Interlude the Second I: Attributive Aftermath

  “Sancta Aquarae Meros…”

  “Sancta Aquarae Meros…”

  “Sancta Aquarae Meros…”

  The rhythmic chant of the quintet of black-robed figures filled the smoky scene in the old docks district, and the metallic rods they held reflected the flickering light. Water tinged with a faint gold hue burst from their metallic implements, drenching the blazing warehouse in its dousing spray.

  All around them, one could hear commands being shouted, mixed with a chorus of bewildered whispers. Amidst the jumble of voices, one could discern the currents of inquiry: the number of trapped souls, how the blaze started in the first place, rumours of yet another act of terror by the resistance.

  The undertone of panic was brought about by the scorching inferno that far outshone the setting sun—its glow just a mere candle flame in comparison, fading over the western walls of Caer Eldralis.

  Then a shout of command from a crimson-caped individual—the golden-bearded sergeant of the guard, flanked by his comrades — that had sounded the alarm minutes ago.

  Now, he barrelled his halberd at the door of the warehouse, the flames doused from the combined output from the holy-hydromancy of the crest-adorned individuals.

  “Direct your sacred spray towards the rest of the structure—I will proceed inside to save whoever is—”

  Bromp

  A thunderous crash against the wood cut him off mid-sentence.

  Bromp

  Ka-Bromp

  The explosive gesture of escape launched charred wood and metallic hinges in all directions, while thick, black, noxious plumes of smoke escaped, clawing, almost as if they were yearning for the open air.

  And there, mixed in the thick black haze, was the figure adorned in black armour, its golden embroidery all but covered by char and soot. His military bun had completely come undone, with his platinum hair hanging freely around his face. The black iron sword shimmered subtly, its translucent aura distorting the flickering light of the flames.

  “Are you alri —“The halberd-wielding sergeant paused as he surveyed the figure, bearing the rank of captain and the unmistakable garb of a blackguard, despite the layer of soot over it.

  “Cap.. Captain? Are other faithful amongst the flames that require our assistance?”

  The blackguard captain stared into the flames, a scoff escaping his lips, and he turned to the sergeant, righting himself into a posture of forged military rigidity.

  A single word came out of the charred, bearded facade. “None,”

  A flicker of doubt flashed over the sergeant. “I… sir…but surely…”

  “You may leave the flames to burn themselves out; your precious theurgists are wasting their essence,” the blackguard captain barked as he sheathed his blade.

  “Sir… with all due respect, if the blaze spreads, we might face another great firestorm. And we—”

  The captain’s amber eyes narrowed, and his deep scowl silenced any objections as he clutched the black greatsword, a faint, ethereal haze swirling around it.

  “Let the fire consume those inside — the incompetent, heretics, and traitors; let them burn in the blaze they created.” Then he paced off, coughing deeply as he waved off the sergeant, pacing off into the streets, a limp in his gait.

  The sergeant stared into the structure, which now seemed like the infernal maw into the hellish realms themselves. His lips wavered as he pondered adhering to the blackguard’s command; more so out of compliance than anything that represented his true moral inclinations.

  Then, amidst those flames—one brought about the runaway’s fiery defiance—there were still indeed one, no, two souls alive that slowly emerged.

  Their once proud garments were now in tatters, their forms shielded by a silver light, their only buffer against the raging blaze inside. The figure with an eyepatch heaved and coughed as they limped, supported by a half-elf clad in the same, charred gear. The latter was holding up a palm inscribed with a holy sigil—the thing emanating the protective energies that shielded these survivors from the inferno inside.

  “Two more…! Clerics, to me!” At his signal, two black-robed figures bearing the embroidered emblems of two open palms on their chests.

  The holy energy flared in their hands as they rushed to the aid of the two who emerged. They broke off from the main body of clerics, leaving the others in their retinue tending to the blackguard captain, whose face was twisted with recognition and unconcealed scorn.

  The figure with the eyepatch coughed up blood as his knees buckled underneath him, collapsing to the ground.

  “Brother Varos…! Stay with us,” the younger man called out as he lowered himself on his knees, the silver sigil glowing with golden energy, providing a barest relief to the excruciating torment that the old inquisitor was in.

  Inquisitor Varos waved him off, his eyes locked onto the oncoming clerics. “Leave me in their care…! Brother Yuldric is still inside—I can feel it…!”

  “It will be done… brother.” The young inquisitor-acolyte rose to his feet, ready to bolt back into the inferno.

  “Halt!” a voice of command rang through the streets.

  Everyone was frozen in place, save for the clerics, whose life-saving duties preceded any command to stop.

  This was especially so, given they were preoccupied with administering restorative rites to Inquisitor Varos. His robes had all been turned to soot; raw, black and red burns covered any exposed skin. The metallic plates of his armour warped in the heat, fused into his very flesh.

  The young inquisitor turned to see the blackguard captain approaching him, sword drawn, a heavy clang in his step.

  Pointed not at the blazing structure, but at him.

  “By Vireon’s gaze, you are under arrest for conspiring with the fugitive mage Selriph and causing the death of numerous servants of the divine.” The blackguard’s voice resonated with authority, his gaze scanning the subordinate guard and civilians that surrounded the scene.

  A solitary grunt came, followed by a voice that cut through the background crackle of the inferno and silent voices. “Brytic … you… What is the meaning of this…?!” Varos clenched his abdomen in pain as he lifted his palm in protest.

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  Captain Thorne turned to the prone inquisitor, the words escaping his lips phrased in a manner only the latter could understand.

  “Same thing you did—Jakunas.” His voice was low and cold.

  Varos’ eyes widened, the sentence stifling all further protest from the veteran inquisitor, as the clatter of boots came from the surrounding guardsmen along with the screams of protest from the young inquisitor-acolyte.

  Dreth Penbroke soon found himself in chains, bearing the responsibility for the debacle on the last day of Mikus’s feast.

  All this, at the testimony of the only two other souls that emerged from the warehouse, the rest inside having long succumbed to oblivion.

  The only other person who could attest to the fabrication of Thorne’s words? He would be well on his way to the Greyspire Mountains by the time that sham trial had concluded.

  [Some time later…]

  The middle-aged inquisitor stood once more in the office, the same scene as a week prior, the sketch of the deserter on the desk, Captain Byrtic Throne sat in the chair, hands interlocked in ponderment.

  Despite this familiar setting, there were two key distinctions, the first being the extensively bandaged condition he was currently in, which enveloped all of his exposed skin. His limbs and body ached where the metal from his armour had fused into his flesh, along with the eyepatch he bore due to his scuffle with the old mage in the ratways—who was nothing more than a pile of ash at the base of the executioner’s pyre.

  The second difference was the suit of black-gold armour, its once flawless surface now scarred with indentations from the ratways and the charred warpings from the warehouse inferno.

  Varos stood over the captain, his posture rigid with military practice. “I must voice my objection to the tribunal’s decision. Dreth’s punishment far outweighs any guilt he bore.”

  Captain Thorne scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your testimony would have done little—I doubt you would have wanted to implicate yourself in the debacle. After all, you vouched for the convoluted scheme that the young upstart conjured.” His voice rose in reprimand.

  Varos paced backwards, his gaze tracing to the floor. “Still… to condemn him to a life in chains. All for a small misstep, to strip him of his mark...”

  “A fitting punishment for failure. We lost six souls all for the cost of one savage who could barely last a minute under divine repatriation.” Thorne’s fist curled up, eyes landing on the gauntlets, which still bore the dried blood of countless woodsmen included.

  He slammed his fist on the parchment, the sketch of the runway mage quivering as he cursed, “All that for naught, the rat escaped yet again.”

  “All the more justification to employ his expertise—give him a chance to redeem himself through service. He was devoted, flawless in his initiation rites, impeccable in his trials. He is the brightest I have seen in years.

  “And yet he failed—there are no commendations for that. His plan was over convoluted. It leaned too heavily on his evaluation and interpretation of the rat’s brain.”

  Varos spoke with military stiffness, though his protest was evident. “It was the fault of that boy; how could we expect—”

  “If your precious acolyte had been thorough, he would have uncovered the boy’s attainment of that damnable scroll.”

  Varos’s brows twisted in abject disagreement. “Brytic, that borders on fantasy, you cannot expect any mortal to—”

  “Then he wasn’t as bright as he needed to be. His voice twisted mockingly. “Only the best serve the divine, Knight-Inquisitor Varos.”

  Varos bit his lip, his body coiled in tension, both in pain from his wounds and from the content of Thorne’s words.

  “Discard your sentiment—it is unbecoming of one who stood shoulder to shoulder with me in Marrowhold. That’s why I absolved you of guilt in my testimony,” he said with an unnatural grin, his tone transactional.

  Thorne rose from his seat, his shadow looming, pacing over to the inquisitor, placing a heavy shoulder over him. “Sods like him are a gold coin among silver. Even the trash had gleaming eyes on him—those delving into the divine arts offered to take him out of my hands.”

  Varos’s eyes glinted with surprise mixed with confusion. “The runaway? After such a display, it seemed almost… regretful that we found his loyalties… wanting.”

  “Are you insinuating he would be a fit to lead us in ceremony through holy fire?” With a sneer twisting his lips, Thorn’s brow twisted as unconcealed sardonism laced his voice.

  “No, forgive me for stating this.” Varos clenched his jaw tight before continuing, “But as … Yuldric stated, given his aptitude, he’d make an excellent inquisitor, especially after—”

  “Hah…! Hahaha," the blackguard’s captain laughed, bellowing out, echoing through the icy walls of the dimly lit quarters, into the training courtyard below.

  Where Selriph Daryth had bled and shed under his torment.

  Varos stared back, face now plastered with unease.

  Then, Thorne straightened himself, regaining his measured composure. “Sir Harwyn would never have allowed it, nor would I. That trash’s only good is conjuring parlour tricks.” He spat out the words, his voice thick with loathing.

  Silence fell, and the tension left Varos as understanding washed over him at the mention of Commendatore Prectius Harwyn Daryth.

  The captain returned to his seat, waving his hands in a whimsical gesture of dismissal. “I digressed. You should just be fortunate that Dreth Penbrook is alive and can still serve this empire through the labour in chains.”

  “I… concede that.” Varos’s voice was low, almost defeatist.

  “Now that you are awake and exhausted from your protest, let us turn to the matter at hand,” Thorne’s tone wrapped in an unnerving velvet of calm and almost diplomatic pretence. He unrolled a parchment, covering the bounty notice of the runaway mage.

  What replaced the unflattering portrait was a detailed map of the empire and its holdings.

  “I trust your injuries will not impede you—we must focus our efforts,” as he pointed to the bottom of the map, a province labelled ‘Ironcrag’, his finger tracing the line with the border with Venthar.

  “I have sent word by hawk and holy sending. We leave at first light tomorrow—Skyport Hagsis. Board the Eglaton—meet me in the captain’s quarters,” a smile of self-indulgent pride on his face.

  Varos’s eyes widened at the casual utterance of the resources at his old colleague’s disposal; however, a query related to the matter at hand tempered it.

  “How are you certain he made his way south? Have you tracked his whereabouts already?” Varos’s eyes lingered on the bottom margins of the paper, along the long border with the kingdom of Venthar, marks red with outposts and other matters of conflict only privy to the blackguard and other sister organisations of the military stratum.

  “The rat will go where the centre of arcane filth is. Even a fool could deduce that.” As he placed a fist over the bottom margin of the paper. “Our informants in both the resistance and Ventharian ranks will promptly alert us to his movements, allowing us to intercept him.”

  Varos stared silently at the blackguard captain.

  “Doubt spreads across your face. You may speak freely—we have known each other long enough for that,” as his fingers once more interlocked.

  “No…your judgment is sound. Tomorrow first light…” Varos bowed his head in respect, and he turned and walked out, the door closing with a creak as he left the blackguard captain’s quarters.

  [Later that evening…]

  “Knight-Inquisitor Varos, by Vireon’s grace, I request access to the prisoner,” as he held out his glyph to the crimson-cloaked guard wielding a halberd.

  “Of… of course, please proceed.” The guard turned as he undid the double-locked door to the prison block.

  Varos entered and ambled through the humid, mouldy passages of the western wing of the Capitol prison. The soft groan of snores mixed with the clatter of his footsteps, and he passed the numerous rows of cells.

  At long last, after what seemed like ages of searching, he arrived at his destination: the third floor on the northeastern side of the building, right by the grated railing that offered a view of Mondoras in its full phase, which cast long shadows on the ground.

  There, he lifted up the lantern, gazing beyond the iron bars.

  There lay a young man, completely dishevelled, still bearing the burns he bore from the warehouse fire. Dressed in the tattered rags of a prisoner, robbed of the pristine white robes of the proud station he once held.

  Emancipated, bearing bruises—beyond those he bore in the confrontation with the runaway mage. His emerald eyes are now sunken and swollen.

  Varos traced his figure down to his arms, slumped by his side. His left palm was all but missing, amputated.

  Stripped of his holy sigil.

  Then a voice stirred from the slumped figure.

  “Brother… Varos…” A faint light sparked in his eyes as recognition flooded him.

  “Dreth…” as the veteran inquisitor kneeled at the gate, his face grimaced in pain, and he saw the state of the once pompous, proud acolyte.

  With a raw, scratchy voice, he croaked, “Why are you here...?” his throat was barely able to croak out his words.

  Varos pulled out a satchel, slipping through the grate in a shove.

  “You seem to have had a rough time here.” Varos held his palm up as he offered him a waterskin, its contents sloshing in the leather.

  The former acolyte tilted his head in defeated curiosity.

  “Drink this first. Hydrate,” The voice was more a command than an offer of aid.

  The former acolyte reached out with his shaking hands and grabbed the leathery waterskin, undoing the cork at its entrance.

  What met him wasn’t the mundane liquid of water, but the faint, golden glow of something far more nourishing, healing.

  For the first time in days, life returned to his eyes as they widened in surprise. “What… what is the meaning of this…?

  His voice was intoned as if it were a formal transaction, though with a note of apology and anticipation. “I require your strength, both physically and mentally; there is still a need for you.”