(Art source unknown)
Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15
Chapter 3
Eminence
Joel made his way across the main Temple square, left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Clad in all the trappings of his priesthood; dark-red robes, a suit of plated chainmail, the t-shaped visor of his sturdy helm raised, the dwarf breathed measured breaths full of worry. No, he was not considering taking his bulky tower shield with him, for Joel was not going into battle today. Thinking about Keryln and the manner of which his adoptive son came to his care, specifically, was the source of his headache.
Casting their grand shadows over him and the thousands of faithful were the three temples, his own included.
One was aglow with the magisterial glitter of orichalcum, gem, and silver, while the other wore its grim, tomb-like quality as a mask. Yet for some reason, Marrites had more in common with Kan, the god of life and death, than Iroh, lord of fire. Once, as a young neophyte, Joel asked his master to tell him more about Kan, and this one plainly said:
“While Mara is the shield which saves us from evil, Kan is the sword that smites it.”
The dwarf stopped, letting a short procession of mourners pass, carting a coffin on their way to the citadel of Kan. At the same cozy halls where newborns were given their first blessing, the deceased received last rites. Then, they’d be carried down into the dungeon complex beneath the megapolis of Krart, to be entombed under lock and key at a Kannite mausoleum. Till the day when Kan needed one of them back into the world of the living or their remains turned into dust...
Heads turned as the roars of silver trumpets announced the Irohans were on the move.
From the gates of Iroh’s bastion poured out a cavalcade of clad in full plate Warmasters, grumbling hooves of large horses joining the clink of weapons and armor. The knightly priests were chanting prayer songs as their leader waved his long pike topped with a brilliant gonfalon. A stylized depiction of the holiest of flames surrounded by sun’s life-giving rays and a number of religious incantations signified that this was one of their temple’s most treasured relics.
Paladins from the other two temples awaited them and joined their procession, Marrites with their wide, tall shields on the left, and Kannites armed with their signature hand-and-a-half long swords on the right. Where were they riding to, Joel did not wonder long since the Lord Warmaster’s cry echoed across the Temple square:
“Paladins, ride we must to the Eastern gate!”
Horse riding adventurers, a gathering of various men from different races, armed with long lances, mauls, axes, crossbows and greatswords, rode past Joel. One of them, a boy perhaps no older than fifteen Turns held the reigns of his mare, bowing at the priest. His ebony elven face flushed red and breath hasty, the city elf asked:
“Father Doula, may I have Mara’s blessing?”
“How old are you son and... who is it that you are going to fight?” – Joel smiled, raising his gloved hand, as he studied the young squire.
“Sixteen Turns...” – the youth panted, his eyes darting between Joel’s face and his fast departing friends – “This shall be my first battle and against creatures of the Rift!”
A big smile adorned Joel’s face, open palm pointed at the elf.
“Matreas, enh matreas, enshealth thielhs soen!” – began his chant the dwarf and there was reddish glow streaming forth from his fingertips and into the squire’s armor – “Fearth noe foel, sueferth noe baene, o’yeth asleyethes doth evoeal.”
His blessing given, Mara’s glow fully shrouded the young elf’s plated chainmail. The youth bowed, clenched his spear and spurred the mare chasing after his fellows, shouting back – “Mother Mara shan’t find me wanting!”
The youngling was in paladin company and even if he was to face the abominable monstrosities in battle, he would survive... hopefully.
Joel canted his head waving him goodbye.
One of the two ancient battle prayers of Mara he was gifted with, the dwarf remembered singing words in olden Imperial tongue, six Turns ago. Was it that long since his last real battle? When that power hungry wench, countess Levoah and her underlings nearly conquered the entire city, and during a full on invasion coming from the Rift nonetheless! So many fellow priests died that day, including nearly all of his old friends.
He hastened his pace, face void of smile and eyes dim.
Sad as it was, this battle was in the past and deadly adversity—prevailed over.
Joel soon left the Temple square behind, his boots stomping over the clean cobbled road of a wide side street. This one was named “Swanianova” and his favorite since early childhood. Here, a roaming street urchin, he was found by his priestly teacher. Here, a youngling, he found the love of his life and here, he and his wife Lyra had their six children. The dwarf walked right past his old home, the chatter of women and squeals of newborn pouring out of its open windows like an opera of life.
With a shaking hand, Joel clinked his visor shut. Better it was that none of his many adopted children, now grownups, saw him. He wasn’t in the bestest of moods since early morn when Captain Brelain’s messenger called him to the temple gates. At the nearest guard tower, locked inside its prison, there awaited a criminal in need of interrogation.
Him the city guards called... and not a Kannite, nor an Irohan.
They knew what he was so desperately looking for and for the past five Turns – signs of the Lifestealers. Deep inside, Joel felt something stirring, he felt incomplete every single time when he cast his gaze upon that boy of his. Best he soon found the murderers of Keryln’s family and the guards took care of them. Much better it would be for the youth to live the life of a free citizen, craft wood into wondrous household items and build homes, than pick up the sword.
“A peaceful life...” – mumbled the old dwarf, once more raising his visor since he neared his goal.
The guard tower’s imposing construction, thick in masonry, apertures dotting its sturdy shape, ended with a rotating platform housing a long-barreled alchemist cannon.
“Getting sentimental in our old age, aren’t we?” – chortled a tall armored knight waiting at the tower’s entrance.
At least three heads taller than Joel, this guard wore a cavalryman’s half-cape over his right pauldron. Dark blue, with yellow outlines and a stylized tower embroidered in white threads, this signified his high rank in the city guard. More, the bearded old human carried a Kannite’s sword sheathed on his hip, its intricately forged pommel shaped like a pyramidal staircase.
“The shining captain himself!” – whistled Joel and vigorously shook his friend’s gauntleted hand – “What, there aren’t anymore letters left to send and scrolls to sign on your desk?”
Captain Brelain touched his aquiline nose and gray eyes focused at Joel’s face, assured him – “Would I be here otherwise, entertaining my dear old friend’s suspicions?”
The two shared a long chortle, before both made a step towards the tower. Brelain had seemingly arranged for everything. There were six elite guards, their enchanted armor and weapons shining with a faint bluish glow, each posted at one of the doors which led deeper into the tower. Only when they stood before the last, one that led into the prison itself, did Joel hesitate.
Brelain raised an eyebrow.
“Never known you to be the one to waver.” – said he and flipped his short cloak back, one hand ready to push open the door.
“What did this... this guy do?” – Joel asked and his breath became raspy, cold sweat dripping from his forehead and all over his dwarven beard.
“Our guys caught him after one of the street people alarmed us. See,” – and Brelain’s voice turned into a low growl – “he tried hawking some really interesting household items.”
The dwarf blinked. By household items, Brelain meant toys, cutlery, even clothes and shoes, all handmade and unique. Families crafted those as a present for their own kin, to mark a baby born, a marriage or other important merry occasion. Only a thief or a murderer would actually sell these!
Joel’s angry hiss taken as a yes, Captain Brelain pushed the prison door open.
The last guard closed it behind them and walked ahead, a glowing lantern in his weapon free hand. He led them past the cells; a number of eyes gazing at their armored figures with ill-concealed bile. As always, the prison held a number of miscreants, most of whom awaited a Kannite priest to judge them.
Minor crimes like battery, petty theft, and disturbance of peace would gain their perpetrators lashes, community labor, or a small monetary penance. Hard criminals were not spared torture and death, for no one wished to have rapists or murderers let loose in their community. The people of Krart entertained no delusions when it came to people’s safety.
When Joel cast his eye upon the shifty Dwarfling inside, he almost puked.
That man had the aura of a parasite!
Tied on a heavy iron chair which was bolted to the floor, the dwarf-halfling bastard whimpered – “Muh lords, please, I am an innocent piddler of oddeities! Haff done no murdar, me swears!”
“Guard, open the cell,” – ordered the captain with a wince – “the prisoner will answer a couple of questions!”
Joel and Brelain entered and while the priest fortified his mind with a specific prayer, the captain cited from a small notebook he produced from his belt – “Fluyth, once arrested and whipped for petty theft by our guards in the Worker’s District, two Turns ago. Yesterday, apprehended with a whole cart of household items, in the process of selling them to local street people.”
Captain Brelain did not read the list of said items, but he did wince angrily and showed it to Joel.
“Not mine, yes... yes, totallieh not mine, muh lords!” – squealed Fluyth on his chair, trying unsuccessfully to shrug as he assured his interrogators – “Gotta sell whuat suppliar giffs me, yes.”
His center found, the dwarf made one step closer and locked eyes with the prisoner. Swiftly, before this one could avert his gaze, Joel grab a hold of his dirty head and held fast.
“Eife doth wyrde est foelse, beiest braethe noeh!” – whispered his prayer he and the prisoner quivered like a leaf.
“Nnnrghhht... choke... noooo... wheeze... p-please! I onl... only s-seeell!”
The captain leveled his face with Fluyth’s and asked – “Who supplied you the items?”
“Mrrrghhhm... spittle... I don’t knghhh-kno... People... choke... j-just gibs muh thi-thhh... things! I... wheeze... seeel.” – the bastard attempted to weasel his way out of the question, but nearly choked to death.
“Foelse doth seayei angd beiest souan daath!” – Joel hissed through his clenched teeth, eyes aglow with red light which found her way straight into the dwarfling’s irises causing him even more, torturous pain.
Face pale and lips purple, eyes bleeding, bloody snot running from his nose and into his mouth, Fluyth mumbled – “I tells, I tells! She be a shapely, bonny lass, an orkish noblesse or something! Hers is the cart... cough... not mineeee!”
Pouring out of his mouth came tales of people carrying crates, clothes, weapons, and best of all, a description of said ork lass. Yet as soon as Fluyth said his piece, he gargled as blood came pouring from his mouth followed by teeth, and finally, his tongue. The criminal’s eyes smoldered and caught red fire when Joel removed his hands and stepped aback, himself breathing painful breaths, wiping a bloody spittle.
Captain Brelain wrote everything in his guard’s notebook and with speed impressive to behold. When his old friend’s knees faltered, he was there to catch him. Sadness in his eye, the man helped Joel out of the cell and motioned his guard to deal with the corpse. As they walked past the cells, no longer were any of the criminals shooting hateful looks at them. Most have soiled or shat themselves; they hid in the corners of their cells, eyes shut and hands covering their ears, lips mumbling prayers to whichever god they worshipped.
Once on the street and Joel’s footing steady again, Brelain sighed – “My dear, last friend, I say we are both too old...”
Visor raised with shaking hand, Joel faced the captain, bloody tears on his face – “Better us than the children.”
The dwarf wiped his cheeks, clinked the visor shut and limped his way home.
[Ninth] — Krartian weeks are nine days.
[Turn] — This is a planetary rotation numbering seventeen thirty five day months.
Wow.
Thanks for @, my friend! May the lifestealers be found quicklt!