Fallen Ambitions

by Vann, Eric J.

  “Of course,” Issac said. “I will ensure all is ready.” He wasted no time in hurrying off in the direction of the town.

  Celia watched him go, chuckling. One of the Grauda female glanced at her, her antennae twitching. “What?” Celia asked.

  The female Grauda tilted her head slightly.

  “Oh, that. I was just thinking that Master would like him,” Celia said, watching Issac’s receding form before allowing herself a slight shake of her head. He was actually quite fast, considering his age. “Alright then, let’s make camp. Post sentries to keep watch on our surroundings—we might be in hostile territory come morning.”

  The Grauda made no sound as they moved to enact her orders.

  * * *

  Celia groaned as someone shook her shoulder. “Go away…” she mumbled, pulling the covers more tightly around her. Sleep had been difficult. She had grown used to having someone beside her to press into, and the absence of her Master felt wrong. “Just a little more,” she mumbled as she brought her pillow close to her chest and wrapped herself around it.

  A slight hiss sounded and Celia’s eyes snapped open. “What is it?” she said, rising immediately, causing the Grauda female to let out a surprised yelp.

  “Celia!” she heard a man’s voice call from outside her tent.

  “Issac?” she asked, rubbing her eyes, and the Grauda nodded. “Any problems during the night?”

  “No,” the Grauda female responded, in that high-pitched voice Celia couldn’t get used to no matter how much she heard it.

  “Good.” Celia stretched before slipping into her dress, the Grauda female helping her put on the more intricate parts of her armor. Just before leaving the tent, Celia paused to focus within herself. She located the Soul Link that ran from her to her Master, feeling its reassuring presence and his mana flowing through it.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside her tent’s flap. Isaac was waiting patiently for her a little distance away, wearing much finer clothes than before—a blue decorative tunic and black pants. His wispy hair had been combed and trimmed. Issac smiled when he noticed her.

  “Celia,” he said as he closed the distance. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You did, but I’m hoping it’s for some good news,” Celia said, looking around. All the Grauda were already up and doing various tasks around their small camp.

  “You will be pleased to know every mayor is in town.”

  “All of them?” Celia asked suspiciously. “That seems unusual. I know you sent out letters, but isn’t that too rapid a response?”

  Issac shook his head. “I thought so, too, but it appears many of them spend most of their days behind the walls of Fes now—the ones who decided to fully evacuate as well as those who have already lost their villages to the Wervins. The only villages still standing are the ones close by.”

  Celia mulled over that piece of information. “I suppose this works out even better for us. Will they let us in?”

  “Yes, I informed them of yourself and the Grauda. They wanted to disarm you at first, but I was able to convince them not to make any demands as foolish as that.”

  Celia smirked. “Good. Well, let’s not keep them waiting. Time to pay Fes a visit.”

  * * *

  It did not take long to reach the town—or at least, the sprawling camp outside the town’s walls. There must have been thousands of people living there, and Celia couldn’t help but notice that the vast majority of them were women and children. This was no doubt the result of them being evacuated first, while the men stayed behind in a doomed attempt to protect their homes.

  All eyes were on herself and the Grauda as they were guided down a small path of overlapping wooden planks by a detachment of well-armed guards. The planks were too clean to have been there for long, which meant they had been laid specifically for her arrival.

  The path led straight to the gates of Fes proper, and allowed them to avoid getting their feet stuck in the muddy ground of the camp. At least, Celia hoped it was mud—the smell wasn’t giving her much confidence.

  Hushed whispers ran through the crowds as mothers hid their children behind them. Celia felt the lustful stares of the few men who pushed their way to the front of the crowd wash over her.

  She didn’t mind this; it was to be expected. But the state of the camp was not. Celia was no stranger to poor living conditions, but even so, this was striking. The state of these unfortunate refugees was beyond simple neglect… they were dirty, malnourished and some sported injuries which looked suspiciously like scabbed-over lashes. The Wervins did not use whips.

  Almost all of them slept on the muddy ground and a considerable number did not seem to have any clothes other than their undergarments. From her cursory glances as she walked, it appeared several families shared each of the small, ragged tents, some bulging from the overcrowding or with limbs sticking out from under the stained fabric.

  Celia noticed a thick and muscled human in much cleaner clothes among the crowds, flanked by two armed guards. All three were standing beside a covered cart and addressing a group of children.

  “Four handfuls of grain for a day’s work,” the man said, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he surveyed the children before him.

  What looked like the eldest child stepped forward. Like the rest, he wore nothing but torn pants, caked in dried mud. Several cuts and bruises were visible on his back. He was so thin Celia thought she could easily wrap a single hand around his waist.

  “S-sir, you gave us six the last time… we didn’t have enough to share,” she heard the boy say.

  The man pulled his hand out of his pocket, and without warning, slapped the child across the face. The blow snapped the boy’s neck to one side before he collapsed to the muddy ground with a splash.

  “Don’t you dare speak back to me, filth,” the man said as he pulled a napkin from his front pocket and rubbed it gently across his hand. “You orphans are lucky I even take the time to come here and fetch you for the forge.”

  Though the other children recoiled at the sight of their friend being struck, none moved to help as he struggled to get back on his feet, his body now covered in wet mud. A trail of blood trickled from his nose.

  “I know,” Issac said, breaking her focus on the unfolding scene.

  “You do?” Celia replied sharply.

  “Yes, I do. But don’t do anything rash—not yet, at least. Meet with the mayors first.”

  “You would allow your own people to be treated this way?” Celia hissed, not able to hold back. “Is your family living in this squalor? Or do you mayors ensure special treatment for your loved ones?”

  Issac shook his head, surveying the growing crowd of people around them. “It’s complicated. But like I said, wait for the meeting.”

  One of the guards escorting them stopped on the path. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, all is well, guardsmen,” Isaac replied quickly.

  Celia gritted her teeth and kept silent as they continued to traverse the sea of misery spread before them. There was no doubt that the original inhabitants of Fes were taking full advantage of these people’s misfortune and desperation. Celia watched another well-dressed man pull a girl only a third of his age into his carriage by her wrist, his guard taking up position in front of it to keep anyone from interrupting.

  These poor people had escaped one set of monsters, only to fall into the hands of another.

  Celia tried not to look too closely at her surroundings after that; otherwise she didn’t think she would be able to hold herself back from intervening. But she did notice a change in the crowd the closer she came to the gates. The way these people looked at them… there was none of the hate or fear she expected. No, this was more… hopeful.

  It was strangely uncomfortable. What did they expect from her? But she remembered her Master complaining about the Grauda looking at him just like this, and that brought a smile to her face.

  She had opened her mouth to a
sk Issac about these people when a large cluster of humans blocked their path. “Your Salvation is at hand!” she heard a man cry, his voice breaking through the gathering.

  “Clear the path! What’s going on over there?” one of the guards demanded.

  Issac leaned close to Celia. “A Geskian priest. I saw him on my initial visit.”

  “Priest?” Celia asked with a raise of an eyebrow. “Is this really the time…?”

  “Trust me,” said Isaac grimly, “if I had my way that priest would be chained up before he spoke a single word. Unfortunately, it is when things are at their worst that these sorts of people have the most power.”

  Celia tried to get a clearer look at the man. “Isn’t he a little far from home?”

  Issac was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Yes… he is. But nothing gets a Geskian priest more excited than a new faction.”

  Celia turned to look directly at the old mayor. “What do you mean?”

  Issac exhaled heavily. “He wants to start his own temple, of course, and a new faction means a new divinity for a priest to serve. Most of the head priests of the various temples are Geskian-trained. The Geskians have always taken it as their duty to tend to divinities, even during the Caelian days.” Issac sniffed, clearly unimpressed. “If he could get into the good graces of Lord Aziel, then perhaps he could become the head priest, or whatever equivalent title his chosen divinity settles on. A rather large step up from a non-serving priest in training.”

  Celia glanced back at the crowd ahead, who their escorts were now trying to move aside. “Interesting,” she said.

  Celia knew little of the inner workings of the Geskian faith. But as someone born in the Jannatin Empire, she knew a lot about its power and influence. The faith, as it was sometime referred to, was secretive and old—very old, at least as ancient as the Caelian Empire. After the fall of the Empire, it was in fact the Geskian Theocracy who had helped stabilize the ensuing chaos, which in turn won them enough authority and respect to enable their priests to take control of Vilonia, the capital of the old Caelian Empire, and call it their own. Celia knew almost nothing more—not even, she realized, who Geskian was. Or if Geskian was even a person.

  “That must be them,” someone called out, and Celia looked up to see the group ahead part to allow a stranger through.

  It was a man with dark hair and eyes. He had a long face but seemed young still, probably just past his thirtieth year. He wore a simple robe which had been so ripped and muddied that the original color was hard to discern.

  “Rejoice! The time has come at last,” the robed man cried, his hands clasped before him as he hurried toward her. Celia straightened, her hand reflexively moving to her dagger—but just as he drew close, the man suddenly fell to the ground, his forehead dropping to the wooden planking with a resounding thud.

  “Lady Celia!” he shouted. “A true blessing to meet a member of the Fallen! Have you come to bring salvation to your folk?”

  Celia stared at the kneeling man, her mouth slightly ajar.

  The priest rose to his knees and gazed at her. “Stories of your incredible beauty have been criminally understated,” he said with a gentle smile.

  Celia allowed herself a small smile in return. Flattery wouldn’t get him far with her, but that didn’t mean she needed to prevent him offering it. Amused, she replied, “Stories, you say? I thought the only stories being spread were of my Master breathing fire and drinking the blood of babes.”

  The priest gasped, his hands reaching for his chest. “What blasphemous words to spread of a rising Faction Lord! The rumormongers should be ashamed of themselves… better yet, they should be made an example of! I will see to it that no one dares speak such falsehoods once I begin my service to his Lordship.”

  Celia chuckled. “Your service? A bit presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I am certain Lord Aziel will see the benefit of having me in his service, to begin the hard and important work of preparing his faction for the joining of their very own divinity.”

  Celia glanced at Issac, who looked fit to kick this man, before turning back to the priest.

  “I’m surprised a member of the faith is willing to speak to a demon,” she said. “I confess, I don’t know much about Geskian, but I’m fairly certain demons are not seen in a positive light.”

  The priest looked embarrassed. “Ah… you are right, of course. But you are bound, and I’m certain some… exceptions can be made.”

  Celia crossed her arms. “Exceptions? Well there will be quite a lot of those if you’re going to deal with the Fallen. It’s not the “civilized” faction you seem to think.”

  The priest grinned and got to his feet before he began the hopeless task of dusting off his robes. “Please, Lady Celia, I am of the faith. I do not discriminate, for life’s grace falls upon all creatures who walk, swim… even fly… within Kadora. Anoria is a faction of snake people— snakes! And yet, it is one of my favorite places to visit.” The priest shook his head. “Not that it matters, as I am no longer in the service of the Theocracy.”

  Celia blinked. She had not known this about the people of Anoria, a kingdom to the north. She remembered Melody saying she had once been there, but Celia had assumed it was a human kingdom. Snake people? She would never have guessed.

  “What’s your name, priest?” she asked. “And why are you no longer in the service of the faith?”

  The man smiled again and bowed deeply. “Excuse my poor manners. My name is Duren Killien, at your service. I left the Theocracy after I experienced a dream which brought me clarity. I began to forge my own path after that… my other reasons are my own.”

  Celia kept her expression level as she looked again at the man. “You’re a noble?”

  Duren’s smile grew brighter. “Well, yes, of course! But I forfeited my inheritance and my place within the Theocracy in the pursuit of a greater purpose.”

  “And that is to serve the Fallen?” Celia didn’t know how to tell this priest that the Fallen were not likely to ever gain a divinity, or at least not in the traditional sense. Her Master had already made it clear that he intended to take on the role when it became available. How would Duren react to the notion of a Faction Leader and its divinity being the same person?

  “Of course!” the priest replied enthusiastically. “As soon as I heard the announcement of a new faction, I knew it was my destiny—my calling. I will ensure the Fallen’s divinity becomes the most powerful and respected in Kadora!”

  Celia had never had any belief in true divine beings. As far as she was concerned, the divinity of a faction was nothing but a grandiose title. But she knew she was very much in the minority. Divinities were looked up to, and the way the people of Maiv worshipped Adara was just one example of that. Was the work of people in the background like Duren the true cause of that piousness? She could easily imagine people being convinced as to the godliness of a being with the power of an Ascended, especially since normal folk would likely never meet their divinities and only ever know of the positive ways in which they affected their lives by recharging their crystals.

  “Ah, for the sake of my sanity shut up already,” Issac spat, inserting himself into the conversation. “You Geskians—or former Geskians—like to talk and spout tall tales whenever you’re not taking part in your filthy orgies!”

  “Oh no, no, no, no, sir, that is certainly not all the faith is about.” Duren gave a vigorous shake of his head before stopping and producing a shrewd grin. “But it certainly was a perk.” He looked Issac up and down. “You look like you could use a bit of release yourself, hmm? A bit of female company, perhaps? Or is it a male companion you seek? Anything to loosen those shoulders and undo the tension.”

  Celia placed a restraining hand on Issac’s shoulder just in time to stop him from striking the man. “Stop it, you two. Issac, we have important matters to attend to.”

  “Ah yes,” Duren said with a grin. “Convincing those people to join the Fallen, I assume
.” He gestured to Fes with one thumb. “I must say, I find it quite rude that they continue to live in his Lordship’s lands without swearing fealty to him. The audacity of it all! These people need to learn their place—something I have been working on, of course.”

  “There is no place for your kind here, priest,” Issac growled.

  “Former priest,” Duran corrected. “And such disrespect… tsk, tsk. I will have my work cut out for me, I see.”

  “Don’t worry about that, priest. I’m sure I’ll get to you before you have a chance to get any work done,” Issac said, as he drew his blade halfway.

  Celia sighed, then forcibly pushed the blade back into place. The Grauda division had remained silently in position around them, keeping an eye on the surrounding crowd, but the guardsmen were beginning to look restless. “Issac, weren’t you the one who said not to make trouble? We have important discussions to get through today.”

  Issac looked like he might object, but then let out a long breath. “You’re right, of course.”

  “You. Stay here,” Celia said to Duren. “I’ll come find you later.”

  “Of course, Lady Celia,” Duren replied with another deep bow. “But I have a feeling our paths will cross much earlier than you think. I truly look forward to it.”

  “I’m not a lady,” Celia said, dismissively.

  She made to stride past him—but as she did, Duren gripped her hand and pulled her close. Instinctively, Celia drew her blade and brought it to his neck. All around them, the Grauda raised their spears and pointed them menacingly at him. Duren only grinned as Celia’s dagger turned an incandescent orange, its intense heat marking his neck.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, prepared to slit his throat if he made another move.

  Even under what must have been the intense pain of the burn, Duren’s grin never left his face. Instead, he leaned in closer and Celia had to lower her dagger so as not to unintentionally kill the man. “Be careful, Lady Celia,” he whispered, ignoring her previous protests. “Your irritable friend there appears to have overestimated how welcome you will be behind the walls of Fes.”