by David Benem
Gamghast raised a shaking hand. “You should not be troubled with such things. The welfare of the Bastion and its denizens has long been the concern of my order.”
“Nonsense, Prefect,” she said. “The Bastion is my home. Its master grows in my belly. This cause is as much mine as anyone’s and I will not permit that traitor Alamis to desecrate my husband’s legacy any more than he already has.”
Gamghast met her stern glare. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well, my queen. Let me delve into some of our older texts. We will concoct a cure for what poisons the Bastion.”
12
THE HAND THAT SAVED THE WORLD
Prefect Kreer sat straight in the saddle of his well-built mare. She was an impressive beast, nearly seventeen hands tall with an unblemished white coat and a neatly braided mane of gold that shone in the glow of the late afternoon sun. She struck him as a most suitable mount, a symbol of the righteousness of his purpose.
A purplish smile stretched beneath the old man’s long nose. His cause was righteous, he knew, and this notion pleased him much. His faith filled him, it drove him.
It always had.
He’d been a fine horseman in his youth, roving his family’s estate atop a magnificent ebony stallion. He’d always loved riding, at least until the day his horse killed his youngest brother when its hoof caught the child’s head. The beautiful, sandy-haired boy—rosy-cheeked and ever-smiling—had been just five years old at the time. Kreer had wept as he watched his brother twitch upon the straw-covered floor of the stable, bleeding from the hole in his skull and his exposed brain.
Kreer had prayed that day with all the conviction in his heart, certain the dead gods could save the child. However, his faithless father refused the arts of a local acolyte from the Sanctum. The boy died within hours, and his father hanged himself soon thereafter.
Kreer knew the Faith could have saved his young brother. After both the boy and his father were laid to rest in graves near the family’s manor, Kreer had asked his mother’s permission to disclaim any inheritance and join the Sanctum. His faith was pure, he knew, and he wanted nothing more than to devote his life to the Faith and the healing gifts granted to those who served it. Through her tears his mother told him she understood, confessing to him she knew the dead gods had destined him for greater things after having taken the life of his baby brother.
He’d thrown himself into prayer and study for decades at the Sanctum, hoping to find the heart of truth and the fate the dead gods intended for him. Eventually, after years of excelling in all the Sanctum’s most sacred disciplines, he was elevated to the rank of prefect. The Sentinel Castor himself—then Lector Erlorn—had disclosed to him the order’s deepest secrets, and Kreer’s faith told him he’d one day lead the Sanctum. When he’d failed to be elected Dictorian at the Sanctum’s last Quorum he’d doubted, though not for long. Now, with the Dictorian dead, Kreer knew Illienne’s divine providence rested upon him.
The Faith swelled within him, consuming his every thought. He was bound to become the purest of instruments, set to a direction dictated by the very gods. He would echo the divine.
His would be the hand that saved the world.
“Any sign yet?” he called to the two green-cloaked Variden riding ahead through the hill’s tall grasses. “The seeking stone pointed this very way, and there is no truer means of drawing it to its pole than with the blood of the person sought.” He brandished a stoppered vial and shook its scarlet contents. “The highlander cannot be far!”
One of the green-garbed men—Wil, he was called—spun his horse about. He was a middle-aged man with a soft, youthful face, though fierce eyes burned beneath his rounded bowl of brown hair. “The signs of their passage are growing fresher, Prefect,” he said. “They have fast horses but they’ve ridden them hard. They’ll soon need to slacken their pace. With any luck we should be upon them within a couple of days at the latest.”
Kreer’s smile widened. “Very well,” he said, waving a hand about. “Ride along, then!”
Wil stared back to Kreer with a cocked brow that seemed to express insult, though he said nothing.
Kreer dismissed the gaze, guessing the man had only a thin grasp of the pure purpose that drove this endeavor. He sniffed the countryside’s manure-tinged air and bounced along all the merrier. He patted the saddlebag containing his tome of ancient and holy rites and made ready to meet his destiny.
Soon Castor’s spirit would fill him. His faith would reshape it and guide it back to its true path.
He knew this to be true. Faith demanded it.
Prefect Kreer stretched his long bones alongside the evening’s fire, then creaked open his leather-bound tome to reread for what seemed the hundredth time the great Rites of Excision, Exorcism, and Unmaking. He studied the yellowed pages by the fire’s flicker, making certain his memory of the passages remained true, that there was no word of which he was uncertain.
There could be no mistakes this time, and no hesitation about taking the highlander’s life. There could be no holding back. No allotment of mercy that could allow the highlander to retain Castor’s spirit.
No.
The man’s body and soul needed to be rent asunder so that the spirit could find rest within a proper vessel.
So it can find rest within me, a man unwavering in the Faith.
“I will not be gentle with him,” Kreer mumbled.
“I’m sorry, Prefect?” said Lund, one of the two brown-robed acolytes tending his supper nearby. He was a skinny fellow of perhaps twenty years with red hair and freckled cheeks. “You require something, sir?” he asked.
“Nothing, Acolyte. Just be ready when we confront the highlander. Be ready, and be pure in your faith. You will need to join your prayers to mine and not falter.”
“Are you certain?” said Barly, the other acolyte. He had a pale, doughy face and a voice pitched too high for Kreer’s liking.
“Am I certain of what?” Kreer said sharply, setting aside his book.
Barly shook his fat head. “Sorry. I misspoke. It’s just that with the news of the High King’s passing I worry that…”
Kreer’s eyes narrowed and he drew nearer to the fire. He glared at the two acolytes until both shrank before his gaze. “I will not tolerate doubt. A faith plagued by doubt is no faith at all. You must believe—you must know—that Illienne’s great purpose lights our way. If we stay true to the Faith, and act in the way that best serves it, we will overcome this darkness.”
The acolytes nodded, eyes straying to the fire they tended.
“Very well. Cast any doubt from your hearts, for doubt is what allowed this highlander to murder our Dictorian and escape from the Abbey. We had him—the very man who slew Lector Erlorn—but he slipped his chains when the faith of one of our prefects wavered.”
Damn your arrogance and apprehensions, Gamghast.
Lund looked to him. “How could a mere man do such a thing? Was he possessed by a demon, as the rumors claim?”
“No…” Kreer said, mulling over whether he should tell the young men the Sanctum’s secret, that the Lector was in truth the Sentinel Castor and that the highlander now held that spirit. After a moment he sniffed. It seemed to him the rules were different now with the Lector and High King dead and the kingdom at war. What was more, the acolytes needed to understand the stakes if they were to participate with the fervor required of them. “No,” Kreer said again. “Not a demon, but a Sentinel.”
Their eyes widened, glittering in the firelight. “W-what?” Barly stammered, jowls quivering.
Kreer matched their gazes. “It is true. The Sentinel Castor. It is the Sanctum’s most sacred—and most closely guarded—trust, to have among our number a man possessing the immortal spirit of one of Illienne’s seven chosen Sentinels. Castor has lived in the form of every Lector the Sanctum has had, and has guided us in all matters of the Faith. Castor refused to abide his banishment, knowing his oath to Illienne to protect Rune to be far more binding than an edict from a j
ealous king. And so he has lived secretly among us for nearly a millennium.”
The acolytes sat slack-jawed.
“The highlander?” Barly squeaked at last. “He has Castor’s spirit?”
“You doubt?” Kreer asked, steepling his fingers.
After a time the young men shook their heads.
“There can be no such thing as doubt in your hearts,” Kreer said. “Doubt erodes purpose. Doubt destroys courage. You cannot doubt anything I say to you, nor can you question my commands.”
“We doubt not at all, Prefect,” said Lund.
“Good. To answer your question, then, yes, the highlander possesses the spirit. For now. He holds the spirit of a Sentinel, and this possession defiles the Faith. We must regain it or all could be lost.”
They nodded again, their expressions earnest.
“Very well,” Kreer said. “Now you understand why our quest is so critical. Now you know why we must recapture what this monster has stolen. We will save the world when we do.”
Prefect Kreer awoke just after dawn, the day’s perfect, golden light shining brightly upon him. The sun seemed a divine missive, a prophecy of purpose. It filled his old flesh with new vigor, a feeling of imminent possibility and power.
He shut his eyes and soaked it in, drawing his robes aside to allow the light to shine upon his naked body and through to his core. He squirmed upon his bedroll in the sunlight, a grin upon his face. The spirit would be his. It seemed even the heavens knew this to be true.
Yes. I awake this day a mortal man, but soon will offer myself as a vessel for the divine.
“Prefect,” came a stern voice. “Clothe yourself.”
Kreer snapped his eyes open to the sun’s blinding glare. He could make out a shape obstructing the light, perhaps a man in a cloak. “Who dares—”
“I said clothe yourself.” The stern voice was that of the Variden, the one called Wil. “Now.”
Kreer grumbled an old curse beneath his breath as he pulled his robes to cover himself. He tied the garments together then sat upright, eyes narrowing in anger as much as an effort to dull the sun’s blaze.
“The highlander,” Wil said. “My brother Stendall scouted ahead and came upon the site of a slaughter. The tracks of the highlander and his companions lead to the place.”
Kreer stared at the man for an instant, the weight of this news settling upon him. “Then it was the highlander who did the killing. He violates the spirit so long as he is possessed by it.”
Wil nodded. “It seems he may not be far.”
Kreer slipped narrow, bony feet into his boots and arose, stretching to his full height so as to peer at the man from atop the long length of his nose. “Then it seems destiny will soon arrive, and I am glad to have the help of your order in delivering it. Illienne the Light Eternal has anointed us.”
“We will need all the favor she can spare. Remember, when my departed brother Merek captured the highlander he had the aid of the man’s companions. The highlander was unsuspecting and thus the enchantments more effective. What is more, the man may have grown in strength since then, as he’s had more time to develop a bond with the spirit. Stendall and I may only be able to hold him for a short while.”
“Worry not. I have been preparing for this moment for nearly all of my life.”
Prefect Kreer tilted his chin sharply upward, the stench assaulting his nostrils. Below, at the base of the hill, rested the ruins of a sad hamlet aside a swift stream. Dozens of crows fed upon bloated, discolored corpses, squawking their satisfaction with the meal.
Kreer bowed his head and shut his eyes. Sweet Illienne, please guide the souls of the faithful to the heavens, then guide my hand with your righteous purpose.
Wil grunted from atop the horse beside him. “You see the tracks descending this very hill? Four horses. Those of the highlander and his companions.”
Kreer took a deep breath of the acrid air as he opened his eyes.
Stendall, the other green-garbed Variden, shifted in his saddle and spat. He was a tall, lanky man with hawkish features and studied the scene with a keen gaze. “Could the highlander have slain all these people?”
“Yes,” Kreer said. “I am certain of it. Search about and you will see this to be true.”
“A desecration,” Wil said, shaking his head. He rubbed the thick bracelet of black iron clasped upon his wrist. “Prefect, we should inspect the scene more closely. The dead often betray the secrets of the living. We’ll require every advantage we can obtain when we find the highlander.”
Kreer nodded. The beacon of his faith had ever shone brightly within him, and the carnage before him made it shine all the brighter. There could be no question—no doubt—about the truth of his decisions now. Castor had never meant for the highlander to seize his spirit, and less restraint should have been shown during the attempted excision at the Sanctum. The man was no vessel for the Sentinel; he needed to be slain so the spirit could be released.
Wil spurred his horse down the hillside, followed by Stendall. Kreer and his acolytes came after, their horses snorting and stamping in protest as they approached the dead.
“The highlander did this?” Barly squeaked in his high voice.
“He and his murderous companions,” said Kreer stoically. “But the highlander most of all. He has twisted Castor’s spirit to hideous ends, and we will not permit such defilement.”
“Dead gods,” Lund muttered. “Even children hacked apart!”
Kreer pursed his lips in disgust, again looking over what was left of the settlement. His eyes brushed across rag-clad bodies in crooked poses, from the very young to the very old. Around them stood a haphazard cluster of shanties, several of which had been reduced to ash with blackened bones resting within. Crows scattered from the corpses as they moved near, though quickly returned to their feasts once the group passed.
He heard Barly retch behind him, and amidst such a scene Kreer could not fault the young acolyte.
Ahead, Wil and Stendall slipped from their horses and tied the steeds to what was left of a tumbledown structure. They moved methodically about the bodies—squatting for quick inspections then moving briskly on—all the while clutching their iron bracelets.
Codas, they call them, Kreer remembered.
He dismounted as well, handing his mare’s reins to Lund. He rifled through a saddlebag and retrieved his sleeve of reagents and his weighty tome. He found a spot of reasonably dry ground clear of the dead then knelt and unfurled the sleeve.
The stretch of leather held multitudinous pockets and pouches containing all the necessary components for the Sanctum’s most potent incantations. There were powders, roots and herbs, those rarest of substances from the original creation of the Elder God, each bearing echoes of the divine. Illienne had known their potency, and had passed that wisdom to Castor.
And then Castor to me.
Kreer located the tiny pouch of dried dragwitch, a yellow nettle found in the deep jungles of Rimgald and planted by Castor long ago in the gardens of the Abbey. Kreer untied the thin strings and withdrew a pinch, studying the brittle leaves resting against his wrinkled palm.
I will bear witness to the highlander’s depravity, and then none will doubt again.
“Acolytes!” he called. “A fire!”
Barly and Lund clambered off their horses, muttering as they trudged between the corpses. At last they snapped wood from the wreckage of a nearby hut and with shaking hands assembled the splinters into a pile beside Kreer. Lund produced flint, steel and some wispy tinder from his robes, and in time the sparks thrown by his scrapes yielded embers, smoke and flame.
Kreer shifted away as he awaited a proper fire. He pulled open his tome and gingerly leafed through it until he found his incantation: the Spell of Remembrance. It was a powerful incantation, one the Sanctum had not often used in the many years of relative peace in Rune. It required a confluence of circumstances, not least of which was a reasonably fresh, intact corpse that had been the
victim of extreme violence.
I will stare into your very eyes, Highlander.
The fire crackled, the blaze becoming almost uncomfortably hot. Kreer closed his tome and drew close. “Fetch a corpse,” he said, crumbling the dried dragwitch leaves in his palm. “The least mangled you can find.”
Barly and Lund sighed and stood. They looked over the bodies nearby then appeared to settle upon one. They stooped and pulled the body across the mud to the fire. It was a dead woman—middle-aged and simply clad with red hair—frozen in a rigor with a pale arm bent as though clutching something no longer there.
A child, perhaps.
Kreer stretched out a hand and caressed the woman’s blood-spattered forehead. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind. He focused upon faith and purpose, those purities that defined him. He scooted to the fire’s burning edge, pressed out his other hand then tilted it to sprinkle the dragwitch upon the flames.
The fire roared and the dragwitch burned with a sweet scent and a white smoke. Kreer leaned close, nearly singeing his long droop of a nose as he inhaled the weed’s citrus-like odor.
“Illienne abralide y ganode rogo rab corpu!” he whispered, the ancient words falling from his tongue with the weight of their power.
Illienne awaken and grant me the sight of the dead!
He waited, preparing to see the highlander and his companions. He prepared to bear witness to whatever deviltry the killers employed so as to better counter it with the teachings of the divine.
He inhaled again, drawing within a thick tendril of the dragwitch’s smoke.
At once Kreer’s consciousness shuddered. His thoughts were crowded by those of another, sights and sounds from some strange source floating upon the current of his mind.
He cried out, alarmed by what felt a sudden loss of self.
He pressed frantic hands about and found the coarse fabric of his robes. His eyes could not see it but it was there. He grasped it tightly; it was real. He breathed in, exhaled, and gave himself over to the vision.