Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  “As he should! Æmor’s very religion is offensive! Do they not dare to call us the children of demons?”

  “That is a lie, and far from the truth, as you know better than most,” Bessarias chided Gilthalon. “Like all humans, the Amorrans fear what they do not know. What is done is done. Kilios has lost his vision for the nonce, perhaps it will return, perhaps it will not. But what would you have us do? The human has broken no law, neither of Elebrion nor this college. Do you forget that he has done what none of us, despite our great powers, could do, in restoring sight to the blind? He and his god must be cherished and studied, not castigated and feared!”

  “So speaks the Master of Cats,” muttered the Magistras Vitae, sparking an amused grunt from the Keeper.

  “If his curiosity gets him killed, so much the better,” Alisiassa, uncharacteristically, took Gilthalon’s part. “The problem is that Bessarias thinks nothing of sacrificing us all on the altar of his vanity. Not only us of the Collegium, but the Three Kingdoms besides!”

  “One almost hesitates to remind this Council of the origins of a certain well-known desert,” agreed Magistras Vitae, with a disagreeable smile.

  There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, which Bessarias, despite his irritation, did not dare to break. Finally, the Custodas Occulti spoke.

  “There is too little information on which to proceed. We must know more. Bessarias, I do not question your judgement of this man’s character, but if he may call upon the power of this unknown god, then others may do so as well, others who seek to do us harm. Now, I hope that we of this council are all agreed that in this case we must seek justice beyond the mere interest of the stronger, namely, ourselves, but at the same time, it must be said that we simply cannot allow this man to depart and leave us ignorant of what might be a potential danger.”

  “Give him to me,” Gilthalon requested politely, but his voice held a dangerous edge. “He will hold nothing back from me.”

  “Indeed, I think your arts may indeed be useful in this matter, Magistras.” The Grandmaster shook his head and irritatedly waved off Bessarias’ outraged protest. “Silence, Bessarias. I have no intention of allowing your guest to come to needless harm. I have in mind a test, wherein the human shall set the power of his god against the arts of one of our own.”

  “Custodas, I beg—”

  “Yes, yes, Gilthalon, I can think of none better to uphold the honor of the Collegium. Unless of course, there are any objections …” The Grandmaster glanced about the table. “With one caveat, of course. You will take the proper precautions so that our guest shall come to no harm if he cannot, as we must expect, stand against your spirits.”

  Gilthalon growled under his breath, but he nodded reluctantly. Bessarias had no concerns on that score, as the fiery Magistras was most vain about his honor. He did have another consideration, though, which he brought to the Grandmaster’s attention.

  “Galamiras, what if the impossible occurs? What if, by some strange chance, the illustrious Magistras Daemonae is defeated?”

  Gilthalon made an incredulous face, and Alisiassa laughed outright. The remainder of the Seven looked amused; only the Grandmaster’s expression did not change.

  “In that case,” he said solemnly, “we will kill him. Assuming, of course, that we can.”

  • • •

  As soon as the council meeting was closed, Bessarias stormed out of the tower and toward the guest palace. He had been outvoted, five to one, with his only support being the abstention of the Magistras Morte. Furious and in no mood for mindgames, he summoned a vortex of negation to surround him and blasted an elf-sized path through the magical greenery of the maze. The startled guards were barely able to get out of his way as he banished the vortex just in time to spare the marble steps. He marched upstairs to the room that Herwaldus had first occupied as a guest, which now served as his jail.

  The young guard standing outside the chamber started to raise his spear to block the entryway, but he reconsidered quickly and adroitly stepped aside upon catching sight of the thunderous expression on the Magistras’ face. Dereliction of duty was a serious offense in the High King’s army, but the punishment, harsh though it might be, paled in comparison with provoking the wrath of an already irritated Master.

  The table laden with delicacies was gone, he saw, but the room was otherwise exactly the same as he had last seen it. Herwaldus looked none the worse for wear as he rose quickly to his feet, alarmed by Bessarias’ precipitous entrance. Kilios was there too, seated by the fire, and his eyes, so recently restored, were troubled.

  “You come from the Seven,” the former seer stated. “What have they decided?”

  “To put him to the test. The loss of your vision has frightened them, like children hearing their first tales of the Witchkings. My blasted cat must have his revenge, and Gilthalon has fallen for his wheedling manipulations with no more thought than a lovelorn elfling promised a witch’s philtre.”

  “The Witchkings?” asked Herwaldus, sounding more curious than concerned.

  “Never mind them,” Bessarias snapped. “Tomorrow, before the full Assembly, the Council has decided, in its wisdom, to set Herwaldus against one of our own. The objective is to learn the extent of this strange god’s power, so that we may determine if it might pose a threat to us.”

  “Wonderful,” Herwaldus exclaimed.

  “Who will it be?” asked Kilios.

  “Gilthalon, of course.”

  The seer whistled and shook his head. Herwaldus noticed his reaction and looked curiously at Bessarias, who tried to explain.

  “Like myself, he is one of the Seven. He is a master of demons, supremely skilled, and he is not well-disposed toward your kind. Fortunately, Galamiras has ordered him to ensure your safety, so you will not be harmed.”

  “I have no fear of that.” The little monk smiled. “He is a master of demons, you say? So too am I, through the authority of my Savior. Though this magician raise a thousand against me, the power of my Lord’s name shall send them fleeing in every direction!”

  “You don’t understand. That’s absolutely the last thing you must do. If you somehow manage to defeat Gilthalon, it will be your doom. The problem is almost certainly academic, since I don’t believe you can beat him, but at all costs, you must lose. You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “I am prepared. I do not seek death, but neither do I fear it.”

  “But what about your god? Surely he wouldn’t want you dead.”

  “He said, ‘follow Me,’ and He was not one to despise a criminal’s death. And is it not written, ‘Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you, and ye shall be hated of all nations for My name’s sake’?”

  “I am really beginning to suspect that you are senile,” Bessarias snapped. He turned to Kilios. “What if we get him out of here instead? Tonight!”

  “You would defy the Council?”

  “I am the Council! And I’m not defying anything. He’s my guest, isn’t he? If I revoke his guesting, then he’s not allowed to stay the night. We can escort him to the Amorran border, and from there, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t go.” Herwaldus shook his head.

  “You have to! Gilthalon won’t kill you, but the experience will not be a pleasant one, I guarantee it. Do you have any idea what even a fairly minor demon can do to you?”

  He snapped his fingers and the flames in the hearth were suddenly filled with horrific images.

  “Please, make them go away,” Herwaldus begged, obviously upset by the fiery scenes of pain and torment.

  “You see? And that’s what could happen to you if things go well! We elves are civilized, yes, but we can be cruel, you must understand that. If the Custodas Occulti decides you must die, it is quite possible that he may not grant you the kindness of an easy death.”

  The human swallowed hard. His eyes closed, he took a deep breath, and then shook his head.

  “No. I am not asham
ed of Him, and I will not have Him be ashamed of me. I will not go. And if you force me, I shall return.”

  “Can’t you talk some sense into him?” Bessarias asked Kilios.

  “I doubt it. Nor would I, even if I could.”

  Bessarias scowled suspiciously at the seer.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve embraced this human lunacy! Herwaldus has been wronged, yes, and he does not deserve what the Council has in store for him, but this … this discipline of his—and I admit, there appear to be some aspects of it that may deserve closer inspection—but it is only a very, very small part of the pattern in its totality!”

  “I have seen more than you know, Bessarias. For eighty-five years, I have borne witness to many things which were not, and were yet to be. Never once was my vision errant, but now, only now and in the light of this man’s truth, do I see clearly.”

  The two elves locked gazes, and Bessarias had to look away from the passionate intensity in the other’s frighteningly normal eyes.

  “Fine, fine. Hold your tongue, if you must. I am disappointed, though. You must know what Gilthalon has in mind. He doesn’t like humans at the best of times. So be it. But Herwaldus, if you can, will you please do me the favor of explaining why you are so determined to go through with this?”

  The monk nodded. He was smiling, although he was still pale from the terrible sights Bessarias had shown him in the fire.

  “There is no mystery. When I was young, newly sworn to my vows, I read of a man who was convinced that every being of every race was, in fact, a child of God. Now, you must understand that this view is not held universally by all who worship our Lord. In fact, it is espoused by only a few, and in the Church’s considered opinion, the belief treads perilously near to heresy. Nevertheless, this man held firmly to this belief, as did his friend Tertullis, the founder of the order to which I belong.

  “His name was Diaspelian, and it was his heart’s desire to go forth unto the nations, preaching to all who would listen the good news of the Lord Immanuel’s death and resurrection, urging repentance from sin and telling of the life beyond death that awaits us all. He traveled throughout the barbaric lands that were eventually to become the kingdom of Savondir, and many came to know the Lord Immanuel and were baptized as a result of his efforts. He founded as many as thirty churches, and still he knew his work was incomplete. Then, ten years after Diaspelian’s departure, his friend Tertullis received a letter.”

  Bessarias watched as Herwaldus opened the precious brass-bound book that was, aside from his staff and robe, the monk’s only apparent possession. The human withdrew a single unbound piece of paper and handed it to him. The elven mage scanned it and saw that it was lovingly scripted in a primitive human language.

  The strang people called here Orkks are a cruell and unlovlie people, near unto the hyghte of a manne, but of stature broade and myghtie. Theyre skin is of a greenish colour, and upon theyre faces is set a countenanse most bestial. Theyre black haire is long and coarse, like unto the maine of a horse. They weare it tyed into a brade, encircled bye a ring carved from the bone of an enemye slane. They know no kinge, nor do they fear noght but theyre savage demon-gods, whome they worshippe with rytes too terrible and bloodee to record herein.

  The stoute people of Albysse war most bravlee against thes savages, who do not subsist uponne the lande, but instaed are content to rob and plunder the fields of theyre naebors. They eat the flesh of manne, and I have been tolde of how they will dessend upon a village in greate number, seeking to devourre all they fynd therein. Whether they be demonspawn or not, I cannot saye, for they know noght of theyre historie, lacking alle knoweledge of wryting excepting onlie the groteske rune-scratches of theyre magickians.

  And stille I believe it maye well be that they too are childrenne of the Living God. Are not we not allso fallen short of the grace Devyne and the glorie of Heavens Son? Soon I goe to humblee preach His Truthe to the chiefs of the great clanne of Grimwalde…

  Bessarias shook his head, and a faint smile crossed his lips.

  “I can’t imagine the orcs were particularly receptive to his message.”

  “No, it is said that he was killed and eaten less than a week after he entered the Grimwalde.”

  “And this is your inspiration? You truly are insane!”

  Herwaldus smiled tightly, shaking his head.

  “Twenty-five years ago, a traveller came to our chapter house in Bruscato. He asked for permission to take holy vows and join our number, and after some discussion, he was welcomed into our brotherhood with thanksgiving and much praise for the name of our Lord Immanuel.”

  Bessarias nodded, impressed with the tale’s conclusion despite himself.

  “I take it his skin was a greenish color, with a countenance most bestial?”

  “Exactly. Brother Grimfang was an orc, from a small body of believers who are descended from the three individuals baptized in the name of our Lord by Saint Diaspelian before his death. I came to know the brother well before he died, and despite his fearsome appearance he was a gentle spirit of uncommmon wisdom and faith. So you see, if Diaspelian did not fear to go and speak the truth before that terrible people, how then should I despise the opportunity to do the same before yours?”

  Bessarias sighed, both saddened and confused. Somewhere, there was truth in all of this, but the gist of it eluded him. He had no idea if Herwaldus was truly a madman, a masochist, or a wise and holy prophet. But he was sure of one thing. Events had moved far beyond his ability to control them. He glanced at Kilios and shrugged.

  “As you will, Herwaldus. I admire your bravery, if not your judgment. May your god be with you tomorrow.”

  The aged monk smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Bessarias. You have been a gracious host, and I am grateful. But my fate will be as it will. Do not trouble yourself over it.”

  “Very well, I will not. Besides, I have a cat to hunt down. And may the seven hundredbastard spawn of Belial curse me if I don’t beat another nine lives out of him!”

  • • •

  The Great Hall was more crowded than Bessarias had ever seen it. Acolytes rubbed elbows with stooped, creaking adepts, all eager to witness what promised to be an epochal duel. Not since Moldar the Dire’s infamous challenge of Ulandir Brighthand had the whole assembly shown such interest in a challenge, although the crowd of spectators was much larger today.

  Only four witless acolytes had shown up on that occasion to watch the celebrated necromancer extinguish his brilliant young rival; three, accidentally caught up in Moldar’s evil working, shared Ulandir’s untimely doom, while the fourth, his reason shattered by the terrible cries of his companions, wandered outside the following winter and froze to death.

  Mastema, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Bessarias had only made a half-hearted search for the little beast, knowing full well that his pet knew him well enough to lie low until the first flush of his anger had passed. Still, he kept his eyes open for a glimpse of grey fur or a pair of supercilious yellow eyes.

  At the Grandmaster’s gesture, Bessarias reluctantly joined the other Magistres on the central dais. Together, the Seven formed a loose circle around the human, who looked tiny, frail, and ugly in the midst of all these elves. Galamiras had already prepared the working that would protect them and the crowd should anything go awry with Gilthalon’s summonings; it was something he had personally developed after the debacle of Moldar’s cruel victory.

  “Shams!” cried the Custodas Occulti, and in response there was a faint shimmering in the air above the dais. It was barely visible, but it sparked an outburst of excitement in the watching crowd.

  “Fakre!” shouted Alisiassa.

  “Nasre!” “Sij!” “Eism!”

  Bessarias sighed, fuming inwardly, but powerless to intervene.

  “Bakra,” he muttered dutifully.

  The crowd buzzed at his obvious reluctance, but the working did not require enthusiasm, only proper
form. The shimmering solidified into a transparent but palpable shield of pure power forming a large cylinder that fit within the larger circle of the ringed Masters. Gilthalon, wearing a striking black robe edged with gold, stepped confidently into the magic shield and dramatically raised his hands to complete the spell.

  “Kadir!”

  The Assembly clapped and roared with approval as the handsome Magistras Daemonae acknowledged their cheers, then turned to face his opponent. The shimmering shield could only be broken by the Custodas Occulti in conjunction with at least three of the participating Masters, and if anything should happen to him, then both Gilthalon and Herwaldus would be trapped inside for the six days it would take for the powerful working to expire.

  With elaborate courtesy, Gilthalon quickly sketched a protective circle around Herwaldus, then himself. Bessarias nodded, satisfied that the diableriste was content to obey the strictures laid out for him. It was not long before there was a popping sound, and a small imp, only knee-high to the human, appeared inside the shield. It had blue skin and tiny horns that were barely more than buds.

  As the crowd of magicians exploded with laughter, Gilthalon gleefully gestured toward Herwaldus, inviting him to respond. The monk did not seem to know he was being mocked, for his face was grave as he dropped to one knee to examine the miniscule demon.

  “What is your name?”

  The imp glanced back at Gilthalon, who nodded.

  “Bromphethskagsruinmela,” it answered in a high, piping voice.

  “Well, Brom … Bromphim … whatever your name is. Begone, I say, in the name of my Lord Immanuel.”

  The imp shrugged helplessly and with another brief pop, vanished from sight. Gilthalon’s eyebrows seemed to rise of their own accord, but he did salute the human’s achievement with applause that was not entirely derisive.

  “Well done, human,” he called. “Now how about this?”

  The Magistras summoned a much larger demon this time, with massive black wings and the head of a bull, armed with a pair of sharp tusks that jutted dangerously upward from its lower jaw. Whereas the first spirit had appeared almost harmless, this brute looked anxious for violence.