Athir

Crowds generate their own internal madness; it jumps from person to person like lightning, building up until it cascades out and cities burn in collective insanity.

This crowd had not yet reached that stage. For now, they wandered around like animals in a pen, bleating occasionally and butting heads. They were far too sheepish to attack the temple of the Father, casting glances at its gates and waving angry fists while they waited for the madness to build.

Athir couldn’t wait for the slow swell of chaos, so she organized things to move a little faster.

A group of much better-armed citizens rounded the corner; their weapons looked workmanlike and well-used, the sharp edges flickering in the torchlight. They walked with a sense of grim determination, and the crowd was drawn to them like a flock of aimless and angry sheep who dreamed of being wolves.

The madness jumped from person to person like fairy fire, and by the time the crowd approached the temple of the Father, it was a raging swell of humanity, howling in their collective need to cleanse injustice with fire and flame. The sound of axes thudding into the heavy wood of the main gate was met with a roar of approval.

Their job seemingly complete, the group of better-armed and armored individuals, who a moment ago had led the crowd, slipped off quietly, led by a small, elderly woman wearing a white knitted hat.

A different kind of madness stalked the courtyard inside the temple of the Father. The madness of fear sent priests scurrying in all directions, hauling crates filled with gold, piles of books, and armfuls of scrolls onto heavy wagons. Three champions of the Father barked orders from the temple steps: Handy, with the black hook fixed to his wrist; Swarthy, cruel and lean; and Blunt, the hulking figure with the two-handled battle axe strapped to his back. All three used their boots and fists to make sure they were obeyed.

The doors to the temple were flung open, and Otto strode out carrying a long, thin box held fast with two bright silver clasps. Several frightened-looking priests flapped nervously around him.

"These treasures are never to be removed on orders of the First Priest," one of the priests gibbered.

"I am the first champion of the Father; would you rather leave it to them?" Otto replied, gesturing to the gates that were swaying alarmingly.

If Otto had not deceived her, then that box contained a white sword. The Faelen Queen gave the weapon to her first champion, Ostred, so that he might travel to the realm of the gods and kill the Father. But he failed, instead killing the god they called the Brother. Since then, the weapon has been wielded by the Father’s champions to do his bidding. It was a cruel twist of fate that the weapon that should have ended the Father's existence made him more powerful than ever.

Athir took a steadying breath. That sword was her birthright; her destiny as a champion lay with that blade.

Making her physical form vanish, Athir slipped down into the courtyard, stealing through the chaos of priests running to and fro loading wagons. None saw her pass, and her footfalls made no sound.

A dozen wagons were laden with the treasures of a temple. Gold statues, silver plates and goblets, and heavy chests of gemstones would be making their way to the fortress-like temple of the Father in the nearby mountains. Athir carefully checked the back of each wagon, finally finding the one that had been marked with a faint symbol of an owl. She lay on the floor and rolled underneath, deftly screwing several hooks into the thick wooden beams and attaching leather straps. There she lay, suspended with her nose an inch from the wood, hidden in the shadows.

Closing her eyes, she let the sounds around her form an image. The groaning of splintered wood and subsequent cheers of the crowd announced that the gate had fallen. The champions of the Father bellowed orders, and the sound of running feet pounded through the courtyard.

"Second, take this and get on that wagon. Guard it with your life. We will make sure that you are clear." That was Otto’s voice.

"Of course, First," the gravelly voice of Blunt replied.

The champion that Athir had named Blunt pulled himself onto the back of the wagon, the whole thing creaking under his bulk. Athir felt she could sense the sword, only a few feet away from her, it’s Faelen origins calling to something in her blood.

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"Go, now," Blunt rumbled.

"But the gates are blocked; there are hundreds of them; we’ll be cut to shreds," the wagon driver protested.

"We will clear them. Go."

The reins flicked sharply, and the wagon began to rumble forward. The shouts of triumph in the throats of the people of Tajar quickly turned to screams of terror as the champions of the Father charged. The madness faded, and the crowd woke to find that they really were sheep and that the wolves were among them.

Athir hung grimly to the underside of the wagon as the convoy charged through the city, quickly becoming covered in a layer of filth and feeling every jolt in the road. Alleyways filled with rioters flickered by, and the flames of burning buildings were reflected in the dirty puddles they splashed through. Despite the failure to storm the temple of the Father, Tajar was still burning with the fervor of the priory.

The ancient mountain temple of the Father was situated high up on an outcropping that overlooked the Fallow Plains. From here, the winding River Fallow made its way south to the Lost Coast, presumably holding its breath as it went through Tajar.

When the caravan of wagons reached halfway up the mountain path, Athir began to saw at the thick cords that held the horses in place. One by one, the fibers twisted away, and the wagon trembled before one of the cords snapped.

"Ye Gods, get out of the way; it won’t hold," the driver shouted desperately.

"Stop the wagon," ordered the champion of the Father.

But it was too late. With a grim smile, Athir sawed through the last of the frayed ropes.

The now horseless wagon began to rumble back down the narrow pathway. The driver behind them whipped the reins, desperately trying to move out of the way, but the wagons collided with a crunch. Athir hauled herself out from under the wagon and pushed the terrified driver off, reaching out to grab the huge champion as he sought to jump off.

"Hello Blunt, let’s go for a ride," Athir said, as they careened off of the road and were sent stampeding down the mountainside.

Athir rolled clear just before the wagon crashed into a thick tree, sending crates flying in all directions. Gold and silver coins and statues encrusted with precious jewels burst out on the forest floor, and a stone bust of the Father sailed overhead and shattered against a tree.

With a creaking of splintered wood, Blunt emerged from the wreckage, his face a mask of blood and rage. At his feet lay the broken box, and in his meaty hand was a white sword in a silver scabbard.

"That’s mine; if you give it back, I’ll give you a quick death," Athir said.

"You’re the fallen champion?" The big champion replied; his tone was so dense that even the question mark was slapped into place like an extra word.

"I don’t know why everyone calls me that; it was always the Faelen Champion."

"You come with me." Blunt deftly strapped the white sword to his belt, and reaching behind his back, he pulled free his black, two-headed axe.

He moved fast—faster than Athir thought possible for someone so huge. The axe was as light as a feather in his hands, and the blade whistled through the air, forcing Athir to dive awkwardly to the side.

"Little champion." Blunt’s smile revealed broken teeth.

Athir re-evaluated her adversary. His size clearly had no bearing on his speed, but perhaps his overconfidence would be a weakness she could exploit. She tested her sword against the next blow, and the vibration stung all the way up her arm to her shoulder.

"You know that in this scenario, you’re the bad guy, right? I just want that to be clear," Athir said, tossing her sword into her other hand.

"You are an enemy of the Mother and the Father and an ally of the Faelen demons," Blunt hissed.

A pulse of divine power traveled up his axe as he swung it in a horizontal arc. The shockwave shredded the foliage around Athir, picking her up and sending her tumbling helplessly backwards into a tree.

Athir picked herself up, wincing. "You know you don’t have to hide; I can see you up there. If you’re going to follow me around, you could at least be useful."

"What?" Blunt said.

"I wasn’t talking to you, Blunt, but seeing as you have shown such interest in the Faelen, perhaps you'd like to see where they live."

The champion of the fathers' smile faded as the world around them warped. The sky blazed red above their heads, and the clouds soared past without any wind to drive them. The earth was desolate, red and dry.

"Not really very demonic, just sad," Athir sighed, kicking a small red stone.

"What have you done, demon? Where is this place?" Blunt cried, staring around with his axe raised.

"This is the Faelen Echo; not many living people have seen it. Think of it as a test; if you kill me, you can leave."

Blunt bellowed like a wounded bull and charged, his axe raised high above his head to deliver a killing blow.

Athir simply stood still, her arms by her side, and the champion of the Father passed right through her, running facefirst into a tree.

The tree was old and sturdy; two people wouldn't have been able to touch their hands together if they tried to wrap their arms around it. The blow from Blunt’s axe almost clove the huge trunk in two, and the tree shuddered violently, the sound of tortured wood coming from deep inside. Blunt fell backwards, unconscious, his nose a shattered mess on his face.

Athir unhooked the white sword from Blunt's belt. It felt like a normal sword, perhaps a little lighter than she was used to, and she drew the blade a few inches to find it was a translucent fusion of glass and white smoke.

On the floor, Blunt slumbered.

Athir had never killed in cold blood and certainly never an unconscious enemy, but she knew leaving him alive was a mistake. As if in answer to her thoughts, the forest took matters into its own hands. The huge tree, already weakened by the axe blow, creaked and snapped, and the trunk fell down with a sickening thud.

Athir wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant sight of the crushed champion as an owl flapped down from the treetops and settled onto her shoulder. She reached up instinctively to hand it a small treat.

"Good work, Hendra."