Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3)

by Brian J Moses

  To be certain, the scars of racism were still in the minds of most people and were painfully obvious even in their words, but it was a passive sort of thing, leftover from cultural brainwashing and their upbringing rather than conscious antagonism toward the denarae.

  “I gotta say, it’s nice seein’ you boys again,” one older human said to Brican. “I never had much use for denarae before, but after seein’ the way you shads fought the demons, well, I just gotta say my thanks.”

  Of course, the old man had flinched slightly when the interview was over and Brican had extended his hand, intending to thank the man for his cooperation. After only the briefest of hesitations, the man shook his hand, but Brican could read the reluctance in every nuance of his body language. Others had pretended not to see his proffered hand. One man had discreetly wiped his palm on his pants afterward.

  Talking to a denarae was one thing. Shaking his hand – actually touching a “shad” – was another thing entirely.

  Still, Brican supposed it was progress of sorts. At least they were smiling instead of throwing rocks. No one had come running at him and stabbed him with a pitchfork, so it was an improvement over some of the past experiences Brican had had with humans.

  Almost, he thought he might be able to tolerate humans on a general scale, as Garnet kept pushing him to do. But deep inside, Brican knew this was only a small segment of humanity that was still experiencing the residual gratitude from having survived the Barrier War, and Shadow Company’s high profile had made them an integral part of the perceived victory. To these people, Brican and his fellow denarae were a large part of the reason they were alive.

  That would fade with time, he thought, and would never spread beyond the borders of this city. In other cities around the world – and worse, out in the countryside – the racism and condescension toward denarae would continue unabated. The river of time would swallow up this tiny bubble of tolerance and flow forward unmindful of the brief spark of hope and racial acceptance.

  Brican sighed. Garnet always spoke with hope that their two races could exist equally and peacefully someday, but Brican didn’t see that day coming soon, if at all. Flasch had even once told him God surely looked down upon something as wretched as racism and that someday religion might be used as a force against racial intolerance. So far, in Brican’s experience the exact opposite had been true.

  “If that’s the case, then what the Hell is God waiting for?” Brican muttered. “Why not go ahead and start fixing it right now?”

  A denarae’s mental voice broke into his thoughts. “Sir, I think you should speak to and kythe this man yourself,” one of his men reported.

  “Guide me to you,” he replied, shoving his own thoughts aside.

  When Brican found the man in question, he paused a moment in surprise. The old human was dressed in a severe black cassock with a wooden Tricrus hanging at his neck. Nearby, two of Brican’s men scoured the area where a paladin had been found murdered.

  “He’s a priest,” Brican murmured, taking in the man’s clothing and trying not to grimace. “It’s a different man,” he said sternly, then muttered disparagingly to himself, “What would Garnet say?”

  All of Brican’s positive exposure to religion among humans had been through the paladins of the Prism. Like nearly every mortal in the world, whatever their race, Brican held some form of religious conviction. It was impossible not to have at least a basic belief in Heaven and Hell and their denizens when the doorway to Hell was just around the corner. Everyone knew of the existence of the Merging and what lay beyond it, so there really was no such thing as an atheist.

  Different races held various views on religion, of course, but as far as Brican knew, the distinctions between them tended to be centered around doctrinal interpretation and specific beliefs rather than sweeping theological differences. What actually happened to a soul upon death; whether God was loving or vengeful or even disinterested; and how God intended the races to treat each other. The view that one race was superior in the eyes of God to another, for example, was a popular theme for sermons in rural human communities.

  “This is my commanding officer, Captain Brican Dok,” the denarae near the priest introduced him as he approached. The elderly priest looked at Brican with a benign smile and bowed slightly in greeting. When he straightened, Brican noticed the old man never quite seemed to look him in the eyes.

  “I am… uncertain of the proper way to… address you,” Brican said haltingly.

  “Father Charles is my name,” the old man said.

  “Father,” Brican said, inclining his head slightly. “I understand you might have some sort of insight for us about the paladin who died here.”

  The old man raised his hands in a gesture Brican couldn’t quite interpret.

  “I saw him die, yes,” Father Charles said, still not quite meeting Brican’s eye, “but I don’t know how much I can really tell you about it. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Just please tell me what you saw,” Brican said, trying to control a surge of irritation in his voice. The lack of eye-contact from the man was an especially painful thorn to Brican after the reluctance of some of the previous humans he’d interviewed.

  “Jishan often came to speak with me about matters of faith,” the priest said, gesturing with one hand to make the holy symbol as he said the departed paladin’s name. “He was a Violet paladin, and so very interested in my experiences leading congregations out in the countryside.

  “I remember it was about noon time, because I had just finished burying poor Alelia’s little newborn not an hour before,” Father Charles said, and a look of intense sadness came over him. “Poor, innocent child. They said he only lived for a few seconds out of the womb, then he was lost.”

  Something about that sparked in Trebor’s memory, but he couldn’t place it. He spared a sudden, intense moment of thanks that Caeesha was in perfect heath, as were the twins growing inside of her.

  “I was standing in this very spot waiting for him, and I just saw Jishan coming ‘round the corner there, when suddenly he stopped and cried out in pain,” Father Charles said, shaking his head. “I called out to him, but he just yelled, then dropped to the ground. I thought I saw someone behind him, but when I called out for him to help, he was suddenly gone.

  “I wonder now if he’s the one who killed poor Jishan, or if he was really even there.”

  Brican frowned and turned to the denarae who’d called him over.

  “Show me what you saw in his memory,” he kythed to the other man.

  Immediately, Brican saw in his mind the exact scene the old man had described, slightly out of focus from the human’s poor eyesight. The Violet paladin came around the corner and stopped, then cried out in pain and died. Brican had only vague reports of the death, but from what he’d been told, the paladin had only a single wound through his chest. Examining the picture memory closely, he saw the blood fountain from the wound, but saw no weapon.

  After the paladin in the vision dropped to the ground, Brican did indeed see the vague outline of a man standing immediately behind the slain human. A strange sort of gray light – if such a thing truly existed – seemed to emanate from the robed apparition, and Brican even saw what looked like a sword in his hand. An instant later, the figure was gone, vanished from sight in the blink of an eye.

  “Word just came in from the other squad,” Brican heard in his mind as the image faded, “and a retired paladin was nearby when the soldier there was killed. He was close enough to see the death, and he saw a similar figure for a moment, too. It vanished before he could speak to it or get a good look, though.

  “Whatever it is, that gray figure seems to be a link between the two deaths.”

  - 3 -

  Danner walked down the corridor inside the chapterhouse of the Prismatic Order, feeling overly exhausted from his day out in the city. There was really nothing for him to do until the others showed up, so he wandered aimlessly for a whil
e until weariness prompted him to look for a bed. He needed sleep desperately, even if it was only for a half hour or so.

  Something brushed against Danner and he stared in confusion at the empty air. He saw a glimmer of a strange, sort of grayish light, but it was gone before his tired mind could fully register its presence near him.

  “Danner?”

  He turned and saw Maki coming down the hallway ahead of him. The Blue paladin appeared hesitant and almost nervous.

  “Maki,” Danner said by way of greeting. He glanced at the doors nearest him. “It’s been a little while since I’ve been in this section. Do you know where there’s a spare room I might use to catch up on some sleep until Garnet and the others arrive?”

  “Sure,” Maki said, looking relieved. “This room right here is empty, actually. I’ll get a message to some people so your friends know where to find you.”

  Danner was too tired to smile.

  “Thanks, Maki,” he said gratefully. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem, Danner,” the other Blue paladin replied. He opened the door for Danner and gestured for him to proceed him into the room. Danner eyed the nearby bed longingly and all but collapsed into it. He was snoring lightly before Maki even had a chance to close the door.

  Maki continued down the hallway to his own small quarters. The living arrangements were sparse, but his needs were simple and the Prism provided that much, at least. He glanced back toward where he’d just deposited Danner and sighed.

  Opening the door to his room, Maki had taken only one step before he stopped in shock. A strange gray light filled his room for a moment, then disappeared as Maki crumpled to the ground. The door shifted on unseen currents and bumped gently against Maki’s lifeless legs as a pool of blood slowly spread from beneath his body.

  - 4 -

  Brican broke his contact with the other denarae and ordered all of his men to form up in a nearby street. Left alone with the old priest, Brican was suddenly very uncomfortable. The ghosts of his past crowded close in Brican’s mind, and he tried in vain to shake the images and sensations they evoked.

  The old man shifted his weight and peered up at Brican uncertainly.

  “Are you all right, my son?” Father Charles asked.

  Brican drew back slightly in surprise. “I’m… fine,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem troubled,” the elderly priest replied with concern heavy in his voice. “I sense a great turmoil in your soul. A burning pain and a terrible, terrible anger.”

  Brican swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and a dryness in his mouth.

  “It’s nothing, Father,” he replied, irritated to hear hoarseness in his voice. “Nothing personal, anyway. I had a bad personal experience with the church, and seeing you just brought back some painful memories.”

  Now why the Hell did I tell him that? Brican wondered in exasperation. He doesn’t need to know my damn life history.

  Father Charles nodded sadly.

  “I’m sorry to say, I think I understand,” he said, and Brican was surprised to see remembered pain on the old man’s face. He released a haggard sigh. “I fear I know all too well, and I am truly, truly sorry for whatever may have happened to you.”

  Without stopping to think about what he was doing, Brican kythed and plunged into the man’s thoughts. For a moment, he was overwhelmed with a consuming sadness and grief, coupled with a righteous anger and longing doubts. The emotions were so powerful, Brican nearly staggered under their weight. It took him a moment to filter through the chaotic sadness and find the source. Finally, he saw.

  “You held those denarae children until they died,” Brican whispered, fighting a sudden tightness in his chest, “praying all the while. You prayed to heal them, to reverse the damage of hatred, and still they died.”

  Unbidden, unnoticed tears trickled down Brican’s cheeks, tears that were mirrored on the old pastor’s awe-struck face as they stared at each other. The memories from the priest were too close to Brican’s own to prevent the tearful reaction. Once again, he saw his friend’s children cradled in his arms, blood thick past his elbows as smoke choked the air around him.

  “They were innocents,” the pastor wept, “and they were slaughtered for no better reason than the color of their skin.”

  “You used to believe denarae were little more than animals,” Brican said, not as an accusation, but an affirmation to the man’s thoughts. In a distant part of his mind, he heard the angry shouts of humans looking for him and felt the pain in his leg as blood oozed onto the ground. He saw again his parents’ bodies broken and bleeding before him. He felt again the suffocating terror that choked off his cries for fear he’d be discovered.

  “I learned otherwise when I forced myself to live among them, trying to understand their lives,” Father Charles said. “I saw and felt the truth.”

  “And then the mob came, men from your old parish,” Brican said.

  “They attacked the denarae village, screaming curses, calling them Satan’s children; things I had preached to them and told them as God’s truth.” Father Charles paused and looked away from Brican in shame.

  “When they came, I tried to speak to them and tell them the truth, but they hurled my own words back at me with fanatical fervor and threw me to the ground,” he continued. “They would not harm me, but neither would they heed me. In the end, all of the denarae were slain, and I was left alone to weep in the ashes of my foolishness and blindness.”

  Finally, Father Charles looked back up at Brican, his eyes pleading.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t my village,” Brican replied in a broken voice as he tried to compose himself. He banished the haunting memories with a fierce shake of his head. Wings and demons, what is wrong with me?

  “But they are your people,” the pastor protested. “Please. I have carried this grief and guilt hidden within me for years… decades. And yet here you are, knowing the secret truths without even being told. God has brought you to me so that I might be at last forgiven for my sins. How else to explain this miracle?”

  Brican closed his eyes, fighting the pain that surged through him. His own grief mingled with the pain he had seen and felt in the old human’s mind until they were so inextricably bound together, he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. The children he saw in his arms were no longer faces he knew, but the two children held by the pastor in his memories. The hate-filled voices he heard were the same, but now they mocked him for turning on his own teachings and protecting Satan-spawned vermin. The hatred toward humans he felt was mingled with self-loathing and piteous despair.

  “I cannot forgive you,” Brican said in a hoarse whisper. Father Charles groaned in pain.

  “I cannot forgive you, because it is not my place, nor is it in my power to grant absolution,” Brican said.

  “I am damned!” the priest wailed and collapsed to his knees. “I am damned.”

  “Then tell people,” Brican said on sudden inspiration. He opened his eyes and knelt so he was looking the old man in the eyes. “You have kept this guilt bottled up, slowly poisoning you. Today, you have lanced the wound, but it will build again unless you drain it again and again.

  “Those people died because of blindness and intolerance. You have seen through those sins,” Brican said passionately, clutching Father Charles’s hands. “You have it within your power to tell other people the truth. You cannot avenge the deaths of those children you held, but you can make their deaths mean something. Do not hide your past, use it as a shield against future injustices.”

  Father Charles wiped the tears of grief from his eyes and stared at Brican in wonder. His eyes welled up again, this time with tears of wonder and joy.

  “God has indeed brought us together,” he whispered. “He has forgiven me and shown me the path to my soul’s redemption. Thank you, my son,” he said, and reached up to pull Brican’s head down lower so he could kiss the de
narae’s forehead. “Thank you,” he repeated.

  Brican slowly stood. He stared at the aged human for a moment, then turned and walked away in silence. He wasn’t convinced God had taken any personal interest in bringing them together, nor was he certain the old man had received any sort of divine message of redemption. Brican’s actual beliefs were loose at best, but the experience shook him to the core of his being, and Brican felt something within him had been profoundly changed by the strange encounter. Hauntingly, his words and thoughts from only a short time ago came back to haunt him.

  What the Hell is God waiting for? Why not go ahead and start fixing it right now?

  Had God answered him? Brican was, by nature, impertinent and disruptive toward most authority figures. Had his brash challenge been accepted and his scorn thrown back in his face? Part of him wanted to fall to his knees in awe, while another part wanted to scream in frustration, “Is this what it takes to get you to act? Must we question and challenge you?”

  Through his doubts and even fear of the meeting, one hope shone through that perhaps the old man’s message would make some sort of difference.

  Chapter 7

  Juries can be swayed by clever arguments, judges can be bought or intimidated, and evidence can be lost or falsified. Thus, a paladin of justice is – under the guidance of God – a force of law unto himself and must be free to render an impartial decision.

  - “Teachings of the Blue Facet” (456 AM)

  - 1 -

  Flasch grumbled good-naturedly to himself as he walked through the halls of the chapterhouse.

  “Why couldn’t Danner just crash somewhere by the main gates?” he muttered. “Or maybe even just fall down on his face in a courtyard somewhere? Uncomfortable for him, maybe, but it would save me a bit of walking. Damn selfish, that’s what it is.”

  The Violet paladin chuckled to himself as he considered thumping himself in the head for making such a ridiculous statement. There’s no one else around to thump me, he thought to himself, and that’s half the fun.