by Mark B Frost
“It might, if we did not have a master priest to rebuild fresh cells for him as they are destroyed. As an acolyte, didn’t you construct a functional human body from raw materials?”
“That was different. While it was an impressive achievement for the Church, it was never anything more than a cadaver, a thought experiment. I did not have to concern myself with the possibility of brain death.”
“I’m merely giving you the option, I’m not trying to sway you. You’re Atheme’s healer, you make the call.”
They sat together in silence for several minutes. After this lengthy period of thought, Aveni answered, “Time is Atheme’s greatest enemy now. Your path gives him the best chance for survival.”
They cleared everyone from the Lord Councilor’s room other than a few of Aveni’s most trusted aides, then began the procedure. Kinguin administered the serum into Atheme’s bloodstream and used black magic to carefully direct it to one area at a time. The Lord Cardinal stood on the opposite side of the bed, following closely behind to rebuild healthy tissue in lieu of that which the vaccine destroyed. The aides did little more than stand by in case of an emergency.
It was an arduous procedure. Kinguin had to allow the antitoxin to linger in an area for a certain length of time to make certain it cleared the region of infection, and Aveni could not begin healing until it was clean. After sweeping over Atheme’s entire body they made a second sweep, both of them using scanning spells to seek out remaining infection. After five hours of constant work they were at last satisfied. Kinguin destroyed the antibodies, and Aveni allowed the patient to drift out of his induced coma.
Both mage and priest stood exhausted, but their relief overshadowed their fatigue. Atheme’s body needed time to accept the new cells, but Aveni was confident they would see the Lord Councilor on his feet again within a week.
In the midst of their silent celebration, Kinguin felt a twinge at the back of his mind. His throat went dry and he nearly lost his footing. Aveni gave him a concerned look and asked if he was alright. He explained that he was merely tired, and quickly excused himself.
He headed out of the Church and tapped several Scanner matrixes. “It’s impossible,” he assured himself. “It can’t be done. Maybe I am just tired.”
His Scanners came back and reported anomalies in the currents to the south of Felthespar, and an unreadable presence approaching the city. Kinguin was not certain what this meant, but swiftly headed to the nearest stable to acquire a peist.
He rode to the front gate of Felthespar, leaving his peist in the hands of one of the sentries. Just before he could give the order to open the gate, it began to rise, then the massive wooden doors on the other side were pulled open. He held his breath and waited in terror to see what entered.
A harrowed Abaddon stepped into the city. Kinguin relaxed slightly, but waited to hear the man’s report.
“Fujia,” the Champion called to the standing Guard Captain, “Relm, Myris, and Cildar are in a glade in the Ducall, injured. Send a party to retrieve them. Myris has betrayed us. If he’s alive have him apprehended immediately. Tell Shasta to assemble the Dragoons and place the Children of Cain under house arrest. It must be determined whether or not they can be trusted.”
The young officer saluted vigorously, undaunted by the responsibility that had been thrust upon her, then turned and began issuing orders.
Kinguin stepped in front of the returning knight heading into the city. Abaddon scowled, and Kinguin noticed he seemed angrier than usual. He surmised this must be related to Myris’ betrayal. “Abaddon, what has happened? Why are the others injured? And what is this about the Children of Cain?”
Abaddon looked at him blankly. A shiver of fear began to creep into Kinguin’s hands as he noticed the man’s blue eyes were an unnatural black. “Myris attacked me and I struck him down. That’s as much as you need to know. Go hide beneath your tower and leave the waking world to the rest of us.”
As Kinguin’s own temper flared at this display of insolence, Abaddon stepped past him and headed into the city. Unwilling to let this effrontery stand unanswered, the mage spun about to deliver a harsh comeback of his own.
As he turned, the sight before him froze the blood in his veins. Floating behind Abaddon’s back, held in place by unnatural will, rested Kargaroth. The Archmagus began to wring his hands in concern as his thoughts raced. His instincts at the Church had been correct—the seal in Kargaroth’s cave had been released. Abaddon and the sword each held tremendous power separately. While dangerous in their own right, his heart filled with dread as he imagined the possibilities they held together.
“Atheme,” he muttered to himself. “He has to convince him to give up the sword. I’ve got to keep him close until then.”
As he resolved this, he noticed the search party leaving to find those who were injured. He pulled one of them aside and gave specific directions to the entrance of the cave. He then signaled the sentry to return his peist, and headed to the Church to warn Aveni that he was about to have a new workload on his doorstep.
* * * * *
Cildar opened his eyes and stared at a soft white ceiling. He had seen it before, he was certain, but could not recall waking up to it. He blinked and began to move, trying to focus his thoughts. He sat up in his bed and looked around, noting the throbbing soreness in his torso.
He realized that he was in the critical care ward of the Chamber of Life. He saw his armor in a pile near the corner of the room, and looked down at his bandaged waist. He reached to touch it, and the sharp pain brought a sudden rush of memories. The cave, the rune structure, the sword, the dragon—he relived the events with a flash of terror.
The last thing he remembered was his attempt to buy Myris time to escape, and his failure to do so. Yet he had clearly made it out alive. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, but fell back onto the bed. He gasped as a fresh wave of agony washed over him, and an aide rushed to his side.
“Lord Emle, please. It’s far too soon for you to walk.”
Cildar looked at the young medic, but did not recognize her. “What happened?” he managed to say between gasping breaths.
She helped him back into the bed with a soft smile. “We’re uncertain. I was instructed to ask you when you awoke. You came to us badly injured, physically and spiritually. We were able to repair the physical damage, but Lord Aveni’s attention was split between you and Myris, so it took us a while to discover the spiritual damage.”
He focused on breathing as his head continued to swim. “Spiritual damage? I was just out of energy, used too much magic.”
The girl’s face turned serious. “Not at all, sir. Your spirit was grievously wounded. Your chamber was infected by a ravaging shadow magic. We’re not yet sure what caused it, but after we stabilized Myris it took everything we could manage to bring it to a halt. Unfortunately we cannot undo the damage it caused before we discovered it. Your chamber has been significantly diminished.”
He shook his head with an irritated look, refusing to believe the girl’s diagnosis. He raised his palms to summon an Aura and check the potency of his spirit. The spell came out weak and unsteady, and it took all of his concentration just to maintain it for a few seconds. Then it flickered out, and under no amount of effort would it form again.
He looked to the girl with an expression of horror, his eyes begging her for an answer. She was nearly moved to tears for him, and with pain in her voice said, “I’m sorry, but Lord Aveni said the infection would leave you nearly incapable of wielding white magic. Or...” she trailed off with a choke in her throat.
“Or?” he prodded insistently.
“He said the Trine Lance will no longer accept you as its wielder.”
Cildar stared in shock, not sure where to begin his outraged protests. Someone in the next room called the girl’s name and she quickly excused herself and left. He sat in his bed, continuing to stare where she had been. Gradually his eyes drifted to where his Tr
ine Lance sat propped against the wall, and tears ran openly down his face as the pride of the Scion of Emle crumbled.
* * * * *
Aveni splashed holy water on his face and sat on a wooden chair, allowing himself the first break he had taken in days. The Lord Cardinal did not like to leave a patient in serious condition, but he had reached his limit. He took a moment to say a prayer and forced himself to relax.
One of the trainees had informed him of Cildar’s recovery, so there was one issue off his mind. Atheme seemed well on his way to recovery, and Relm was expected to revive at any time. Of the Felthespari retrieved from the Ducall, she alone seemed in perfect health, so Aveni had her taken to a bed to let her sleep. Thinking on it now he worried that maybe she had suffered some spiritual harm he had not immediately detected, as with Cildar, so he ended his break and went to check on her.
He moved through hallways filled with priests and aides, many carrying medicines and herbs. Shortly he arrived at Relm’s bedside and began running scans on her spirit. Her famous cat-eared cloak had been either lost or destroyed, and she was dressed in a freshly made light purple garb. She seemed fine, so he gave her a soft nudge. She groaned in protest, but slowly opened her eyes and sat up.
Aveni smiled and sat on the edge of her bed, exhaustion sinking in once more. “I’m glad to see you, child. We have many blessings to praise Pecoros for this day.”
She turned to Aveni with silver eyes he did not recognize. “You are Lord Cardinal Aveni Leman Fresar Landes, one of Pecoros’ trusted and devout servants. It is a pleasure and an honor for me to make your acquaintance. I am Saint Sinjuin Serene, servant of our Lord Pecoros.”
Aveni’s eyes slowly widened. “My word. Dear Relm, have you recovered your memories?”
“Yes,” she answered with a nod. “But please, use my real name. I am Serene.”
“You must forgive me, milady, if I retain some skepticism. Others have claimed to be our Lady Serene before.”
“A wise policy, Cardinal. I promise to tell you more later, but right now it is imperative that I find Abaddon Daemon. Do you know where he might be?”
He thought for a moment. “It is hard to tell with the young Guardian, but I believe Kinguin will know. He mentioned something about keeping an eye on Abaddon for the next few days.”
“Kinguin is almost certainly in his chambers in the Tower.” She stood from the bed and shook his hand. “May Pecoros’ blessings rain upon you.” She glided swiftly from the room, leaving Aveni debating whether he should feel more concern or confusion. An aide entered and told him that Myris had again slipped into critical condition, and with a weary sigh he went to attend to the matter.
* * * * *
Abaddon sat in the tavern of The Camarilla drinking a flagon of beer. He finished it with a gulp and then threw it at the wall, shattering it. The bartender started to complain, but the look in the Daemon’s eyes made him reconsider.
He sat fuming inwardly. He felt a Seeker spell lock onto him and send a signal back to Kinguin. His eye twitched. He could easily have masked his position or made the Archmagus think that he was elsewhere, but he did not feel the need to stoop to such petty games. If the wizard wanted to find him, then let him. He looked forward to their next confrontation.
Kulara Karfa entered the bar and ordered his usual. As soon as he saw Abaddon, he came over and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Well met, Daemon,” he said cordially. “You heard the good news? Atheme’s on his way to a full recovery.”
Abaddon started to turn and snap a rude response, but as the words sank in his mood shifted. “Atheme is okay?”
The General nodded. “Aye. Kinguin and Aveni found a cure. He’ll be up and about in a few days, rumor has.”
The blackness in Abaddon’s eyes faded to his normal blue. “I am pleased to hear it.”
“Once he’s up we can all figure out what to do about this Revian situation.”
At the mention of Revian his eyes instantly turned black once more. “I will deal with Revian,” he growled. “Atheme does not need to concern himself with it any further.” He stood and started to head out of the bar.
Kulara rose and put a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa there. What’s that supposed to mean? Where are you going?”
Abaddon snarled and whipped about, latching onto the man’s wrist. “Don’t touch me. I answer to no man.”
The General tried in vain to break this iron grip, feeling his bones on the verge of snapping even through his gauntlet. His temper slipped and he threw a punch with his free hand. Abaddon took the punch squarely in the face, but showed no sign that he felt it. He responded with an uppercut to Kulara’s ribs, lifting him bodily from the floor, then swung the man by his crushed wrist and sent him flying face-first into the nearest wall.
The flung warlord smashed into the wall but managed to catch his footing. He stumbled back weakly, trying to regain his senses. He felt Abaddon reach over his shoulders and seize the side of his neck, locking fingers into the top of his spine and stretching his chin up.
The General knew this grip. It was a death grip that he had taught Abaddon long ago. Already he was mostly paralyzed, and a numb feeling began to spread through his limbs. By executing a sharp twist, Abaddon could easily break his neck. He braced himself for death, wondering what had happened between him and his old friend to cause things to get this far.
Then a woman’s voice sounded across the bar. “Daemon! Release him this instant and contend with me!”
After a brief hesitation, the enraged man indeed released his grip and allowed his victim to sink to his knees. He turned to see Relm standing in the entryway, electricity crackling in her silver eyes.
Everyone in the bar sensed a contest of wills was coming and cleared the area between the combatants. Abaddon made the first move, walking across the bar and stopping less than a foot from the interloper. A white aura from her body clashed with dark energy surrounding his, and after a few seconds she took a step back.
“If you’re going to face me, we must go somewhere where there aren’t any innocents,” she announced firmly.
His face contorted in anger. “I must do nothing.”
Serene shrugged, then turned back to the door. “As you will.” With that, she left.
He clenched his fists and shook with rage, then looked for someone to take his anger out on. Finding no one within arm’s reach, he instead stormed out and followed her.
Serene knew immediately he was pursuing her, and quickened her pace. She just managed to dart into Atheme’s former office before he was upon her, then turned quickly and struck him with a funnel of silver lightning. Her power shredded through his shields and struck deep into his chest, pushing him across the room and bringing him to his knees. She continued to pour energy into him, binding him where he sat.
Once a thick barrier had formed around him, she took a step back and breathed heavily. “My powers are of divine origin. I am not some child for you to toy with. I am Saint Sinjuin Serene, and I am a formidable opponent even to you.”
Abaddon’s body shuddered, and the field encasing him fizzled and disintegrated. He rose and stared at her without expression. His chest and shoulders smoldered, but the dark eyes showed no signs of pain. He walked around Serene and took a seat in one of the abandoned office’s chairs.
“Alright,” he said tranquilly, “you’ve lured me and shown me that you’re eager for my attention. Tell me what it is that you want.”
“That sword you have is manipulating you. You may be unable to tell, but you are not behaving as yourself. You’re acting with unnecessary cruelty. Mere moments ago you nearly killed Kulara, one of your oldest friends.”
“I had but one friend. He fell at Revian.”
“He did not fall,” she retorted. “Atheme is going to be awake in a few days, and he’s not going to be pleased at how you’re behaving.”
“I am capable of acting of my own volition. Is this all you brought me here for? A petty lecture about
my misbehavior? Have you nothing more, girl?”
This is bad, she thought to herself. The sword has gained control over him so quickly. If Atheme doesn’t awaken soon, Abaddon will be completely lost.
“Very well,” she said aloud. “If you must know, I want that sword. And I want you to give it to me. Right now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “My sword?” He reached up and grabbed the hilt, bringing Kargaroth forward. He looked up the length of it, then smiled at Serene.
That smile stopped her heart, and she worried he was about to truly put her powers to the test. Instead he took the sword and stabbed it into the floor.
“There,” he announced. “It is yours. Take it.”
She was so pleased by his unexpected cooperation that she nearly released a squeal of glee. She maintained her composure, however, and turned to the door. “Okay, hold on. I need to get someone.”
Abaddon swiftly raised his hand and the door slammed shut. Serene’s eyes widened at the display of unnatural power, and she turned back to him.
“I don’t think we understand each other. I said you could take the sword. I didn’t say anyone else could be involved. ‘Right now’, that was your term, wasn’t it? Then, right now, you may take the sword in your hand and carry it out of here. That’s what you asked for, and I am graciously giving it to you.”
She stared in disbelief. Somehow Abaddon knew that she could not touch Kargaroth. But how? Was the sword giving him information, expanding or even replacing his mind?
He stood and walked past both her and the sword, stopping just short of the doorway. “I have been more than generous. I will grant you no more requests. Your power is formidable, true enough. But if you defy me again, I will destroy you, Saint of Pecoros. Tell your father that in time I am coming for him. Tell him to hide in the deepest hole he can find, so that I might enjoy my hunt.”
He continued out the door, and as his foot crossed the threshold Kargaroth pried itself from the ground and flew to his back, where it hovered comfortably.