world outside.

  We’d reached the Cassaro Bridge and were crossing out of Newbank. It ran full of traffic, most of it Flets leaving the Heletian districts of the city.

  Sef broke the silence. “Are you alright?”

  I turned to him as my vision slipped between two worlds, both in the real and the celestial. “I’m well, but you…”

  His eyebrows raised as my words trailed off.

  He asked, “Yes?”

  “You have your own loyalties?”

  He leaned forward. “Only to our own people’s gods, nothing more.” Then he sighed and straightened his back. “At the moment, with the Inquisition taking over the city, the less we know about each other’s business the better.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Juvela, you can trust me. I’ll make any vow before all the gods, that’s if all my years of service aren’t enough.”

  I nodded, feeling bad that I’d pushed him on his loyalty, and so clumsily. “I trust you, Sef. I’m sorry.”

  We passed through streets filled with confusion and a growing haze of smoke. The sound of trouble rumbled in the distance, coming from the direction of Market Square at the city’s heart. Behind us in Newbank, the Guild raised a red flag atop the Guildhall - the flag of assembly.

  I hoped Kurgar wouldn’t announce the Guild’s closure. If the Guild went underground, it would only leave our people lost. Right now we needed leadership, not to be left directionless.

  Outnumbered, we wouldn’t stand a chance if forced to fight. And in such bloody times, it wouldn’t take the Inquisition long to discover easier ways to get rid of us than shipping us back to Fletland. To survive we had to stand together, and the Guild had always provided our leadership.

  Such thoughts led me back to Kurgar; I hoped he knew what he was doing. Only days ago, Lord Liberigo had thought he controlled the city, but now he was kidnapped and perhaps even dead.

  I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer, “Please Schoperde, let us get through this.”

  As always, she didn’t answer.

  Our ride to the charred ruins of the warehouse took a long and winding path. The streets on the way lay almost abandoned, until we reached the southern district where they spread thick with crowds. Many were taking part in open-air services dedicated to the new saints. Oleander hung from doors, wreathed windows, and sat in braziers where it smouldered to free smoke in wisps of grey. The area, home to much of Ossard’s Heletian poor, seemed to be a stronghold for the new saints.

  The streets about us seemed peaceful enough, if full, but the people we passed in our unflagged coach held the energy of those who’d found new faith. None of them subscribed to Inquisitor Anton’s pious empire, they looked to have another answer in mind.

  Taking in the sight, I could only doubt the Church’s chances of controlling the city. Without the port, south, east, and Newbank, they held only a fraction of what they needed. Eventually, one way or another, the city would again be united, but I doubted it would be under the black, navy, and gold of the Inquisition.

  I hid my face as best I could in the carriage, keeping back to the shadows. I hoped we’d be able to look for Pedro and Maria, and then get out without commotion. Watching the crowd, so many with the sparkle of newly devoted eyes, I began to wonder at our chances. “Sef, look at this place, at these people, have you ever seen such a thing?”

  He turned from the window, his gaze cold and hard. “Yes,” he hissed, his neck corded and his fists bunched. “I’ve seen it before. It haunts the battle-scarred plains of Fletland where packs of those who follow the gods of thieves, murderers, and whores roam that wasted land.” He took a deep breath and shivered, battling memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Sef, are you alright?”

  He nodded, but it was a lie. “They’ve been given something, something divine, and they’ll find euphoria in it, but before long its buzz will fade, leaving them hungering again for its high. The longer they have to wait for it, the more desperate they’ll become. Eventually, they won’t be able to stand that deep hunger, so they’ll do anything to sate it. Once dependent on it, the blessings, the dark power that bestows them will start to make demands. In time, it will not only enslave them, but drive them mad.” He shook his head, something that freed tears. “Yes Juvela, I’ve seen it before.”

  I felt for him. I’d grown up on his tales, some of them terrible indeed, but I’d never stopped to consider that he’d lived through them. Leaning forward, I put a hand over one of his fists. “I’m sorry to stir such memories, but I need to know what I must. Please, tell me?”

  With an awkward move, he raised a fist to wipe clumsily at his eyes. “They’ve been seduced by the cults. Having seen this, I’m convinced that all this is nothing but a front for the Horned God. As they always do, they’ll be working to conduct a soul harvest, for they’re after only one thing; power.”

  I turned back to look at the crowds. Some offered prayers at makeshift shrines, while others paraded in packs waving oleander and banners.

  I asked, “Is it that definite a path? Is it that certain an end?”

  He nodded. “It always is. Look, Juvela, I’ve many enemies here, just as you do. We’ll work together, and we’ll stand together, because it’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

  I swallowed nervously. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it before, but never on this scale. I’ve seen hamlets and villages fall to the coming madness, and even once a whole town. The city can’t avoid it. No one ever has.” He paused, turning back to the chanting crowds. “By the time you can see the sickness it’s already too late. And it is a sickness, like a plague, but not of the mind or body, but of the spirit.”

  I trusted Sef, I’d always trusted him. To see him grow so tense and upset sobered me. What could I hope to do about what grew outside? I still remained a user of magic who’d never cast a spell.

  It seemed hopeless.

  We reached the ruins of the warehouse to find a large crowd listening to a Heletite missionary. The robed man spoke from a small stage, talking of corruption and politics in a church rotten with greed. He spoke of the righteous power of true-faith, and how that bypassed fat benefices and their hypocritical entourages. He urged the crowd to never doubt the new saints, naming three; Santana, Malsano, and Rabisto.

  Rabisto!

  What was wrong with these people? Rabisto was well known amongst the Flets as a god of bandits, a forbidden Heletian god. The crowd seemed oblivious.

  As if in answer to my thoughts, the Heletite emphasised that this new saint was not of crime or trouble, but a jolly-maker and the keeper of comfort. He explained that the politics of the Church had seen the truth hidden by vested interests directing the Calbaro’s scholars.

  The Heletite called, “Embrace Rabisto and he will embrace you! He offers comfort to those who need it, and who could need it more than the parents of stolen children!”

  A woman cried out in answer, “I’m in need of comfort!” With greying hair and a tired frame, she stumbled forward as though life had thrown her too many challenges.

  The crowd parted.

  “My child’s been taken by the kidnappers, and only a season after the sea left me widowed! Look at me and my years, I’m dry and barren, and nothing any man would wed. Without my husband and son I’m destitute, but still I’m in nee
d of comfort.”

  The Heletite urged her forward.

  She stepped up onto the makeshift stage.

  He asked, “And why have you come here seeking comfort, my lady?”

  “Because there’s none to be found elsewhere. I’ve looked across the city, and even begged at the foot of the Cathedral, yet the only attention the Church has given me is to push me off their steps.”

  The Heletite said, “Are you coming forward to ask for the help of Saint Rabisto?”

  “I’ve asked everywhere else, so I see no harm in it…” her voice broke with grief, “if it’s not to be granted, I’ll only go to The Graves and cast my bones into the sea.”

  The Heletite pulled an amulet from his pocket, it crafted as a small arrow hanging on a slender leather thong. “Kneel and put this around your neck, kiss it, and pray for his intervention in your sad and sorry life. If you open your heart to him, he will hear you.”

  She took the amulet, knelt, and hung it about her neck. She then lifted the golden arrow to her lips and kissed it with the resignation of one all but spent.

  The crowd fell silent.

  The hag let the amulet drop to rest against her worn tunic, it sitting in the valley between her sagging breasts. Her head bent forward, her eyes closed, and then she clasped her hands together in prayer. She mumbled through something of her own making, the words unclear, but the intent deep.

  Silence took the moment, only disturbed when the Heletite called, “Aid this poor woman, aid her good people, aid her please!”

  And many in the crowd also bowed their heads.

  It was working…

  I could sense the energy building, the rise in power as Rabisto stirred. She’d kissed his amulet and he’d chosen to kiss her in return.

  Sef and I swapped glances - he could feel it too.

  In the celestial, the eye above the city watched, and as it did a single tear formed within it to drop free. It glowed like a lit crystal, but in the real world remained unseen. It came towards us falling faster and faster.