by Scott Baron
She had no trouble finding the old temple, for not only were sigils and runes carved into the very stone over her head, but they all converged above one specific point. And that point was one of the more ornate structures in the city.
The temple was apparently still very active here, and the steady stream of parishioners heading into and out of the building made it clear it had a very large following. When she stepped inside, she realized why.
The entire building had been converted from a mere place of worship into a sort of combination bunkhouse and feasting hall, with hundreds upon hundreds of men and women from all manner of race milling about or resting on their cots.
Normally, providing food and shelter left a place with a different feel than this, though. This felt threatening. Dangerous. Like a cornered animal on edge and ready to fight. Looking to the sigil-marked anvil, she saw why.
The gleaming metal was there, as expected, though its topmost surface seemed a bit worn from excessive use. The priests here must have been performing far more sacrifices than the other locations had. Or so she thought, until she saw the pile of bones neatly stacked high against the rearmost wall.
Not animal bones, though. People.
One of the temple workers noticed her staring and walked over, not exactly menacing, but not welcoming either.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Oh, I was just admiring the temple,” Demelza replied, using a soft and non-threatening voice. “The temple back home is not so grand as this.”
“Oh, a sister of the order? Where do you call home?” he asked, his tone friendly, but her trained senses told her this was a test.
“You probably haven’t heard of it. I come from Mulannis, though most just call it Muck.”
The man’s posture stiffened rather than relaxed. That was unexpected, so she dove further into her story.
“Emmik Sitza was teaching me the writings of the ancients. When he heard I was heading this way, he said I absolutely had to stop off on Galaloom to see the marvelous temple. And he was right. It truly is a sight.”
“Emmik Sitza is indeed wise,” the man said, relaxing his guard a bit.
“But tell me, why all of the bones? That is not a normal thing in our temple.”
“Ah, yes, those. I can see how they could be a little off-putting,” he replied. “You see, Galaloom has been something of a treasure hunter’s destination for some time.”
“Really? But why?”
“They seek fame, fortune, what have you. All in search of the Quommus.”
“But that doesn’t really exist. Everyone knows it’s just a children’s tale.”
The man smiled. “Yes, but some persist regardless and foolishly desecrate our temple in their search. Over the centuries those caught have paid the highest price for their blasphemy,” he said, gesturing to the anvil where they had undoubtedly met their end.
“As it should be,” Demelza said. “To think they would dare!”
The man nodded his approval of her reaction. “Indeed, it is both blasphemous and ignorant. To think that they would find something here. If the Quommus truly did exist, and if it ever was here, it was removed long, long ago.”
Demelza nodded her rapt agreement, her eyes looking on the gleaming anvil with the adoration of the truly devout. But it wasn’t the anvil she was looking at. It was the structure it was built upon. A raised dais of heavy stone, surrounded by thirteen small, forged anvils, each of them bearing sigils of the sect.
They were not terribly large, and a sufficiently strong person could lift one if they really tried. But they were positioned as an integral part of the altar itself.
But her eyes saw something else, clued in not by Master Orkut’s cryptic note, but by a training technique he drilled into her head when her arms were at their weakest after a day’s labor.
He would require her to scratch out a particular symbol in the sand with the tip of a sword. Delicately. Slowly. Over and over until her shoulders and arms burned from the detailed movement. She now realized what he had been teaching her. Doing so in a way that not even a spy observing them would suspect it. But to her it all made sense now, and she saw what all the others before her did not. What not one of the treasure hunters or priests or faithful had noticed in all the centuries.
There, on the fifth anvil, a different sigil was forged in the metal along with the ornate ones they all possessed. The one she knew from so much muscle memory. It was easy to miss, the shape formed by the decorations themselves. But she saw it clear as day.
She had found the Quommus. And it was impossible to retrieve.
Chapter Forty
Dozens of high-strung priests who doubled as guards. Hundreds of devout, and quite possibly fanatical, followers. And a temple that was always open and always packed with people. Stealing the Quommus was looking a lot like a suicide mission, and Demelza was rather fond of breathing.
There was simply no way she could fight them all directly. And even if she were to attempt to steal the unwieldy item in the middle of the night, there would still be many priests and guards awake and pacing the grounds. And on top of that, the entire temple would be full to the brink with slumbering devout.
And adding to the mess that this quest was quickly becoming, it seemed this particular branch of the sect had devolved into something of a fanatical and rather violent cult.
She had witnessed the afternoon sacrifice, playing along and swaying in prayer with the rest of the congregants as the head priest, an unpowered man, so far as she could tell, whipped the group into a frenzy. And they all wanted the same thing.
Blood.
Living on a mostly oceanic planet meant that their sacrifices would logically be from the sea, so when the assistants brought a Bundabist to the altar she was quite surprised. Not only that an animal from above would be used, but because, so far as she had seen while making her initial descent and scout of the world, they simply did not live there.
That meant they were actively bringing in sacrifices from other worlds. It was not entirely unheard of, but extremely unusual. She leaned over and whispered to the rapt woman next to her.
“Sister, this is a truly wondrous sacrifice. Is this a holy day I was unaware of?”
The woman, distracted as she was, turned to the newcomer. “No, Sister. But tonight we dine as one, and Orakis provides!”
She didn’t know exactly what to make of that statement at first, but suddenly the large cauldrons made sense. They were going to prepare a single massive meal for all of the congregants. It was no wonder they had garnered such a devout following. Feeding and sheltering those in need could do that, and in no time at all, people could be swayed from convenience seekers to true believers.
The priest said a prayer and raised his ornate hammer, bringing it down upon the Bundabist with a wet snap. The animal went limp immediately, killed by just one stroke. Perhaps the priest possessed some power after all, she mused. And the Quommus might be what was masking it.
That, or he was merely a strong man with a good swing.
In any event, his bloody work was far from over. It seemed that there were more animals, as well as creatures from the sea, all slated for sacrifice. By the time he was done, there would be enough to feed the entire chamber full of people. And it would also instill in them a Pavlovian response and lust for bloodshed.
It was abundantly clear there was simply no way she could steal the Quommus without a fight, let alone approach the altar. She would need something different. She would need a diversion. But what could work on so many?
“Sister, you are new here. Will you be helping in the preparation?” the woman beside her asked when the service ended.
Not one to miss an opportunity, Demelza smiled brightly and declared that she would be honored to assist. Now, if only she knew what exactly she would be preparing. That was made clear soon enough when she followed her new friend to the food preparation area.
Cooking. She was going to be cooking, i
t seemed. Not exactly her strong suit, but surrounded by others who were skilled in this way, she could follow along and blend in just fine. But first there was a more gruesome job to do.
“The bones all go in here. They are slow cooked for three days to make the broth,” the woman told her as they cut and pulled free the shards of shattered bone from the sacrificed animals.
Had they not been slaughtered in such a brutal manner, the task would have been quick and easy. But death by hammer had rendered each and every one of the creatures a mess of pulp and bone fragments. Demelza was not one to shy away from blood, but she put on a little show of hesitation for the others anyway. She was the newcomer, after all, and it would be expected.
It was slow work, and much of the afternoon passed as she and the others in her group worked their way through the sacrifices one by one, until at last they had cleaned them all.
She rose and washed her hands in a nearby cistern then prepared to leave.
“Where are you going?” one of the women asked her. “Are you not preparing with us?”
Demelza was surprised by this glaring weakness in their security. But because she was a woman, they assumed she would be participating in the preparation of the food, not just the cleaning of the meat. It was a backwards way of thinking, and, she realized as she felt the comforting bulge of her vial of Nasturian extract in her pocket, it would be their undoing.
“Of course I am,” she said cheerfully. “I was merely going to relieve myself before we began. Could you please direct me?”
“Oh, yes. Through that archway, on the left,” the woman replied.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back,” Demelza said, then hurried off to the restroom.
She didn’t have to go. But it was a tried and true means of overcoming suspicion because everyone, no matter their rank or station in life, knew what it was like to have to go.
She returned a short while later and set to work with the others. It was tedious, cleaning and cutting all of the ingredients, but as it would simply be several enormous cauldrons of stew being prepared, it really wasn’t terribly complicated work.
Cut, pile, then move on to the next ingredient. Once they were done with that phase, they carried the massive platters to each of the cooking vessels and dumped them into the bubbling broth, prepared from the bones of previous sacrifices.
Demelza was gifted at sleight-of-hand, and her addition of a healthy splash of Nasturian to each cauldron went utterly unnoticed. And as the extract possessed no scent, so long as no one tasted the dish before it was served, this could work.
She was counting on the longstanding tradition that no one ate until the head priest did was also observed here. For if it was, she would disable the entire congregation at once. Nasturian could bring grown men to their knees. She could only imagine what it would do to those less hardy.
As she had hoped, the temple was rearranged come dinnertime, the cots and seats moved, replaced by long tables and benches. Loaves of bread were placed intermittently, and bowls of stew were set at each place setting. The congregants, regardless of whatever hunger they might have been feeling, sat quietly, awaiting their leader’s sign.
Demelza smiled on the inside as the priest motioned for all to rise, then said a brief blessing, then sat once more. The others mirrored him and likewise took their seats.
When the priest raised his spoon and dipped it into his stew, the entire dining hall moved as one hungry beast, eagerly digging into their steaming meals.
The thing about Nasturian was it did not act instantly, but rather, it took a few seconds before the heat began. Soon after it would become near unbearable, but if one were hungry enough, and eating quickly, it would be possible to get several spoonfuls down before the pain began.
The shrieks commenced only moments later, quickly growing into a chorus of howls and groans. In less than a minute, the entire congregation, priests and all, were writhing in pain, guzzling water in a desperate attempt to ease the burn.
Of course, that didn’t work with Nasturian. Nothing did. Once you ate it, you just had to ride it out. And that could take hours.
Demelza rose and walked to the altar. In their pain, no one even noticed. Or if they did, they simply didn’t care. Not at that moment. She reached out with her power, sensing for traps or wards, but there were none. At least, none that she could find. But with the Quommus, she had no idea how one could ever be sure.
But there was no time for indecision. She slid her konus onto her wrist and called up a lifting spell. The small anvil protested at first, having been rooted in place for so many centuries. But finally it shifted and floated into the air.
She quickly draped a bag over it, making it appear as if she was carrying something light, not levitating something heavy. The Ghalian then made straight for the exit, leaving behind the many cries of pain in her wake. The Quommus was exceptionally heavy, and she wasn’t sure if the spell would be sufficient for the entire trek to the top of the tunnel to the surface, so she moved fast.
If the Quommus did drain her spell, she would be forced to carry the thing. It was relatively small, no bigger than a small loaf of bread, but it was dense, and incredibly unwieldy. The hike would not be a pleasant one.
Fortunately, she made it to the top without incident, the spell holding strong all the way back to her ship. She secured the little anvil in her storage bay, then immediately made for the safety of space. Once there, she jumped away without hesitation, her escape coordinates already punched in before she had even first headed to the surface.
Demelza leaned back in her seat and smiled. She had done what countless others had sought to accomplish for centuries. It was a heady feeling, to say the least. But her work was far from done. Without any further delay, she engaged her Drookonus and jumped.
And like that, in a flash, she was gone.
Chapter Forty-One
He was one of the Five. A Master Ghalian. One of the most dangerous men in the galaxy, capable of improvising and carrying out the most complex and daring of missions on a moment’s notice if the situation required it.
And he needed some time to think.
Fortunately, the events that had led him to determine his next destination allowed him precisely that.
After the fighting had ended and the survivors regrouped, Hozark had thanked Andorus for his and his men’s efforts in the fight against the Council. He then paid the surviving mercenaries a hefty bonus for their troubles. The sizable quantity of coin was gladly accepted, and Andorus laughingly said he was sure the group would be more than happy to help the next time they were needed.
The mission had been a success, and despite some losses, and just about everyone being injured to one degree or another, the mercenary forces had driven off the Council goons in a resounding defeat.
It was a bit of a coup, the lopsided victory. That is, until the bombardment from above put an abrupt end to the fighting altogether.
It seemed that those firing upon the combined forces were from a different arm of the Council, though they were not sure under whose direction. All that had mattered was they were apparently not fully aware of the bounty of magical beings hiding below, only that another visla was somehow attempting to amass power against them. Once they laid waste to the area, they had simply left.
Samara’s forces wanted nothing to do with any more fighting and limped clear of the city to await their base ship, knowing it would return to pick them up when it was safe to do so. In that time, however, the Ghalian had dispatched their waiting transport ship to move the Ootaki while the opportunity was good.
Dohria herself had arranged it, though none had even known the master spy was on Sooval in the first place. But that was her strong suit, and even most in her own order couldn’t track her if she didn’t want them to.
His duty to the refugees complete, Hozark had departed for the comfort and quiet of space. But he had plans. A destination of sorts. A lead, obtained from a captured survivor from Samara�
�s forces, extracted with a bit of force and a healthy dose of terror. By the time the man spoke, Hozark was quite sure he was telling what he believed to be the truth.
It seemed that while Visla Maktan’s true location was a closely guarded secret, there were a handful outside of his personal guard who knew the few locations he was moving between. And one of them just so happened to be coming within jump range in just a few days.
The cargo ship would seem innocuous. Just another craft loading up on supplies for the Council. As such, no one would dare harass it. But the captain of that ship was one of Maktan’s personal crew, resupplying his concealed ships as they moved their charge from safe location to safe location.
It was something of a long shot, but if the captain could reduce the likely target to even a dozen possible locations, it would greatly help the Ghalian spies narrow their search as they focused on those specific targets, however benign they might seem.
Hozark was glad for the downtime in the interim. Though he would not say so aloud, his encounter with Samara had left him a bit off-kilter. They had history, and he needed to refocus his mind if he wished to be at his best when he next stepped into combat.
When the cargo ship finally jumped into the system he had been guided to, Hozark had already been lurking in the darkness on a small asteroid floating between worlds for a few days, waiting patiently and saving his magic.
The tactic may have slowed his approach to the ship when it arrived, but this way he would not have the excessive expenditure of magic required to properly shimmer cloak his ship in space.
As soon as the craft exited its jump, though, he immediately engaged his shimmer cloak and launched into a hot pursuit. Or as hot as one could be in the freezing void of space. In any case, the cargo ship would not be moving at a terribly fast clip, and there would be no evasive maneuvering if his shimmer cloak held.