Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  “Of course, Ser Johnathan. Say what you will.”

  The old knight placed his helm on the wide oaken desk. She saw a stern look in his eyes, and he said, “What of the counsel of faith?”

  Lutessa looked unflinchingly and said, “They have found naught. I heard the accounts myself, seen the journals he kept. There are no threads tying him to the imperium or the islands. Yes, he travelled for almost two decades, but naught that corroborates your story.”

  “And the Faithsworn? What of them? Lutessa, it was fear that pushed the holy magistrates, naught else.”

  She knew the Faithsworn were once a problem. They had risen suddenly one day, armed with sword and faith, though not answerable to her. There was still a lack of command, but they would obey her will in the war; she had made sure of that. “They will serve at my behest.”

  “Serve?” Ser Johnathan seethed. “What do you know of serving? I am not blind and foolish. I know where these oh so pious men and women came from. They are his creatures, do not mistake that.”

  “You have not seen them!” Lutessa near screeched.

  “I have! Outcasts from the knights, the lot of them, mercenaries and sellswords among those. What your counsel promised them, I know naught, but they will beggar the Faith. Lest you wish naught but scorched earth. Imprison him and disband these Faithsworn. I will find you men true of heart and faith. Not as many but they will be true.”

  What a fool I was for trusting him. “I do not know what Ser Elin ever saw in you. For all his faults, he never lied to me or supped me on false hope as you do. Do not forget that I have kept you at your rank for honour’s sake. Do not overstep yourself, lest you think that—”

  Screams of agony, a cacophony of steel against plate, and bodies thudding against marble muffled her speech. The old knight turned to the door, a he once did over a year ago. Lutessa took her seat once more, eyes severe and commanding. Mother God forgive us.

  Counsel Anastasia dropped to her knees, muttering prayers into the stone floor.

  Suddenly the butchery stopped, and the old oak door was splintered as tall men in silver plate stepped through, blood dripping from their swords. There was six of them, and they stood three to a side, blades raised—Counsel Stephen Francis appeared in white robes with a black trim; etched on his chest was Mother God with sword in hand.

  “Let us see how you like being flayed, traitor!” Ser Johnathan bellowed.

  He lumbered towards her counsel of faith, death in his eyes, but his sword was checked by a man in silver, another put a mailed fist to his wrist that sent his blade spinning away. Then the first man swung his fist at Ser Johnathan’s abdomen, and then his shoulder; the plate crunched like it was pottery. Down on his knees, he took a blow to his face that knocked him down, spitting out blood and teeth.

  “The heathen is humbled. I do not think he is foolish.” Counsel Stephen announced whilst the Faithsworn stood sentry. “They are very loyal, Lord Protector, and you upset them with your words. They are men, beneath their valour, courage, and faith.”

  “The words of a craven are venom,” Ser Johnathan recoiled.

  “Some men are born to fight, to trade, or lord over. I am no warrior, nor do I have love of gold, but I am their lord. I am also a man of faith, and I take care of my flock. You, Lord Protector, should heed the words of your shepard.” He smiled wanly.

  “The day I heed your words is the day I—”

  “You have just been redeemed; do not squander it. There is much that the Voice and I must discuss.”

  “No.”

  The voice was faint and trembling. No, Anastasia stay silent. This is hard enough. Do not do this.

  “No more discussion!” Counsel Anastasia was on her feet, striding towards her counterpart, looking straight into his eyes. “You have crossed a line, Counsel. No man shall rule as Voice, much as you may want. Kneel and beg forgiveness. Kneel!”

  “A lord does not kneel before a peasant, no matter how righteous she is,” Counsel Stephen replied. “You are a righteous peasant, you always were. Lutessa played you like a fiddle. You are a pawn in these troubled times; do not bray like some commander of knights. You have no power here.”

  “Nor do you!”

  Counsel Stephen smiled wickedly. “Do you not know what power is? Ser Harbert, Lady Tiffany and Ser Mattias lay dead outside these doors, last of the Faith Templar. Stalwart knights, but they would not listen to reason, and we are done being coy. They were big and strong, yet were of no equal to my Faithsworn, as the Crimson Swords were before them. No longer am I a poor man of Mother God, begging for scraps, pleading for succor. No, I am Her Paragon. I am what Justine was, before women like you put her down.”

  “You are no Justine you are—”

  “No more,” Lutessa said softly. “No more, Anastasia, please.”

  “He has committed murder in our halls—twice. You and I are next.”

  “You do not understand. It was on my orders.”

  “Y-your orders?” Ser Johnathan blurted out.

  Lutessa began to pace around the chamber, regret milling inside her. “I did not desire so much bloodshed, but alas, Damian Dannars has put us in a precarious position, unenviable, and immensely dangerous. I read, and prayed, and thought a good deal about what transpired, and Mother God gave me no answers. I do not believe the overlord ever meant for our ruin that day. He knows as well as any of us that Trecht is the greatest threat that we will ever face. In his own way, that man was protecting his own country—and ours.”

  She stopped at the far side of the room, and eyed a worn oaken chest, banded in iron. “He threw at us a professed traitor and the last Isilian, vilified them, knowing that we would at least try them. That was what he expected, and when we did not do that, well, that only meant his men died for naught.”

  “There was a score of Crimson Swords in the gaols,” Counsel Stephen explained. “All of the gaolers died. They unlocked every cell, looking for Lord Daniel Baccan and Ashleigh Coburn. The Faithsworn found the overlord’s men first, and wrenched the tale from their sorry lips. They were to join with the Corsair, meet the first scholar on the library’s fourth level, and he would open the paths to the crypts. I did not think the boy knew aught of it, but the Faithsworn saw to the truth of it. They were going to pry Gabriel’s Gift from Justine’s tomb and use it against the Faith, before returning home, with nary an islander casualty. Who would be better to retrieve such a treasure than Damian’s most trusted sword, and a sentinel who survived the calamity in Isilia?”

  “You told them it was in the desert!” Ser Johnathan bellowed. “I sent them to High Servitor Jophiel! That was not yours to give up, Lutessa!”

  You really need to learn your place, Ser Johnathan. “I convinced them it is in the desert. Your delusions affirmed the tale, as I knew it would. Counsel Stephen has told me everything that you shared with him. It is for that reason I freed you. You played your part in the deception unwittingly; you have been intractable since Ser Elin divided us, and I needed your strength, not dissent.”

  “Was it all a lie?!”

  “Not all of it. It was removed, but not to the desert. When we had survived, I had it returned. It will be the sword and shield of true born Dalians, and to those who profess love and devotion to Mother God. The sinners, the unworthy lot, it will not protect them, not whilst I reign.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Right here. Safe.”

  Lutessa opened the chest, and it creaked open, weary with age. She withdrew a small burlap sack, tied at the top. Opening it, a purifying white light dazzled the room, and she held Gabriel’s Gift close. It was so pure, so enveloping. Much as it pained her, she safely tucked it in her robes, and the light began to dull until there was naught but the faintest glimmer.

  “They will die in the desert,” Lutessa said solemnly.

  “T-they,” Counsel Anastasia stammered in disbelief, “they are friends! They laid bare intentions and plans of the overlord. They were traitors that
were doomed to die, if not for chance. They chanced to make it right, they—”

  “No,” Lutessa shook her head. “They are not friends. Just a cog of Damian’s deceptions. A year past the sentinel came over with Lord Commander Rafael Azail, and burned all the Northlands. Lord Daniel Baccan is no more than a smuggler and flesh trader, who would sell his own kin if it meant keeping his own skin. They labour only for themselves; to preserve a life of debauchery and exact vengeance for what was lost. I may distrust my counsel of faith, but he thinks only of Dalia—where your minds should be.”

  “What happens now?” Johnathan asked gruffly, and he spat out blood.

  “You two will have some time to think. I can see the doubt writ on your face. When your resolve is the same as ours, you will be restored as honour decrees.”

  “You need me to rule unquestioned by the clergy,” Ser Johnathan protested

  “I will parade you out as need requires. I do not think I need to tell you what disobedience would wrought.”

  “And if we think this is all a bloody mistake?”

  “Then you will be reacquainted with my paragon. This is too important to lack unity. The Faith depends upon it.”

  Counsel Anastasia and Ser Johnathan both stared back with blank faces.

  “Come with us, and say not a word,” Counsel Stephen warned.

  When they were gone, Lutessa sat back down in front of the window and fingered Gabriel’s Gift. She needed to be closer to the stone, but dare not reveal it, not even to the air.

  “Speak to me Gabriel, as you did years ago. I am older now, wiser, and stronger. I need your succor. We all need it.”

  Words filled her mind with the calmest, deepest voice she ever heard. She smiled wide, and a man in white appeared before her eyes.

  She knelt and listened to the words of the Mother’s Pilgrim.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Desert of Death

  Ashleigh looked upon her home again.

  Dead and sere. The small pier that the Sea Calmer docked at was decayed; the flanks drifting to the shore below. The only sound was the lapping of waves and the feet of the crew. She knew there would be naught else, but it pained her, and she gripped the rail hard.

  Rafael… are you dead as our home?

  Lord Daniel Baccan came from behind, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let us go.”

  She nodded, and walked down the gangplank.

  The port town was empty. Remnants of cobbled roads were scattered, homes were crushed in upon the sides, and possessions lay a strewn.

  Children would have run about here once. Skiffs would return with nets full of fish. Now there is no laughter, no labour, no merriment. The Faceless Shadow took it all away.

  The memories faded—though never left—as she hiked with islander lord along the flat plains, keeping the long stretch of mountain to her right. She was quiet, rarely speaking. Though the days grew hot, and she discarded her mail, but kept the boiled leather, dirks, and swords. There were no signs of bird or beast, and she hoped the small supply of meat, bred, cheese, and water would be enough for the trek across the desert.

  Days folded together, and it became stickier, more humid. Sweat beaded upon her forehead by day, and by night she awoke hot and tired.

  “Northwards and the heat strengthens,” Daniel complained on the morning of the fourth day. “What laws does this land obey?”

  “My home obeys only the law that it sets for itself,” Ashleigh replied. “Winter had come but once—long before I was born. Yet it never seemed to pass into spring. The land was dead long before Lord Kaldred came and unleashed his nightmare. That heat you feel, it is the desert: it is a heat that carves its will into stone and rock. You will see it, soon.”

  “Do not speak of him.”

  “I do not fear him.”

  It was another three days of endless dry plains stretching onwards. It rained but once—on the second day—but she felt little relief: the droplets were warm and it clung to her stiff garb. By the end of the third day the heat was overpowering, and then she saw it, tall and monstrous.

  There was a massive hole in the mountain—stretching nearly to its zenith—and wide enough for an army to march through. The rock face was smooth but dry, with wisps of sand blasting through and swirling around. Ashleigh thought it unnatural, and wondered what her father must have felt when he walked through the chasm.

  “How many days to the other side?” Daniel asked, staring at the gaping maw.

  “I do not know,” she replied. “No one has come back to tell the tale. I said this was a fool’s errand.”

  “So it might be, but it is our final chance,” he said, while emptying his sack. “We will not last longer than ten days in this heat. It will get worse once we pass through. Do not bring more than you need. I will not carry you on the last days.”

  She grumbled and swung the sack off her shoulder, abandoning what she did not need. He is not far wrong. It is the heat that will do us in. But if either of us should falter, it will not be me. “Keep your weapons at the ready. We will need them.”

  “Best that you hope I will not need mine. I did not abandon hearth and home for Isilian foolishness.”

  If you had ears to hear, would you even listen?

  Ashleigh strode forward, letting him trail behind as she passed through. It was as long as it was tall; like a great underground tunnel, but the light of day and the heat of the desert could be seen from the other side.

  The maw all but behind her, she looked out and saw endless sand for miles. There were low rising sand dunes to the side, but it was straight and flat to the east. She knew the journey would go straight between the dunes.

  The first three nights of the journey seemed like the same course repeated over and over. Ashleigh would rise once the sun had set, and trekked a good eight hours before resting. To her surprise, the islander lord had not begged for rest after six, though he was oft wordless. She ate and drank by night, chewing off strips of meat or biting into hard, stale bread. When the sun began to rise, she would follow Daniel to the mild shade of a sand dune, and put a canopy above them. Sleep came in fits and starts. The heat made it difficult, but exhaustion lulled her to slumber.

  Early on the fifth night of the journey there were outcroppings of rock and stone just above the sand: conical and triangular shaped, engraved in symbols and words, though worn away from the years. “Someone was here, once,” Daniel said gruffly. “Secrets of the imperium serve no one anymore. Who was it? What are we walking into?”

  Ashleigh thought it might have been the top of a tall, slim tower, though too much of it was buried beneath the sands. “I do not know. We were told that the forefathers of the imperium once looked east to expand its dominion. Men with strong arms and brave hearts descended on the desert, ne’er to leave again. Imperator Cimmerii was wise, not cruel, and soon ended such endeavours. Then we looked west.”

  “So the conflict began betwixt the imperium and the theocracy—save when the old kingdom interposed itself. What sin sown such mistrust?”

  “It was ne’er mistrust. They—we—are conquerors. Not for love of it, or cruelty to our brothers across the sea. The shadow of Trecht stretched long in the early years. If we were not strong, we thought we would die.”

  “Then why not join your strength to theirs?”

  She did not know, and kept her silence.

  “It is in the past, I suppose,” Daniel mumbled. “What matters is the here and now.”

  Yes. That it does.

  On the seventh night, Ashleigh felt her own strength sapping. Her legs felt like lead, she could barely eat, and could only see what she wanted to see, not what was there. It took so much to focus on moving ahead, ignoring the mirages of dense shade, small ponds and—the last one did not bear thinking about.

  The islander lord seemed to feel the same effects. He did not leave her behind, though he did not show much care. It was not yet midnight, but Ashleigh called for a rest. The smuggler did not
raise an objection. Stretching out against a dune, she uncorked a canteen and drank a few mouthfuls. Then, scrounging out some bread and cheese, she made sure islander lord ate, who looked cracked and dry. Satisfied the smuggler would not die on her, she nibbled on a portion, resting her eyes, but not daring to fall into slumber.

  “Why do you care if I live or die?” Daniel grumbled.

  I do not know. “If you are not there to stop me, this quest would be vain and pointless, is that not what you meant back on the Sea Calmer?”

  “At least the little sentinel listened.”

  Little sentinel…

  The words reminded her of the dream: of Lord Kaldred spearing Rafael through the heart. She looked towards Daniel, half expecting to see a shadow, though there was naught but a near lifeless husk.

  He could not have known.

  Ashleigh smiled at him and wanted to laugh, if it did not expend so much strength. He smiled back, and looked a fool.

  We are so different—him and I. Bloody fools we both are for reveling at the edge of death.

  “Is that a road?” Daniel asked, gingerly pointing to the south, around a sand dune.

  “I did not see it before, but it is.” Ashleigh thought it went in a straight line: sparse, dark grey rocks that the sand had not covered. “I wonder where it leads.”

  “P’rhaps a great city once, now taken by the sand. When I was a boy, I always wondered at the great works the masons did in the city of my birth. The walls were wide and tall: wrapping themselves around the eastern port; yet rising above it was a wonderfully enormous castle—almost to the clouds. There were so many towers, and the crenellations were manned day and night. When I could finally walk its hallowed halls, I was content and proud. It did not last long, but it was everything I dreamed of: all the majesty, grace, and nobility that my wet nurse told me of.”

  Ashleigh did not think that was a description of the castle in Lanan. The Overlord’s Seat was short and squat built upon a low hanging cliff. Its walls barely enough to defend itself, and certainly not towering through the clouds.