Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  His master had been mumbling curses at the Solstice and its light for the past hour. For some reason known only to himself, he stopped, and shifted his baleful gaze toward Guilder. Lamortain weighed more than four of his servants combined, and his jowls hung from his face like a bulldog’s. Puffy cheeks and a heavy brow made his eyes resemble small buttons sunk deep into soft dough. He stared at the servant and motioned with his index finger. “Come here, Guilder,” he commanded in a deep, authoritarian voice. His menacing tone filled every crisp syllable.

  He jumped and scuttled toward the throne, head bowed to avoid the haunting red irises of the dark sorcerer’s eyes. “How may I serve you, my Lord?”

  “Do you see my throne?” Lamortain asked.

  “Yes, my Lord.” In the dim light, his master’s gray hand glided along the smooth surface of the throne. The Trials of Fire which initiated dark mages also bleached their skin to a pasty light gray. Sunlight, the bane of all Golgent, burned their skin, and blinded them in mere moments.

  “Is it made of stone?” Tap, tap, tap, went his finger.

  “No, my Lord.” Guilder shuddered as an impish grin grew on Lamortain’s face. The master studied him with unholy delight. His tapping signaled extreme annoyance, which could easily become a violent and sometimes deadly rage.

  “Is it made of wood?” Tap, tap, tap.

  “No, my Lord.” What evil rites the Golgent must endure, Guilder thought. The better nature of humanity had been stripped from them. The gray skin, the loss of hair…but those blood-red irises disturbed him the most. Not only for their sinister appearance, but also for their uncanny night vision. The most subtle twitch of a servant’s face could be detected from across a pitch black room. And one never knew how a mage, especially Lamortain, would react to such a flinch.

  “Then tell me what it’s made from.”

  “Skulls, my Lord,” Guilder said.

  “Whose skulls?”

  “Your enemies and,” he swallowed hard, “servants who have disappointed you.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Long nails signified power. They prevented performance of manual labor, and therefore symbolized his status as a master of many servants.

  “You did bring my message to Xantasia?”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Guilder trembled.

  “Why does she keep me waiting?” Lamortain’s shout echoed through the chamber. His fist slammed on the throne, cracking one of the skulls.

  The massive doors of the throne room creaked open. Xantasia flung her arms wide with a dramatic flair as she glided in. Between her dagged sleeves and the backlight from the hall’s torches, she could be mistaken for a dark angel. She sauntered toward the throne, her sensuous movements more feline than human.

  A small spark within Guilder’s spirit leaped for joy. Xantasia’s presence meant the dark mage’s anger would be soothed. He peeked at Lamortain, whose eyes had locked on the sorceress. The master’s voice boomed again. “Pleasing me at times does not give you the license to keep me waiting. You anger me.” He dislodged the cracked skull from his throne and crushed it with both hands.

  She knelt before him. “Be not angry, my Lord. I was not yet finished divining when I received your message. My delay is born from my desire to serve you well.” Xantasia stood and their eyes locked. Most never dared to take such a liberty. But as a sorceress of the Golgent and Lamortain’s most trusted accomplice, she alone held such license.

  Xantasia moved toward the throne. A palpable, smoldering heat passed between the two of them. What could she possibly see in him? Guilder thought. On the other hand, it was easier to understand what he saw in her. A voluptuous figure, sensuous lips and high cheekbones eclipsed her bald head and blood-red eyes.

  Long ago, when she’d first arrived, she had sparkling green eyes and long red hair, along with a pleasant smile that used to give Guilder hope. But now that was a distant memory. His heart winced at the leer on her face.

  Annoyance bled away from Lamortain’s face as his long nails stroked Xantasia’s eyebrows and lashes, features which male sorcerers lacked. “What news do you bring me today, my dear?”

  “I think my Lord is going to be pleased with the news,” she said, grinning eerily as she stared into his eyes.

  He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “We have it?”

  “Let us say they no longer have the Orb, and it’s on its way to us.”

  The sorcerer bellowed an evil laugh. “Guilder! How long does it take to travel here from Mentiria?”

  Guilder gulped. He hated questions which lacked an exact answer. “On foot or by caravan, my Lord?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stroked his chin. “Send for the quartermaster.”

  He scurried out of the room to a waiting runner, passed him the instructions and returned to his place.

  “I can’t wait to see the look on that fool’s face,” Xantasia said. “On the dark night when our army storms Ethelton Palace with fire and lightning, let me be the one, my Lord. Let me be the one to destroy King Baldomir.”

  The corners of Lamortain’s mouth curled up. “Will you use lightning or fire?”

  “Fire, of course,” she said with a playful grin. “Think of it. The king and his family turned into a set of flaming torches for all to see.” She crossed her arms and slowly let her hands glide over her shoulders and down to her wrists. “They will all cower in fear at your feet, my Lord. Soon – so soon. Think of how long we’ve waited for this.”

  “This calls for a celebration! Are there any new acquisitions, Guilder?”

  Acquisitions. A fine word for slaves. Such a word made it easy to deny a slave’s humanity. “Several, my Lord.”

  “Bring me one.” He paused and regarded his companion. “No, bring two of them, and two of the lower life forms as well.”

  Guilder bowed and hurried away. He passed the instructions to another runner outside the doors and came back to the throne room.

  “Why two of the lower creatures?” Xantasia asked.

  “Let me surprise you.”

  The great doors opened and the quartermaster, Shillwurm, came running into the hall. He cowered in front of the throne, head down, shifting from foot to foot. “You summoned me, my Lord?”

  “How long does it take to have something delivered from Mentiria?”

  Shillwurm’s shoulders relaxed. “Well. Depending upon weather and mode of travel, it can be anywhere from sixty days to five months, my Lord.”

  “Why such a difference? Can’t you give me a proper answer?” Lamortain raised a finger and shot a small blue spark at the quartermaster’s leg.

  “Arouch!” Shillwurm collapsed to the floor, leg twitching with violent spasms. He spoke through gritted teeth. “An express caravan from Mentiria to Ethelton takes sixty days, my Lord. Then it’s a short trip from Ethelton through the Gorthul Pass. But if the caravan takes the winding route to stop at all the major cities, it can take four to five months. On the other hand, a boat on the Queen’s River can get here much faster than any horse or wagon. But one would have to get from Mentiria to Barterville first, and that’s a long and unpredictable journey.”

  Judging from the sorcerer’s half grin, the answer satisfied him. Guilder’s attention shifted to the doors when two orc guards arrived. They had brought two fresh youths in their late teens or early twenties, a lad and maiden. The youths’ gazes skittered around the room, and they huddled close to each other. Behind them, two more guards entered, dragging two chained goblins. The nasty little creatures kicked and screamed in their reedy voices, but couldn’t overpower their captors.

  Lamortain motioned for the guards to chain the goblins to the far wall. Clangs echoed as the orcs slammed the shackles together and locked them with metal pins. They struggled and pulled against their bonds in fruitless desperation. “Vystbo nash!” one begged. “Nilost belki!” Guilder didn’t understand their language, but he’d heard the same anguished pleas for mercy too often. Pleas that always went unanswered. He suppressed the urge
to avert his eyes; it would only anger the master.

  “You can call fire on the right, my dear, and I will call for lightning on the left.”

  With that quick warning, a blue aura appeared around Lamortain’s hands, and a red one formed around Xantasia’s. Lightning exploded from his fingers while a thin line of fire burst from each of her palms. The sorcerers wore expressions of grim bloodlust as they hit their targets, teeth bared, eyes lit with the joy of the kill. Lamortain laughed as the goblins screamed and writhed in abject pain, the left encased in a sphere of blue lightning, the right burning brightly as a bonfire.

  When the terrible squealing stopped, the two dissipated their spells. “Such fleeting joy,” Xantasia said.

  Guilder stepped in to disperse the acrid smoke from around the bodies, fighting to keep down the meager contents of his stomach. He gagged as he flailed his arms to fan away the stinking fumes.

  When he was done, Xantasia strolled over to the small corpses and bent to examine them. “Mine has been completely and evenly charred, my Lord. Yours still resembles a goblin.”

  “Only from the outside,” Lamortain replied. “Guards!” The two burly orcs snapped to attention, halberds at the ready. He pointed at the smoldering goblins. “Slice them in half.”

  Obediently, the guards swung their halberds through the corpses. Loud pings rang out as their sharp blades cut through the bodies and struck the stone wall. Lifeless dull thuds sounded when the lower halves of the goblins fell to the floor. The dark mages bent to examine the results. Lamortain smiled. “You see, my dear? Your goblin still bleeds. But mine has been completely cooked.”

  “Although I still prefer fire, my Lord, the final choice is yours, of course.” She walked back to Lamortain, and gently stroked his arm with her nails. “And you know how I love to obey your commands.”

  Lamortain grinned as she licked her lips. Then, as if having the same thought, they eyed the lad and maiden. The pair had huddled in the corner, watching warily while the goblins cooked. The new acquisitions hugged each other, and the girl whimpered.

  “Time to celebrate, my Lord?” Xantasia asked.

  With a wave of his hand, the master dismissed the quartermaster and guards. They scampered out of the room. “Guilder.” Lamortain pointed at the two youths. “Bring them to my chamber. And fetch us a banquet after an hour.”

  Guilder closed his eyes for the briefest instant. He had to maintain an air of indifference, bury any glint of sympathy. A difficult task which did not become easier over time. Steeling himself, he opened a door behind the throne and gestured to the two teens. Hesitantly, they approached, and he commanded them to enter the room beyond. “Get in there.” They obeyed, clinging to each other and taking small steps. Lamortain and Xantasia followed, hand in hand, smiling contentedly.

  With a tug, Guilder pulled the door shut. The thought of their gray, inhuman hands violating the two innocents stung his heart. By all that was holy, he wished he had the power to stand against the will of the dark mages. But he was merely a simple man. What could he do but obey? Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he walked toward a small hourglass and flipped it over.

  CHAPTER 5

  SECRET STEPS

  THE FOUR-STORY GRANITE MONASTERY ROSE against the sky, dwarfing the humble wattle-and-daub houses and shops in the area. A surrounding fieldstone wall added to the grandeur of the place, in stark contrast to its smaller neighbors.

  Mixed emotions surged through Dagorat. His heart raced at the prospect of finding answers, but the thought of the toil ahead, especially after a busy morning, weighed on his mind. He and Cyril trudged up the tree-lined pathway and through the arched entrance in the wall. Inside, near the arch, they spied Liberon sitting under a yew tree, his nose buried in a leather-bound book. Twigs crunched underfoot as they approached the young monk.

  Liberon leaped up to greet them, though his beaming face reflected relief rather than joy. “Welcome to Farmstead Abbey,” he said with a bow. “Come, I’ll take you to Brother Maynard.” He led them through a pair of great wooden doors.

  Inside the main entrance, three long hallways stretched away before them. Statues and pedestals adorned the left corridor; plaques and low benches lined the right. Both ended with stairs to the upper floors. Liberon took the third option and led them straight ahead. Banners and tapestries depicting the kings and queens of old flanked them on all sides. Dagorat tilted his head back, and the sheer scale of the place overwhelmed his senses. The ceiling soared so high that the hall’s dim light failed to illuminate it. Swallowing hard, he shifted his attention to the massive windows, beautifully made with small pieces of painted glass held together in a network of thin black iron. The foliage outside showed through the busy iron frames, and cast dancing colored shadows on the walls and floor. He studied the strange patterns until the trio reached a door on the far end.

  They emerged into a sunny, open courtyard where several monks busily tended a fragrant herb garden. A number of large stalls lined the far wall. At first, Dagorat mistook them for stables. But in two of the spaces, monks dried and ground a collection of spices. In other areas, more brothers wove cloth and tailored robes of all sorts. Crafting areas.

  From a corner of the garden, Maynard glanced up from his plants and waved. He made his way over to them and ushered all three through a nearby door, saying, “Come to my study.” Down a short corridor paralleling the courtyard, they settled within a cluttered office resembling Cyril’s consultation room. The study overflowed with books, scrolls and furnishings from around the world which marked Maynard as a well-traveled person, perhaps even more so than Cyril or Dagorat. A large window afforded a view onto the spice garden and crafting areas. While Dagorat watched the activity outside, Felix slipped into the room and joined them.

  Maynard broke the silence. “I know tending spices might seem a strange thing to do at this particular moment, under the circumstances. But a monastery is a small world unto itself. Everything must appear to be like any other day to my brethren.”

  Indeed, all the workers outside toiled quietly and didn’t seem aware of anything amiss. They hadn’t even reacted to the strangers. No – over there, what was that one doing? This monk feigned interest in his work in one of the craft niches, but kept lifting the side of his cowl to peer through the window at the group. A soft hum filled Dagorat’s ears momentarily, barely audible. Mage-Sense again? Possibly, but the sound was too faint to tell. Perhaps the monk simply didn’t like outsiders? “Who’s that grinding the spices?”

  The abbot followed his gaze. “That’s Brother Roderick.” Maynard rolled his eyes. “Strange you should single him out.”

  “Why?”

  “He causes the most problems for me. Nothing serious, of course. Some days he’s full of brilliant ideas, and can follow the most complicated set of instructions. On other days he’s forgetful, bumbling, and persistent about the most trivial things.”

  “I doubt the quirks of a single monk have any bearing on the events of this morning,” Cyril said. “Let’s begin.”

  Everyone settled in the overstuffed armchairs dotting the room. Dagorat supposed he may as well be the one to start, and focused on Maynard. “We need you to retrace all your steps before, during, and after the ceremony.”

  “Starting from when you awakened,” Cyril said.

  “Very well.” Maynard paused, collecting his thoughts. “I woke as usual for Morghens and – ”

  “Morghens?” Dagorat asked.

  “Our day is divided according to prayer times. Morghens are our early Morning Prayer cycle,” Liberon said.

  Maynard began again. “I woke at three as usual, got dressed, prayed, and went searching for Brother Felix to help prepare.”

  “Unfortunately I was in a deep sleep, as there are no formal prayers during Morghens on the Solstice,” Felix said.

  “I was distressed over his absence, but luckily I ran into Brother Roderick, who I dispatched immediately to rouse Brother Felix. At first, Brother Ro
derick refused my request, saying he needed to sweep the front walkway. Certainly rather odd, because we don’t start chores until after six.”

  “And when did that happen?” Cyril asked.

  “About three-thirty.”

  Cyril raised a brow. “He insisted upon sweeping the path so early in the morning? I see what you mean by causing problems for you.”

  “Yes, but as I said, it’s never serious. I reminded him about our vow of obedience, and he went off to fetch Brother Felix. Then I went to the Sanctellum to make preparations for the Solstice.”

  “What kind of preparations?” Dagorat asked.

  “Fresh candles, a pedestal for the Orb, new white linen for the altar, vestments for – ”

  Dagorat interrupted, “Many small tasks to perform. When did Felix arrive?”

  “About four.”

  “And when did you finish the preparations?” Dagorat stood and paced, rubbing his chin.

  “Around four-thirty.”

  “How are you certain about the time? And did you lock everything up so an outsider couldn’t get in?” Dagorat asked.

  “We keep time candles burning. As for your other concern, the outer courtyard and all the doors were locked, as they are every night,” Maynard answered.

  “What happened next?”

  “Brother Felix and I went to wake the others.”

  “Where was Roderick?”

  The monks’ faces went blank. They eyed each other, all expecting someone else to have the answer. After an awkward moment, Maynard theorized, “Back in his chamber, I suppose.”

  “He’s not the thief,” Cyril said.

  Dagorat bit his lip to cover a grin. It was so funny when Cyril tried to play the expert in this sort of thing. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he’s still here. The thief must be long gone by now.”