by Ty Arthur
Casterly eagerly looked forward to returning it back on them as he had with that nameless soldier at the prison cart. Moving beyond past deaths, his thoughts already turned towards battles yet to come, pondering how they would lure the archers off the walls or if their ragtag army would have to suffer devastating losses mobbing the stone walkways that reached the top of the wall.
He didn't know whether it was the leadership of the missionary or if word of Myrr's dark miracle had spread, but for the first time since submitting to the will of the knights, Casterly felt as though the citizens finally had the spine necessary to fight back as one. They were bent but not broken, and the city would never bow to a foreign master ever again, of that he was certain.
Looking over to ask Erret about the plan of the coming battle, he noticed the spreading dampness across the priest's abdomen and stopped their dash through the alleyway. “You have taken a wound.”
Erret sighed yet again, as though bothered by the inconvenience of being stabbed. “These frail mortal forms do their best to stand in the way of god's purpose. There isn't time to pack a proper healing poultice and bind it. Bring forth your torch so the light may do its work.”
A short blade was produced from somewhere within the folds of his robe, which he thrust into the fire and held in place. It took Casterly a few confused breaths to understand the purpose of this odd behavior, and he nearly pulled the torch back, but he found the thought of the coming pain and searing flesh somehow enticing. He wanted to see this man suffer in flame. Even weeks back such a thought would have been unknown to him, but something had changed ever since the revelation of Cestia's savior.
He didn't have to wait long to witness the burning, as soon Erret pulled apart his robes and thrust the tip of the dagger against his jagged wound, pressing it in and slowly turning to burn out the rot and staunch the flow of blood. The expected whimpering and crying never arrived, as Erret took the searing pain without complaint. Casterly found himself vaguely annoyed by this lack of suffering, even as a newfound respect for the frail-seeming priest bloomed within.
Without any further acknowledgment of the deed, Erret motioned them back into action, turning a corner and moving yet further from the fighting, which sounded to have renewed as shouts and screams pierced the air.
“What deed draws us away from the fight? Your rebels will meet extreme resistance at the edge of the ward. Surely the knights are already massing together to meet them?”
The priest briefly paused, as though mulling over whether to respond at all, before finally letting his thoughts known to the newly-minted freedom fighter. “I failed to fully illuminate my previous acolyte, hoping he would reach the light of truth himself, but that may have been a mistake, and there's no time for doubts or uncertainty now. We go to ensure every citizen rises up in full war against their oppressors. There can be no bystanders in this battle. It's all or nothing tonight.”
Eager to share the good news of the city's savior, Casterly turned the tables on the missionary, preaching his newfound doctrine of salvation. “They will all rise when they see what Myrr can do, what he has already done!”
Erret stopped in his tracks, resting as they made their way to the other end of the ward, and looked upon his new apprentice. “That thief I stowed away beneath Otta's? What good would he be at the light's dawning revolution?”
Tired of all those who refused to see and emboldened by victory, Casterly couldn't hide the irritation in his voice when responding, “Myrr is no thief. He is ending this damnable war. You didn't witness it, the moment all this changed. With a word and a point he killed six of these false knights in an instant. He didn't even have to draw a blade or throw a spear.”
Having taken up his father's trade and residing in Cestia's poorest quarter since birth, Casterly hadn't lived a life on the road as the missionary had, but he was certain his experience while fleeing the cellar was a portent of something never before seen in any corner of the world. Filled with devotion towards the city's unlikely savior, he was having trouble grasping how anyone would deny the obvious truth staring them all in the face.
Erret took to the road again before responding, nodding at Casterly to take up point with the torch. He expected to be too winded to continue immediately, but found the intense pain in his ribs was no longer at the front of his mind, focused on the hatred simmering for all those who didn't rise up to aid Myrr in casting down the Knighthood. Thoughts of burning flesh, cracking bones, and shattered towers swirled, with his new savior placed firmly at the center of the carnage.
Walking slightly behind as they trekked into the darkness, Erret spoke back,“Your faith is admirable, but you've placed it on the wrong source. Whatever petty magics your friend has managed to conjure is not of the light, and won't be the cause of Knighthood's end here. I pray I haven't misjudged you, as I did my last traitorous acolyte.”
Anger flared through the broken man, but he wasn't willing to let it spill out yet, hoping they'd come across another patrol soon to let out his frustration while breaking more skulls. Instead he focused on trying to reconcile these two competing liberators. One with the power to strike down men without lifting a visible weapon, and the other with the ability to lead the mob into suicidal battles and come out the victor. “I've heard much of betrayal this day, including an allegation of such aimed at you. What led your acolyte astray?”
There was bitterness in the priest's voice, which Casterly suspected was less about the betrayal than in the lack of foreseeing it. “Seduced by promises of safety and elevated position within the darkness. Even his deceitfulness worked towards the glory of the Farwalker, although he didn't know it. I've prayed without ceasing to be given tools worthy of my guiding hand, but thus far the light has not responded. My former flock outside the city knew their place, and they worked wonders in god's name you couldn't dream of.”
Erret stopped then, letting his musings trail off and standing beside a once-grand home that was now little more than scorched timbers. Casterly had seen it before and paid it no mind, recognizing it as the former abode of one who had stood against the knights in the early days. The doors had been nailed shut from the inside when the soldiers set about covering the walls in pitch and lighting their torches. That was the first time the ward came to realize what life in Cestia would truly be like with their new masters.
Although appearing dangerously unstable and barren of inhabitants, there was a new occupant nestled just outside what was left of the front wall – a hand cart, like those once used by the street sellers long ago, but now were more likely to be employed in moving masses of bodies. The sight reminded Casterly of how the city had once been filled to the brim with traders from across the region, all cut off since the day of the obelisk's arrival.
He tried to recall pleasing memories he knew were in his mind of wandering the temporary market that had sprung up once a month in the high ward as merchants arrived to hawk their wares, but found his direction shifting to current affairs instead. Most went hungry more often than not since then, the only new sources of food either being meagerly grown within or transported directly from the occupier's homeland. Handed out in insufficient quantities from a scant few storehouses, those supplies nonetheless kept the populace from active starvation.
A prayer of thanks went up from the priest, who was apparently pleased with the situation that made no sense to Casterly. He walked after Erret into the mass of fallen beams and scorched floorboards, carefully following in the missionary's footsteps to avoid parts of the floor that looked particularly prone to collapse. At the back of the building, no longer visible to the street in the fallen debris, Erret crouched down and lifted a stack of burned logs to reveal a hole leading into the damp earth.
He carefully descended into the hidden crawl space, and was gone for several heartbeats before slowly rising halfway out again, cautiously lifting up a dry parchment that had been rolled up against itself several times, revealing layers of some thick, pasty substance. Th
e priest handed it up to Casterly, who gripped hold of the parchment and stepped back, expecting Erret to pull himself out of the hole.
Instead, he offered a stern reprimand, “If you have a care for your life and the freedom of your family, be gentle with that. Place it in the cart, then return to me. We don't have much time and there's still more to do before the will of the mob breaks.”
Baffled by this turn of events and unsure of how it could possibly match the importance of the battle snaking its way away from them to the high ward, Casterly nevertheless did as instructed, slowly retreading the path out of the destroyed building and setting the parchment into the handcart. Upon returning, he found the priest again holding forth another rolled up parchment filled with the mysterious substance.
The slow process was completed again, and yet again after, with no answers yet forthcoming. After ten slow and careful trips from the hidden cellar to the hand cart outside, Erret finally removed himself from the earthen storage area and gripped one side of the cart's protruding wood bar, motioning for Casterly to take up the other. Now in possession of their cargo, Erret led them back out onto the deserted street, pulling the cart along behind towards yet another unknown destination.
Casterly lurched to a halt and dropped to his knees when he saw the flaming volley of arrows ascend overhead, set loose from a line of soldiers manning the top of a nearby dividing wall. His sense of self-preservation was unnecessary however, as they sailed past the closest line of buildings and at targets unseen. But not unheard, as shrieks and screams started up from where they had apparently landed only half a street over.
He took to his feet again and gripped the side of the handcart, finding Erret staring with naked, murderous hate in his eyes. “You don't want to do that again. We tread this path gently, or we meet the Farwalker ahead of our times.”
Despite the anger directed his way, Casterly found himself even more perplexed by what their goal was and how it would lead to freedom. “What cargo do we carry?”
Returning to a steady and even pace, the priest smiled, all anger suddenly gone. “Even with the sad state of this miserable world, the things that grow under the light of the Farwalker continue to have a potency that can't be matched by man or his pathetic schemes. It's taken me years to harvest and craft enough of the ingredients to be useful, and I had intended them for another purpose, but if not now, then never.”
Venturing a guess, Casterly blurted out, “Do we intend to poison the Overlord and his soldiers somehow?”
The thought seemed to amuse the missionary, who chuckled and shook his head. “Poison? No, of course not. Why strike with an unreliable knife in the dark when you can bring the very sun itself into the night? We carry burnrot, a most potent synthesis revealed first to our holy church far away in the kingdom of Desh. These southern savages haven't discovered the method of its creation, and the ingredients are sparsely found here.”
Although the witches who had seen to the city's spiritual health in years past had frequently spoken of herbology and the mixing of humors for healing effects, Casterly was unfamiliar with any such substance.
Seeming to follow his confusion, Erret spoke up again to explain, “When properly placed and lit, it will eat through anything, leaving a trail of fire that cannot be doused, even by torrents of rain or the most thorough of smothering. A man will still be consumed by its hunger even if he were to leap into a river. Burnrot's active will to spread can see it eat through even stone, which will be necessary.”
The notion filled Casterly with an eager determination. Such a sight, if it truly were possible, would be even more of a feast for the eyes than a simple wound cauterized with a heated blade. Perhaps even as welcome as watching soldiers crumble to dust and consumed by twisted black lightning.
The missionary finished his explanation as they rolled the cart to a careful stop, “I had thought to use it on one of the garrisons during a patrol change, but now I have been properly illuminated. The people of this city must be galvanized in another, more pressing way. One that is permanent and will see all involved in the conflict, whether they wish it or not.”
Casterly realized then that they'd approached one of the very few stone buildings in the ward – the city's central granary, where the primary stockpiles of remaining food were kept before being distributed to each area of Cestia and doled out in scant handfuls to ravenous families. He knew all too well how the distribution was focused on those in the high ward who aided the knights, with only a scant trickle allowed for the destitute whose homes were routinely ransacked.
Erret's wolf smile was as dangerous as a scuttler's when he said to no one in particular, “We can eat soldiers until trade is re-established with the northern communities. They've taken from us long enough, it's about time they gave something back.”
15 (High Ward, The Black Cathedral, Early True Night)
In a rare loss of control, Overlord Brant flung his cup across the room, clattering down the hallway past the kneeling knight providing the troublesome report. He immediately regretted the outward sign of weakness, but wouldn't make matters worse by apologizing. A lack of respect among his subordinates would be more deadly than the growing mob in the city below or the executioner's blade awaiting him if he didn't please his swiftly-approaching Empress.
Ten of his best men's eyes had been burned from their sockets by that damn priest, all because he insisted on letting the bait dangle longer, hoping the artifact would reveal itself if he allowed the unrest to continue. Worst of all, his hounds had not yet returned with the torn remnants of the bastard's body. Any quarry he sent them after was always returned in bloody pieces within a matter of hours. They had never failed him before. Now with this unrest, the whole tapestry of his control was about to unravel, thread by thread, just as surely as the sacred bloodletters would unravel his flesh if the Empress arrived before his duty was fulfilled.
Showcasing remarkable restraint, the knight didn't flinch when the cup went sailing past his head. He continued on with his report, “The gates of the western ward were assaulted by a new mob. We were caught off-guard and suffered severe losses. Your hounds arrived and put it down quickly however, Overlord. More than a hundred reported dead, mostly theirs.”
At this rate, there wouldn't be a city left to control when the forward army arrived to begin the overdue push north and east. Not that it mattered whether any of the local populace survived. So long as the artifact was back in their control, they could leave Cestia a smoldering ruin, just as they would do to the vile kingdom ahead in need of cleansing.
Years of careful work were falling apart, his unpleasant death at the hands of the Empress' army all but assured as that force drew nearer every day. Brant swore under his breath, vowing he wouldn't go down without a fight. He'd brought cities to heel before, and this cesspit of cowards and vipers would not be his undoing. A dozen rulers of men had bowed before him when serving in the Empress' vanguard, with this leaderless city but the least of his conquests. What should have been a mere stopping point on their holy crusade was somehow becoming its entire undoing.
When no response came from his superior, the knight ventured, “Reports are coming in of more uprisings across all the lower wards. We are being spread thin. Should we shore up the gates and choke points to let this latest riot die out, or gather and assault them in force?”
A plan was formulating in the tactician's head, deciding where to deploy his men to most effect and how strong a response would be necessary, but it faded away when two knights rushed into the cathedral holding what appeared to be a prisoner between them, shouting out for the Overlord's attention.
The lack of decorum was forgotten when he saw their charge was completely naked, spattered head to toe in an appalling amount of drying blood. He realized then this was not a prisoner, but one of his own collectors sent out to assess the populace and determine ration distribution. The man was babbling wildly, which ceased when he held his hand up and one of his subordinates threw th
e collector down on his knees.
“Well then, what's the meaning of this? We have a war to wage in the streets.”
Not appearing inconvenienced or ashamed by his lack of clothing, the collector sprawled across the floor and raised his arms high before shouting out, “A sign from the watcher in the void himself! He accepted Captain Lark as a sacrifice, and showered us in the precious blood of our leader as sign of what must be done! My lord, we have regained god's favor!”
Brant involuntarily stepped towards the knights then, his excitement rapidly bubbling up while asking “Have you confirmed this? Is it true?”
One nodded in the affirmative, curtly responding, “All six who attended the nightly sanctum ritual provided the same testimony. It appears to be true, my lord.”
The other cut in then, breaking protocol with pressing news, “There's more. A sighting has been confirmed in the western ward. Those who witnessed it were being brought here when the mob struck. We have men out now seeking to re-capture them.”
For the first time in months, Brant smiled, and widely. From the precipice of disaster to an all-but assured absolute victory in only a matter of moments. In an uncharacteristic show of affection for his men, he clasped his hand across each knight's back.