Exhumation: An Epic of Existentia (Acts of the Sojourner Book 1)

by S. A. Chapman

  A final strike from a Attaran with a war–mace depleted the last of one Eir’s energy. Her shield dissipated with a blast of pressure as she collapsed to the floor. Her Ayldar instantly leapt forward, and with an upwards strike attacked a Attaran with her curved blade. The blade glanced off the Attaran's lamellar armour and connected with the side of his head, slicing off his ear and a large portion of skin from his skull. A Militiaman grabbed Pious out of the melee, pulling him through the cavity in the Aetheric shield.

  The adjacent Eir released her focus and dropped the Aetheric Shield, and her Ayldar engaged in direct combat with the enemy, protecting her exhausted partner. The Militia joined in the fray, quickly suppressing the dwindling number of enemy attackers.

  Another pair of Eir and Ayldar hurriedly descended from the mezzanine level to the entrance to the corridor. They quickly moved alongside the existing Eir, kneeled to the ground on both knees in a meditative pose and raised their Aetheric Shield wielders to their fronts. The Militia and Ayldar paced backwards behind the Eir as they raised their shields. With a percussive blast of air, the wall of Aether sealed the corridor.

  Breathing heavily from exhaustion, those who had been involved in the combat checked their minor wounds. They stared through the translucent and water–like wall of Aether at the mortally wounded Attarans on the other side, writhing slowly towards their deaths.

  The Ayldar of the exhausted Eir kneeled by their sides and dutifully placed their hands on the cheeks of the Eir. The Ayldar started to breathe heavily in exhaustion, their foreheads breaking into sweat, as the Eir slowly sat upright. As the energy levels of the Eir increased, they pushed the hands of the Ayldar away. The Ayldar sat on the ground, heavily exhausted from replenishing the energy reserves of the two Eir.

  “Are you okay, Prefect?” a soldier asked Pious, who was staring through the shields at the Attarans as if in a deep stupor.

  “I’m fine,” replied Pious, diverting his attention to the soldier on his left. The young Militiaman had placed his hand on his face and was now inspecting the blood on his fingertips from a small open wound on his cheek.

  “Good form back there, son. You fought well,” said Pious, with a smile of pride on his face.

  “Thank you, Prefect. It was my first real fight,” said the soldier, still looking somewhat exhilarated from the engagement.

  Pious pointed to the wound on the soldier’s face. “You need sutures in that,” said Pious, as he looked around the Dome. On the mezzanine level above was a large group from the Ecclesiasticum, waiting to leave Sanctuary. On the ground level, some Militia were moving heavy boxes to the Dome’s main entry door, making an obstacle in the entry path.

  “Where is Tribune Dominici? Where is Colonel Aulus? They were meant to be here,” said Pious, looking around the Dome with concern. Besides a handful of Militia and Cherishe, there were hardly any forces capable of putting up a defence against an invasion.

  “They are outside, Prefect. Most of the forces are outside trying to prevent the invaders from climbing the fosse,” said the soldier, as he wiped the blood from his blade on a rag he had picked up from a basket full of scrap materials used for cleaning up blood from the floor.

  “What do you mean, climbing the fosse?” asked Pious.

  “They are using ladders and grapnel ropes to climb out of the fosse and into the forecourt. Tribune Dominici ordered us to stay in here and ensure that the Dome is as secure as it can be,” said the soldier, pointing to a few of his other comrades who were moving around the Dome, trying to create defensive positions at the entrances.

  “You are in capable hands. Tribune Dominici and Colonel Aulus managed to defend Crucius from a force of Colden who outnumbered those stationed at the settlement, thirty to one,” said Pious, as he placed his hand on the soldier’s shoulder.

  “Son – I’m looking for a Magister and Page, Lothar and Jacq,” he continued. “I was told they were going to the Ecclesiasticum and were last seen heading towards the Western Dome. Is he in here?” Pious pointed to the mezzanine level.

  “No, Prefect. I know of Magister Lothar. He passed through here not too long ago, with a Page,” said the soldier, pointing towards the Corridor of the Ecclesiasticum, on the opposite side of the Dome.

  “Thank you, Militus. Get that stitched up,” ordered Pious, pointing at the leaking wound on the soldier's face.

  “Aye, Prefect,” said the soldier, as he turned and wandered towards the mezzanine level.

  “And, Militus,” said Pious loudly, waiting for the soldier’s response.

  “Yes, Prefect?” replied the Militus, turning back to face Pious.

  “The order has been given to retreat to Landsbeach. Prepare everyone to move to the Eastern Dome.”

  “Yes, Prefect,” replied the soldier. He nodded in confirmation and continued towards the mezzanine level.

  Pious looked at the two Eir maintaining the Aetheric Shield. They kneeled quietly in complete silence, meditating, conserving energy to maintain the shields as long as possible.

  Every time he saw their beautiful red dresses, he couldn’t help but think of Serana. He hoped she was okay – more than anything else. Sincerus would still be marching towards Landsbeach; another toll or so, and he would reach there on foot, at a soldier’s pace. He might even be there now if he had thought to take a Qulin. Pious laughed to himself as he pictured Sincerus and two Scythians atop Qulin, charging towards Landsbeach.

  Pious turned and sprinted across the Dome towards the Corridor of the Ecclesiasticum. Two Militia kept watch at the wall of crates and barrels for the approach of any invaders. They saw Pious running towards them and moved out of the way. Pious placed one hand on top of a crate and flung his legs over the top of the barrier. He released the weight from his hand, moving in midair until his feet hit the ground and he continued running forward.

  As he ran, his breathing frequency increased from the slight exhaustion, and a faint, strangely sweet smell entered his nose. The closer he got to the Ecclesiasticum, the stronger the smell became. Pious sprinted to the left as he entered the Grand Vestibule of the Ecclesiasticum. The source of the smell was no longer faint or sweet – and no longer obscure.

  It was smoke – thick and noxious. It rolled along the top of the corridor, at the rear of the vast space. As the smoke exited the corridor, it climbed its way up the wall and pooled itself on the ceiling of the Grand Vestibule. A fine haze of smoke filled the Grand Vestibule, stinging Pious’s eyes and inflaming his sinuses.

  “Come – Come to me…” a disorientating voice called from the smoke.

  “No… Jacq,” Pious said to himself, his expression changing from uncertainty to immediate concern as he sprinted to the corridor that led to the Library, with smoke billowing from its bowels. He followed the trail of smoke that crept along the ceiling of the corridor for a few moments until he spotted the entrance to the Library. The smoke stung

  The Library

  “As far as I can tell, the Grand Library and Archive of the Ecclesiasticum, a storehouse of the great treasures and knowledge of Auranian history – is where Truth goes for rest and is slaughtered in its sleep.”

  A facsimile of various notes from the recovered journals of Lan’Tsa Nichon regarding the structure of Sanctuary,

  Qan’Fu Ensan, Imperial Archivist.

  1114th Revolution of the Grand Míngxīng.

  Through the thickened smoke, Pious could hear voices. Yelling, argumentative and familiar voices.

  “I told you, I warned you! You should have never made the shipment!” yelled the first voice.

  “What else were we to do!”

  “The mask, it shouldn’t be here! How did it get here? Who put it here? This is bad…”

  “I don’t even know what this accursed mask is, let alone why it’s here!”

  “It’s an Ardenian Warmaster’s Death Mask, you fool,”

  “It’s irrelevant. I told you, he is out of control. It was him. The blood-make was a match, as I said
it would. I told you it was him, but you refused to accept it!”

  “It’s very relevant. Do you know what this means?” said the all too familiar voice of Lothar. “No. No, wait. Don’t do it! Not like this!”

  “Lothar, where are you? I can’t find you!” shouted Pious, frantically and blindly pushing through the hot, dry, irritating and painful smoke.

  “By the Nine!” shouted Lothar, in shock and fright. “You. You killed him.”

  “Who, Lothar! Tell me where he is!” shouted Pious, heading as best as he could in the direction of Lothar’s voice.

  “I can’t let you do it, you give me no choice,” said Lothar in a solemn and slow voice.

  Pious pushed through a clearing of smoke and into the Library, standing at the base of the stone steps that led to the mezzanine above. He was greeted by the heat of a raging fire tearing through the large archive, with rivers of flames pouring over the ancient tomes like water over rock. In the centre of the usually bare floor space of the Library was a large wooden crate, with its cover on the floor.

  At the top of the steps, Pious could see Lothar and another, larger robed figure silhouetted by the blazing flames of the inferno. Lothar was standing still, his head held low, with his staff held by his side. The silhouette of a robed figure lay by his feet.

  Pious covered his face with the inside of his arm as a large flame lashed at his side, singing the loose fibres from his clothing. He stepped forward, away from a burning bookcase to his left.

  “Lothar!” Pious shouted, attempting to attract the man's attention, as the shadowy and robed figure plunged a blade into the centre of Lothar’s chest.

  Lothar released his grip on his staff, which rolled to the bottom of the stairs. The other figure began pushing Lothar backwards by the face. Lothar’s legs collapsed underneath him as he fell backwards with the blade lodged in his chest. He landed on his back, hitting the stairs with his full weight before rolling awkwardly to the bottom of the steps.

  Pious ran towards Lothar, stooped down and lifted the old man’s head into his arms. Lothar reached out to take handfuls of Pious’s tunic and crushed it in a white-knuckled grip. Pious looked down and noticed a dagger buried deep in Lothar’s belly.

  He grabbed the dagger and quickly removed it. The handle of the blade felt familiar, despite the covering of warm blood. He examined it in the gleaming firelight. It was his Praetorian Dagger, with his name inscribed on the blade. He stared at it with confusion and disorientation.

  “The boy!” cried Lothar, staring at Pious with a combination of fear and pain. Pious dropped the blade, with fear and disgust at the blood of his dear friend Lothar drying on his hands from the radiant heat of the fire.

  “I’m so sorry Pious. I’m so, so sorry,” cried Lothar.

  “No, Lothar. Please,” said Pious, as he pressed his hand on Lothar’s bleeding wound, applying significant pressure in a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood.

  “We…we were fooled… They have finally come for… to release the…” Lothar managed to get out before the rattling of a blood-soaked lung partially drowned his speech.

  “I tried Pious, I tried to… We should have never …” he cried frantically, staring at Pious, his eyes full of fear.

  Lothar lifted himself off the ground, clutching Pious’s tunic and staring deep into his eyes.

  “Pious, listen to me… you must leave now, you must let Sanctuary fall…” said Lothar quietly, gazing at Pious with utmost seriousness, before drawing in a laboured breath. “Jacq… the Sky–Ring. He’s on the Sky–Ring. Protect him… until she comes,” he said loudly, with as much effort as possible. He coughed, blood falling from his mouth onto his beard.

  “I’ll go to him, Lothar,” said Pious, as he looked to the black–silhouetted figure that stood unmoving at the top of the stairs.

  Lothar pulled on Pious’s tunic. “No, wait…” he said, as he lifted himself to Pious’s ear. Blood started to ooze from Lothar’s nose.

  “They tried to find… I hid it. It’s… it’s the only way. The only way,” he said to Pious, with complete control and clarity. Pious could hear Lothar’s breathing rattle and gurgle as the old man gasped for a large breath of air, then heard it slushing as the air filled his blood-soaked lungs.

  “Your alcove… it’s hidden… in the alcove, behind…,” Lothar said quietly. His gaze moved from Pious’s face to the burning tomes on the mezzanine above. His grip on Pious’s tunic eased as his hands fell by his side and his neck went limp. “We shut, them, down…”

  Lothar’s eyes stared coldly off into the distance. His face was blackened with soot, his outer garments were singed, and his waistcoat was drenched with his still warm blood.

  Pious was saddened deeply. He held in his arms his mentor, his confidant and his dearest friend. Yet there Lothar lay, his kind smile no longer present, dead in Pious’ arms. They'd had no chance for solemn goodbyes, no time to reminisce. Lothar was gone – and so were all the answers Pious needed from him.

  Pious looked up towards the ominous figure standing at the top of the stairs, loose pieces of its clothing rising and falling with the backdrafts caused by the intense heat of the lingering inferno. It appeared to increase in size, as if some twisted and nightmarish vision, wielding a menacing sabre with saw-like notches along its blade.

  He pointed his sword at Lothar. “He didn’t even see it coming, the filthy wretch. You should have seen the look on his face when he saw the blade slice through the neck of this one” he exclaimed as he laughed, before kicking a corpse down the stairs. He passed his sabre into the nearby flames, causing the blood-covered blade to let off a thick smoke with a sizzling noise.

  The sound of the rolling corpse became louder until it landed with a thud next to Pious. It was Draetor – with his throat slit from ear to ear.

  Pious looked to the corpses of Draetor and Lothar by his sides, and the blood-soaked dagger between his feet. Pious looked towards the towering figure and just stared at him, without moving a muscle. Pious had no idea what to do, or think. For now, all he could do was stare.

  The figure continued to slowly make his way down the steps, pointing a still smoking blade at Pious. He stopped on the stairs and thrust his head forward slightly. Then he began to laugh hysterically.

  “Three down, two to go!” he shouted, pointing at Pious. “Ursarion! Are you not amazed how the pulsing veins of time have bled into the same bowl, to bring us together like this – I can crush two skulls with the same jagged stone. My vengeance will truly be complete,

  “I had heard rumour that you were captured whilst trying to swap my boy for the runt. I was never satisfied with that fate, for what you did to me. I dreamed I would listen to the music of your screams as I ripped your genitals from your body, but not before I pulled your eyes from their sockets,” he said, before shaking his head. “I never imagined that I would actually see you in the flesh once more,”

  “By the way,” he jested, “you look old! You have not aged well at all… must be all the light!” it said jovially, as it descended several more steps towards Pious.

  The large figure sniffed the air, like a Rapax hunting for prey. “You smell different. You smell like fear – I have never smelt that from you and your kind before. Not that I mind; you know how much I love the scent of fear, especially from tenacious prey,”

  The stranger stopped his descent and began pointing his sword around the room with disdain.

  “These two and their kind are such a curiosity. Do you agree?” the stranger commented. “They are all nothing but pathetic hoarders – like dune–rats. Hoarding simple, meaningless treasures. Hoarding knowledge, trinkets, curiosities….”

  The stranger paused in his diabolical tirade to point his sword back at Pious. “The most disgusting of their hoarding ways, are their weak and meaningless attachments to each other – and their ease of betrayal,” he finished, and once again began descending the steps.

  A small explosion of gasses blasted across t
he room, lighting up the figure descending before Pious. On the stranger's face was a smooth and menacing fanged steel mask that reflected the light of the flames.

  Pious placed Lothar’s head on the ground gently and looked up again at the large figure descending the stairs.

  “I want to smell the cocktail of blood and fear before I finally drown you in the blackened waters of the Abyss,” the stranger said.

  Pious stood upright and clenched the fist of his free hand, which made a crunching noise as his fingers found their way into the palm. “I’d like to see you try,” he replied.

  The stranger hurled his sabre across the room, the blade thudding against the burning books.

  He reached towards his neck and released a clasp made from bone, then took hold of the mantles and wrappings covering his shoulders and torso and dropped them to the ground.

  The fall of the wrappings revealed a fearsome and hideous sight. Covering the stranger's appendages were moulded steel plates, much like the mask covering his face. The steel plates were held in place by blackened fastening–chains. He was solid and incredibly muscular without a trace of fat, and almost one span taller than Pious.

  His bare flesh was blood red, and his long, tied–back hair was jet black. Around his waist, attached to a belt, were a few skulls, affixed by blackened chains.

  Jagged spikes protruded from most of the plates of his armour; some of them had remnants of what appeared to be flesh still attached. A large metal sphere covered in small spiked cones was connected by a few spans of chain to a metal hook that was attached to his gauntlet.

  “As you don’t seem to remember me, let me introduce myself again. I am Nochuros, Warmaster of the Ardenians and Great Khan of the Blood Khanate – devourer of light and your guide to the Abyss. What is it they call you again?” he said, before pausing.

  “Oh, that’s right… Pious,” said Nochuros, laughing. As the creature uttered Pious’s name, a wave of unease forced its way into every crevice of Pious’s mind.