> “The Kingdom of Wis was founded during the Years of Draught, arguably one of the bloodiest periods of war and strife to ever occur in Arkane. The Three Goddesses, known also as the Trinity, created the twin island continents of Lixcyus by raising it from the sea floor. It’s initial inhabitants were followers of the Trinity faith, who fled the Altus Duchy due to persecution. To ensure none but the brave or foolish could reach its shores, the Earth Goddesses Theda created jagged spires to halt foreign invaders. Although a small country, it eventually rose in power following the old and storied Loegrin House elected as the new monarchy of the fledgling kingdom.”
>
> —The Arkane Compendium, Vol. I
Chapter 1: The Witch
Roland wakes to the sound of screams, shrill and fully of agony. The painful cries echo and bounce off the walls, made only louder by the fact that they are the only sounds heard in the gaols. For minutes, the screams continue without pause or pleas for the inquisitors to cease. When the screams cease, the dreadful and deafening silence returns.
The halls are dark, no torches or beams of light to fill the corridors and prison cells. The doors are locked tight, the cells built from mortar, brick, and stone with barely enough room to move around. Every time Roland sits with his legs crossed, his knees scrap against the walls. The chains binding his wrists are not much better, chaffing at the skin. The chains are barely long enough for him to make it halfway across the cell before it yanks him back.
Roland stills as he hears the metal hinges of the prison block’s only entrance and exist groan. He hears the door open, accompanied by heavy metal footfalls and the clanking of armor. He can vaguely make out the shape of people moving past his cell before he hears more groaning metal in the cell next to him. The inquisitors dump the unfortunate victim into the cell and close the cell door with a harsh slam. The figures move past his cell again. Roland feels their stares and keeps silent, not daring to speak a word.
The inquisitors leave the cell block. When Roland hears the door close and lock, he breathes a heavy sigh of relief and allows himself to relax. He leans back against the stone wall.
Ever since his arrival in the goals, the inquisitors take every opportunity to demean and beat him. He feels no pain, oddly, not even when their armored fists struck him across the face or chest or when they drag their steel swords across his flesh. His lack of reaction terrifies them, making them double their efforts. They do not treat him as a human being, but instead as a animal or something inhuman. He is not the only one they treat with brutality. Other prisoners, perhaps a meager dozen by Roland’s count, are accused of treason, petty crimes, and heresy. They are derided and mistreated for the slightest of reasons. Of the lot, they focus on Roland the most.
The worst part about this situation is that Roland is unsure whether he has been here at least a week. The deafening silence and thick darkness makes it hard to keep track of time. The last time he saw sunlight was when the inquisitors came and stormed Burke’s home and dragged him to this god-awful place. The memory is still fresh in his mind.
Blood splashes across his face. A headless corpse falls uselessly to the floor. Screams pierce the air as a severed head rolls toward the young woman’s feet.
Roland bites his lower lip and his hands clench into tight fists. There was no explanation, no reason why the inquisitors killed the man who called him “friend” and “comrade”. He demanded answers, of course, but the inquisitors responded to his questions with steel and fists as if his every word is a grave offense.
His neighbors in the gaols proved more forthcoming than his captors. None knew where the gaols are as each of them was taken from their homes, sacks pulled over their faces, and hauled into wagons made of iron. The only ones who had answers are the faithful soldiers of the Sacred Order. The inquisitors are lapdogs who hunt down apostates and heathens. Roland knew little of their religion beyond what Burke told him, a pious follower himself who spent every morning praying to three small statuettes on an altar without fail. The fact that members of the same faith as Burke callously beheaded him makes Roland’s stomach churn.
The worst part about it all is that Roland does not understand the point of it all. The inquisitors enter the cells, drag a prisoner into the other room, and torture them for at least an hour before throwing them back into their cells. He doesn’t know if this recurring period of torture and sadism is another means of worship or if it’s simply wanton cruelty for the sake of being cruel. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to know.
Something small and furry brushes by his knee.
Roland looks down and smiles weakly. “Back again, are you?” Although his voice is a whisper, it echoes like a booming shout in his ears.
The rodent squeaks in response.
Roland’s fell prisoners dwindled to the point his only company is the sobbing mess in the cell next to his and the rodent who frequently nibbles at his skin. It chews on the raw, chaffing flesh under the shackles and licks at the blood. Most people would be fearful or throw a fit from being eaten, but Roland pays it no mind. He thinks the rodent is hungry, no better than a prisoner in this room and himself. It helps that he cannot feel pain. He can feel the rodent’s teeth sink into his flesh, but the pain never comes.
His stomach rumbles at the thought of food. The inquisitors offer no sustenance of any kind, not stale bread or even so much as a mouthful of water. The last thing he remembers eating is a bowl of soup with chunks of fruit mixed in.
“…it’s quiet.”
He doesn’t hear his neighbor’s pitiful whines, and he doesn’t hear them snoring. Poor man must have died, Roland thought. Maybe for the best. At least now he won’t have to suffer because of these bastards.
—soft footsteps echo just pass the door.
Roland tenses. Who is that? I don’t hear metal clanking. Is it someone new? Who?
The only person Roland can think of who might be here is Baron Merkul, the lord of Stormgrave. Burke told him the baron considered making him a knight in honor of his accomplishments and years of service, but Roland remembers nothing of him. He also doubts a man of such high standing would come see a “lowborn criminal” as the inquisitors so frequently call him.
The rodent nibbling and licking at his wrists goes still before it scampers off in a hurry, as if sensing danger. Roland narrows his eyes as he hears the door creak open. Someone steps into view, the thick shadows obscuring most of their form. The best he can make out is the robe draped over their person
“Who are you?” Roland asks anxiously. “Are you with the inquisitors?”
The newcomer doesn’t reply. The cell door swings open. They step inside, giving Roland a better look. Beneath the gaps of their cloak, he sees a dark brown shirt, black pants, and leather boots with soles caked in mud. Their hood obscures most of their face as does the scarf wrapped around their neck. A slender arm with pale skin reaches out. Roland tenses, unintentionally shirking away from her gasp. His body presses further into the wall behind him.
“If I wished you harm, I would have brought a knife.” Roland’s eyes widen. It’s a woman, he realizes. Either that or his rescuer is a boy with a womanly voice. “We do not have much time.” She grabs his left arm, turning it around until she finds the keyhole on the shackle. Her free arm produces a key somewhere from under her cloak. It neatly slides into the keyhole, and with a twist, the shackle separates from Roland’s wrist and falls to the ground with an obnoxiously loud ‘clack’. “Once the guardsmen here discover their dead, they will flood the halls until they have us cornered.”
She undoes the shackle on his right arm and tosses the key aside. Roland looks up at her in confusion. “I-I don’t understand. Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“I saved your life,” the woman responds coolly. “Ergo, you owe me a debt, soldier. Come, on your feet. We must not dally!”
Roland still doesn’t understand, yet something in the back of his mind compels him to rise to his feet. He follows her out of the prison cell and into the room beyond. Harsh light fills his vision, rendering him blind for but a brief moment. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The room is bare and mostly empty save for a few crates stacked up against the rightmost wall. To his right is a wooden door. He pays little attention to his surroundings and instead focuses on the horrific sight on the floor.
“Did…” he swallows fearfully. “Did you do this?”
On the floor are two bodies. He cannot tell who they are as their bodies are charred beyond belief. Metal is fused into their blackened, charcoal-like flesh. Despite their state, he sees no burn marks nor can he smell the scent of burnt flesh. It’s as if whatever flames that devoured him clung to them like glue and affected nothing else.
“Does it matter?” The woman’s voice is cold. “I will answer your questions in due time, but we must flee. NOW.” Her tone brokers no argument.
Roland is still suspicious of his apparent savior, but he would be a fool to deny the opportunity of freedom. He looks at the charred husks on the floor before following the woman out of the room and into the moonlit halls of the gaols.
Their escape was uneventful, if not harrowing and stressful. Many times had Roland and his hooded rescuer come across a wandering patrol and somehow managed to pass by unnoticed. In one instance, they were forced to hide in a closet. One soldier was a hair’s width away from discovering them, but ultimately never found them. On the way out, the woman insisted they get him proper clothes and a weapon to defend himself in the event they were found. It rankles Roland that he’s forced to wear the armor of the inquisition, though he cannot deny the practicality.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
They escaped from the gaols using the back entrance and fled into the dense woodlands surrounding them. Roland doesn’t remember for how long they ran. It’s only now he realizes he doesn’t feel tired from running around in armor for so long.
Compared to the dark and suffocating atmosphere of the gaols, Roland finds the cool breeze and starry night sky of the woodlands to be better company. The bark of the tree beneath him is a strange improvement over the brick and concrete.
“How many stars are there?” he asks absent-mindedly.
The woman shrugs. “Thousands, perhaps millions. Astronomers would know better than I.”
Roland looks at the woman curiously. Now that they are away from the danger, he can finally get some answers. “Who in blazes are you, anyway? As I understand it, you either must be half-mad or confident if thought you could sneak past inquisition soldiers.”
“You could say I am a little bit of both,” the woman replies and pulls down her hood.
Roland’s experience with the fairer sex is minimal since coming under Burke’s care. His wife was a shy and simple woman, and any women in the inquisition he met all wore helmets over their faces. Despite this, he could say the woman before him was beauty incarnate; flawless skin, a heart-shaped face with ruby-red eyes and ash-black hair messily pulled into a bun. Most of her hair falls across the left side of her face. He compares her eyes to fire, intense and hot in the way she stares at him in judgment.
“I am Rena. I am what you might call a witch.”
“A malefic?” he asks.
Rena shakes her head. “Not quite. ‘Malefics’ are magick-users who use mancies for ill-gain against the populace. Although I qualify for that label, the Church would rather call me heathen or heretic for my magick.”
“And that would be…?”
“Necromancy. The magick art to raise the dead.”
Apprehension fills him. “You mean deadwalkers?”
“A base application,” Rena replies honestly. “And ultimately useless. A deadwalker is born regardless. If anything, necromancy simply gives me control over them. I could, perhaps, create an army, but mindless creatures hardly suit my needs.” Her face tightens. “And I am of the opinion the dead deserve their rest. That Lixcyus denies them that is beyond reproach. I would not resort to necromancy were I not so desperate.”
Roland leans forward. “What do you mean by that?”
“…a story for another time, soldier.” Her voice turns oddly quiet and somber before it turns back to normal. “All you need understand is that I require allies. It is for that reason I found you.”
“Found me?”
A memory suddenly plays out in his head.
A strangling unconsciousness, a murky darkness choking the life out of him. It tries to sink him, drag him into the depths from which he will never return. He struggles and fights, clawing his way toward the light and the kind hand reaching out to him. When he opens his eyes, he sees a startled face holding a serrated knife to his neck. It’s the first face he’s ever met.
Burke told him of what happened at Egrun, of how a rebellion nearly cost him his life. He remembers none of it. His first memory is of waking up on that bloodsoaked hill. Yet he remembers what else Burke told him, of how a malefic roamed the battlefield and stood over his seeming corpse.
Realization dawns on him. His veins turn ice-cold. “…I died,” he says breathlessly. “You mean I… I actually died in that battle?”
“You did,” Rena nods. “And I pulled you from the land of the dead.”
A whirlwind of emotions and thoughts swirl through his head. If he came back from the dead, what did that make him? Was he still human, or some special form of deadwalker capable of coherent thought and speech? Is that why he could not feel pain? Is that why he doesn’t feel tired? He doesn’t know what to think of this revelation, nor how he should feel. He’s alive, that’s all that should matter to him, but something doesn’t feel right. He feels like there’s a part of him missing, as if he’s incomplete somehow.
He thinks back to his first memory and his inability to feel pain. He looks at Rena accusingly. “For what reason would you need a dead man to fight for you? Am I to be a tool in some agenda?”
“You had lingering regrets. You had a desire that remained unfulfilled. That is your anchor, your attachment to the realm of the living. That power is why I was able to bring you back as you are and not a deadwalker,” Rena explains.
“But not enough to let me keep my memories? Or did you take those, too?”
His words elicit a startled reaction from the so-called witch. “Pardon? What do you mean?”
“I don’t remember anything about myself. I can’t remember a single godsdamned thing since I woke up in Egrun. I didn’t even know my own name! The only reason I know it at all is because Burke found me and nursed me back to health himself.” He belts a humorless laugh and raises his arms, showing her the gnawed bits of flesh around his wrist. “I can’t even feel pain. I can feel the wind blowing across my face, but not the pain of steel cutting my skin or a rat biting into my flesh.”
Rena frowns and looks questionably at the ground. “No memories? No pain? How can that be? I was certain I…” Her words turn into quiet mumbles. He barely hears her. “Has death become so far removed from Lixcyus?”
The witch’s brow creases in thought. Shortly after, she sighs and shakes her head. “If you speak truthfully, then it appears I owe you an apology. You were meant to return wholly and intact. I only managed to bring half of you back.”
“And you cannot undo this?”
“I cannot,” Rena nods.
Roland wants to feel angry. He nearly shouts at her, but the look on her face gives him pause. She had no idea what had been done to him. He thinks it’s an act, but if it is a charlatan’s play, it’s a convincing one. He instead turns his thought to another matter and changes the subject.
“The fact that I am…undead,” he struggles to say. “Is that why the Church of Sacred Order thought me as a heretic and abomination?”
“The Church deems several magicks to be heresy towards the faith of the Trinity,” Rena explains. “Necromancy chief among them, though that isn’t to say they are tolerable towards the dead in general. Spirits, benign and otherwise, are to be cleansed and exercised posthaste without thought or care as to why the dead still yet linger or whether their reasons for remaining in the mortal world are for the sake of helping others.”
Roland’s fist tightens. Another memory, one seared into his brain, comes to the forefront of his mind.
A peaceful day is marred by clouds and armored men and women. They barge into the cottage unannounced with steel drawn. They see him and advance, hauling him from the table and prepare to drag him out of Burke’s home when the man tries to stop them. He can do nothing but watch as the soldier’s head goes flying. His wife screams in shock and horror, falling to her knees when Burke’s head rolls at her feet. Even as they drag him out of the cottage, Roland sees Burke’s severed head and hears nothing but his wife’s wailing.
“And housing the dead is punishable by death?” The quiet tone carries with it a broiling anger and hate, at himself for putting Burke in that position and for the soldiers of faith who cut him down without so much as an explanation.
Rena frowns. “Not to my knowledge. At best, they would brought in for questioning. The worst they’d suffer is ninety lashes to their back. What happened to you, exactly?”
“Inquisition soldiers barged into Burke’s home. They never said so much as a fucking word the whole time. When Burke tried to stop them, they…”
He can’t bring himself to finish. Rena nods in understanding. “These inquisition soldiers, do you recall anything different about them compared to the ones stationed at the gaols?”
“Their shields. The ones at the gaol had a gravel hammer and brown ring. The ones that came to the cottage had a brown ring, but with a sword stabbed into the ground.”
A dark look storms across the witch’s face. “The inquisition of the Church of Sacred Order contains many orders. The two you’ve described to me are both under the employ of the High Inquisitor and Knight-Commander of Wis’ military force. The Order of the Justiciar’s Hammer handle interrogation and investigation. If they believe someone is a threat to the kingdom and its populace, they report directly to the gilded throne. The Order of Theda’s Fangs are summoned only when such a threat makes itself known. In the latter case, they are only deployed at their commander’s behest. She and she alone has the power to direct where their swords shall fall.”
“Who?” A fiery heat previously unknown to Roland explodes in his chest. His voice shakes with anger. “Who is this so-called High Inquisitor?”
In contrast to Roland, Rena’s voice is bone-chillingly cold. “One of the women I would have you kill. A woman who committed an egregious sin and refuses to face the consequences.”
X x X x X x X x X
By the morn, the whole of Pilgrim’s Outpost is caught in a frenzy. The news of a breakout spreads like wildfire the moment the announcement arrives. Panic and fury explode among the soldiers when they hear how two proud inquisitors were killed.
Knightsworn Greagor nearly breaks out in a dance when he hears it.
“This is unprecedented,” Commander Lorith says as she paces around his office with a frightful look on her face. “It’s one thing for an inquisitor to die out in a battlefield, but this? Killed by wicked magick and heathen no less? Fuck me, the Knight-Commander is going to raise absolute hell the second she hears about this.”
“It’s just one man,” Greagor tells her. Privately, he hopes this supposed heathen will kill more inquisitors. “I doubt he’ll make it very far.”
“How in the hell are you so calm about this, Greagor?” Lorith asks him exasperatedly. “We have an escaped criminal on the loose! A malefic no less!”
“Again, he won’t make it very far. If nothing else, the Church will work fast before news of their blunder makes it to the nobles, much less the commonborn.”
“The commonborn will be the least if our concerns!”
Greagor raises an eyebrow. He’s made it no secret to his fellows that he doesn’t have a high opinion of the Church of Sacred Order, much less its inquisition. Before Amarys’ marriage to King Abram est Loegrin, the inquisition were religious zealots who did nothing but espouse and preach the faith until their throats turned dry. They dealt with heathens and heretics, but their power was miniscule and could hardly be called an army. Amarys’ marriage brought the Church a great deal of power thanks to her friendship with the Hierophant, and with that power came a great deal of influence. Before it was the knightsworn and the soldiers who dealt with commonborn affairs. These days, it’s common to see inquisition soldiers up and about than it is to see ordinary soldiers.
What upset Greagor greatly was how, for all their expanded influence, the Church focuses on upholding and preaching the power and purpose the Trinity brings them. They care very little about the commonborn and rarely involve themselves in the tumultuous period plaguing Lixcyus as of late. Most of the uprisings have been about the gross imbalance of power and pressure the Church has been putting on them as of late. The recent uprising in Stormgrave stemmed from inquisition soldiers throwing their weight around. Rumor has it one inquisition soldier killed a man in broad daylight, and the local garrison let him walk.
Greagor has no idea what the truth is. What he does know is that the village of Egrun exploded in an uproar and killed the garrison stationed there. The end result was Baron Merkul putting his foot down.
That reminds me, didn’t the baron send me a letter?
“Alright, what’s got your knickers tangled and bunched up, Lorith?” Greagor asks. “Who’s this criminal that’s got you and the Church so hot and bothered?”
Lorith looks incredulous. “Are you daft, Greagor? It’s that captain from Stormgrave! The one everyone says came back from the dead!”
“First I’ve heard of it,” he shrugs. “I don’t care much for gossip.”
“Not when it’s about—”
A sharp knock at the door halts the conversation in its tracks. “Beg your pardon, knightsworn,” a voice calls out from beyond. “You, er, have a guest waiting for you in the meeting room. She’s requesting your presence immediately.”
Greagor groans in dismay. “If it’s that screeching carribas from Lix, tell her I’m busy.” He looks at Lorith with a wry grin. “Seriously, you would think she’d take the hint by now. What is it with the nobles from the palace and their—”
“It-it’s not Lady Matrisha, sir. It’s Knight-Commander Tamara.”
The grin falls from Greagor’s face. Lorith’s face pales rapidly. They look at each other, the former now realizing the full severity of the escaped heretic. He rises from his desk. “Tell her we’re on our way,” he shouts.
As the squire rushes away, Greagor mutters under his breath, “Why in the hell is the fuckin’ High Inquisitor here…?
One thing Greagor knows for certain is that things are about to get very busy.