It was the man that followed a few steps behind Karl that drew a long, hard look from Cor. He was a Westerner to be certain, roughly halfway between the height of Cor and Karl and very wide of frame. His straight, dark brown hair was combed and kept very flat and still against his scalp in a stark contrast to the shorter man he followed. The stranger wore a full brown robe complete with hood, though this was down behind his shoulders as it was a warm day, ornamented with markings indicating him to be a priest of some import. As the two men drew closer, he could clearly see the priest’s round, jovial face with fat lips that looked as if they slightly smiled even while he slept, and the man’s robe did little to hide an equally round figure. The priest had dark brown eyes in perfect concert with his hair, and Cor watched as they took in every detail.
“Lord Dahken, I apologize for the wait,” Karl said as he reached the top of the long slope, huffing slightly.
“I understand you have many duties Karl,” Cor replied. He looked to the priest who distinctly smelled of flowered perfumes, likely to cover the unpleasant scents that usually accompany one of such bulk. “Who are you?”
“Aidan, Lord of Byrverus, servant to Garod and Queen Erella. I arrived yesterday to oversee the proper establishment of Garod’s order in Fort Haldon.”
“I would expect someone such as yourself to announce his arrival to me immediately, not whenever he felt like it.”
“You have no authority over me Cor Pelson. I come with the authority of Queen Erella Herself. Fort Haldon is set to grow, and it will soon be a center of order for the people who live within your grant. It is necessary that all proper services are available to the people, including the proper religious guidance,” Aidan said, unmasked superiority in his tone. “Immediately upon arriving, I instructed Karl to include a temple befitting of the King of Gods.”
“You will not call me by name, priest,” Cor growled angrily. “You may call me Lord Dahken only. This is Fort Haldon, not Byrverus, and I am law here. Fort Haldon is mine, land and title bestowed by the queen, and I do not bow to you priest. The Dahken do not worship your god.”
“This is not open to discussion,” Aidan replied, crossing his arms. “The queen commands the temple because the people of Aquis need Garod and the guidance of His priests. We protect them and teach them how to live in freedom.”
“You put the yoke of your god upon them,” Cor said, his temper flaring. Anger boiled inside him, and he strode purposefully to stand a mere foot from the priest. His palm longed to feel Soulmourn within it, but he repressed the feeling. “Garod’s priests have enslaved the minds of Westerners as much as the Loszians once enslaved their bodies. You force them to live as you would have them live, at any time imposing your will as the will of Garod’s. I will have no part of it at Fort Haldon.”
“You tread dangerously Dahken. I know of your blasphemy before Queen Erella, but She will have none of it in this matter.”
Aidan’s voice turned hard as cold steel, and the portly priest’s jovial face had become stone. They, Cor and Aidan, stood staring each other in the eyes for a long moment, each challenging the other, and Cor’s brain hurt with the screaming call to action from Soulmourn and Ebonwing. Finally and abruptly, he turned from the priest and slowly wandered back to the north end of the table where Fort Haldon’s plans were laid out and weighted at its corners from the wind. Aidan’s face softened a bit, and the satisfaction of a victory shone in his eyes.
“Karl, am I correct in assuming Garod’s Temple is nearly as large as the keep itself?” Cor asked, his head bent over as he leaned his hands on the tabletop.
“In ground area, yes Lord Dahken.”
“Very well.” Cor stood upright and turned quickly to again lock eyes with the priest. He approached Aidan as he spoke, “We shall build Garod His temple, but we shall decrease the size to a quarter. I recognize the need of some to worship Garod, but there are other gods we must pay homage to as well. We shall build a temple to Dahk, the blood god and the god of my people, and it will be of equal size to Garod’s, no smaller, no larger.”
Cor relished Aidan’s reaction as his face turned from arrogant satisfaction to anger, but he was not yet done outraging the priest. “Also, in deference to my Thyss, there will be a temple to the elemental gods, of which Hykan is King, again no smaller or larger than Garod’s. I command you to erect one last temple, a temple to the dark gods of Losz. I’m not sure what such an edifice would entail, but perhaps you can research it a bit.”
Aidan had surpassed anger and moved on to pure, unbridled hatred and disgust. His face turned red and very much resembled a tomato to Cor, and his fleshy lips trembled with seething. The priest’s hands had dropped limply to his sides with the shock of Cor’s audacity, and it was a long moment of silence before he realized that Cor merely stood before him, awaiting an answer.
“You go too far, Lord Dahken Cor!” he screamed, these last words riddled with disgust. “Your blasphemy knows no bounds! You think yourself as powerful as Queen Erella, perhaps even Garod Himself, but you are no errant flame. No. You are a vile insect, vermin, and I will see you stamped out of existence for your blasphemy! I shall make sure the queen knows of this!”
“Please, tell her yourself, and tell her now,” Cor said smugly, and with that, he struck Aidan near the shoulders with both open palms, all of his weight behind the blow.
The ponderous man could do nothing but fall over backwards, and roll down the slope away from Cor and Karl. At first, he fell head over feet, but after a few such somersaults, began to simply roll sideways through the grass, his large waist acting as a wheel of sorts. He ended his roll with a great splash into a puddle of mud at the bottom the long slope, and the laborers moving from here to there on various tasks stopped to stare. As Aidan lifted himself, his great brown robe soiled and dripping with mud, the men around him began to laugh heartily at his expense. The priest bit his tongue to subdue a curse as he looked uphill at Cor who laughed for all to hear, and he turned his great bulk from the scene to collect his belongings.
Cor ceased laughing and turned to Karl who stood staring after Aidan, a look of the utmost shock on his face. “Karl, would you please strike the temple.”
“Lord Dahken that may not have been wise.”
“The queen and I have crossed words before, and we may again. But Karl, there are other gods in this world who are no less real than Garod. I have no qualms with Garod, but I will not force the worship of Him because a priest says I must. No, it is time for the Shining West to change.”
* * *
In the weeks since Rael’s death, Keth had taken to training the Dahken, as Rael would have, and he worked with Marya and Celdon daily. In Rael’s quarters, he found volumes of history covering a wide range of topics, all of them written in Rumedian and in Rael’s hand. Keth assumed that Rael had scribed them from memory; Cor had told him the story of Sanctum, its destruction and the vast wealth of knowledge that Taraq’nok had burnt with it. With these Keth enlisted Marya’s help, as she had picked up the Rumedian language far more readily than he had. In fact most of the younger Dahken, the children, seemed to more easily adapt their mind to the ancient tongue. And that was exactly it - Keth simply could not learn to think in any other language. When he read a text in Rumedian, he found himself translating each sentence, if not each word as he went, whereas Marya could simply read it unhaltingly as easily as he could read Western.
Today Dahken Keth fumed, and the momentary diversion of the fat priest rolling down a hill into the mud below did little to raise his mood. His session with Marya and Celdon had gone well, and he thought the two advanced as well as he could expect. It was Geoff that made him so furious; he arrived at the training grounds in his usual disheveled and hung over form, but this time he still drank from a wineskin. Keth endeavored to keep him from distracting the others, and after a few minutes Geoff wandered off, likely back to his quarters. Keth disbanded the group for lunch, in fact deciding that they were done for the day.
>
He had not yet gotten used to wearing his armor, but Cor made it clear that he must do so every day, especially now that he was so involved in training the younger Dahken. Shortly after they arrived at Fort Haldon, Cor had the blacksmith begin to fashion armor for both Keth and Geoff, though the latter never wore his. The smith had given them some options, and Keth chose a relatively plain chain shirt with cowl and a steel breastplate with a high shine that strapped on around his sides and over his shoulders. He also wore steel plate legguards and sabatons over leggings of chain. A simple cotton shirt and leggings protected his skin from the harsh links of the chainmail. The plate pieces shined silver in the sunlight, a bright contrast to the hard gray of the chainmail. Keth postponed any combat for the first few days after he began wearing the armor while his muscles learned to work while encased in steel; it was a strange sensation, and he found it tiring.
Dahken Keth very nearly climbed the hill to speak with his lord, but when he reached the bottom of the slope, he instead turned about to confront Geoff himself. If Geoff didn’t want to be a part of the Dahken and Fort Haldon, it was time that he left, that he went east to answer whatever called to his blood. These thoughts carried him to the Dahken barracks and Geoff’s quarters, one of the large rooms immediately adjacent and attached to the barracks, but not directly connected. Keth beat on the heavy door, his blood boiling. The door’s hinges whined slightly as it opened just a few inches, revealing Geoff’s haggard face. Keth thought his eyes looked even more sunken in than usual, the dark rings under his eyes swollen and more pronounced.
“What do you want Keth?” he asked.
“Let me in. I need to speak with you.”
“Go away,” Geoff retorted, and the door began to close.
Keth’s temper flared, and he leapt to throw his entire weight against the door, impacting its center with his right side. Not expecting the sudden force, Geoff went sprawling to the floor of his room as the door was flung inward, and the room was flooded with the bright light of the noon sun. Keth’s momentum carried him inward, and as the door swung wide he landed heavily on top of Geoff, making the smaller young man groan. The only light in the room came from outside, and Keth decided he need not look around too much. The room stank horribly of piss, shit, wine and vomit. Keth shifted to keep Geoff somewhat held down, but so that he could breathe.
“Get off of me gods damn you!” Geoff huffed at him.
“Not until you listen to me, Geoff. I am done with you, do you understand me?” Keth shouted in Geoff’s face. “I am a Dahken by the word of Lord Dahken Cor. You will show me respect. You will respect him. Either come to training with the others or don’t. I care not which, but you will no longer make this example for the others!”
“Get off me Keth or I -“
“You’ll what? You’ll kill me, just as you killed Dahken Rael? Yes, I know what you’ve done; I saw it in your eyes, and I will make you pay for it,” Keth threatened, and in his anger, Keth’s spittle struck Geoff in the face. He drew his sword to hold the point mere inches from Geoff’s throat.
“Think this through Keth,” Geoff said slowly after he thought for a moment. “Whether you kill me or not, you will never be able to prove that I meant to kill Rael. But if you’re right and I did use the blood ghast to murder him, what chance do you have? Rael used his powers for over a hundred years. You? A few months maybe? Put your sword away and get off me Dahken Keth.”
Keth very nearly rammed the point of his blade into Geoff’s throat to sever veins, arteries and spine from skull, but he felt his anger slowly diffuse and leave him as the full meaning of Geoff’s words became clear. He knew Geoff was right. Keth sheathed his sword and stood, removing his weight from the prone Geoff. With a fistful of cotton tunic, he yanked Geoff to his feet and pushed him against one of the room’s stone walls.
“I will leave you be Geoff, but -“
“But what?” Geoff asked deliberately, confidently.
“Gather your things and go east. Go into Losz, go find whatever is calling you,” Keth said. “I’ve watched you, so don’t deny it. I know Lord Dahken Cor has talked to you about it. Go tell him its time for you to leave, or I will tell him that you murdered Dahken Rael. And he will believe me.”
15.
The Loszian had followed the woman with the golden hair for three days, ever since she left Fort Haldon by simply walking out its new huge double doors. He had briefly glimpsed her a few weeks previously as she left the Spine and entered the Fort. As he waited and watched Fort Haldon for any signs, any changes that would require report to Lord Menak, he never dreamed to see her again. When she entered the pass, he stealthily shadowed her movements, but the woman didn’t stay in the pass more than a few hours, climbing up one side and striking out south through the mountains.
He had never before seen anyone like her; she was tall, nearly six feet, lithe and graceful, but clearly with muscles as strong as iron. Her bronze skin and golden hair made it obvious she was neither Westerner, nor Loszian. She didn’t just move about the land, but instead attacked the mountains, crevasses and cracks ferociously with zeal. She was dressed in a solid black tunic and pants that seemed to be made of silk, though it occasionally glimmered in the sun like steel. She carried a long rope apparently made of the same material, and it was immensely strong as she often used it to support her own weight. She brought no other climbing equipment of any kind, using her hands and sandaled feet with great skill.
He followed her for three days as she camped when the sun passed below the horizon, and she awoke when the morning sun’s first rays touched her face. He was Lord Menak’s best pathfinder and spy; the men of Fort Haldon had never detected his presence, even when he was mere feet from their new granite wall and neither did the woman with the golden hair. As was normal for him, he made not one misstep, did not knock loose one pebble or rustle one bush. He followed, watched and waited for any indication of what purpose upon which she was set.
On the fourth morning, the Loszian decided to take action. The woman sat on the ground with her legs crossed breakfasting on dried meat as she stared into the direction she had been traveling over the last few days. Her long curved sword lay on the blanket to one side, easily accessible to be sure, but he knew he would be upon her before she could react. The Loszian had no intention to ravish the woman, as enjoyable as the prospect seemed, for he knew that he would have mere moments before her corded sinews would threaten to push him off of her. He wanted to know what she did out in the Spine, in the case that the intelligence would be of some use to Lord Menak.
He stole one final silent glance from around the rocks behind which he had hidden through the previous night. His prey had not moved, and with no trace of sound from beneath his soft leather boots, the Loszian slowly crossed the short fifteen feet or so that separated him from the woman with the golden hair. He crouched slightly as he walked, his straight bladed knife held low and pointed toward her back. He would take her by that golden ponytail, wrenching her head back as hard as he could, and force her down upon her stomach. With his knife’s edge at her throat, he would glean what he wanted to know.
“It took you long enough,” she said, still looking ahead. “So perhaps now that you’ve decided to stop hiding you will tell me exactly what you’re doing.”
Her speech shocked the Loszian into indecision, and his every muscle froze in place. He was Lord Menak’s best, the most stealthy and subtle, and he knew this section of the Spine like no other. It was simply impossible that the woman with the golden hair knew he had been following her. Nevertheless, in his moment of unsure immobility, she stood, turned and faced him with her vicious curved sword in hand. The blade reflected the sun with an eerie green light, the likes of which he had never seen, and the Loszian knew he had likely forfeited his life in following her through the Spine.
“So you are only part Loszian then,” Thyss said in accented Loszian, sweeping her eyes across his form. “I know something of the Loszian race and how
it breeds with Westerners, and I’d say you are less than a quarter, spawn of some necromancer and slaves several generations back I am sure. Whom do you serve?”
While speaking, she had closed the distance between them to a mere four or five feet, all the while watching him with a predatory gaze. Even though her swordarm hung loosely at her side, he had no doubt his life was in clear and sudden danger as she looked upon him as a cat looks upon a trapped mouse. A coward at heart, the Loszian sought to escape, pivoting quickly to run back behind the rocks and hastily make away from this woman. He made but one step in that direction when roaring yellow orange flames burst from the rocky ground to bar his way. The wall of fire burned well over his head, and he instinctively turned to dart to his left. He halted immediately as yet another flame barrier appeared before him.
Thyss laughed haughtily behind him.
“You’re going nowhere spawn of some Loszian rapist, so let’s have a talk about why you followed me and what you were doing so near Fort Haldon. Speak plainly, and you may yet live.”
“If I speak, my lord will surely have me slain anyway,” he replied, “so kill me now.”
“Oh you will speak worm. Is there something wrong with your foot?” Thyss asked, pointing at his left boot, made of soft brown leather and perfectly pliable for both climbing and moving silently.
The would be assassin thought to retort her fool statement, but in hesitation he noticed a slight warmth on the toes of his left foot. The warmth grew suddenly, changing first to uncomfortable heat and then an excruciating burning. His boot smoked at the toe, and he screamed as the searing pain took him. He raised his burning foot off the ground as he frantically clutched at the boot with both hands to remove it, and the Loszian fell onto his backside, his great dexterity forgotten in the mad rush to remove the offending thing. As he finally pulled it off, he found no relief the pain; he watched in horror as the toes themselves burned. The flesh blackened, pulled tight and split from the flames. The sickly smell of burnt human flesh wafted slightly into the air, and he batted roughly at his disfigured toes, grunting in pain each time he struck them. The fire resisted all of his attempts to extinguish it and finally went out on its own, leaving him with charred bone nubs where the toes of his left foot once were. He sat on the rocky ground, cradling his ruined foot with streaks from several tears making clean tracks down his dirt encrusted face.
The Cor Chronicles: Volume 02 - Fire and Steel Page 14